The raw egg and the 2 cent piece

Image via: Pixabay

My first full-time job was in a women and children's domestic violence refuge in the western suburbs of Sydney. I'd been working part-time through school and uni and once my studies were over, I knew what I wanted to do at the time. I wanted to work in women's services, somewhere in the community, where I could learn about issues affecting women and somehow make a difference. I got lucky. I found a job locally as a women's support worker. It was part-time with a view to becoming full-time for the right candidate. At the time I had a part-time job in a valuations office in the city, so I juggled my week between the two jobs, eventually quitting the valuer's office and working in a community housing co-op, until the refuge put me on full-time. It really was my dream job, but it was short lived. I lasted around three years. I soon grew restless, jaded and fed up with the lack of resources, the poor pay, the politics and the hopelessness and moved on. But those three years are some of the most valuable of my entire life's work experience and I still go back to that time to make sense of a lot of what I encounter in the work place and in the world today. Working in a collective, in a women's centered environment, in a community organisation with limited funding and a monumental social problem to tackle, violence against women and children; it taught me a lot about humanity, government policy, popular culture, social and economic class and diversity. The refuge was a microcosm of the world at large and in a very short time, I got a lifetime's worth of education so valuable, it still echoes in my life today.

Comparing my own life experience and reflecting upon my own cultural and social upbringing, I started to understand deeply the injustices, inequalities, and the cavernous gaps that exist for disadvantaged people. In particular, women and children, people of colour but especially First Nations people, those from non-English speaking backgrounds, poor families and those who were not only being victimised physically, emotionally and psychologically, (I soon learned ALL women and children are, in some ways, within a patriarchal society), but also those that had endeavoured to resist and escape, making the very difficult and dangerous choice to change their lives and demand their safety and prosperity. 

The refuge housed four families at a time in the main house, for a period of up to eight weeks. In the adjoining house, another four families could be accommodated for a longer period of time, for up to three months. Women and their children from all walks of life lived together communally, where the differences between them soon became irrelevant and were stripped away, leaving only the commonalities - their health, well-being and security, their day-to-day routines, their goals to become self-reliant and self-determining and their resolve to heal. It didn't matter what language they spoke, what food they preferred to eat, who or what they worshiped, what government they voted for, how much money they made, what suburb they'd come from, what clothes they wore, where they sent their kids to school and what their past experiences had been. They were all suddenly in the same boat, equalised by the paths that had led them to the large house in the suburbs that would be their in-between home, their sanctuary until they could get back on their feet.

It was the 90s. The Bosnian war was raging and we once welcomed two families in the same week; one Serbian, one Bosnian. We knew we had to tread carefully. We discussed the issues with each woman separately during their intake interviews and it was instantly clear that in the state they were both in, due to their very separate and crisis-filled circumstances, it was wise to create some space between them. We took both families in and decided to house them separately, which was an exception to our policy rules. On initial intake we were required to house new families in the main house for eight weeks, until they could move on to permanent housing or get the necessary protection to be able to go back home. The second house was reserved for families who needed more time, giving them three months to establish long-term security. In that instance, we bent the rules and let one of the families stay in the second house on intake, to separate the families and given them the distance they needed to settle in.

As time passed, the women were inevitably introduced and crossed-paths. There were workers on-site 24/7 at the time, but residents lived independent, adult lives and went about their days as they saw fit without much interference from us workers. They had a roster to maintain the house, but were largely able to come and go as they pleased, using the communal facilities together and taking turns to cook or shower and bath their kids. It was for the most part very civilised. Women just get on with it.

Without anyone even realising when or how it happened, the two women connected. They spoke a common language, they found the things that united them and they became friends to some extent. We eventually moved them both into the main house and they got along, even supported each other, until they eventually moved on and went their separate ways. 

Culture, religion, language and lifestyle are all constructs. Deeply ingrained and seemingly inherent "second nature", especially those lineages that go back longer than others, they are only however our experiences by luck of birth. Continuity of culture gives us stability and belonging and while it can only take a few generations to solidify and define our identities, the further our histories go back, the more entrenched they become - for better and/or worse. Once we understand that, we can look beyond these constructs and really understand each other as people, without diminishing our unique differences, because those differences are what enrich us. While the values and ideologies we inherit are what gives us our place in the world, our tribe, when we make comparisons we soon see that we simply have different definitions and understandings of the same universal human experience. I learned that very quickly and for the first time at school. My high school had something like 52 different countries represented. It was truly a melting pot. We celebrated our differences, but belonged to one community.

At the refuge it was sometimes difficult to accommodate everyone, but we did it, and that is when people find their common ground. When they are first given the space to be themselves. Like the two women from two different sides of a war who after being given the liberty to express their identities, came together by themselves.

We made sure every single family was allowed to feel acceptance and freedom to exist as they saw fit. We worked with translators and interpreters and communicated in ways other than speaking. We mimed when we had to and used very basic language to get sometimes very complex messages across. We allowed the provision of culturally diverse food. The western suburbs of Sydney are a global marketplace and we either shopped for the women ourselves as all food was provided and covered by the weekly rent they paid (an incremental fraction of their income or nothing if they had none), or reimbursed them if they bought food for themselves. We allowed them to create spaces for reflection, meditation and ritual as they saw fit, to facilitate the reclaiming of their sense of peace from the conflict they had endured. Altars and offerings of all denominations sprung up around the residence and it was inclusive. Adults and children alike knew to show reverence and respect for the trinkets and artifacts that people displayed around the house. Incense sticks, oranges, crosses, candles, flowers, statues, beads and the like would be placed in various corners of the house and yard. Each family had their own private bedroom but the communal areas were collectively used and taken care of whilst still providing an opportunity for individuals to contribute their own expression of identity. With each family passing through, the house reflected countless regions from all over the country and the globe. The cooking smells in the house were varied, cross cultural and always delicious! The office was in the front room and unless we had a meeting on, the door was always open. The backyard had a large childcare center and the children that weren't at school all played together. We held classes and activities including cooking, massage, art and play therapy and had both informal and formal counselling sessions. We celebrated together for birthdays, culturally significant days or just spontaneously over a cup of tea or a cake someone had baked. The women cooked for each other and us workers, they looked after each other's children, they helped each other get dressed and prepared for court or a job interview, they hugged each other when they sobbed and passed the tissues around. They broke up quarrels between the kids and danced when the radio was on. It was often a place of rage, fear and sadness, but mostly a house of hope, joy and fun. More than anything it was a house of kinship and particularly when a group of families ended up living together for the better part of the accommodation period, people got to know each other and became close. That's when the differences were stripped away and love and friendship was all that was left. Those weeks were truly something special and while there was always a service operating in the background: court dates had to be attended, AVOs applied for, instances of abuse and violence rehashed and recorded, mental health issues addressed, Child Protection policies adhered to; what kept everyone going was support, trust, unity, community - sameness, empathy, kindness. Also, courage, strength, resilience and the indomitable spirit of being a woman in this world.

I started off writing this piece with the desire to share two stories, anecdotes that sprung to mind recently, from that time in my life. Sometimes I remember an experience from those days and it takes me back and shows me how to deal with something in the present. I remember how much these events changed my perspective at the time. I was young, in my early 20s and was more naive and optimistic than the older women I worked with, most of whom were in their 50s and had been victims of family violence, racism and discrimination themselves. There were three generations of women working at the refuge at one stage. The first crop were the pioneers from the 1970s when refuges were first established, three women in their 60s and close to retirement who were generally from an Anglo-Australian background. The next group were a group of baby boomers from South American and Asian backgrounds - Uruguay, Argentina, Vietnam - all strongly represented demographics in the local area. Then there was myself and another young woman my age who was Lebanese. 

Once there as a Vietnamese resident at the refuge who had a very swollen and black eye. The story goes that her husband had gambled a lot of their life savings away and they'd fought. He assaulted her, hitting her in the face and giving her a black eye. She left with her children and sought accommodation at our service. We knew she had limited English and our Vietnamese worker was working very closely with her as her caseworker. We also knew she was incredibly scared, depressed and sad, understandably and commonly so. She kept to herself, but was always friendly enough. Our Argentinian overnight worker started her shift in the afternoons as we were all leaving. She spent the night and went home as we were all arriving in the morning. She was becoming concerned about the resident as she had been waiting until everyone had gone to bed and then would sit alone outside on the patio and play with an egg. The overnight worker observed her each night and was becoming increasingly concerned about her mental state. When we spoke to the Vietnamese worker about her client, she proceeded to explain what the woman had been doing. She had taken a raw egg and was gently gliding the egg over her black eye, without touching the skin. The swelling and bruising was filled with inflammation and heat and this was being transferred into the egg, causing the swelling and inflammation to be reduced and the white of the egg to harden. At the end of the exercise, the once raw egg became semi-hard boiled. The overnight worker claimed she witnessed this. Over just a few days, the woman's eye was better and the egg was no longer completely raw. Studies have shown the relationship between the consumption of eggs (eating them) and their effects on inflammation. I found some information about hard boiled eggs being used to reduce bruising and swelling, but not a raw egg absorbing the heat of the inflammation and diminishing the swelling, becoming hard in the process. Whether or not what the overnight worker had claim to have witnessed was true, or whether or not the remedy actually works was irrelevant. There was no need to be concerned for her mental state, more than was ordinary given her experience. She knew what she was doing and while a cold pack or ointment is something we would have recommended, using an egg was a legitimate cultural practice that we gave her the space to express. It wasn't bothering or harming anyone and the freedom to do it was comforting and facilitated her healing. From memory the story was shared around with the other women and everyone took an interest. Traditional healing techniques like that opened up conversations among the women that lead to connection and had therapeutic benefits, and even the shyest women would offer up an old remedy that had been passed down among the women in their family. Sometimes it was the ice breaker needed to bring down barriers between them and encourage co-operative living. It also encouraged them to share their more recent experiences and empower each other through their commonalities.

The second story is similar. Again a Vietnamese family was involved. Our child support worker, another Argentinian woman, had noticed that one of the children was displaying some angry red marks up their arms. At first she thought the child may have been scratching themselves, either from an allergy or eczema, or at the very worst case scenario, which wasn't unusual, self-harming. We even considered the possibility that mum may have been harming her child. We were required to be aware and suspicious of child abuse and mistreatment when evidence of injury presented itself. We observed the family and again discussed it with the Vietnamese caseworker. Mum had taken a 2 cent piece (they were still in circulation at that time), and was gently scratching her child's arm, just until the red marks appeared. It wasn't painful, but it was visible. The practice we learned, is called Gua sha (Chinese) or cạo gió (Vietnamese), which is an ancient Chinese medicinal practice that "releases unhealthy bodily matter from blood stasis within sore, tired, stiff or injured muscle areas to stimulate new oxygenated blood flow to the areas, thus promot(ing) metabolic cell repair, regeneration, healing and recovery." Basically, scraping the skin helps with circulation and boosts immunity. It was flu season and the family had just moved into a communal space. Mum wanted to make sure her child didn't get sick. Thankfully we didn't jump to calling DoCS!

These two stories were similar and taught us all a valuable lesson about understanding. When the status quo is a certain set of values, anything deviating from that is othered, judged and condemned. We needed to see with wider eyes. It was so valuable to have culturally appropriate caseworkers and a space where we sought to understand our clients instead of jumping to conclusions. It is something that is lacking in many social services and public domains at large, and the situation is even worse in the private sector, I would imagine.

I am now working in the public health system. It is a diverse environment both in terms of clientele and service providers being from all over the world. We are required to participate in Aboriginal Cultural Awareness Training as mandatory training. I took part recently and found it profoundly moving and emotional. The main feeling I had was rage. I kept thinking about the fact that here we were trying to condense 80,000 years of continuous culture into a three hour seminar to make us better workers, when the gift shop in the main hospital still sells golliwogs! 

Image writer's own

Fucking golliwogs! They've been popping up everywhere. Didn't we decide around 30 years ago that golliwogs weren't an acceptable artifact to sell given their very racist and genocidal history? Honestly, look it up, because I can't be stuffed explaining it! This SBS article from two years ago is a good place to start.

While cultural awareness and sensitivity policies are fantastic on paper, the reality is vastly lacking. It is an effort every day to maintain my composure when I witness blatant instances of racial profiling, discrimination, prejudice and downright ignorance, with no clear way to address it or report it and get any sort of adequate response. "Report it to your Manager" is not good enough. 


The best I can do is be an example, treat everyone equally while being aware and sensitive toward their individual needs and keep trying to see beyond the things that divide us, by connecting with everyone's humanity first.

Here we go again!

Image via: Pixabay

The other day, I was in my kids' bedroom and through the window, I watched a woman stake an Australian flag in the ground at my letterbox. She went around the whole neighbourhood sticking flags in the ground outside everyone's house. It turns out she's a local Real Estate Agent and she does this every year. A handful of people on the local community Facebook page were thrilled and thanked her, saying it made their kids happy and to keep it up. To be honest, I saw it as a bit of a passive aggressive act, given the current national debate so close to Invasion Day. At the very least it was tone deaf and defiant. I simply went outside after she was gone and put the flag in the bin. I discussed this with a few people. The reaction was mixed. Most people like to sit on the fence in this kind of debate. Her intentions may have been good, she didn't mean any harm. Or is it a subtle message about who is still in charge and what the sentiment in this community is? I asked the question, where are the Aboriginal flags? What if someone did the same so close to January 26 and planted Aboriginal flags outside everyone's home. I would like that. I believe many people in my community would see it as an act of aggression. 

EQUALITY FEELS LIKE OPPRESSION WHEN YOU'RE USED TO PRIVILEGE!

I'm paying attention to the national discussion again this year. It feels like every year it picks up a bit more momentum. Rallies are being organised all over the country, there are festivals being organised by Aboriginal groups celebrating culture and honouring remembrance, and the discussion is filtering into the (very resistant) mainstream media.

What I'm noticing is a huge case of national cognitive dissonance. People are affronted by change and when they are confronted with the reality of how provocative having an Australia Day celebration happen on January 26th is, the day the First Fleet landed on our shores; when they are faced with acknowledging that this day is not a shared day of unity and jubilation, but for many a painful slap in the face that reminds them of the attempted destruction of their culture, that only a specific group of people think this day is an appropriate day to celebrate their version of what this nation is, people tend to hold on tighter to their way of doing things. I understand that for many people, the idea of redefining who and what Australia really is, is terrifying. Sometimes I think that they imagine what it would be like if the shoe was on the other foot. If Anglo Australia surrendered its homogeneous identity and relinquished some of its power, would they suddenly be treated as poorly as the treatment they have inflicted on others in the past? I'd be scared too.

It's interesting how this cognitive dissonance plays out. The little symbols and the not so little ones. All the shops start selling Australia Day paraphernalia, or people, you know, start staking the flag at your letterbox. The language and symbolism in the media is persistent. It's all about selling booze and food, having a BBQ and speaking in Aussie slang. These images are from my local paper, The Manly Daily, who incidentally, included an Australian flag with their last delivery.

Image via: The Manly Daily

Image via: The Manly Daily

Image via: The Manly Daily

 

Image via: The Manly Daily

The other thing I've noticed is how the status quo will manipulate non-white Australians into participating in perpetuating the dominant paradigm. They will literally use dark skinned or ethnically diverse models and personalities to promote white culture. See, they seem to say, this includes you! It's gaslighting.

Image via: The Manly Daily

Image via: Aldi catalogue

I try and reflect upon my own response to these things and why I feel the way I do. I get why. In the good old days of inappropriate language, I'm what was commonly referred to as a "wog". Never mind that I was born here and have spent the majority of my life living in Australia. My parents are Maltese, I have dark hair, skin that swings from light to dark with only a little sun exposure and a big nose. I have had an interesting version of growing up in Australia. I pass as Aussie most of the time. I speak the language well, have an Australian accent and use lots of Aussie slang: "mate" mostly. I know my way around, I've lived all over Sydney, I was educated in Australia and am "assimilated" - whatever the hell that is. I get what being a mainstream Australian is all about. Sometimes, I don't pass. I was always mistaken for Greek or Italian growing up. Sometimes, I'm sure people assume I'm Arabic, especially if they hear me speaking in Maltese. It's a language of both Latin and Semitic origin. I've been asked if I was Turkish. I've also been asked if I was Jewish. I'm sure it's the nose.

It's a unique experience being mostly acceptable, passable as Australian, but sometimes not. I'm still othered and different when it suits people to undermine me. However, most of the time I can get away with not being vilified and condemned because I tick a lot of the boxes for what it means to be acceptably Australian. Am I not Aussie enough because I don't have blonde hair and blue eyes or Anglo heritage? I'd never understood this properly until recently. How can a second generation English person be considered more "Australian" than say, a person with Chinese heritage that goes back to the gold rush days? I know now. White supremacy, that's why.

So where to from here? I'm not sure what we are doing as a family this Friday. Probably nothing. It's going to be hot and it's easier to stay home and catch up on stuff around the house when you have a public holiday and small children. I'm reluctant to go to the beach because I know I am going to be triggered by people who are defiantly claiming their right to celebrate the unlawful invasion of this land. I've been to parties where there were so many Australian flags, it felt like I was at the Nuremberg rally. Last year we went to Yabun Festival in the city. It was a beautiful day and I loved exposing my young kids to Aboriginal culture, music, dance and community. 

For a long time, I supported the campaign to change the date, but to what? It is something we, as a nation, have still not yet resolved. I'm leaning towards abolishing it altogether until there is real structural change. I am listening to the important voices of Aboriginal elders and activists and that is what they are telling us. We need to disassemble so much still. A day that celebrates this nation, truly represents everyone and has made peace with our history, committed to healing the present and is looking forward to an inclusive and equal future for everyone; that day hasn't arrived yet. Maybe we can aim for that day and then we'll have a date. I envision treaty with and reparation for all Aboriginal nations, I look forward to a Republic, I wish for a new flag and a new national anthem. All those things are still coming despite the resistance and denial.

I know for many people it feels like change is happening too fast and suddenly and we need to go slower. I wholeheartedly disagree. Resistance has been happening from day one and many have been speaking about these issues for decades. I think we are at the pointy end of it to be honest. Many have been gradually seeing reason. I mean just in the last few years we've seen this debate gain momentum and the backlash that goes along with it, reflected in the emergence of right wing politics and fascist ideology, the ideals people thought they'd got rid of for good during the last couple of world wars. Isn't it funny that some of the people who solemnly celebrate things like ANZAC Day are some of the most resistant to acknowledging the white supremacy that established this nation in the first place! We don't need to go any slower. We've gone too slow for too long and change is now undeniable and inevitable.

For now we have to be honest with ourselves. We have to work towards reconciliation by facing up to the destruction that our colonial history subjected our Indigenous people to. We have to move past the anger and the hurt and the confusion and look towards reclaiming our identity. As a white, (sometimes brownish), big-nosed person, I feel so much sorrow when I think about what our country and the whole world lost when we destroyed Indigenous cultures globally. I imagine what a world that shared resources peacefully from the start would have looked like. I wonder how differently we would have navigated, as humans, things like the environment, birth, sex, death, infrastructure, medicine, law, politics, exploration, science, astronomy and survival. I wonder how much more inclusive of women, the elderly and children, of all colours, we would have been if humanity had not been held captive by the ideology of whiteness, masculinity, wealth and religion over the last couple of millenniums. Because it's not a new idea that people can live in harmony and with equality. We wouldn't have survived this long as a species if we weren't altruistic, co-operative and diplomatic for the majority of the time.

Aboriginal people have been on this land for around 80,000 years, the science is still uncertain and I suspect will change to show us that it has been much longer. The arrival of the First Fleet didn't end the "stone age" here, as Piers Akerman ignorantly brain farted on Twitter the other day. The people that inhabited this land for so long before the British arrived, did so prosperously and expertly for millennia. And despite efforts to destroy them completely, they have survived and thrived. Isn't that enough proof that the colonialists were wrong? That's where we are at. Time's up alright. Time's up for a lot of things and if we're truthful, we can move forward and fix this mess.

A Time to be Impolite

  

Image via: emaze.com

 

The other day, I saw the best Tweet. Thank you @XannieW.

It's funny how whenever there is a debate or clash of ideas, people suddenly become peace makers and fence sitters. Everyone scrambles madly for their high horse and self-righteousness, like the moral high ground is all of a sudden the place to be and the moral high road is the only way to get there. If only they really believed that. They only pull that card when someone stands up to their bullshit, because most of the time they're placing barriers to morality.

As I've said before and will say again, fuck that noise. No. I don't have to be respectful of lies. I don't have to respect bigotry, sexism, misogyny, racism, homophobia, religious delusion, hatred, child abuse, irrational, apologist, cowardly and vile ideas or behaviour.

If you support a sexist and racist arsehole like Donald Trump or Pauline Hanson or Tony Abbott or Scott Morrison or Peter Dutton or Miranda Devine or some other dipshit who's head is so far up their bum, they can't see the light of day....I DON'T HAVE TO LIKE YOU OR BE NICE TO YOU.

If you still believe there's a man sitting on a throne in the sky, telling people who they should be having sex with, telling women what to do with their bodies, asking for heaps of money that never gets to the poor, only to the fat, sexless, perverted priests in their delusional and untouchable cocoons....I DON'T HAVE TO LIKE YOU OR RESPECT YOU.

If you are more offended by me criticising religion, churches, politicians, injustice, people who don't 'get' science, people who are old fashioned, people who refuse to educate themselves, people who are more comfortable with what they have been brainwashed to believe than the truth; if that offends you more than the damage these idiots inflict on all of us.....I DON'T HAVE TO LIKE YOU OR TOLERATE YOUR IGNORANCE.

Opinions are an interesting thing. Everyone has their own view of the world based on their genetics, their upbringing, their education and environment. That is all well and good when it comes to some things. If you hate Skittles, good luck to you. I think they are the tastiest, fruitiest, sweetest lollies on earth. It doesn't bother me if you don't like them. That is a matter of taste and opinion.

If you hate women, people of colour, LGBTIQ, the disabled, think abortion is murder and think it's forgivable to lock up innocent people in detention or excuse pedophile priests; that isn't an opinion. That isn't a logical and acceptable state of mind. It isn't a matter of taste or upbringing or education. If you don't understand those concepts, your opinion is based in fear and ignorance. Not reality and not fact. And your reality and your idea of fact is harmful, destructive and wrong. If you hate Skittles, that doesn't matter to anyone, but you and your deprived taste buds, poor things.

So I'll make it clear. These days I am very comfortable with eliminating people from my circle of family and friends. Since having children in particular, I feel a very strong obligation to be very choosy about who I associate with, who I will allow into my sphere of influence and mutual love, who I expose my children to. I have no time for oxygen thieves. I don't have to be nice. I don't have to explain. It's not my job to accommodate your ignorance.

I am making room for people of like mind and heart. I know many others who are doing the same and we are gravitating towards each other into a force to be reckoned with. We are changing the world. One small step, one system, one decision at a time. 

I urge you all to do the same. No fear. Keep speaking out against the things that you know are wrong. The things that divide us. Look for opportunities to make those "opinions": that women are less, that people of colour are less, that LGBTIQ are less, that different-abled bodies are less; make those "opinions" as unacceptable as they are. Zero tolerance should be applied to those world views that are holding us back.

And try Skittles again. They're delicious.

Summer Olympics in Brazil 2016

Image via: The Sun

The Summer Olympics are an exciting spectacle, but Olympic Games hosting cities are rarely without controversy. Rio De Janeiro is no exception. The money spent to host such an immense global event, when there is such financial inequality, poverty and as a consequence crime in a host city, means ordinary people are torn. Between being proud of their country’s hosting capabilities, showcasing their culture, world heritage sites and tourism, whilst at the same time being understandably angry at the injustice of governments producing the resources to accommodate a huge event, when funds for local infrastructure, economy, housing, employment and social services are lacking. 

Brazil’s economy has been growing steadily for the last decade and this is why it was awarded both the Summer Olympics in 2016 as well as the FIFA World Cup in 2014. The middle class has been expanding in Brazil and governments generally see events such as these as opportunities to invest in the infrastructure and economy and eventually generate jobs, tourism, revenue and improve public works for the locals. No doubt Brazilians have welcomed such a huge honour to host these events, particularly the World Cup – Football being a cultural phenomenon in Brazil and being without a doubt, the number one sport played in the country. Soccer is an institution in Brazil, having its own style and mystique renowned the world over. However, it is inevitable that the working classes are not only skeptical of the value these events will add to the Brazilian way of life, but also justifiably demanding of greater equality for the locals.

When projects go over budget, take exceedingly long periods to complete, or are not completed at all and when money is spent on hosting these events at the expense and detriment of governance that benefits the locals, people respond with demonstration. Events such as the Summer Olympics, while putting a spotlight on unity, sportsmanship, peaceful competition and inspiration, inevitably highlight societal inequality, corruption and conflict. 

In Brazil, protestors threatened to extinguish the Olympic Flame as it traveled to its destination. One of the torchbearers himself participated in protesting the current Brazilian government, bearing a slogan painted on his arse. Consequently, security has been on high alert and this raises questions about people’s civil liberties and human rights, particularly in a country like Brazil where the police and security forces have a reputation for being especially brutal. It has been reported that processes of ‘pacification’ have been used to clean up the favelas to make them safe and accommodating to tourists and spectators. While drug traffickers are often the target, civilian collateral damage is not unusual and Amnesty International has been keeping a close eye on human rights violations in Rio.

While the Summer Olympics demonstrate the strength of the human spirit (for the first time ever, a team representing refugees – there are more than 60 million displaced people worldwide according to the UN – is competing), the Olympics is also a time to consider the greater imbalances and inequalities that plague our world and perhaps inspire the desire to want to make change.

The Queens Have Never Left

Photo credit: scratcherpen.deviantart.com

Something is stirring. The moon has been out during the day. It makes our kind more intuitive. More sensitive to the unseen, subtle shifts and covert little nigglings seemingly so clever and courageous to the poor little empty hearted souls who try to concoct them. We can smell it a mile away and we no longer need to put a lot of effort into sniffing them out and hunting them down, do we. Silly little cunts. They tell us where they're going to be and when. Like this.

What should we do? Should we just shut it down now? Nice and quickly. Clean. Leaving only a small cloud of dust that evaporates as quickly as it came. Or should we play a bit. Tease and torment, ridicule, humiliate. Stoop to the levels they're attempting to impose. Speak their language. You know, hold up a mirror for them to reflect upon their own image. Teach them a lesson. Get off our self righteous pedestal because being better people has not served us well with them. They don't speak the language of compassion. We have to be as brutal as they are. Fight Fire with Fire. Get our hands dirty. Dive in head first and come out bruised and bloodied, because it's what they want and what will ultimately give us the most satisfaction, because we want to take them down hard and revel in the blood lust of our ultimate triumph. Because of course we will win. We already have. We do, over and over again. It's not even an even fight. Poor fuckers. They don't even know it. They still don't even know it. They lose and fall and fail time and time again, but they still come back for another smack down. 

It's getting exhausting. But they're not giving us a choice. No matter how much we shout "STAY DOWN. STAY DOWN MOTHER FUCKER. DON'T GET UP AGAIN. JUST STAY DOWN. KNOW YOUR FUCKING PLACE."

They think we're taking the piss. They think we are just appropriating them. They think we're mimicking them. They think our intentions are just like theirs. To win. To take power. To alleviate our fear and inflate our egos. But it isn't is it. And no matter how much we explain it to them. No matter how much we dumb it down. They still don't get it. 

We've told them time and time again. "This isn't about you. It's not about your ego. We don't give a shit what you want. We don't want what you have. We don't really care whether you live or die. We just want what is ours. What's right and just. The good of the masses. Justice. Peace."

They look at us with glazed eyes and slack jaws. Drooling, monosyllabic grunts and flailing their stupid arms and puffing out their silly chests. Beating them like it would scare us off. Pffft.

They think they're organised. They think they have an army behind them. They think they're pretty clever and they think they are strong. I've laughed about this so hard, I lost my breath. Gulped for air, tears streaming down my face. Trying to compose myself long enough to empathise, but it devours me again. Waves and waves of hysterics. Laughter so deep, so uncontrollable that I can barely believe the concept of what they're proposing even exists. Please. Please.....don't get me started again. Let me finish this!!!

So. What to do. What to do about it once and for all.

Tear them limb from limb. Pluck out their fucking ugly eyes and uglier hearts and kick them til they're broken. Pulverised into a smear of hair and bone and jelly. Throw them all into a heap and torch the fuckers. And film it and play it on a loop for the others to see. THAT'S WHAT THEY DO TO US!!!

No. There's a much better way. The laughing helps. It helps so much. And they fucking hate that. The pointing and the laughing. It feels so good. It boggles their little minds. They hate it more than the blood letting. They don't want to be ridiculed. They don't realise they're ridiculous. It's beyond them.

Point and laugh. Ok, that's number one.

Breathe. Breathe the air they think is theirs. Take up all the space. Take it. TAKE IT. It's yours. Yours before it was ever theirs and yours after they steal any of it. They can't ever take it all. They're trying, poor dears. Trying so hard to take the air and space. Here it comes again. That wave of mirth. It's bigger than me, the joy. It fuels me.

Right. Point, laugh, breathe, take up space.

Words and noise. We need words and noise. They hate that too. Always telling us to shut up. Telling us what words and noise we can make if any. Nope. Mine. My words and noise are mine. If I want to wail like a fucking banshee, I will. If I want to sing like a lunatic, watch me. If I want to rage like a machine, try and stop me. Just try. Better yet, try and stop us.

We're pretty loud when we're on the same page. We don't have to meet to make a crowd. We're here. And we're not going anywhere. And when we think the same things, all at the same time. That electricity. That momentum. That force is more powerful than their tiny little brains can even fathom. Sometimes, we can just raise our eyes to meet theirs head on, raise an eyebrow and watch them explode. You know what I'm talking about don't you. Enough said.

So let's do it. Before this shit gets out of hand. But as if we can go that far backwards. Not now. There are too many of us.

Point at their stupid heads.
Laugh your heart out at their arrogance.
Breathe in as much air, take up as much space - starve them of existence.
Say whatever you want, tell them. Loudly. Shout at them and scream your intolerance. Your resistance. Pound your fists, kick the doors, turn over the tables.

We have to keep teaching them these lessons. Til they submit and learn. Or disappear forever. It's that simple a choice really, isn't it. 

Sign the petition.

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I'm Letting My Hair Go Grey

The first time I tried to change the colour of my hair, my high school friend and I, at 14, cut up a lemon and rubbed it all over our heads. We spent the afternoon in the sun hoping our brown hair would lighten and have lovely blond streaks through it by the end of the day. It didn't. We just ended up smelling like lemon (not so bad) and having to wash out lemon pulp and stickiness from our heads. When that didn't work we tried Peroxide; 0 - 100, no mucking around. We poured the entire contents of the bottle into the bathroom sink at my mum's place, filled the rest with water and tried combing it through. We didn't get the instant gratification we wanted as the results take at least a few minutes so we just dunked our heads in. We then filled our water spray bottles with Peroxide and water so that we would continue to lighten our hair each morning when we sprayed it wet to style it. I think mum inadvertently used it a couple of times too....oops!

The result? We both became gingers. Gingers with black roots. We told our school teachers and our parents that the lemon juice had been a success and that the wonderful sunshine we had exposed ourselves to over the school holidays, had done the trick, turning our once brown hair orange. I don't think they bought it. They were always telling us to get outside and enjoy the fresh air when all we wanted to do in summer in those days was to wear black and sit in our rooms reading, listening to music, writing in our diaries and sulking. This is me with my little sister around that time. Black t shirt, black shorts, orange hair. It was 1989.

When my peroxided hair started to grow out, I decided to put a rinse through it to even it up. I chose burgundy, a deep reddish tint, instead of reverting back to my natural brown. It was the beginning of many years of dying my hair to change my look. When I discovered the permanent colours, I tried them all. I dyed it black when I felt melancholic and dark. Red mahogany or aubergine when I felt outrageous and adventurous. I tried every shade, although to be honest, those packet jobs don't really provide a wide spectrum of colour. They always end up looking like one of two colours, black or red. My mum used to say to me that I would regret dying my hair so young because some day I would have to do it to cover up grey hair and it won't seem like so much fun anymore. She was right. That's where I'm at now.

The permanent colours you used to get back then had tons of ammonia in them. They stunk up the entire house and made my eyes water. They stained my neck and my forehead and my hands and the towel and everything the toxic goo touched, but I still did it, regularly. It became a habit, part of my routine that I topped up every 4 -8 weeks to blend in my roots and update my look. 

These days the packet stuff is so much more pleasant. Many of them do not contain ammonia anymore, they develop in under 15 minutes, they have lots of lovely natural ingredients in them and aren't as difficult to scrub off your face when you accidentally scratch your nose with a gloved hand full of dye by mistake. They don't take too long to work and smell pleasant. They comb through your hair easier and leave your hair so soft and luscious they count almost as a treatment. In fact that is why I have continued to use them and have never had my hair dyed at the hairdresser, choosing instead to DIY it at home myself. Except for the time, way back in the early days, when I decided to get a red streak in the front of my hair. I went to the hairdresser and she bleached the front and then dyed it bright red. It DID NOT turn out the way I wanted and if I ever dig up the photo that mum took of me so that she could taunt me with it in the future and prove her point about how ridiculous I looked, I will not post it here at all. I will burn it in the kitchen sink like I used to do with photos of old boyfriends.

I noticed grey hairs very early on. I think the first was in high school in my final year. I put it down to the stress of exams and didn't really care too much about it because I was colouring my hair regularly anyway so no body would even notice. This continued for decades. It is only really in the last 5 years or so that the greys have started to become increasingly abundant and stubborn and noticeable. They are so much harder to cover, because there are so many of them and let's face it, doing a hair dye job at home is not the best way to achieve total, even coverage. In fact, tie dyed is more of an apt description. I just make sure the top and front are covered, what happens underneath is another story. It's all about blending it in. These days the grey roots make an appearance a lot sooner than the 4 - 8 weeks. They start rearing their short, puby little ugly heads by the first wash and it's down hill from there.

I refuse to go to the hairdresser to get my hair dyed to this day. I'm lucky if I go twice a year for a haircut let alone going every few weeks to get my roots done. It is one of my absolute pet hates. I hate the chit chat, I hate the powerlessness and the vulnerability of sitting in front of the mirror after they've washed your hair, dripping wet and looking like a drowned rat. The lighting is shit and hideously unflattering. I hate how they never scrub the underneath part of your scalp. I hate having water trickle down the back of my neck when I'm fully clothed. In fact when I do go to the hairdresser, I wash my hair at home and make them just cut it. I also style it myself, unless I have a very rare important occasion, like my wedding day and even then I never understand what the hell they're thinking when I see the finished product. Three hours of blow drying and straightening and curling so that I can look like anyone but myself. I hate the product pushing and the barrage of questions. I always feel like I'm at a job interview at the hairdresser's. They quiz you about your life like it's their business. They give you the impression that they want to get to know you, but that's bullshit because they never remember you the next time or they get someone else to do your hair. They never want to divulge anything about themselves either. I could pretend I'm on a talk show. I also hate the judgement. So what if I tried to give myself a fringe and it turned out crooked; so what if I sit on the couch and split my ends to my scalp sometimes when I watch tv; so what if I can't get the hair dye in the bits behind my ears. Who else, other than the hairdresser, is looking that closely at my head? 

I can count on one hand how many times I've come back happy from the hairdresser. It's always an ordeal. The best experiences I've had have been when I've gone in for a simple trim or a simple, but dramatic change. Long hair to a short straight bob is one of my favourites; can't go wrong. Trimming long layers is pretty straight forward too, although a few have fucked even that up because I always ask for a V shape, but it always ends up looking like a U shape. 

I once went to a hairdresser who I specifically told NOT, I repeat, NOT to razor my hair; a technique where they run a blade up and down the hair shaft to thin it out. I explained that my hair is quite coarse and razoring tends to aggravate the frizz. It looks great in the moments after it is done, but as soon as it starts to grow again, it goes hay wire. He proceeded to razor my hair with sharp scissors and when I screamed at him to STOP (he didn't hear my initial whimpering) he explained that he wasn't using a razor, but scissors. It didn't occur to him that THE TECHNIQUE WAS THE SAME! I lost my shit that day. I was 8 weeks pregnant, nauseous and emotional and my brother's wedding was that weekend. Luckily I had a birthday voucher from my brother to go to another salon and have it styled for the occasion. They curled the bejesus out of my hair while I sipped on ginger beer and sweated and held back spew and by the middle of the day when the festivities began, the curls had settled and it didn't look half bad. One of the success stories. I also recall a time when I walked out of a salon without paying because after letting me wait an hour beyond my appointment and then spending another hour cutting air so that there was no hair on the ground AND THEN having the audacity to ask for $60, I decided that I would rather have them chase me through Town Hall station (I don't think that particular salon is under the same management anymore) than give them a penny of my hard earned cash. I'm sure the girl that cut (and I use that term loosely) my hair was sedated or recovering from a lobotomy. 

I've had some pretty good experiences too, don't get me wrong. It's just that the bad ones out weigh the good. I once went to a salon where the hair washing chairs were massage chairs and to top it off the hairdresser washed my hair thoroughly and massaged my scalp with a choc peppermint oil that left me euphoric. I vibrated into oblivion. I don't remember the rest of the experience because I was off with the pixies, but I do remember leaving the place looking like a celebrity because she did an amazing blow dry. I told her I would have to go out that night just because I looked instantly dressed up with that hair. I didn't; I got a bottle of wine and watched TV all night, getting up to look at myself in the mirror once in a while to admire my head. By the time I needed another hair cut, I'd moved house and haven't been back since. I wonder if the salon and the same hairdresser is still there? They often aren't.

The whole front of my head, especially my right side is now pretty much white when the hair colour fades. If I part my hair anywhere along my scalp, the roots are grey. I can keep putting colour through and enjoying those first few days of soft, luscious, even coloured hair or I can find another solution.

Ombre or ballyage hair is all the rage at the moment. Basically it is the look bottle blonds get when their dark roots grow out. Like this.
             
Hang on a minute! I was way ahead of my time! If only it was fashionable when the Peroxide was growing out. Unfortunately at the moment, my hair is doing this in reverse. 

I could go for this look instead.
            
It's an option, but I don't think a blonde head near my face would suit me.

If I was 20 years younger I would totally do this! Complete with the tattoos and blue contacts. This is what I tried to do and failed when I was 17, but with red instead of blue - it ended up being more orange than red. I might still do it one day. I can always wear a beanie if it fails. I crochet you know.

So what are my options? I would like to work with my head instead of against it. It's possible. I wanna be like Helen Mirren and go grey and then dye it pink. Like this. Totally foxy.
   

Heaps of women rock grey hair. Why is it only considered distinguished on a man? 

What does this make you think when you look at it? She needs to touch up her hair right? Why?

  

But this doesn't make you think twice, right?
   

On a woman, grey hair apparently makes her look haggard not honorable. It's the old maiden, mother, crone scenario. Women are bundled into one of these three categories. Maiden is young, flawless, beautiful, relevant; everything we see in advertising, everything we are indoctrinated to value as a society. This can also be divided into two sub categories. Virgin or whore. You can thank the Abrahamic religions for that one. Is the beautiful young woman a Mary the Madonna or Mary the Magdalene? Thanks again religion! 

Mother is the next stage, so if you have moved beyond the maiden 'age' and still haven't procreated, people start to pity you or assume you're a ruthless career woman who is completely self centered and self absorbed. You must be a spinster because what woman in her right mind would decide not to have children consciously? Or maybe you can't for medical reasons, at which stage you'll just cop the pity. Mothers on the other hand are excused for looking a little disheveled because they're so busy sacrificing themselves to rear their children. Well actually no, that isn't acceptable these days either. There are no excuses for not looking like a yummy mummy while frazzled and on no sleep. Comfy clothes and no makeup although understandable are seen as the result of selflessness and martyrdom not a conscious choice made by a woman who wants to focus on something other than her own vanity. 

The final stage is the crone. Yes you can have grey hair and be a nanna (which of course means you have procreated already and your children have now procreated too), but don't expect to be taken seriously unless you're Helen Mirren. You're just the nut bag buying Depends and chuckling to herself at Aldi.

A man can move smoothly from his wild teen years, into fatherhood or bachelorhood (it's not really questioned when men decide not to have children) and grey old age without anyone batting a judgey eye.

Well I reckon I can too. I reckon I'm all three of the categories imposed on me by society and everything in between. I'm a maiden; I'm young at heart, I'm relevant, I'm fit and healthy, I can be sexy and desirable. I'm not a virgin or a whore (not that being either is shameful in any way), but I'm a sexual being. I'm a mother - obviously. I'm a crone; wise, grey, jaded, experienced. Up yours society. Heaps of women are reclaiming their right to go grey gracefully.

I'm tired of colouring my hair right now. That is not to say that I'll never do it again or won't experiment with wild colours again, but right now I want to own and love my grey hair. Mind you I have a packet dye in the bathroom waiting for me and I have a wedding coming up, which is usually the type of occasion that I use as a marker for when to touch up my hair colour. I am strongly fighting the urge to give in this time.