Show Me The Money!!!!

  

Image via: Lancersglobal.com

Today (25th November) is the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women. Everyone is talking about it. We are very good at talking about violence against women. We click our tongues and shake our heads at how awful it is and send love and light and prayers (vom). We like the memes, we pin the ribbon on our shirts and we all agree that violence against women is a tragedy and an epidemic. The statistics are appalling. Around one woman is killed each week in Australia, at the hands of someone she knows, most often her partner. The statistics are also inaccurate. Many cases of violence go unreported and unrecorded. What we know for sure is that most women, I daresay all, will have at one time or another, experienced some form of violence in their lifetime, perpetrated by a man, BECAUSE THEY ARE A WOMAN.

What many people refuse to do is to connect the dots. To see how so many things contribute to the idea that women are less than men. That they deserve to be mistreated and bring it on themselves. That they are not people, that they are not human and that they are not worthy of living a completely free, self determining and whole life, that while living in a differently sex defined body (and that's a huge bloody spectrum anyway) still deserve to be equal.

What I'm saying is that so many things around us are lies and historical power abuses that position women in a compromised place, leaving us open to marginalisation, disadvantage and abuse. Here are two things that happened to me yesterday, just in time for me to write this today, a day when we should be fighting to end this shit once and for all.

First I went to the toy section of Big W. What a farce. 

Apparently, children can only play with certain toys depending on what they have between their legs. Penis children get the mostly blue things. Things with wheels and guns and scary faces and aggro. Vagina children get mostly the pink things. The sparkly, fluffy, smiley and nice things. Boys get violence and power. They also get construction, noise, muscles, weapons. Girls get cleaning equipment, dollies (mummy or bust), makeup and hair accessories. Of course the reality is different. Most kids I see in the toy section run through all the aisles and want to look at everything. Watch the parents though. Are they guiding them to look in "their" aisle or away from the "other" aisle? 

Then this happened. As you may know if you've read my previous posts, I quit my job to look after my children, like I'd planned all along. I had three under two and childcare simply wasn't affordable. It was too far to travel to work. I also wanted to be present in my children's lives for the first couple of years. Having worked since I was thirteen, I decided I'd earned it and was lucky enough to have a partner who could financially support us. He wasn't a financial plan, our partnership was. I also wanted to pursue my writing, start a self-publishing business and embark on a new adventure. It hasn't been easy, but nothing ever is. It would have been harder to continue in a job I wasn't all that satisfied in, traveling into the city and back each day on public transport for sometimes three hours in total and being rushed off my feet to get everything done. I reasoned that it wouldn't be forever and having had extensive education and work experience, I could get back into the workforce pretty easily when the kids were all in care, even if only part-time. All three children will be in childcare for two days of the week as of next year. I hope to work those two days. It won't pay for daycare, but it will contribute and working isn't just about the money. It's about so much more. Like, you know, me being a person and that! 

The rude awakening, while not unexpected, has begun and I'm already livid. I was alerted to a NSW public service position in my local area! What!! First cab off the rank and it's potentially a dream scenario. I was in the public service for eight years before resigning. This new position was part-time; four hour shifts spread across a five day working week and maybe some Saturdays. I knew when I applied that I would only be available on Mondays, Tuesdays and Saturdays, but I could make up the required twenty hours easily. Two lots of eight hour shifts on Monday and Tuesday and four hours on Saturday. I applied anyway, hoping for flexibility. I got none. 

I was called by one of the recruiters to be told that my application was shortlisted. Of course it was. I have nearly a decade of experience in the public service and numerous years of experience in a range of other industries and positions. Mostly service focused. I have a degree and an extensive list of education and training. I am skilled, capable, efficient and have a strong work ethic. So what! She clarified my availability and apologised for wasting my time. She cut me from the list. 

The abruptness of it all was a shock. Again, I will tell you I wasn't surprised, but my hope and optimism was dashed so aggressively and swiftly that it left me furious. I tried to argue a case with her, but she wasn't prepared to even listen. So I wrote a complaint. Here is an excerpt below. Back to the drawing board and back to writing. 

".......My question is, how are women who are forced to give up their employment to raise their children, due to unaffordable and inaccessible childcare options, ever to hope to get their foot back in the door. You would think that the state government would be accommodating and supportive of women who sacrifice their livelihood to provide care for their children without burdening already struggling and competitive systems.

I can't understand these employment practices that demand women be available to provide free labour and free care, and then make absolutely no allowances to support them to ease back into the workforce until they can either afford full-time childcare or their children are of school age. It is misogynist, economically unsound and regressive policy that disadvantages women, children, the public service and their clients. In doing so, experience and expertise is discarded in favour of outdated ideas about workplace policy.

I hope you will consider my experience and make your employment practices more flexible and accommodating for women to ensure better services."

 

Cherry on the cake? Just then, a page I used to follow on Facebook called Bay Retro, a radio station in Malta, posted about Johnny Depp visiting the island. I commented on his history of abuse, particularly considering that today is dedicated to eliminating violence against women. They promptly deleted my comments and blocked me from commenting further. Admittedly, I did tell another commentor to fuck off when she suggested Amber Herd lied, so in their defense they had every right. Not everyone wants to talk about violence against women. Actually maybe I don't. I'm sick of talking. We know the facts. I want action. And it has never ruined a perpetrator's career. Check out the video of Johnny Depp abusing his ex girlfriend in the TMZ video here.

 

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.

Why Books are Magic, Especially for Children

When I was a child, my nickname was Booka Book. I repeated the phrase over and over again: "Booka booka booka booka", whenever I wanted a book. My parents gave me books, they let me flip through the pages and absorb them, they read to me. Golden books and Lady Bird books were favourites and I still have many of them, that I have now passed on to my children. 

My kids are at the age, (my eldest is three and a half and the twins are almost two), that they are finally appreciating books. They no longer squirm and lose interest and become distracted when I try to read to them. They will sit together immersed in a pile of books, alone with the pages and the stories inside. Sometimes swapping between themselves, the eldest 'reads' to the siblings, reciting from memory what happens on each page. Sometimes word for word from those stories that rhyme or making up sentences as the pictures come to life in the mind. The twins are transfixed when they listen and jibber away in their own baby language, when they have a book to themselves. 

We have finally nailed down the bedtime story ritual. Whatever happens with books during the day, at bedtime we choose one or two books, sometimes three if it's early, and I sit on their bedroom floor and read to them. For the most part, they listen and join in. They know the last words of a familiar rhyming sentence and we say it together:

"...and his favourite food is roasted....?"
"FOX"

That's from The Gruffalo. It's a favourite in our house. So is The Gruffalo's Child, Room on the Broom, The Paper Dolls, in fact anything written by the incredible Julia Donaldson. 

Another staple in our house is anything by the incomparable Lynley Dodd. Hairy Maclary and his friends visit our place often and they are as familiar as family members.

These days, our children are so lucky. Not only do they get to delve deep into their own imaginations through the magic of these stories, the books come to life in animated reality. Some of their most beloved tales have been made into cartoons that not only bring the pictures and words from the pages to life, they fill the gaps in the stories, highlighting the nuances that can be easily overlooked. Like in Room on the Broom. The dragon flies low and menacingly over a bog filled with a large toad and her babies. As he passes, they fart bubbles into the mud. That isn't in the book!

As fantastic as technology is, and it is, despite how much whining and criticism we hear about how everyone's face is stuck in a screen these days. So what! They once said novels would destroy young people's souls too. As fantastic as technology is, it still doesn't compare to flipping the paper pages of a colourful book. Children slow down. They go places while sitting still. They do it alone and independently and they grow as a result.

Solitude, self sufficiency, a quiet space to let the cogs of your brain turn and link up happens in a special way when you hold that bundle of paper and absorb it, letting it seep into your psyche and do what it needs to without distraction. Because that, to me, is the biggest difference between reading anything on the internet and reading a book. It's the volume of messages and pathways reaching out for your attention all at the same time when you're on an electronic device that makes your brain and your being travel too fast sometimes. That's not always a bad thing. It teaches you to be discerning and efficient. With practice you learn to skim and only take in the stuff that you need, the important information you require and discard the junk. But it's only when you're focused and expert at skimming that this works. Other times all sorts of junk falls through the cracks and derails your thinking. Again, not necessarily a bad thing. Who knows what you might learn by mistake!

A book, on the other hand, well it's a kinder journey. It's a cruise not a speed boat and sometimes the adrenaline flood is best put aside. 

I'm Addicted to Crochet

It might seem like a strange hobby for a young woman. When I say young, I mean 40ish, which isn’t that young really, but I’ve been crocheting for years. I must have been in my late teens when I first learned and completed my first project, a granny blanket.

Crocheting is one of my favourite, if not at the top of the list, pass times. I was taught by my mum and my aunty and it is something passed along from one woman to another in my family, no doubt most families, of women who crochet, knit, stitch, sew. It is one of those oral traditions and practical skills that women just show and teach each other. Although these days, with Pinterest and super crafting websites, the abundance of materials, design and information sharing, it’s no longer just a pass time for old grannies. It’s a global art form ranging from the humble beanie to elaborate creations, like the art works of Shauna Richardson who crochets giant animal sculptures that were featured in the London Olympics. Her work is known as crochetdermy – literally crocheting life size and larger, true to life animals. 

I remember traveling through Europe in my early 30s and being completely enamoured by the lace making traditions in Venice and Malta. Those artisan crafts are at risk of disappearing and they were urging young women to take an interest, to talk to their elders about the craft and perhaps even learn, so they can pass it on to future generations. 

Lace Displays in Venice - Own Photos

Maltese lace making – Image via maltainsideout.com

     

I once attended an exhibition at the Powerhouse Museum in Sydney that showcased some incredible lace and crochet creations. From wall hangings to garments and jewellery. Even crochet inspired urban fencing! It was truly incredible.

Crocheted Tea Set – Own photo

Wall hanging - Own photo

Garments – Own photo

Jewellery – Own photo 

Crocheted fence – Own photo

I love everything about crocheting. I love buying the yarn. Here I am holidaying in New Zealand in 2010 in a yarn shop. Happy much!!!

I love the feel of the hook traveling through the soft yarn and the rhythmic repetitive knot making, which is all crochet essentially is. Over the years I practiced the basic stitches over and over until I could do it without looking and gradually learned to not only understand the combinations and designs by reading written patterns, I also taught myself to read diagrams, which are much easier and less prone to errors.

It’s easy to learn how to crochet these days. There are YouTube tutorials for everything and the simplicity of crochet, once understood, demonstrates the endless possibilities that you can create and make. From garments to dolls, blankets, homewares, bags and anything else you can come up with. And it doesn’t have to look daggy. Some of the most well known designers like Dolce and Gabbana have released crochet lines. But who would want to spend exorbitant amounts of money on a homophobic and misogynist brand when you can make shit for yourself.   

Crocheting gives me peace of mind. It is incredibly meditative and relaxing, but it isn’t mindless. There is a lot of concentration and problem solving involved. Also mathematics, logic, creativity, ingenuity, patience and generosity. Crochet is a wonderful avenue for gift giving. I love nothing more than to make something for someone else and there are many opportunities to crochet for charity; from blankets for refugees, little pouches for orphaned baby animals and tiny beanies and booties for newborns and premature babies in hospitals.

Crochet as therapy is undeniable for me. It puts me into a meditative state, regulates my breathing and distracts me from negative thoughts. It’s a great time filler and lets me surrender to a productive experience when I’m feeling idle or am procrastinating. Best of all, it keeps my mind active and alert, but at ease. There have been some suggestions that crafts like crocheting can improve the health of the mind, even preventing or delaying the onset of dementia. It can improve memory and trigger recollection of treasured events in one’s life. The book Crochet Saved My Life by Kathryn Vercillo talks about how crochet can help with depression and stress at the very least. There isn’t a lot of scientific evidence to support the health and psychological benefits of crochet. Most of the information tends to be anecdotal and comes from people’s individual experiences. My uncle told me that his mother once had a stroke and the doctors weren’t optimistic about her recovery. She was a champion level crocheter. She invented stitches and patterns in her mind and could make absolutely anything from crochet. She did absolutely beautiful work. He tells me that after her stroke, she resumed crocheting and her facial paralysis improved. In fact, she made a complete recovery and astounded her doctors. It is hard to prove if there was a link between her crocheting and her recovery, but the doctors thought it was possible. It certainly didn’t do her any harm and she lived a healthy and productive life for many more years. 

I have made so many things over the years. For myself, my friends, their babies, my babies, for raffles and for strangers. I’ve photographed most things because I part with most of them. Someday I hope to share this skill with my daughters. They watch me now, mesmerised by my hand movements and the colour of the yarn. Ok, so mostly they play with the balls of yarn like kittens and undo my rows by pulling at it, thinking it's a game, but I do see that glimmer of curiosity and they love trying on their hats and ponchos as I make them. They watch me wear my beanies and scarves and gloves and smile at all the colours of yarn in the big bucket by the lounge. When all else is just too hard, I crochet. I sit quietly and knot and knot. Mostly I make little projects that are easy to complete and give me instant gratification, but there’s nothing more satisfying than finishing a big job like a blanket. The girls have one each and I made all three while carrying them in my belly, those memories woven in every stitch.