Alfred Street – Dan Break

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The party was dull. More dull than he predicted. He stood staring blankly at the lattice slice for what turned out to be way too long. What did it mean? Was it munchies for the stoners? Was it an ironic attack upon the previous generation? Was it an empowering stance against body fascism?

“Dude? Do you want a slice?” It was the second time the host had asked and all of the enthusiasm had drained from his tone.

“No. No thank you.” The host moved on and Marcus was left again to stand alone in the living room. He figured it was at least another hour before he could convince Emily that he’d had a great time. That she was right. That he just needed to get out more and be with people. He would thank her and squeeze her hand. He took another sip off his beer and went back to trying to make sense of the gathering.

Rich kids. Every line of reasoning led him back to the same conclusion. They are rich kids. Their parents support them to study. They don’t have to work. They are bored. So they hold a party and feign interest in each other. He let the conclusion morph into a smug little grin too soon. Landon, who worked the same shitty night fill gig he did was chatting animatedly in a group across the room. Fuck it. That’s it for the living room them.

He was running out of skulking options. Emily was on the back deck. If she saw him alone she would start introducing to people. The bathroom was out too. It was full to bursting and emanating a lively political debate, or at least two monologues rhythmically lacing over each other with unpleasant cadence. The front stairs turned out to be inhabited by two people feeding of each other’s reciprocal interest. Who even does that anymore? Marcus thought. Everyone pairs off online. Surely? He stepped past them and into the front yard. Their conversation paused so he had to keep walking with manufactured purpose down and around and under the house.

The cement laundry sink, the only well-lit object, presented itself like a museum artefact. He moved through the shadowy people, refusing to let his brain process the snippets of conversation as he went, and arrived at the ice filled sink. Well. So be it. Marcus swallowed the warm half a stubby in his hand. His faithful prop of the last 2 hours. He reached into the ice and retrieved the five remaining beers in the six-pack he brought. It had been his notion, in fact his entire preoccupation since he arrived to not touch them. Leave them undrunk. Somehow, to abandon five beers he couldn’t really afford at some party he desperately didn’t want to be at was to be some kind of subversive act. Some kind of great joke on everyone.

Wandering back through the drone of infuriating conversation he found an empty couch. At the end of the uneven brick paving, facing a patch of dry dirt and lattice work flanked by the cement pillar foundations of the old Queenslander. Slumping without elegance into the crusty couch he could immediately taste the stale dust cloud in his mouth. He took the first sip of fresh cold beer and nodded slowly to himself. Yup. I will get drunk. I will make an appearance for Em. I will sneak home. I will fight an orgasm out of my cock and I will find sleep. Drinking deeply he wrestled with whether his depression was an indulgence or a problem. As he eyes adjusted to the light he realised he might be forming a silhouette. An invitation on the otherwise empty couch. He quickly slid onto the dusty floor. Sat with his back to the couch and cradled his beers into his lap.

But he was too late. He felt, rather than heard the space behind him become full with a human being. Sighing indignantly he drove deep into a list of automated polite refusals of company but none made it to his mouth. Before he could turn a foot pushed him in the back. Not sharply. Not even hard. But it caught him off balance and he collapsed, almost in slow motion, onto the ground. Marcus was still trying to construct the sentence as he spat dust from his mouth.

“I. I don’t really feel like company.” He felt his shirt run damp with the spilt beer.

“Don’t you?” The voice of a woman. Amused. Almost delighted. A foot pressed into his back. He felt the dull thump of the other.

“I… um… I…” His shirt was now soaked. His mouth was still full of dust.

“You want me to take your feet off your back. You would like to get up out of the dirt.” Her words came deliberate and slow. Marcus replayed them in his head. Tried to decipher whether they were questions or observations. For the first time since he could remember Marcus was suddenly present in the moment. He suddenly had something to think about that was actually happening. But of all the puzzles he had pondered this evening, what was happening was completely beyond him. There was only one thing that he was certain about. His cock was rock hard.

“No.” He spoke clearly. “No I do not want those things.”

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Run hard – Mereana Otene Waaka

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

I went to get a book I lent him. I knocked at the door of the housing complex he lived in. Someone let me into the kitchen. I went to his room. Knocked. He was there, merry, all smiles and friendship.

“Come in” he said ”Tea? Coffee?” There was no chair so I sat on the neatly made bed. “Wanna watch a dvd?’ overfriendly. “ Nope , Ive just come for the book, I need it” Hes made me a cup of weak , milky tea, the cups half full, just the way I don’t like it. “ Do you wanna watch a dvd?” Hes still puttering around, quick , sharp  movements, busy. He grabs his laptop, puts it on a chair he pulls from beneath a pile of stuff. He opens the laptop. A big cockroach walks desultorily across the side of his desk, checks its email on its iphone and adjusts its aldi bag. “One of my friends” he says with a crooked smile. Its in no hurry, looks like its just done its grocery shopping. It looks tired, adjusts it antennae. I look at the dvd, now playing on the laptop screen, the image is scattered into a thousand pieces of disconnected light. “Your screen is broken” I say. He looks and points to the bottom lefthand corner “there” he points  “you can see the picture better there” I can see something but without the other pieces I cant make out what Im seeing. I realise, hes pissed. Totally plastered. Him not whatevers on the laptop screen. Ive seen him like this before, all dandelion flowerheads, bright and breezy, jumping about like a busy flea. Once upon a time I would’ve slipped into his delusional dream, his aldi bag enclave of drying washing and food on the counter chaos.

Now I jump to my feet and say “don’t worry, ill come back another day’. He looks like a naughty boy, caught out. He reaches out ,tries to engage me, makes silly noises I used to find hilarious. “AAAck” he says ‘EEEEEEE’ like the sound of air being let out of a balloon. I don’t know whether to be sorry or laugh. Laughing at him. That’s what got me in there in dreamland in the first place. I open the door, look back to the empty bed, the mess, the cockroach and broken laptop, the man that looks like a pissed Peter Pan. I used to think that’s what love is. I close the door, run hard, don’t look back.

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Liberty Valance – Ian Cunliffe

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Facebook plays fast and loose. Australia’s regulator fiddles.

Most Australians are on Facebook. Facebook has more than 15 million Australian users. Facebook collects masses of personal information about Australians – probably more than anyone else. But it flouts Australian privacy laws with apparent impunity.

A primary Facebook obligation is to publish a Privacy Policy which enables Australians to complain to Facebook and get prompt redress for privacy breaches.   A correspondence exchange three years ago between the Australian regulator, the Australian Information and Privacy Commissioner, and Facebook is on the regulator’s website. Facebook stonewalled, declining to have a document called “Privacy Policy”. The need for a viable complaints system wasn’t even mentioned in the correspondence.

Facebook argued that the Irish authorities were happy with its “Data Retention Policy”, and, in effect, that was good enough. For good economic reasons, doubtless Ireland is totally in the thrall of Facebook. The Australian Privacy Commissioner seemed to cop it sweet.

I work both sides of the street on privacy regulation: as a practising lawyer for individuals with privacy complaints; and part time as privacy officer for an Australian member services organisation.

Five months ago, a mate complained that he had been put on Facebook, with a profile and photos. My mate – now my client – doesn’t even own a computer. He wants anonymity – as is his right.

So I googled Facebook, expecting to find its Privacy Policy and address for complaints. Easily done. However I couldn’t find any Australian address – physical or virtual – or any phone number for Facebook. Snail mail to Ireland or the US were the suggested options.

So I emailed info@facebook.com – presumably in the US – arguing a serious breach of privacy and asked for my client’s immediate removal. I was directed to “the Help Center” (sic) website. Nothing relevant was there. So I emailed info@facebook.com again but got no response.
Accordingly, I complained to the Australian Privacy Commissioner, attaching my correspondence with Facebook and pointed to Facebook’s non compliance with the Privacy Act.

The Commissioner’s Office (the OAIC) was quite unhelpful. It comprised information I already knew about the Privacy Act and OAIC, and showed that OAIC had totally misinterpreted my request – which was that it should get Facebook to obey Australian law.
I immediately wrote back to OAIC arguing that my client did not supply any information to Facebook and had not consented to Facebook obtaining his personal information or disclosing it.
I added that I could not find a Facebook Privacy Policy which even remotely complied with Australian law, thus preventing Australians getting redress for privacy breaches. I concluded that Facebook thumbs its nose at Australian privacy protections.

About a month before I first complained to him, the Privacy Commissioner released a Report [23 September 2016] that OAIC had examined “the privacy policies of 45 businesses used by Australian consumers every day”, finding that:

  • 71 per cent failed to properly explain how information was stored; and
  • 38 per cent didn’t include easily identifiable contact details for complaints.

The Commissioner said his office is working with businesses to improve.

Given Facebook’s massive size and role as a probably the biggest dealer in the personal information of Australians, the Privacy Commissioner should give very high priority to ensuring that Facebook is squeaky clean. It is anything but, and the regulator seems paralysed. Is it fear or awe?

 

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Feeling Vulnerable & A smidge courageous – Natalie LeSueur

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Two summers ago I read an article in The Age that changed the course of my life.It was an article about The Foster Girls and their courageous parents.
This is for them
Shame had kept me silent.
I spoke at The Royal Commission.
I am here for those who’s lives were ruined by men of the church and this Institution.
This is not about winning or losing its about showing up and being seen.
This is about knowing something and not being silent
This is who I want to be.I want to be that person who stands up for her rights.I want to be that person.
I was groomed in a very calculated way.
He said he was a man of god and that I should do what he says.
This went on for 2 years.
By the age of 13 I decided to take my own life.
I took some of my mothers sleeping tablets.I woke up.
Fast forward….
You have to trust that you can survive your own emotions and
@ 44 I realised that I have been fighting with myself all of my life.
Sometimes you just need to show up for yourself.I started to see and Have compassion for myself as I would a friend as if I heard this story from them.I learned to have a deep Love for my younger self.
And myself now
Intuition has been my savour.
There are people who know you and people that understand you.I need to be understood.
And as I grew up I began to understand that People are still not who I think they are but that was not my concern anymore.
I realised I was not depressed when I was younger I was just really fucking sad.
I’m sad I lost my childhood which I am now reminded of bringing up incredibly balanced,strong willed,extraordinarily amazing young females with parents that love them and more importantly support them emotionally & are present whole heartedly in their lives.
Lucky I woke up
This is what I learnt
Love yourself
This is how I survived
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The Dish Ran Away with the Spoon – Paul Baks

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The little boy kicked the dirt and dust that was one lawn in his mother’s backyard. The dust clouds exploded under his feet and settled slowly and gently back onto the ground. He scratched and scraped until boredom demanded another task. He pulled off the Autumnal leaves that popped off the branches almost in relief. He studied the veins and lifelines of the almost but not yet crunchy leaves, then screwed them up and watch the slowly ragain their shape.

In the distance he heard the changing of gears of a motorbike and the brakes of a big truck.

Soon he felt it coming. And then he saw it. At first a speck in the sky and then its shape formed. It was the man. The man with the tanned arms and rough leathery hands. This, he thought, was what a man’s hands should look like and feel like. The strong brown arms picked him up and lifted him into the air. The two flew up high into and above the clouds, then swooped towards the backyard. In a big swinging arc they flew over the neighbourhood. Over the school, the park, the footy ground.

He saw his mum in the backyard and he gave her a wave, she waved back smilingly. The man flew him home, let him go and scruffed up his hair. A wink and a return wink.

 

And the little boy laughed just to feel such joy.

 

And the dish ran away with the spoon.

 

 

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What Does Post-Gay Mean To Me – Shaun Miller

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

 

Being gay – or certainly growing up gay – can involve trauma for many people.  Trauma for the young gay person.  Trauma for the young gay person’s family and friends who are cowered into a “don’t ask, don’t tell” mentality.  Or worse still “ask but don’t tell”.

Coming out of the closet involves relief, liberation, freedom, new horizons and a whole new positively electrifying outlook on life.

Then, after the clubbing, the parties, the parades, the activism, the therapy re-visiting and re-mapping the past to understand the identity of being who you are in the here and now, comes a new phase: being post-gay.

Being post-gay means being gay without that being a central element in your life.  It means going to any clubs, not just gay clubs.  It means being a writer without only writing about gay topics or characters.  It means being a comedian without telling gay jokes.  It means being a politician without just campaigning on gay issues.  It means travelling to New York City without making a pilgrimage to Stonewall.  It means having a kaleidoscope of close friends, not just close gay friends.

If being gay is liberating, being post-gay is truly emancipating.  Being post-gay means having progressed into an evolved soul, whereupon in life you can always be yourself, because everyone else is already taken.

Being gay is winning the battle.  Being post-gay is winning the war.  And finally being at peace.

 

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The fortunate one- written – Fortunata Maria Callipari

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

 

I was born in 1967 to Catholic Italian Parents-

Can you believe they both had the same name?

Giuseppe and Giuseppa- the male derivative of the female derivative of the male derivative

Translated you will recognise Joseph or Joe or Pep- Josephine or Josie or Peppa- J- o- for short

When I was born it was not about giving me a name

Oh no- It was about the politics of gender equity

And male privilege mixed with Italian cultural practice- that it is the right of the Father to name the first born children by the names of his the parents.

I was the third born.

My predecessors – sister and brother were both named after their grandparents- My Father’s Mum and Dad.

Dad was one of five boys so imagine with so many cousins named Elena and Michael left us all asking “which one” are you talking about?

In those days arranged marriage was the beginning of a relationship.

When I came along my parents had been married seven years- yes – I was the seven-year itch baby!

So my namesake was debated-

My Father wanted naming rights –

My Mother wanted the right to name me after her Mother Esther, given she had complied with tradition on the last two occassions- she felt it was only a fair exchange.

But alas my Father insisted I be named after his Grandmother- Fortunata

There he had spoken, had given the order, and that was final –

or so he thought.

While Pep was not looking, Peppa snuck in a second name on the birth certificate – Maria

Fortunata Maria

As I grew up- Maria stuck- because it was a deliberate rebellious action, subtle but significant as the women’s lib movement took off in Australia- my Mother graciously stood her ground because every Italian family needed a Maria, and Maria was a good name for someone like me.

Over the years I’ve had many people sing to me

“Maria, I just met a girl called Maria”- a very romantic song making me feel like the most attractive woman in the world

that others may find me so beautiful and fall in love with me.

The other song is not so endearing:

“How do you solve a problem like Maria”

Which I have reconfigured as

How do you solve a problem? Call Maria!

I’ve taught myself positivity, the art of being and enlightenment and see myself as the problem solver, connector and a global citizen.

 

Then I think about the song Sympathy for the Devil, The Rolling Stones

“Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name
But what’s puzzling you
Is the nature of my game”

Of course this song says more about the reputation of the stones, than it says anything about me- the power of song, lyrics, tunes are important to me, and as the song says Please allow me to introduce myself tonight, I am the fortunate one!

 

To bring you up to date with what happened since I was born here is a list of events in sequential order over a 50 year period

Grew up on a farm in Mildura

Left home at 18 to study in Melbourne

Taught drama and media at a secondary school

Left teaching

Got a mortgage

Worked in the community sector

Retrained in arts marketing and management

Got married

Gave birth to a 4.8 kilograms bundle of joy, appropriately named MAX

Got a job in local government

Built a new house

Got another mortgage

Looking for next career move

The present

 

I joined La Voce Della Luna an Italian Women’s choir recently-

When I arrived there were four women who introduced themselves to me as Maria- So bring forth Fortunata. I am reconnecting with my cultural heritage by learning Italian folksongs.

Being with this group of women reveals the diversity within the culture and the unique qualities of each person- it’s exciting to be part of something bigger than myself and to contribute to the next generation of choir, keeping traditions alive and kicking. A quote that I love by Gutav Maher is Tradition is not to preserve the ashes but to pass on the fire. The choir is 20 years old and the majority of original members are aged between 40 – 86 years –

Now I proudly use Fortunata Maria Callipari to honour both parents equally and because it makes me feel happy when I think that it means Lucky Maria-

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The Ride of My Life – and it didn’t Involve a bike – Maureen Pound

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

I hadn’t had a date in 7 years. Who am I kidding? I hadn’t had SEX in 7 years.
No banging, no bonking, no bushwacking. The train had left the station, people!
It was definitely time to get back out there. I just didn’t know it at the time.
It was 48 degrees as I peddled my way along the bumpy road in Thailand, pushing my way though the overwhelming desire to stop. I was joining 50 entrepreneurs getting their lycra on and riding 500 kms in 5 days to raise money for Thai children without parents.
I had put in a fair amount of training in the month leading up to the ride. I lost 7 kgs and got myself fit enough to get through each day. I was slow but I was doing it. It was a good effort I thought, considering I hadn’t put by butt on a bike seat for about 10 years.
On the third night of the ride, after an extreme day climbing hills, we sat down after dinner to get to know each other better. We were each asked to share our motivation for doing the ride.
The stories were confronting and they just kept coming. The woman whose grandfather had taken away her self-belief through abuse; the man who had neglected his body by putting on 60kgs. They were sharing how the commitment to the ride and the Thai children had changed the course of their lives.
It was all so humbling and slightly uncomfortable at the same time.
As the evening progressed, I hadn’t shared my story yet and I was getting nervous. What WAS my story, anyway? What had MY journey been about?
I was second last to share. As I headed to the front of the room, I kept changing my mind. How could I be sincere and funny and real and make an impact? I had this real desire to do a good job.
Then the words raced out of my mouth….
“I have two amazing IVF anonymous donor children and my life for the past seven years has been about providing for them. And in doing so, I have neglected myself. Coming on the ride was a selfish thing in many ways. Taking time to get fit and having time away from the kids. Doing something for me”.
It was all true. I wanted an adventure just for me. And it was working. I really WAS feeling great. I felt strong. I felt sexy. I felt like the best version of myself.
And something strange was happening. Attention was coming my way. Gorgeous men were laughing with me, spending time with me, riding back to support me when I was at the back of the pack.
This attention and flirting and support from the other riders was awakening something within me.
Now being the second last to share my story that night, there was polite attention but it was getting late. People were a bit distracted. My story so far was nice but nothing special….
I was getting anxious but I continued.
“So in looking after my children and not myself, I have not been dating. In fact I have had not date a SINGLE  date in seven years.”
Polite smiles from a few people, some surprised looks but others were gazing at the door.
I had to built it up; make an impact. What could I say?
I deepened my voice, slowed myself down and took a deep breath.
“So I pledge to EVERYONE here tonight… that I am going to go home…. and get LAID!”
A big cheer erupted in the room.
I had done it!
Oh no, What had I done?
Made a commitment to 50 people I hardly knew that I would be GETTING IT ON back in Melbourne!
Geez.  I didn’t even know any single men…
Three days after returning to Melbourne I posted one word on our riders Facebook page.
“Tick”.
Everyone know what it meant.
Go Back

Feminism in Twelve Easy Lessons

LESSON NUMBER ONE

Beware of anyone using the words ‘respect’, ‘traditional’, ‘family values’, ‘honour’, ‘unacceptable’, ‘morality’, ‘uncalled for’, ‘inappropriate’, ‘unnecessary’ or ‘offensive’.
Particularly beware of the word offensive.

It’s code for ‘Pipe down princess, back in your box’.

Offence is taken not given and more harm is created by taking offence than giving it.

Offence is subjective.
Just because you are offended does not mean you are right. You’re offended? Block, unfriend, change the channel, switch stations, turn the page, talk to someone else or call the wahmbulance. No one has the right not to be offended.

Offence is used as a mode of social control. Do not be oppressed by feeling you’re supposed to lie down in some chalk outline drawn for you by a society that once upon a time would have burned you at the stake for such unladylike behaviour. Now all they can do is accuse you of transgressing some social norm constructed by the patriarchy to put you in your place. And the reason you have to be put or kept in your place is in order to fortify their place. And their place would be the one with disproportionate access to power, control, decisions, leisure, money and the ability to control women’s bodies.

Watch language. Language is a friend to joint destroyers. Men have opinions, women are opinionated; men speak, women are outspoken; men are passionate, women rant; men have mouths, women are mouthy; and when was the last time you heard a man called feisty, bitter, sassy or shrill?

As Laurel Thatcher Ulrich said, Well-behaved women seldom make history.

LESSON NUMBER TWO

You are not imagining it. You are not overreacting. Women are not being listened to, and when they are heard they are told they are dominating. Not only are they discouraged from speaking, when a woman does speak and is not enabling the patriarchy, she is used as a human piñata to set an example for others and keep them in their place.

Twenty years ago I came across a cartoon, which I have kept in front of my desk ever since. And it is as true now as it was then. The scene is a boardroom table. Five balding men in suits. One woman. The caption? ‘That’s an excellent suggestion, Miss Triggs. Perhaps one of the men here would like to make it.’ I’ve always said I wished there was a scientific way to prove that women who colour outside the lines cop a thousand times more vitriol and it’s a thousand times more vicious. There is. I appeared on Q&A in 2012 with Anglican archbishop, Peter Jensen, and copped a bucket load. Academic, historian and writer Chrys Stevenson undertook a detailed study into that particular episode.

‘According to comments on the #qanda Twitter stream, Deveny is: an ugly, extremist, stupid, unintelligent, idiotic, thoughtless, self-righteous, self-centred, self-absorbed, nasty, confused, frustrated, bitter, twisted, humourless, unfunny, unreasonable, unrespectable, disrespectful, sarcastic, mocking, catty, hateful, boorish, blustering, bullying bitch.

‘What’s more, she is: combative, vicious, shouty, loud- mouthed, arrogant, aggressive, angry, abrasive, childish, silly, garbled, inarticulate, intolerant, hypocritical, pathetic, disgraceful, disgusting, rude, condescending, bigoted, preachy, patronising, dogmatic, offensive, immoral, discriminatory and “up herself”.’

According to the mob, which included everything from private messages to national broadsheet newspaper editorials, I ‘rudely talked over fellow panellists, shouted, yelled and dominated the conversation’.

Stevenson not only found Peter Jensen spoke twice the amount of words as I did (his 36% to my 17%) but we both interjected/interrupted four times each, host Tony Jones only asked me to speak four times and asked Jensen eight, and I was asked twice to ‘keep it brief’.

Stevenson consulted an audio engineer, who found my voice was at the same consistent level as the other panellists and the host. And she ascertained my contributions were argued eloquently, politely, passionately and tolerantly.

So what was my crime? Until recently, the Powers That Be, the Masters of the Universe, the Captains of Industry and The Gatekeepers of Information have been able to control who says what, how and where. And it seems us Joint Destroyers are really taking the jam out of their donuts. Keep in mind they are still the ones with the donuts.

LESSON NUMBER THREE

Collect statistics. Keep statistics. Use statistics. Spread statistics.
The following week on Q&A, Liberal MP Christopher Pyne interrupted the host and other panellists a total of 34 times. And no one, apart from Chrys Stevenson, mentioned it, which is the only reason I know how many times the mincing poodle ejaculated into the show.

Dale Spender coined the ‘one third rule’ in her book Man- Made Language. As soon as women are: more than one third of the speakers at a conference; more than one third of the members of the house; more than a third of the authors on the review pages of the papers; or one-third the contribution to the conversations the impression is – for both genders – that women are taking over.1

In late 2012, Chrys Stevenson completed research into how women are represented in Australian newspapers and found, by her comprehensive byline count and content analysis, the percentage of stories written by women with women as the subject, quoting women or using women as an expert or in the photo is between 20% and 30%, similar to findings from separate investigations all over the world.

LESSON NUMBER FOUR

It is about numbers. Be aware of the Gender Adjusted Representation Scale.

Here’s part of a piece I wrote for International Women’s Day for The Age newspaper in 2009:

This newspaper itself reflects the ingrained gender imbalance in media. It’s not uncommon for the opinion page to feature a middle-aged, middle-class white man in a suit, followed by another middle-aged, middle-class white man in a suit, followed by another middle-aged, middle-class white man in a suit, followed by Peter Costello. Of the last 69 opinion pieces published by The Age newspaper, only thirteen have been written by women. Four from The New York Times’ Maureen Dowd and of the nine left, only three had opinions. The other six were just ‘sharing experiences’. And why, with the ratio of 56 men’s voices to every thirteen women’s on the page, is it not called ‘A Men’s Page’. Because if you inverted the numbers and it was thirteen men’s voices and 56 women’s I can guarantee it would be called ‘A Women’s Page’.

Time and time again when a typical television show, opinion page, radio station, court bench, ballot paper, board table, conference or church altar has a line-up of 80%, 90%, sometimes 100% middle-aged middle-class rich white straight (or acting), god-fearing (or pretending) men I ask people to subvert the gender balance to the same ratio of women. It then becomes clear that if this really were the case it would be considered a women’s show, newspaper, radio station, political party, company board or religion. Why are people so blind and/or accepting and consequently enabling of such discrimination?

If aliens came down they would take one look around and have no other choice but to make the assumption rich old white men were the smartest people on the planet.

Panel shows are perfect microcosms of the accepted gender bias. The ratio is about one woman to every four men. The one female gives an illusion of equality, which shows how accustomed we are to the token nod. One woman, it seems, is equal to four men, if you’re lucky. I call it the Gender Adjusted Representation Scale.

You call it when you see it, Destroyers.

LESSON NUMBER FIVE

Don’t just look at numbers look at the culture.
The all-women morning show The Circle used to regularly get mentioned when gender representation and women’s voices come up. People held it up like proof there is equality.

Of course, The Circle was axed. Why?

Again, beware the Gender Adjusted Representation Scale.

OK, The Circle. One show. From the hundreds on air every week. On at nine in the morning. The female presenters were expected to be bubbly, pleasant and not at all controversial. The show was promoted as a little bit opinionated on a few inconsequential topics. But it was mostly, ‘Later in the show we’ll be talking to Marina Prior about her workout tips and after the break we will be cooking cupcakes for our audience of pregnant mummies!’

What? From Egypt?

The Circle was promoted as smart and relevant, the Australian version of The View. Which it most certainly was not. But it was most certainly smarter and more relevant than any ‘women’s show’ in Australian television history and its foreseeable future. The Circle was a good house in a bad street.

The show’s marketing spin told us the women were smart, opinionated and funky. The reality is they are far, far more fabulous off screen. If the presenters were allowed to be themselves on screen the show would have been called ‘provocative, controversial and offensive’ and, let’s face it, wouldn’t have made it to air. The choice of women and the limited versions of themselves they were permitted to show is a perfect example of the Smurfette Principle and goes part of the way to illustrate how women are less likely to support each other professionally because of the perception there are only a few spots for a female and only certain kinds of women need apply.

If there is only one ‘women’s show’ on television (which, if one show is described as a ‘women’s show’ the rest are, therefore by default, ‘men’s shows’), why these women? And why this show? And even more curious, why when there is only one ‘women’s show’ on Australian television, when one presenter goes on maternity leave (Gorgi Coghlan) they have a guy (Colin Lane) fill in?

So The Circle was axed late 2012 because, despite its popularity, Network Ten had to cut costs and it was cheaper axing the whole show than getting out of a six-figure contract with unpopular breakfast host Paul Henry. An amount they never would have agreed to pay a woman.

Having The Circle was fine. We just need as much variety and diversity of women’s shows and women on television as men and ‘men’s’ shows.

But don’t just count the women, look at how they are expected to be, look, act and respond. How integral are they? I recently did a presentation on Women in Australian Television. The title was ‘Garnish’. That’s what women in Australian television are. Not the meal, the garnish.

LESSON NUMBER SIX

What all women should be encouraged to achieve is FOS: Fuck Off Status.
When I was nineteen, I met a woman called Patricia O’Donnell, who I am still buddies with today. O’Donnell is a successful restaurateur, businesswoman and all-round brilliant. When I was nineteen, she didn’t know me. But I was sitting at the bar of her establishment, The Queenscliff, waiting for some of my mates, her staff. She said to me, apropos of nothing, ‘You know what you need, young lady? You need Fuck Off Status. You need to have your house, and your business and be able to tell anyone you don’t want to deal with to fuck off.’

Best advice I have ever been given. We need to encourage all women and girls to aim for Fuck Off Status – not to dream of just marrying a footballer – and encourage all men and boys to enable and support it.

Women are 50% of the population, do two thirds of the work, earn 10% of the money and own 1% of the land. What do we want? Fuck Off Status! When do we want it? Yesterday!

And while we are on tips, I am often asked what tip I would give women wanting to be successful, so here they are:

  1. Stand for something.
  2. Never have any more children or any larger mortgagethan you could manage on your own.
  3. Use public schools, public healthcare and supportpublic housing and affordable, accessible, high-quality childcare and the rights of carers and the disabled. All these things enable number 4.
  4. Aim for Fuck Off Status. I got mine in December 2012, aged 44, when I finally had a mortgage and a house title in my name alone.

LESSON NUMBER SEVEN

Don’t buy the argument that women have less because we live in a meritocracy.
We don’t. It’s sexism.

I can’t walk out my door without tripping over a woman who has something to say. And could – brilliantly, passionately, articulately and repetitively in print, on telly, or on the radio. No problem. Given the chance. Or lead in government, corporations, the law or religion. Given the chance. So why aren’t they given the chance? Because they’re women.

It’s not a meritocracy. It’s sexism.

LESSON NUMBER EIGHT

Don’t placate strangers.

Women out alone attract a huge amount of unwanted attention. If there is a drunk, nutter, pissed bogan or sleaze, they will hassle the woman on her own. They will walk past the group of tradies, the bunch of old women, the couple on the bench, the young man in a suit, and pester or inflict themselves in ways that always appear to be random and spontaneous outbursts.

You don’t have to feel sorry for any drunk, nutter, pissed bogan or sleaze, or be kind to them or nice to them or excuse them as pissed, old or deranged. You do not have to give directions to, have a conversation with, tell the time to anyone, if you don’t want to. You do not have to be kind or nice if you don’t want to. Why do we so often override our own unease only to find ourselves in a vulnerable position?

If a stranger walks up to you and wants the time, directions, spare change or a chat and you don’t want to interact, don’t.

You never have to engage with strangers. It’s another form of harassment.

Here’s how to avoid finding yourself involved in unwanted conversations, even those that begin harmlessly enough: always have a line up your sleeve to nip unwanted intrusions in the bud. Don’t let them escalate into annoyances or into huge liberties taken by a stranger – or worse.

Here’s mine: ‘Sorry brother, I’m in a hurry.’
And just keep walking.
If they persist I just tell them in a deep and low voice to fuck off.

I know we shouldn’t have to need to do this but how many times have we been nice and kind – our default setting – and finding ourselves in an unpleasant, annoying or unsafe place with a total fucking stranger.

I am very friendly. I see men as brothers not predators, I routinely give directions, spare change, a loan of my phone and even the odd dink to guys I don’t know. But I use my instinct, which, like a muscle that gets flexed, is very strong.

Don’t feel sorry for them if you don’t want to. Let someone else. If these random guys really are losers, drunks or nutters, why are they always so able to contain their unwanted attention until when they come across a woman on her own?

Fuck that.

LESSON NUMBER NINE

Do not assume a woman in a powerful position is automatically a feminist.
And do not assume a male in a powerful position is necessarily a misogynist.

I have had as many males as females support me in my life and career and as many females as males be obstructive.

Where did the assumption come from that patriarchy advantages all men and disadvantages all women? Plenty of women – many of whom present themselves as champions of women, see editors of women’s magazines for further examples – are actually utter chauvinists and sexist creeps bursting with internalised misogyny and being rewarded for it. These women have joined what they consider the only game in town in an attempt to get power, position and privilege.

According to Germaine Greer: ‘The present condition of men is nothing to aspire to.’ Greer also asserts feminism is the last great revolution and reckons the women’s liberation movement hasn’t even begun.

Patriarchy damages us all and the axis of evil – patriarchy, religion and the state – is being dismantled, dissolved and detonated at an unprecedented rate by the holy trinity of atheism, feminism and the internet. But the axis of evil is still putting up quite a fight. It was never going to be easy.

The truth is, there is not one feminism, but many feminisms. And just because you are pro women does not mean you are anti men. In fact, I think one of the main reasons I am a feminist is because I love boys and men so much and I have hated the way society has expected them to live, love and be. Feminism is not anti men. It’s anti arseholes, misogynists, pricks, creeps, thugs and bigots.

LESSON NUMBER TEN

Clothes don’t turn women and girls into sluts. We do.

The most dangerous place for a woman is in her own home and she is most likely to be injured, abused, raped or killed by a man she is related or married to.

Babies get raped; old ladies get raped; boys get raped; men get raped.

Clothes have nothing to do with it.
There is only one cause of rape. And that’s rapists.
If anyone tells you not to walk the streets alone or take care or to be scared or to get a man to walk you to your car, you say, ‘Don’t tell me not to walk my streets. Tell people not to rape me.’

What is a slut? I’d like to get a series of pictures of a female from birth to old age: a baby, toddler, school girl, teenager, young adult, pregnant, with her children, mature, aging, each wearing the normal transition of clothing, and ask people to point to pictures in which she looks like a slut.

What is a slut? A woman who likes sex? Wants sex? Has had a lot of sex? Who dresses in short skirts, high heels and low-cut tops? What is the definition of a lot, short, high and low?

So what if we could all agree on the universal definition of the word slut and we could accurately identify a slut? So what? Women should be able to do what they want and expect not to be judged, shamed or punished for it. And if they are, they need to speak out.

Women have the right to wear what they want, enjoy sex and have sex with as many people as they like.

There is nothing wrong with being a slut. Whatever that is.

Clothes are not safe or unsafe. People are.

When I asked my boyfriend if he was coming to Slutwalk with me, he said, ‘Sure. ’Cause you’re not allowed to rape sluts either.’ Couldn’t have said it better myself.

BONUS LESSON

Listen to the gospel according to Gloria.

The truth will set you free. But first, it will piss you off.

Gloria Steinem

Any woman who chooses to behave like a full human being should be warned that the armies of the status quo will treat her as something of a dirty joke. That’s their natural and first weapon. She will need her sisterhood.

Gloria Steinem

I’ve yet to be on a campus where most women aren’t worrying about some aspect of combining marriage, children and a career. I’ve yet to find one where many men were worrying about the same thing.

Gloria Steinem

LESSON NUMBER ELEVEN

Loving your body exactly the way it is is an act of civil disobedience. Do it.
Sometimes I think people are most offended by my confidence in who I am and how I look. The fact I am not just happy but thrilled with who I am. The absence of self-deprecation and apology for not fitting into their idea of who I should be. And how I should feel about it.

Someone out there would kill to have your body. Seriously, they would. And the owner of the body that you would kill to have is probably as dissatisfied with their body as you are with yours. Same goes with level of health, amount of money, value of assets you own, troubles you have.

Let’s stage a coup on dissatisfaction. The constant portrayal of the skinny, teenage, heterosexual, white and able body as the ‘only’ desirable body is unfair and untrue. I’m furious with people who manipulate the world to make women feel not good enough. And even more furious with women for being sucked in to it.

It’s a choice between fear and love. A choice. You choose.

I watch people look at old photos of themselves and exclaim, ‘I looked so slim, so young and so gorgeous! No wonder the fellas were gagging for me back then! I had no idea at the time how beautiful I was. I wished I’d known and just enjoyed it. I hated my ankles and thought my skin was too blotchy and my body too fat.’

Women seem to go through life always thinking they are not good enough. There will be a moment in our lives when we will be the prettiest, the thinnest and the happiest we’ll ever be, but we will never know when it is.

I was in a supermarket once and I saw this skinny, withered old woman, maybe 75, flicking through a magazine called Slimmers, and I wanted to tap her on the shoulder and say, ‘When are you going to stop worrying? You are good enough.’

I have only been thin twice in my life, when I had cancer and when I was suffering severe depression. It was awful. I would have paid a million bucks to be twenty kilos bigger and happier.

Stop buying those women’s magazines – they are self- loathing manuals. Buy clothes you love, that you look and feel great in and surround yourself with images of diverse body shapes.

Loving your body is about feeling well and healthy.

LESSON NUMBER TWELVE

Who we should remember and how we should try to be remembered.

Hi Catherine,

I don’t know if you remember the end of an International Women’s Day lunch you did at Monash University a couple of years ago, where a young lady at the end asked a question about ‘what was going to happen to me?’ etc., etc. I was that chick. At the time I was working part time, trying to finish my thesis, and looking after a baby (and in a shit relationship) – the works. I actually wasn’t even attending the lunch – technically I was working, handing out sandwiches.

You answered my question so well, quoting Winston Churchill (‘when you find yourself in hell, just keep going’). And you gave me the flowers that were presented to you after giving your talk.

I thought I’d drop you a line to let you know I’ve just finished my PhD thesis – the bound copies are on my desk now. After I submit them to the Chair of Examiners I’ll be well and truly done with it.

Thank you for those words that day. I did keep going and things did get better. Hope everything in your work and life is truly good.

I can’t say how much that unexpected little interaction turned things around for me – I felt very brave that afternoon. I’m so happy I’ve had this opportunity to thank you.

Warmest wishes,

Jane.

I have written many of these letters myself and also received a few. When I met Patricia O’Donnell again for the first time twenty years after meeting her when I was nineteen, I opened my greeting with ‘you probably don’t remember me but you told me to aim for Fuck Off Status’.

She didn’t remember me. But her words made such a huge impact on my life.

We have to support each other, brothers and sisters. Start where you are, do what you can, with what you have. When you don’t know what to do, do anything.

Don’t ask for your rights. That suggests someone else has the power to grant them.

Demand your rights.

This was originally published in Destroying the Joint: Why Women Have To Change the World edited by Jane Caro. 
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Why aren’t men changing their name after marriage?

An invoice was mailed to me and my boyfriend recently — it was addressed to Catherine and Anthony Deveny.

And yet I have never married, nor changed my surname. Neither has he.

I was repelled. Why, in 2017, do we still assume that a man and a woman who share a home must also share the same name?

It is likely because women are still choosing to take their husband’s surname when they get married.

In Australia, for example, more than 80 per cent of women take their husband’s surname after marriage, while in the United States, a whopping 94 per cent of women do.

Indeed, Australian pop singer Kylie Minogue revealed last week that she, too, plans to take her fiancé’s name when they marry because, she said, “Taking a different name makes a statement”.

“Sasse is a great name,” Minogue said of her partner Joshua’s surname. “Kylie Sasse … is a great stage name. Minogue has never exactly tripped off the tongue.”

But why are women really (and I mean really) choosing to take their husband’s surname when they marry?

 

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