All posts by Princess Sparkle

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?

 

CLICK THROUGH TO ABC ONLINE TO READ THE WHOLE ARTICLE

 

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Life Hack. Tip For A Good Life? No Expectations

It was a tremendous gift to grow up not being clever, good looking or particularly pleasant. It also helped immensely that I came from a working class family without any ‘pedigree’.

In our family there was no tradition of certain occupations, no family name to uphold, no pressure to take over the farm or the business, no alumnai it was expected I become a part of (VOMIT!). I was the first in my family to go to uni. But not the last. My younger sister also has a degree. My elder sister has a Phd.

Don’t get me wrong, it was possible to be considered a ‘disappointment’ in our family. But only because we’d been involved in crime, drugs, broken marriages or promiscuity (girls only). It was impossible to be branded a disappointment by refusing to follow the family tradition, go into the family business or uphold the family name because our family had none of these things. The hopes for us were modest. That we stayed alive and kept out of trouble.

No one had any expectations of me so I, like many, muddled through guided only by my curiosity and passion and need to financially support myself. There was never a possibility I could twist myself enough to fit into the cookie cutter shape of any possible version of a woman on offer at the time, which was liberating. The versions of women available to me growing up were slave, incubator, doormat, pleaser, service provider, trophy or garnish.

I had to find my own way without a map, my instinct as my compass. I am deeply grateful I was born here in Melbourne, in 1968, and had the incredible fortune of a state school co-ed education. Those three things allowed me to be self-made and resulted in my life looking vastly different to the women in my family who had come before me. Not only was I the first to go to university but the first to live in share households, never marry, be a single young woman with a drivers licence and my own car, own a home in my name alone, pass my surname onto my sons, travel abroad alone and  work overseas. Easy access to fertility control has allowed me to have had many sexual partners  and choose how many children I had and when.

Everything I have needed to know about life I have learned from travel, living with people and working in hospitality.  The advice I give young people is, ‘choose the subjects you like and your life will follow.’

My eldest Dom sits his first year 12 exam tomorrow and he has no idea what he wants to do. We don’t talk about  universities, courses, professions or marks. He has no plans. Work, travel, finish writing his book, get an arts degree at some stage. I am delighted and happy for him. He doesn’t feel the need to ‘become’ something. He knows he’s something already, and that something is enough for him.

A mate of mine works in education representing a tertiary institution and selling their courses. I am horrified and distressed by the stories she tells me about the pressure and expectations parents put on their kids. I truly don’t understand the motivation to live someone else’s life.

‘The heaviest burden a child carries is the unlived life of their parents’ – Carl Jung

Why don’t these parents who want their kids to be lawyers, doctors, dentists, politicians or ‘creative’ DO THOSE THINGS THEMSELVES AND LET THEIR KIDS LIVE THEIR OWN FUCKING LIVES? Did they only have children to fulfil their own broken dreams?

I only have two parenting tips
1. All children need is to know they are loved.
2. All children want is to see their parents trying, not always succeeding but trying to get their shit together.

So tonight I’m feeling so very happy for our Dom. He’s calm, relaxed and prepared for tomorrow. There is no mark he’s striving for. He’s just going in to do his best.

I was fairly terrible at school. I STILL (30 years later) cannot believe I passed Year 12. All the teachers said I would fail. Finishing school was an unexpected punctuation mark. When you’ve spent 13 years at school you don’t really ever expect it to end. It’s like a chainsaw droning in the background your whole life and then suddenly it stops. Getting my year 12 results blew my mind. I was amazed I scraped through and STILL am today. Even now I expect a letter telling me there was a mix up.

I got 51% for HSC English. In recent years my work has been used on several year 12 exams.

There is no way anyone could have advised me how to get to the place I am today. Nor was there a way to show me this place existed so I could want it. There was no degree or university that could have educated me for the perfect place I have found myself. When I saw a careers advisor in my last years of high school there was no box to tick that said ‘financially independent feminist, atheist, dyslexic, artist and teacher with Fuck Off Status.’ But that’s where I find myself.

‘You had the power all along my dear’ Good Witch Glinda from The Wizard Of Oz.

Growing up in the 70s many children felt like unwanted pets. I was one of those children. More than anything feeling unloved, unapproved of and largely ignored allowed me to be self-made.

‘But what will people think of you?’

‘Think of me? They don’t even notice I am there.’

Our job is to work out who the young people are and support them to be the best versions of themselves they can be. Children and young people are not for us to change. They are not vessels for us to fill. They are not for us to trellis, tame, bonsai or bind.

It is one thing to love someone for what they do for you or how they make you feel. It’s another thing and something very rare to love someone for exactly who they are.

You have one life. Live it your way. Because so many are wasting their lives living in a wat they think will make others happy.

And no, it’s not too late to start.

 

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Financial abortion: Should men be able to ‘opt out’ of parenthood?

I don’t write many columns these days but I am really passionate about getting the discussion started on this.

I support men having the right to opt out of parenthood via financial abortion.

I don’t think a women should be forced to be a mother. Why should men be forced to be fathers?

It’s rooted in medieval thinking that
1. People should be punished for having sex
2. Sex is the natural consequence of sex
3. Abortion is a horrible distressing shameful thing
4. It’s somehow a man’s ‘responsibility’ to support a woman and his children
5. Women’s choice to have a child should never be questioned
6. Becoming pregnant is a ‘magical blessing‘ and not simply a biological consequence
7. Children ‘need’ two parents. And need them to be their biological parents of different sex
8. Birthing and raising a child is better than terminating the pregnancy
9. Women are unable to raise and support children on their own
10. Everyone should want to be parents

Enjoy!

 _____________________

Picture this. A couple has been dating for a few months — having a great time drinking, talking, shagging and wandering through each other’s worlds.

They may have even discussed children, and one or both has made it clear they don’t want any. The couple’s use of contraception has also made implicit their desire to not become pregnant.

But in the spirit of “Q: How do you make God laugh? A. Tell her your plans”, suddenly, this hypothetical couple is dealing with an unexpected pregnancy.

After the initial shock, she has decided she wants to keep the child. He, meanwhile, has no interest in becoming a father. Now what?

I have recently come to the conclusion that, as a feminist, I support men being able to opt out of fatherhood early in a pregnancy via what is known as a financial abortion.

CLICK TO READ THE REST OF THE COLUMN

You may also like ‘Why I Am Against Step-Parenting‘.

Gunnas Writing Masterclass. Ballarat, Melbourne, Bendigo, Apollo Bay etc dates up.

ALSO

Gunnas Journalism Masterclass with Michael Lallo

Gunnas Memoir Workshop with Jenny Valentish

Gift certificates on sale.  All here.

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Solace Street – Robin Butler

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Daphne turned the corner, heaved the shopping bag back onto her shoulder, sucked in a lungful of hot, dusty air, and took off again with her house now in sight.

A walk to the shops had seemed like a good idea, save the environment and all that, but it really was stinking hot. Every so often the tar on the road would feel sticky under her sandshoe and she could feel a trickle of sweat running down the back of her neck. Black T-shirt and jeans were probably not the best choice for an outdoor adventure.

As she neared her house she spied the neighbour’s child playing in the gravel that ran up the middle of their concrete driveway. She was focussed on building roads, and little dwellings made with sticks and leaves, and a creek lined with shiny blue marbles but looked up as Daphne checked the mail.

‘Hello there’, Daphne said, but as usual the girl just stared at her with big, brown eyes that were almost black. ‘This kid is weird’, she thought, but smiled in what she hoped was a benign and friendly fashion. Kids always made her feel a bit uneasy. They watched and judged you, all the while working out how they could manipulate you. She couldn’t see the appeal.

Dropping the shopping on the front porch, she rummaged blindly in her overly large bag for her keys while looking over the front yard. It was overgrown with weeds and long grass, brown and yellow from the summer and crisp to the touch. A ‘tinder box’, she thought wryly, as she struggled with the lock and pushed the door open with her hip. Calico immediately sprung through the open door, meowing and winding around himself around her calves in a perfect figure eight and making walking near impossible.

“For fuck’s sake Calico, move!’ she barked, as she tried to manoeuvre down the hall and into the kitchen at the back of the house. She pulled a can of tuna from the shelf under the sink, peeled the lid back and put it into the cat’s bowl before it killed her. She could see the headline now: ‘Mad Cat Lady Killed by Pussy’.

Daphne shoved the cheese, orange juice, grapes and yoghurt in the fridge, grabbed a beer, and headed for the back porch. This was her favourite part of the house. The porch itself was filled with pots of different shapes, sizes and colours that also spilled into the garden. Having rented for years she had grown plants in pots, her own mobile garden. She took a swig of beer, put it on the plank of wood on bricks that substituted as a table, and took a few minutes to bucket water into the pots.

She had only been in the house for six weeks. Her first foray into the property market. It was a deceased estate and had been empty for almost three years while relatives argued over how much they were each entitled to.

According to the real estate brochure, it was ‘charming with the potential to make your own mark!!!’. (Real estate agents love to use a lot of exclamation marks, because houses are very exciting!) In reality, this translated to ‘way too orange and green, sad and neglected, not quite old enough or cute enough to be retro and in desperate need of renovating’.

It wasn’t at all what she was looking to buy, but something about this slightly broken and neglected house got under her skin and she’d jumped in head first.

Iris, Daphne, Rose, Jasmine, River and and Lily.

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Hong Kong Money – Beth Ormston

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The first time  they dropped the bomb, people were shocked. The sheer overwhelming incomprehensible scale of the destruction. The loss of life, the ruin of history and civic life. The second time they dropped the bomb, people were stunned. The opposition called it a travesty. Judges and lawyers and academics and teachers spoke out against it. The third time the dropped the bomb, it fell on the opposition, the judges and lawyers, the academics and teachers who spoke out against the second bomb. The third bomb they dropped for spectacle. To celebrate the crowning of the new Queen, the Queen of the mushroom cloud, a fourth bomb was exploded in a small village in her honour.

“I have no idea but one.” said the Queen, upon her inauguration. “Our society is better now. People cannot be fixed. One simply removes the broken ones. We who are left shall make a new world. A better world. Where there is no crime or grime or unexpected ideas that frighten the children and visit our sleeping minds.”

“The bomb, the mushroom cloud has cleansed us.” She mounted the platform but could not take her place upon the throne.

“Someone’s been sitting on my chair.” Someone indeed had been sitting on her throne. And they were still there. It was a small boy.

“You exploded my dog.” He said to the Queen. “I think your bombs are bad.”

The airforce officials surrounding the Queen looked at one another. This was not the plan. They moved towards the boy, ready to lift him from the throne.

“I think your bombs are bad.” He repeated. “But my bombs are good. Especially the one in your crown.”

Before the Queen could throw the crown from her head, ‘POP’, went the crown and ‘poof’ went her head in a puff of smoke.

But the Queen did not fall over. She stayed completely upright and, from her smoking neck, a strange voice shrieked “Arrgghg!” Get the boy!”

The airforce blokes did not know what to do. What was that thing they thought had been their Queen. Is it human? How is it still alive and speaking?

Next minute, a spaceship descended from the clouds and hovered above the platform.

“People of Earth!” Came the sound of the loudspeaker. “Submit to our will. Hand over your chocolates and bananas and Karl Stefanovic and ten Hong Kong dollars and we will go in peace.”

And the people celebrated. Because although they mourned the loss of all of the chocolate and bananas in the world, they were happy that Karl had gone to share his unique talents with someone, anyone else in the universe. It was worth it.

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