So I got the call today about my treatment schedule. First appointment will be on the 15th of October, for “orientation”, with treatment starting the following Monday, on the 19th. Initially they had indicated the 22nd, but my brain rebelled at starting mid week, so they brought it forward a few days so that I could mentally compartmentalise each week as a separate entity. I am both slightly ashamed of needing to ask, and proud of myself for asking, because little things like that can really set me off kilter, and tiny accommodations can really help me.
Final day of treatment will be November 6th.
There is some weirdness with having my radiation treatment in “Breast Cancer Awareness Month”, because DCIS both is, and is not, “cancer”.
It’s cancer because it meets the clinical definition of cancer (abnormal cell growth with the potential to invade or spread to other parts of the body), and it literally has “cancer” in the name (Ductal Carcinoma In Situ – DCIS), but it’s not “terrible bad no good scary cancer” because it’s confined in the ducts, and slow growing. If it breaks out of the ducts and becomes invasive, you get to really belong to the cancer club, but DCIS is Schrödinger‘s Cancer. It is both completely banal and boring, and also fucking horrible and scary, but also fine, just have treatment and go home, and also, for fucks sake where do you think you’re going to put that giant fucking needle?
Over the last week or so, the knitting universe has been in uproar over posts, comments and responses made on the social media of a knitting personality. Having had a small taste of infamy years ago, I have every sympathy. I understand that when the online world you inhabit seems to turn against you, it can feel overwhelming, and putting your mental health first is vital. Right now, he needs to do what he can to recuperate, and care for himself, and though my words today are going to be critical of his actions, I believe it is vital for us all as allies to examine what it means to be an ally, and sometimes that will mean recognising that sometimes good people do shitty things.
I think of myself as a good person. I’ve done shitty things. I said an offhand thing online during the marriage equality debate that I didn’t think through, and it haunts me to this day. The pain of knowing what I did, knowing that it hurt people I care deeply about is uncomfortable. But I don’t have the luxury of forgetting about it. That discomfort drives me – it reminds me that being an ally isn’t something I should turn on and off when it’s convenient for me.
I have quite a lot of privilege. In some aspects of my life I lack privilege, but I have enough that I recognise that the ability to step in and out of being an ally is also a privilege. If I see someone behaving badly, I get to choose how involved I get. The person who is directly affected by the bad behaviour doesn’t get that choice.
When someone behaves badly online, everyone who sees that post of comment has a chance to call it out. And that is WORK. It takes effort. And if it feels hard for you as a cis/het/white/able bodied (insert privileged group here) person, just imagine how it would feel to have to defend yourself. Over, and over, and over again.
Imagine having to defend your existence over, and over, and over. Imagine being attacked online, and having all your friends sit by and say nothing. Imagine feeling like nobody cares.
Depending on your age, your culture, your family background, you are going to have different ideas about what sort of behaviour is acceptable. My paternal grandmother, raised with a lot of privilege, and in an era where racism was the norm, used to love Chinese food. She’d take the whole family out for dinner to an upscale restaurant, and call every waiter “Charlie”, with absolutely no awareness that it was rude. As a young child, I wondered whether it was a formal title that was bestowed on only the best waiters, or maybe there was some secret society.
I learned over time, through having progressive parents, that this was racism. I learned to see it. And I saw a lot of it. The war in Lebanon was raging across the other side of the world, and though I knew nothing of the war, I started to see new faces in our suburb. The single Chinese takeaway was joined by an Italian pizza place, run by a big Lebanese family. My parents had a friend who made us stuffed zucchini and kibbe. Our Greek neighbours shared every family celebration with us, and I grew to adore their name days and weddings and sunday get togethers, with the men smoking and drinking in the backyard, while the women prepared dolmades and baklava in the crowded, noisy kitchen.
My dad told me recently that the first Chinese family moved in to our suburb around 1956. He grew up with a Lebanese family next door, and maintained a friendship with his childhood friend for many, many years. The land that I grew up on had been part of my paternal great grandfathers citrus orchard. My high school was once part of that orchard, and the bush that backs on to the school leads all the way up to the Central Coast. My childhood playground was that bush, where there are aboriginal rock carvings that prove the original inhabitants of that land were there for a long time before we came. And gone for a long time before I was born.
The land I grew up on was Aboriginal land. No doubt stolen generations ago, but never talked about or acknowledged. I grew up never seeing Aboriginal people.
Our suburb was very white. English, Irish, Scottish. We sang “God Save the Queen” every morning in primary school. The Chinese takeaway was a lynchpin, as were the Lebanese family that made the best pizza I’ve ever had. I don’t know what it must have been like for their kids growing up there, where nobody knew the “N” word, but we all knew plenty of slurs for asian and middle eastern people. I think it would have been pretty awful.
As a child, my slightly darker skin tone, long dark hair, and large eyes marked me as “different”. In a classroom full of Stephanies, Belindas and Karens, the racially hard to pin down “Larissa” (absolutely an impossible name for Sydney in the 1970’s) was an anomaly. I was teased mercilessly, both on the basis of my race, and my inability to make friends, for my weird intensity, and my “off with the fairies” demeanor. I was also teased for being a lesbian, which made me think I might be, despite having absolutely no idea what was wrong with that.
I was 47 before I found out I had inattentive ADHD. And almost 49 when I found out I’m probably autistic too (diagnosis would be expensive, and not necessarily useful, so I haven’t sought one yet).
I’m still mixed race, but these days we see way more diversity in our cities, so I’m just a face in the crowd, and very rarely get treated any differently on the basis of race. I’m from Sydney, and I live in Auckland, so my day to day existence is in the context of large, fairly multicultural cities. Context matters, and while travelling in Sri Lanka, I am definitely treated with greater deference than the locals. You may have different experiences than I have had.
But my gender identity matches my biology (I’m cis gendered). I’m attracted (almost exclusively) to men (I’m heterosexual), I’m married to someone who shares parenting duties (I’m not a single parent). We have enough money to buy a home, educate our kid, and have access to great healthcare.
So I’ve got areas where I have great privilege, and areas where I’m not so privileged, and I can sometimes use an ally too.
Privilege isn’t a binary. There is no such thing as privileged vs. the under-priviliged.
Every single one of us has layers of privilege and lack of privilege. In the knitting community, the most visible people tend to be white, middle class, and female. Within that community, being male actually affords you both privilege and a lack of it, depending on the context. In the wider community, being male affords you more privilege than being female.
The context in which an interaction exists can’t be ignored either. Online, some of us have much greater influence than others. Influence is power.
If I, as a white woman, walk into a knitting group, I know I will be accepted (*at least initially) because it is very likely I will see other white women in the room. That is an example of how I benefit from being part of the dominant group.
Now, I might suffer from social anxiety, and I might feel really scared to walk into the room for the first time. Or I might have a physical disability that means stairs are a challenge. Or maybe I need to be close to a toilet, or maybe I care for a relative, and my time away is precious and scarce. There are a million reasons why walking into that room might be challenging, but not being white isn’t one of them. And that’s what privilege means – of all the challenges I might be facing, race isn’t something I need to deal with.
All my life I’ve felt apart and other. Maybe that’s autism, maybe that’s growing up in a leftie family, with artists and scientists and challenging the status quo as natural as breathing. Or maybe I’m just a sensitive soul who identifies with the underdog, and I’ve just grown accustomed to the obligation of caring for those that need a hand. Regardless of the why, I’ve always been driven to do what I can to make the world a kinder, fairer place.
In 2012, whilst at Macquarie University, I trained to be an LGBTQ+ Ally, and was part of the university ally program. I signed up because I thought it would be an interesting way to meet people, and it was an idea I believed in. I never expected to learn as much as I did. And I still have a lot more to learn.
ThroughWhere Change Started, I’ve signed up for the Anti Racism Leadership Accelerator program. I’m a few weeks behind (another ruptured disk, plus international travel) but I’m learning a lot, and I recognise that this is a lifelong process of listening, learning, self examination and reflection, and that while I continue to strive towards being a great ally, I’m bound to make mistakes.
So I’m promising to myself that if I do stuff up, I’ll listen to criticism. I’ll take responsibility for my mistakes. I’ll repair what I am able to, and do the work I need to do to prevent myself from making the same mistake again. And I’ll try to share what I’m learning through Yarny Allies, and try to build that up as a resource for everyone who is seeking to grow along the same path.
So all of that is a really long way of saying the following –
if you experience something differently to me, I promise that I’ll listen to your experience
if you share your experience with me, I promise that I will believe you
if I’ve done something that causes you pain or makes you feel unsafe, I’ll do whatever I can to repair and take responsibility
if I see someone behaving in a way that makes you feel unsafe, I’ll speak out
if you are speaking, and not being heard, I will make way for you, retweet you, promote you and amplify your voice
the areas in which I lack privilege are irrelevant to any discussion of your oppression. I will not use my fragility to dismantle your right to expression.
So, where do I stand on the Sockmatician?
Nathan is a nice guy. He’s gregarious, and friendly, and funny, and he does clever things with knitting. He’s openly gay, and openly living with HIV. That takes bravery and brains, for him to recognise that he can be a role model for opening people’s minds about what it means to be living with HIV. When I was in my early twenties, the world was crazy with fear over HIV, and openly declaring yourself to be positive was absolutely unthinkable then. That has changed, largely due to people like Nathan being brave enough to share their stories, despite any fear of conflict, retaliation, or rejection.
I met Nathan while he was in NZ, and I thought him to be a positive role model for the knitting community. That wasn’t long after he started promoting the use of the #diversknitty hashtag, and it had taken off. I believed he genuinely and passionately wanted to promote diversity within the knitting community.
Since I started writing this post (overland travel within Sri Lanka has meant it’s taken several days so far), there has been a further incident which raised the stakes significantly, so my initial statement would have been directed differently.
An oversimplification of events would run a little like this –
Nathan posts on instagram about it being a year since his promotion of the hashtag, noting it’s widespread use. And asking for a change in how the hashtag is used, requesting that people use it to spread only messages of positivity.
Feedback is given in comments that his post is undermining people who are using the hashtag, that they have defined what it means to them, and that tone policing their use of it is insensitive and tone deaf. At a time when the knitting community is undergoing growth and change, we aren’t yet at a point where we can all be sunshine and rainbows.
Some of the feedback isn’t super nice and conciliatory. Nathan responds to criticism by rudely dismissing suggestions that he might educate himself about the issues people are raising. His partner steps in and rallies supporters to gather information about people who are critical. Nathan insists that he is a nice guy and only doing his best to make the world a better place. He then goes dark, and then his husband and sister both post saying that he has been hospitalised (without any further information about why), and that people shouldn’t be nasty.
The two main instagram posts had gathered thousands of comments. Then they disappeared, along with all Nathan’s social media presence. Ben has updated his blog, referring to mobs, bullying, and portraying Nathan as the victim of online bullies.
Nathan was apparently released from hospital, and attended a yarn event to sign copies of his book. At this signing, he was approached by a woman who wanted to engage with him about how his actions had affected her. He had to be physically restrained from attacking her.
I’m not providing links – this woman has suffered enough abuse because of what happened, I am not going to expose her to the mob. I believe her account of the event.
There are two terms I need to introduce here. White Fragility, andRacist Bypassing. You may have heard these terms before, you may not have, but please take a moment to familiarise yourself if you aren’t already.
This is a pretty classic case of an avowed ally missing something important, getting called out, reacting defensively (white fragility), and using racist bypassing behaviours (hiding behind an intersectional identity, and avowed commitment to “the cause”). My experiences as a bullied kid don’t mean I have a universal understanding of the issues BIPOC friends experience, and I shouldn’t need to be shielded from criticism of my behaviour, just because I experienced something vaguely analogous. My actions last week of being a brilliant ally don’t give me a free pass from being thoughtless and unkind this week. Being an ally is a commitment that needs to be lifelong, if it is going to have any meaning, and the commitment to learning and continuing to learn and grow doesn’t have an end date.
Bottom line. mental health is serious. We should all take as much care of our mental health as we take of our physical health. Sometimes that means withdrawing until we have the capacity to engage at the level required of us. For a public figure with a wide influence, that level might require more capacity than for the rest of us. Take that time. Do not use poor mental health as an excuse to not listen to criticism. Do not use your own fragility as a weapon against marginalised people. Do not think you understand the universal experience of all oppressed peoples just because you belong to a marginalised group.
Being gay means you experience oppression and marginalisation – but it doesn’t mean you experience oppression and marginalisation in the same way that BIPOC people do. If you have been treated badly, you have some insight into what it feels like for you – don’t assume that you can extrapolate your experience into a universal understanding of oppression.
Do the work. Examine yourself. Listen to criticism. Learn from people who have different experiences than you. Apologise when you are wrong.
*Of course, I’m not “neurotypical”, and sooner or later, the people in the room will work out that I’m a little strange, and they might start treating me differently later.
** This examination of events is my own perspective, seen from great distance, and is possibly factually incorrect in some details. I was traveling when I wrote this, and though I sought support from two friends who were following events more closely than I was able to, all mistakes are my own.
A few recommended articles to help white people think about race. It’s not about you, but you do have the power to make a difference.
I’m going to keep posting about racism as I come across interesting articles.
If you find it uncomfortable, I encourage you to sit with your discomfort and examine it. Like feminism, ableism, and homophobia, educating yourself about issues that don’t effect you personally is key.
I’m not gay, but it sickens me that my loved ones are treated differently, and that the law supports and entrenches discrimination.
I don’t have a visible disability, but I’m outraged that my friends can’t get in to a concert hall to see her kids perform.
I am a woman, and I grew up thinking that gender equality had been established before my birth, and that it was a fight I’d never have to face.
As a woman, and as a mother of a son, I see it as my responsibility to educate him to advocate for others, and to use his privilege to make the world a better place.
As a “white”* person, I see it as my place to be the first to intervene when I see injustice, and to normalise conversations about issues of race. Just because we don’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not happening.
This week a darling friend disclosed some of the abuse she’s been subjected to online, and it’s kept me awake. Being protected from that knowledge is privilege.
I don’t have all the answers, I’m not better than you, I’m probably missing important stuff. But I’m not going to stop trying.
*my forebears were a mixed lot, and so I’m part Chinese, maybe a little Spanish, possibly indigenous Australian, but mostly Irish, English, and white. I look vaguely Greek or Lebanese, and have experienced abuse because of my perceived ethnicity. But this abuse has been sporadic, usually pretty mild, and easy to shake off. Again, that is privilege.
And a long post from a private group, copied and pasted here with permission.
Author – Ayse Sercan on Facebook
I’m going to include a trigger warning here for fragile white people. You will not like this post and will be tempted to report it to the moderators (go ahead!). It’s going to hurt your feelings. I don’t care. If you can’t read anything that might possibly indicate you don’t come from a flawless heritage of heroes and patriots, you should move along and read something else. Maybe even block me right now and keep your world crystal clear and shiny white like you like it.
Also, I cuss a lot and I’m not editing that out because this pisses me off.
I’m going to give you a second to leave the room.
OK? Everybody else cool for having a real discussion? Let’s go.
Over the weekend we had a shitty little conversation about how white people like to exoticize Turks. It got deleted by a fragile white woman who has since flounced off because she doesn’t like conflict so if you missed it, too bad. But I wanted to have a meta-discussion about the discussion that happens here so often.
I do not consider it reasonable or appropriate behaviour by an adult with even minimal social skills and no social impairments to even consider asking the question, “Is calling X thing an [ethnicity or nationality name here]-X offensive? [Ethnicity or nationality name] isn’t a racial slur.”
That is never, ever a reasonable thing to ask.
Whaaaat? you ask. “But isn’t asking questions what you WANT from us? Doesn’t it mean our hearts are in the right place? That we are trying to LEARN???”
1. I’m not the fucking ambassador from Brownistan. The *majority* of the world’s population is not white and one person does not speak for everybody else. You are going to have to use more critical thinking skills than just asking literally the only person you’ve ever met who has any connection to [ethnicity or nationality].
2. Asking questions in this case is a passive-aggressive move. It forces people of [ethnicity or nationality] to respond to a discussion they may not want to get into AGAIN, it forces people to act as representatives of their entire race or ethnicity (something white people literally never have to do), and it leaves a door open to the idea that exoticizing entire cultures could ever be acceptable just because it’s been done for a long time.
3. Your question comes with the assumption that unless that name is literally a racial slur, it’s totally OK. But a reasonable, polite person who literally actually believes that all humans are created equal and nobody is more equal than others should know that there’s a lot of room between “yeah, that’s what we call it, too” and “that’s a racial slur connected to centuries of enslavement and oppression” and quite a bit of that spectrum is ALSO not OK.
Also, I think literally every thinking adult can figure out the answer to this question with a quick Google search, and I will repeat that search here now for those of you who may not understand how the internet works. Type in: “origin of X thing” and see where X thing comes from, and what culture is associated with it. There’s your answer.
If for example you type in “Turk’s head knot” and find literally not one reference that gives a name for the same knot in Turkish, and no references to it as part of Turkish culture, chances are it is an exoticism, which is when the name of another culture is applied to a thing to make it sound more sexy or risque.
Are exoticism racial slurs? No. But they are patently stupid and offensive on the face of it. We know better now. We now know enough to know that Turks didn’t wear turbans because we can look it up on the internet, and all educated people should be aware of what the Crusades were and why the possibility that the knot is named after DECAPITATED Turks might make the name uncomfortable. And there are plenty of other ways of naming knots or tying patterns, after things that are not people or cultures.
So a reasonable, polite human being should know better than to even ask the question, and should not be surprised when people who have a connection to that culture react strongly. If you call a person a slur you should expect to be insulted in return because you’re being a shithead. If you exoticize somebody’s culture, you should likewise understand that it was *your* behaviour that was out of line and you deserve any grief you get for your actions.
And because for sure some fragile flowers of whitehood have stuck it out because they think they can handle this conversation and now they’re triggered as fuck:
If you hurt somebody, even unintentionally, you have to understand that they may decide to hurt you back intentionally. That’s what we call consequences, and if you’re an adult, you take that as a learning experience and try to do better over time, working slowly on being a better person like we all should be doing. If you choose to react by saying, “Well you are so touchy I can’t even say anything” you are an asshole who has decided that not having to learn anything is more important to you than treating other people as your equals, and fuck you. Once you’ve been told not to do something because it’s stupid or offensive, continuing to do it makes the hurt intentional, and you should expect a strong response to that.
This week, my kid expressed his unhappiness at school in a way that could not be ignored, and it couldn’t be misinterpreted.
And the response from the school has been heartening. Teachers who have worked with my boy have been shocked, and distressed, and they have made the time to set things in motion for change.
There have been teachers in his past that have ignored, minimised and disregarded his challenges, and his feelings about school, and my advocacy for my boy. But the last two days I have seen three teachers go above and beyond to make sure that this situation gets turned around.
And one special teacher, who happens to be a friend to both Squid and I, who took time out of her busy life to make sure we are supported and informed, and nurtured – you can’t know what your advocacy has meant.
I am hopeful that things will change really soon. And if it does, it will be down to great teachers, working passionately within a system that constrains and stifles where it should lift up and celebrate these wonderful people.
The New Zealand government has a philosophy that all kids should be catered to in the school environment.
“The New Zealand School Trustees Association describes school policy as a framework that integrates culture and practice, values and actions. Inclusive schools ensure that the principles of inclusion are embedded in their policies, plans, and actions. They develop specific policies for the inclusion of students with special education needs ”
Which is great, right?
So Squishs school has approached me to ask if I might consider helping out as a teachers aide for a few weeks while they get a more permanent person in to work with a new kid. Ive started back at uni, so I dont know if Ill be able to juggle work and uni and family in the longer term.
The new kid has a global developmental delay, and he needs an aide with him the whole time while he is at school. I did my first shift today.
And it was fine. Hes a lovely kid, responsive and keen to try new things, and he has loads of energy and enthusiasm. It was hard work, but I can see that working with him has the potential to be quite rewarding in the long term.
But yesterday, a teacher in the same school told me that there simply wasnt enough resources to be able to give my kid the differentiation and attention that he needs in order to be integrated into exactly the same school. That he would need to be home schooled if I wanted his learning to be tailored to his needs.
So much as I hate the whole my kid is a precious snowflake syndrome, it is rather a double standard to claim that the school can be all things to all kids – except the ones at the wrong end of the bell curve.
At the Mind Plus information session we went to last week, I asked about emerging research and best practice in the field of teaching gifted kids. Internationally, more countries are starting to have classes just for gifted kids, and that these classes give kids the best opportunity to develop their strengths and work on their weaknesses.
NZ policy is to cater to everyone, and giving extra support where it is required within the school setting – just not to kids like Squish, who struggle at the other end of the spectrum.
Here is a picture of my kitten with a Hello Kitty face. To distract from the awful crap I am about to talk about.
A lovely friend just asked me to sign a petition asking for bail laws to be toughened so people like Man Haron Monis won’t be able to put innocent lives at risk in future.
I chose not to sign, because I believe that we must choose between a justice system that is there purely to punish wrongdoers, and a justice system that rehabilitates. If we believe in a rehabilitation model, then we must allow bail. And that will always carry a risk that someone will reoffend. Or, as in this case, take his vendetta against “the system” out on innocents.
Far better, would be a justice system, and a family court system that treats violence against women as a real crime. If his history of sexual assault had been taken seriously in the first place, is it possible that incarceration could have prevented these other crimes that he has been convicted of, and therefore avoided this siege in the first place (ostensibly in protest at he “wrongful conviction” for said crimes).
How is it that he faced more legal trouble over sending offensive letters than for the sexual assault of multiple women while in the role of a mentor and spiritual advisor?
Frankly, the last two days have really rattled me, but I think we are asking ourselves the wrong questions about why this happened. Let’s throw more money at refugee support services, mental health initiatives, and change the way we think about violence towards women.
And now, I am going to spend some time with a gin bottle, and search the internet for cute bunny pictures.
I get it. Every parent thinks the sun shines out of that poorly wiped bum. And every non parent rolls their eyes at the beginning of every anecdote.
Believe me, I know I am boring. And your problems are bigger than mine. I know. And I care.
But I have no self control.
I wish I had three kids to brag about. I wish I could mix it up a bit. But I can’t. I only have the one kid to dote on, and I am going to keep doting on him.
I do try to tag all of my doting posts under “Spawn” so if you want to opt out it’s easy not to read those posts and stick to my political rants and cooking. You’ll probably think I am a much nicer and more interesting person, that is fine with me.
And in person, I’ll try to keep my adoration of the firstborn down to a dull roar. But here, on my blog, there will probably be a lot of Squishyness.
So. Best Start.
Inigo spent an hour with Mrs D. I waited outside the classroom. Usually the parent goes in for a while until the kid feels comfortable, but Inigo and Mrs D go way back, they met in school transition, and it was pretty much love at first sight for him. He wandered off without a backward glance, and I was happy that Mrs D was the teacher with him, I trust her too.
I spent an hour with Wolf Hall, and then he popped out, Mrs D said, “He did really well. Really well”.
He had a little snack while I talked to another mama outside the class, and on the way home I asked him what had happened in the class. As usual he got cross. He finds it hard to tell stories about his day because he can’t remember every detail, and gets frustrated when I ask.
So I let it lie.
Then he piped up with, “Mrs D asked me what would happen if we took the M away from the word MEAT. I said ‘eat”, and she did a little dance”. “She said it was her happy dance and that she had never had a kindy kid get that before”.
And I was happy.
Not because my kid is extraordinary (I am sure there are loads of other clever kids about to start school this year!), but because my kid has a teacher that takes real joy in teaching, in learning, in achievement. This anecdote illustrates that she cares about her job, and that she cares about the outcomes, and that she cares about my child.
Starting school is a big step for me. But I know he will be ok.
Thank you Mrs D, and also to all of the other teachers who care enough to do such a tough job. Public schools rock!