When silence is not golden: On Weinstein and all the rest of them

We are silenced by fear. We are silenced by shame.  We are silenced by guilt.  By the myths and legends and stories and films and comments and images that tell us our voices are not as important, that we may be a victim but we are also at fault, that we just have to shut up and take what comes because this is the reality of life as a woman.

If there’s one thing for certain it’s that more silence is not going to change anything.

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Channelling Pollyanna

There was a fair bit of denial over the course of last evening.  Denial and swears.  And chocolate.  With some wine to take the sting off.  I blame the polls for getting my hopes up.  And my own stupid self for not floating outside my leftie, social consciencey, feminist, anti-phobe, social-media bubble and having a look around at what the other folk were talking about.

Puppy Love?

A puppy turned up at our place on Saturday.  A pudgy, floppy-earred, jumpy-licky, short-wheel-based pup with no sense of boundaries or outliving its welcome.

Stigma, Shame, and Suffering.

A 15 year old made me cry recently. She knew it too; saw me well up and turn my head to blot a couple of escapees with the heel of my hand.  She didn’t say anything, just looked at me with large eyes and a guilty half-smile. Students have brought me to tears before, although…

Teacher with a capital T.

This time two years ago I was marking a clutch of Year Twelve essays; sitting on the couch, red pen firmly clasped, a stack of film analysis on either side (Marked and Yet To Be), the television keeping itself company in the background.  A commonplace scene in our lounge of an evening, especially as prelim…

Allium Cepa

The kids have been running some sort of noise-relay so there’s not been a moment of silence since you were woken in the predawn gloom, the toddler won’t tolerate being out of your arms for more than 23 seconds, and it starts pelting down just before you head out to feed the chickens, but you’ve…

Chekov

I’m sure Chekov had no idea his instruction … could twist and swirl and be reimagined as a prayer: Find me.  Bring me back.  Help me out of the darkness and into the light, bit by bit, a small glimmer of joy at a time. Please, show me a glint of light.  

IUD

Generally speaking, I am one of those people who needs to be feeling like death before I go anywhere near a doctor.  Even then, if I think it’s death by virus, standard practice is paracetamol and a healthy dose of avoidance. Partly it’s a hallmark of being a teacher; the preparation of relief work while feverish is just about as…

Mother’s Day.

We have a chequered history, Mother’s Day and I. My first and second were right shitters, if we’re being honest.

Homes away from home

Most of us, if we’re lucky, had at least one friend during our young life whose house became a home away from home, whose parents became surrogates, whose siblings were just as infuriating as our own.

Each to their own?

In this age of individuality, where subjectivity is King and anyone’s opinion and perspective is as valid and correct as anyone else’s, it seems like we’ve lost sight of the fact that there are, indeed, facts. Things that cannot really be contested, no matter who you are and what your experience may be.