See me as a person, not an object

Don’t look at me and think about sex. Don’t assess me in terms of suitability for your sexual gratification. Don’t make that the most important thing about me.

Don’t even get all uppity and think something like, “She fancies herself if she thinks I’d be remotely interested in sex with her.” Because that’s still assessing my suitability.

When you do that, it’s all about you. It’s about whether you can ‘get some’ or not. You don’t see me as a person if you see me as an object of your sexual desire, or a turn-off.

Instead, look at me as a person. As someone you can have a laugh with, or buy something from, or do fun stuff with, or get advice from, or any of the myriad things that make me a person.

See me as a person, not an object.

The story of the Blue Balloon

There was a book called The Blue Balloon, by Mick Inkpen, creator of childhood favourite Kipper. The Blue Balloon was a cool book, I loved it maybe more than my kids did. So when I looked out my window at work and saw a blue balloon, exactly the same shade of blue as the one in the book, caught in a wind eddy, I remembered the wonderful story. And watched what would happen to the balloon with interest. It whipped round and round on the walkway outside: whenever it looked like it would escape down the steps at one end, it would get jerked away and sent round the circuit again.

The day progressed, I went off to meetings and came back, and there was the balloon still, going round. I mentioned it to my workmate at the next desk, explaining the significance (balloon outside, storybook, same shade of blue), but I don’t think she really got it. I’m not sure I did. With about an hour to go in the day, I glanced outside again, feeling sure the balloon must have disappeared by now. Sure enough, nothing was swirling around on the walkway outside. Only – there was the balloon, somehow caught in the fence, exactly opposite my window. There must be something significant about this balloon, I thought, it seems to be waiting for me. I even went so far as to estimate the width of my window, trying to figure out if the balloon was at dead centre. It was definitely opposite my window rather than anyone else’s, though.

At home-time my daughter was waiting in the lobby, and we went off up the walkway. I had decided that, if it was still there, I would take the blue balloon. It seemed to be there for me, so I would be there for it, and rescue it. And it was. As I took it, I explained it to my daughter in much the same way as I had explained it to my workmate. And she understood about as well. I put the balloon in the footwell of the backseat of the car. It got explained to the other child when he joined us, and sat around in the back of the car thereafter.

I noticed that it bore the logo of an art exhibition we had all been to recently. This was the first art exhibition I had attended in years. I had had some time to kill one afternoon so popped in and had a look around. I thought it was really neat so on the following weekend, between other errands, I took the kids along, particularly as my daughter was studying art at school, and also because it’s just a good thing to do. The kids enjoyed the exhibition. So now I had The Blue Balloon in my car, and turns out it was advertising an art exhibition we had all been to, probably the first one we had all been to together. The blue balloon in Mick Inkpen’s book was magic, and I wondered about this one. But it actually seemed to be an ordinary, slightly grubby balloon that had fallen on hard times. I thought it would live out its time, slowly deflating in the back of my car. Several days after I rescued it, I heard a noise like wheezing behind me, and turned to see the balloon had got quite small and wrinkly.

The story could have ended there, the balloon eventually being thrown out with the rubbish in a car cleanout, a small blue flap of rubber with little or no air in it. But it wasn’t, because a few days ago, after taking everyone to school in the morning, I opened my lunch-bag at work, and there was the blue balloon. So here it is now, sitting on my desk, small and grubby, but just as blue as ever. My rational mind says there is no significance to these events. There’s no secret thread tying together a 10+ year-old book that we all loved in times when the children were small, and an art exhibition we all went to together which opened our minds a little. Probably the only thing tying anything together is me – my memories, my attitude, and my love. You don’t have to make sense of the world all the time, I guess.

Stupid, stupid David Cunliffe

David Cunliffe is a fool. How dare he apologise for ‘being a man’? What kind of message does that send to young people who are trying to understand their place in the world? This is the leader of one of New Zealand’s major political parties, an influential figure, who has just condemned all people who identify with being male. Domestic violence is perpetrated by people who bully and abuse others that they see as weaker than themselves. I won’t believe there is anything inherent in being male that means you’re going to do that. Any more than there is anything inherent in being female that makes you a victim. One thing abusers do is to alienate the group they abuse, to see them as different to themselves so they don’t identify with them. By implying that a person should be ashamed to be a man, Mr Cunliffe has just reinforced the idea of a gender difference. The sooner we stop stereotyping genders and start talking about people's behaviour, the better.

Don't be sexist

I am really encouraged by some of the language I'm hearing lately in talks about feminism that focus on the inequality that women face, without blaming men. Not so many years ago I would hear people banging the drum of feminism saying men are rapists, men oppress women, women and girls can't be safe around men. For example, male teachers cannot be left alone with female students. The thing is, some people do perpetrate rape. Some people have some pretty crap ideas about how to treat other people purely because they identify them as women. Some people think other people aren't capable of certain things because they identify them as women. Some of those people are men. Maybe a lot of them. But surely, surely their problem is that they are wrong-thinking, NOT THAT THEY ARE MEN. If we bring up our young people to believe that one gender (male) is the perpetrator of the mistreatment of women, we're doing exactly the same thing as all those people who hold (and act on) false beliefs about women. We are being sexist. Don't be sexist! Anyhow, I'd love to know what you think. Leave a comment!

The gay voice

I've been pondering on the gay voice a bit lately, mostly in conversation with my in-house social activist, Niamh. I was making the point that you can't tell someone's sexuality by just looking at them, or listening to them. But there is a style of behaviour that used to be called 'camp', associated with homosexual or bisexual males, and there's a certain style of speaking that goes with it. But that voice (the 'gay' voice), I've heard that voice from men that are in genuine heterosexual relationships (as far as I know, at least). And now this excellent article in Stuff: http://www.stuff.co.nz/life-style/life/10043967/Whats-wrong-with-sounding-gay explains it for me. It seems the voice is not an indicator of sexuality after all (hark back to my point above), but has been associated with 'gay-ness' (as outlined by the article, through history and then TV and film). But a study described in the article has found that a strong indicator for men with this voice is gender non-conformity in childhood (identifying with girls), but gender non-conformity WAS NOT AN INDICATOR OF HOMOSEXUALITY. Taken further, the study suggests that boys picked up female speech patterns in early life, and these, when imposed on a male voice, gave the 'gay voice'. I especially liked the article because it's dogged in using the term 'gay' voice, making the completely valid point that there's nothing wrong with being gay, so there should be nothing wrong with sounding gay.

Parents of teens - navigating a changing landscape

It occurred to me whilst sitting at the empty pool the other day, waiting for my partner to get out of the change rooms, that parents of teenage offspring have a tricky journey. I know, I'm stating the bleeding obvious, but why is it tricky? Yes, teenagers are aliens from outer space. Yes, they exhibit quite a few behaviours that are unacceptable to adults and inappropriate for children. Because they are neither - adults or children. And as their parent, I can't treat them completely as I would another adult, neither can I treat them as I used to when they were children. That's tricky. Somehow I need to be in a halfway house (much like them), giving them room to be themselves, but not so much that they hang themselves. I can't tell them how to live their lives any more, but sometimes I have to. I shouldn't be their friend, but neither can I be a smothering mother (or [something that rhymes with father]ing father). It's no wonder parents get confused. And offspring as well. [I'm deliberately using the word 'offspring' because I want to avoid 'children', because they're not children in the way that under-13s (or wherever the magical cut-off is) are children).] But I felt quite good as the pool staff clattered about locking up and casting glances my way, no doubt hoping my partner and I would be gone soon and they could go home too. Because I don't think there is a single answer for how best to navigate that transition period from childhood to adulthood. It is tricky, and it's perfectly valid for me to feel confused, and for my kids to feel confused. I decided flexibility was the answer - try things, assess how well they worked, adjust, try again. Over and over until they get it. And they start doing it for themselves (just like the sisters - standing on their own two feet, and ringing on their own bell). Get it on!

Thinking again, after all these years

Well, it's been a while. But I thought I might have time to do some thinking again. Not so much the thinking, as the writing down and sharing. The thinking still goes on, at odd times.