Speaking Out

Every day a new face pops up, another name, a new allegation, or so it seems. A ghost train ride where more and more disturbing images pop out at you. And they don’t all look like malevolent sea slugs*, with some of them you think - Oh no, not you too, I liked you, (Or, I liked your work, anyway). You seemed like a nice guy (and they always seem to be guys) but how would I know, I never met you.

*I’ve just done an image search for sea slugs and they’re actually quite beautiful creatures, so I’m doing them a disservice by comparing Weinstein to one of them.

And then people say - why didn’t they come forward before? These women (and men), why didn’t they speak out years ago, when it first happened? Perhaps these people are lacking in empathy or the ability to formulate critical thought, or perhaps they’ve been duped by the patriarchy.

Why didn’t they come forward before? it’s because the perpetrators had power. Nobody will believe you, they would have said. ‘You’ll never work again’, the sea slug would have said. ‘Let’s not turn this into a witch hunt’, says the man who married his own (adopted) daughter.

Perhaps it’s because some forms of harassment have been masquerading as ‘banter’, harmless flirtation or just as something that happens, for all these years. Perhaps it’s because there’s a culture of victim blaming in the judiciary system and in the wider culture as a whole. What was s/he doing there? What did they expect to happen? What was she wearing? How much had she had to drink?

An open lie, and it’s so depressing because it feels like it’s everywhere - in politics (even on the side that you agree with), entertainment (where first it showed it’s ugly, un-glitzy face), at school and work and in the arts and sciences, seeping out from every crevice.

No escape, no safe place.

With the #Metoo thing - I applaud your bravery in speaking up. Not everyone is ready to share their stories and that’s understandable too.

I know fewer women it hasn’t happened to, than it has, to be honest.

Is there anything to be salvaged from all this? When it feels like it is everywhere.

Well, at least it is out in the open now, it’s better that people are coming forward because these crimes thrive on secrecy. It’s good that people are sharing their stories as it empowers others to do the same. And if not every villain is removed from post or taken to court and found guilty, at least some are; the wheels have been set in motion.

What the law defines as sexual harassment:
https://www.citizensadvice.org.uk/law-and-courts/discrimination/what-are-the-different-types-of-discrimination/sexual-harassment/

The ITV page of links to rape helplines:

https://www.itv.com/thismorning/rape-helplines

Comfort Zone

The landscape of my late teens is littered with unkept resolutions.

I was going to go travelling; the grape picking cliche, backpack around Europe; acquiring lots of cool friends, interesting anecdotes and, possibly, some dreadlocks along the way.  Aside from a couple of mini breaks, package holidays and (largely unsuccessful) camping trips, none of this happened.

I had resolved that I was going to go away to university, rather than live at home with my parents, and have a brilliant culture-infused, sex-drugs-music soaked, rollicking time - did this happen? Please see above.

I can’t remember all the things I’ve said I’m going to do, over the years, so I’ll just list some of them: I never learned to play an instrument, I never did the TEFL course I’d resolved to do, once I’d saved up enough money and I never ran a marathon. (Also it took me a long time and several false starts to finally quit smoking).

I’ve made my peace with this, after all, you can’t alter the past and how many of those things do I still want to do now? I can’t really drop everything and go backpacking (nor do I have any desire to, I hate roughing it) but there’s nothing stopping me from learning to play a musical instrument…

I don’t like leaving my comfort zone and when I say comfort zone, I mean zone 6!

I dislike going anywhere that requires getting more than one bus or train. (Unless I’m going on holiday). So, when I sign up to do courses and things, I usually choose places that I can get to by bus.

However, these days I am trying seize other opportunities as they come up, especially those that link into things that I’m really interested in. One on the consolations of getting older is that you can be selective about what you do; no more forcing yourself along to crappy Ann Summers parties or cheesy clubs (ones with a restrictive dress code as opposed to ones that play ironically cheesy music). But if something screams ‘possible writing/networking opportunity, I am trying to force myself to go for it.

So it was that I left my house at 6.50 on a flipping Saturday morning, to make my way to the city to attend a writing workshop, entitled Citizens of Everywhere. Said workshop had several things going for it:

1. It was being run by the editor/originator/contributor of The Good Immigrant, Nikesh Shukla.
2. It was free.
3. It was centred around something I’m passionately interested in; finding your way in the world, considering recent political shifts in Europe and the U.S.

However, I did feel pretty nervous about it.

Why?

1. I’ve said before that I feel unqualified to write about politics - would I feel totally out of my depth at the workshop? Surrounded by serious writers?
2. The location of the workshop was in a part of London I didn’t know, this may seem insignificant to a lot of people but to me it was a big deal, I have a track record for getting lost.*

So the maths indicates that there were more positives than negatives and I duly made my way to the University of Liverpool, London campus in Finsbury Square.

The competent traveller

I got my train at 7.11 am - it was pulling in as I was running down the stairs. Quick tap of the Oyster and a dramatic leap into the nearest carriage - not my usual modus operandi at all, where I try and get there early and go to the end of the platform to avoid the crowds. However, this was 7.11 am on a weekend morning, there were no crowds!

*When I couldn’t find my bus stop at Waterloo, I’m not proud to admit that I rang my husband - the ‘competent traveller’.

Maria Semple, in her latest novel Today Will be Different, talks about her theory of how one person in the relationship is always the ‘competent traveller’, the person who orders the tickets, looks up train times, makes sure that you get your train on time etc. This doesn't just refer to actual travelling, but to all practical areas of life.

I hate myself for this (a little) but, despite the fact I’m a feminist, my husband is the ‘competent traveller’ in our relationship.

My brain goes into lockdown when I try and read a map (look at google maps on my phone) this information will be immediately scrambled, it says in robot voice. Much like when a man was showing me how to load a gun, at a shooting range in America, my brain was saying - you won’t be able to understand this, so don’t even try!

I eventually found the bus stop. It was a filthy, rainy morning and everyone at the bus stop was smoking their filthy, disgusting fags (sanctimonious ex-smoker). The busses were on diversion and I worried that mine wouldn’t stop there. I was just about to ring my navigator again for advice (I’m so sorry, sisterhood) when it eventually turned up.

Plenty of time, plenty of time, I told myself.
“This bus is on diversion, please listen for further information.” The automatic announcement proclaimed.

No need to panic, I told myself.

I should really ask the bus driver if he was still stopping at Finsbury Square, I thought, and ask him where I should alight, if he wasn’t. The thing is, he was a typical central London bus driver - ie ferociously unfriendly and unapproachable, I tried to look up the diverted route on my phone. Then the announcement changed - it said the next stop - hurrah, we were back on track, however, when I googled the bus route I realised I’d actually gone way past my stop - fuck!

Google maps, rosary beads (those blue blobs that tell you where to go) more phone calls to the competent traveller. A couple of segways down wrong roads and finally, I was there, Finsbury Square! I recognised it from google maps (the function where the little yellow butter man walks the photos of the streets.)

I was fifteen minutes late but was feeling pretty fatalistic. Don’t worry, the friendly organisers told me, it hasn’t started yet - that group are going up now, go with them. I crammed myself in the lift, coat steaming and emerged into a rather pleasant suite of glass-walled seminar rooms.

We sat in a big circle, then Nikesh got us to stand up and do rock-paper-scissors ice-breakers. We moved around a lot in the workshop, which was great. In and out of different rooms and into the wide corridor, writing our contributions to written prompts on huge sheets of paper, group work on ‘found poems’ (which made me think of Dave Gorman: Modern life is Good-ish, give it a watch if you haven’t seen it) and then a bit of flash fiction, based on the concept of the ‘perfect city’ we’d created with post-it notes.

It was all good, I was glad I’d forced myself to go, glad I’d washed my hair the night before and glad I’d managed to find the place, in the end. I can see the value in forcing yourself to do things, taking different journeys, forming new neural pathways in your brain.  I no longer want to be the sort of person who always talks of doing things but never actually does them and who knows, next time I go somewhere new, maybe I’ll be able to manage it without ringing my husband!