"Why didn't you just..."

There’s an observation I keep making which unsettles me.

At work I couple of weeks ago, a customer was mildly harassing me first on the bar and later at the end of the night while I was alone by the stock room, with questions such as my relationship status, which I didn’t feel like answering him on. I was not particularly shaken up nor found it to be anything out of the norm, but I had been aware of feeling that little bit more vulnerable without other colleagues or doormen around me or the usual bar between us, so when I returned to clean my bar I mentioned the man’s annoying pestering to my fellow barman. His reply was along of the lines of how I should’ve/he would’ve “kicked the guy in the balls”/ “knocked the guy’s teeth out” / “filed the man’s face down to his skull”, okay perhaps that last one was a little inspired by Saw films and I can’t remember precisely what violent action was invoked, but the point is that it was.

Yesterday, a Facebook friend told a tale of harassment from the London underground where one guy had originally shouted and humiliated her and then a second chose to take advantage of the situation to physically harass her, touching her leg and grabbing her hand.  One of her male friends had commented “I’d fucking smash his face in” and she replied that she would have done so if the first guy hadn’t left her so shaken up.

I have noticed just how common we see, hear and make responses along these lines.

While I know these comments are made well intentionally, recognising that female harassment is unacceptable and uncalled for, while also perhaps often tongue-in-cheek or with bravado, made by people that in reality might not actually conduct such actions, I think they are problematically misguided.

They overlook the fact that these incidents occur largely in the context of a power imbalance: in situations where the harasser feels comfortable throwing their weight around or overstepping the mark and knows they will not face consequences to their actions, whilst the target is often prayed on for perceived or real vulnerability, is caught-off-guard, and is dealing with a stranger they have no idea what they might be capable of.

Rather than insinuating that somebody should essentially “be tougher”, the appropriate response would be to empathise with the situation somebody was placed in and condemn what happened.

We shouldn’t be expected to hit back; we might not be able to; and we shouldn’t be placed in a situation we did not ask to be in where society expects us to!

Vera

It’s thirty minutes till our minicab is due to ding on the door and whisk my family and I off to Heathrow, for a much anticipated few days in sunny Seville. Fixated on the fantasy of the 'internet hiatus' - of course in reality I was slyly connecting in any free wifi cafes over my fanta limons - I opened my email for a (theoretical) final time to see if I needed to reply to any last minute matters.

Caught off guard, I was met with this note from Cath, who runs Burnage Good Neighbours, a local community charity I am involved with in Manchester.

I had never anticipated that I would have the emotional reaction that I did, and I still don’t really know where it erupted from, but safe to say it was a very puffy face hiding behind ray-bans that flight.

Burnage GoodNeighbours (BGN) put on a lunch spread in the Community Center every other Thursday for elderly members of the community to come and chatter, win raffle prizes, and eat too many pork pies. I love it. The volunteers range from long-haired, dog-walking Peter who claims to be the washer upper of the group, even though he seems to do the least washing up; a couple of larger than life young Burnage mums, one of whose hysterical granny comes along to every lunch; from long-time Burnage characters to Spanish Juan who’s come over to improve his English, and we delight in translating phrases like ‘toy boys’ for him while berating his not drinking tea.

My housemates know that I cycle home every fortnight - balancing leftovers precariously on my handwheels: overly buttered potatoes, miniature scraps of quiche, once an ancient bottle of sherry dug out from the community centre's cupboards - beaming with feel good factor.

It’s not all jolly, jovial oldies. One week, the lunch essentially doubled up as a wake, as many of our attendees (and staff) had come on from burying a friend. Another week, one previously perfectly able woman’s MS was suddenly visibly more debilitating, she had to lean on me the whole way to and from the bathroom taking petrified, shuffling baby-steps. After lunch, I'd agreed to accompany her home with another volunteer and she froze, six short steps from her front door, utterly glued to the gravel and repeating and repeating over and over she would fall if she tried to take a step. We stood there holding her up and trying to coax her for three quarters of an hour until I eventually used my free hand to call for back up so someone could rescue us with a wheelchair.

The staff and volunteers at BGN breathe Burnage and go to whatever steps to help older residents enjoy their life in the community. They brush shoulders at Tesco with the oldies; they know and communicate with the families; they check up on people if they haven’t been heard from; drive them on errands; organise talks on things they feel they should be educated on, like inheritance laws and wills; we even hired a coach and spent the best afternoon strolling the pier at Llandudno,Wales!

BGN also organise home visits because not everyone is able, well or social-minded enough to make it to the big Thursday lunch, but may still be bored, lonely, and wanna hang. After berating Cath for enough weeks running how much I’d love to be set up with someone to make home visits to, I found myself sat in a quintessentially "old people" living room, being introduced to sisters Vera and Sybil.

Sybil was 80: very friendly and still pretty able. She loved to make drives around the Lancashire countryside and go on group rambles. But she was clearly hampered by the emotional drain and constant care she was giving to her 90 year old sister, Vera. Vera is who I was really there for.

Small talk was made and it was decided that the best times for my visits would be when Sybil goes on her excursions, to reduce Vera’s anxiety about being left alone, and so someone would be around to remind her to take her tablets after lunch!

The next week I was excited to be making my first independent visit. Nervous too, nervous that Vera – who’d seemed moodier, more exhausted by age and pains and less bubbly than Sybil – and I would have little to say to one another. Nervous that I’d sit awkwardly watching the clock, and feeling guilty for wanting to run away.

But I sat down and blurted out some questions and we were off. Vera and her sister had lived in this house their whole life, she told me. I marvel around at the space. They were bought up in it and still live in it, together, aged 80 and 90. They went to Levenshulme High, down the road. It’s the school on the mug I am sipping, gifted at a school reunion they’d had. They had both been working women. Secretaries at accountancy firms. Other professional jobs. I am impressed. There is no mention or photos of children or grandchildren, but I don’t want to seem nosy. I wonder if it’s unusual for two unmarried sisters to spend their whole lives living together and ponder whether they might have lost young partners in the war.

Naively, or judgmentally, looking at first glance at these two elderly women in this cute home they have lived in forever in this Manchester suburb, I wouldn’t have guessed it: but they had travelled. Seriously travelled. Vera pointed out the clock. It was the shape of Australia: a souvenir they picked up when they ventured there in their early retirement. There was a trinket on the mantelpiece of some safari animal Vera had once bought for a friend but grown too attached to give away. This memory amused her. I talked of my impending trip to Berlin and Paris and Vera reminisced over time spent in European cities. When I said I was from London she glowed telling of her's and Sybil’s antics on visits to a friend they had in Hackney, I delight in picturing these women as their young Northern selves frolicking round the capital’s East End.

I won’t claim I visited Vera a great deal of times. Maybe I wish I’d made it over more. Without fail on each trip though, I would stay chatting longer than I intended, enjoying lapping up both the sandwiches Sybil had prepared in advance and the pieces I was putting together of Vera’s life. 

I once snap-chatted to friends Vera walking on her frame, back from toilet to sofa, and was universally scolded for doing so ‘behind the old lady’s back!’. But I didn’t really feel bad; I think had the 1950s had snapchat, Vera would have found it funny.

Then there was one visit when I turned up to a clearly distressed Vera. Sybil told me in soft tones that she had arranged Vera to go in to temporary respite care for two weeks. Sybil needed a break. Vera got confused a lot and could be very demanding on Sybil. She gave her a hard time for going out and doing things, presumably bitter that this big sister is no longer fit to join in the once joint adventures.

Sybil looked pained but headed out as usual and I took my usual armchair. Vera’s eyes were swelling with tears. I felt uncomfortable. And sad. I had never seen her cry before. I asked her what it was that was upsetting her about the situation, maybe there would be fun things about being in the home and two weeks wasn’t really very long. She replied she knew it wouldn't be temporary. She said she’ll never come back to this home that she was born in. I promised her this wasn't true. She was convinced. When I went to go that day, Vera asked if I was really going to abandon her too? She was feeling bitter, and was guilt-tripping me. I felt manipulated but it worked and I sat for another 30 minutes, before making my escape, and tearing up with pity and guilt as I walked away from the house.

When I opened my blog today, feeling like posting something for Vera, I didn’t know quite what I was going to write. Maybe a little post about what these sort of community charities do and how enriching it is to get involved. But instead it has turned more into my fingers spilling out some memories of my time at Vera’s.

I did not know Vera for a long time nor very well. But we had some lovely chats over some lovely teas, and if I’m lonely in my last years, I think I’d enjoy similar teas with well, anyone who’d like a chat.

Ultimately, and unlike so much else in the world right now, this is not something that is tragic. A very elderly lady who lived a fulfilling life has died, and her sister was prepared and knew this was coming.

But it is just a bit sad.

I had thought Vera was someone I’d be returning to when I head back to my life in Manchester next month. Now she’s not.

Instead I will be sure to check in on Sybil, and keep enjoying the lunches.

HIV: The latest myth

I have recently had training from a Manchester based charity called the George House Trust which provides advice and support for HIV sufferers in the North West of England. Something I learnt at training has had a profound effect on me, and I have told next to every person I have since seen. Just like me, not one of these victims of my babbling had been aware of this beforehand:

For those being treated with effective HIV medication, it is next to impossible to pass on the HIV virus to somebody else.

They call this Treatment by Prevention. In other words, the more people they can help get medicated, the fewer people out there who can pass it on.

Speaking frankly, although I knew much of the talk surrounding HIV was based on myths, I always felt that being in a relationship with a sufferer would probably be too much for me. Nobody was worth the risk of my infection.

Reflecting on the way I used to feel about HIV, I realise that much of it comes from my sex eduction. Albeit mine was approaching a decade ago and I don't know how much it has changed, but I remember HIV/AIDs being presented as something separate from other STIs. Whilst the others were a bit nasty, they were treatable. We were never informed of the progress in modern medication, perhaps because those informing us were living in the previous mentality surrounding HIV. We were never told that if you did contract it, your world wouldn't melt away before you.

The man I was trained with has been living with HIV for several decades. His life expectancy is no different from mine or yours.

I'm really looking forward to working for this charity and debunking more myths, and I encourage you to go and tell one person about Treatment by Prevention.

It's a Pixar!

I never thought I’d be saying that I felt let down by a company I regard as one of the most innovative, exciting and consistent corporations out there. But here I am, saying just that.

Pixar is unassailable in making movies that are enjoyed on a thorough and genuine level by, dare I use the cliché, all ages. Toy Story has become quite simply a modern classic, Monsters Inc is the ultimate hangover watch whilst I’m sure I associate with no-one who wouldn’t gleefully recognise a Finding Nemo quote.

All great guys, but all guys!

Not only do I rate Pixar highly, but Brave itself was set to be brilliant: a ginger, Scottish, rebel princess! And a ‘brave’ film too. Firstly, for its female lead. I was a little taken-aback to notice how male-dominated their past films have been, with Woody and Buzz, Nemo and Flick, and that precious old grump from Up all hogging the show. Though Pixar have created some memorable female greats in their time, so great that they have managed to steal the show a couple times – I’m thinking Dory in Finding Nemo, Jessie in Toy Story 2 - they had never yet had a leading lady. Shameful really, when in the past few years Disney have really upped their heroine game, giving us self-sufficient, independent, feisty princesses. And secondly, this was a brave story in its lack of romantic storyline. This is far from something I regard as a cause of the film’s failure. I didn’t even register the ‘gap’ at the time. In fact, it is something I champion after so many past princesses have exchanged principles for princes. But these bold choices only make me more disappointed that the film was such a let-down.

It was like all the Pixar-ness had been sucked dry out. Their stamp was missing. The film was not funny, I was bursting with breath waiting simply for a laugh but the opportunity didn’t arise. Not even for a real chuckle. A snort. The normally unique and lovable characters were entirely missing. Protagonist Merida was, while justified in seeking independence over her life, overwhelmingly self-centred and, well, bratty. And the film was so overly sentimental it was saturated in the stuff! Preaching and droning on with zero subtly about family-love and relationships. Sentimentality works in Pixar when placed alongside originality and humour, not on its own. THIS IS NOT DISNEY.

The best part about the film was the soundtrack and scenery. There was obviously great passion and care put into capturing scenes of Scottish countryside and the result was quite stunning. But it should have been a compliment to a fun and engrossing story, and not the show-stealer to a dreary, predictable plot in which I couldn’t really care less whether the characters found their happy endings, whatever the hell these were, or fell down a well to be nibbled by Tasmanian devils. I need reasons to care, thanks.

I am going to be an optimist and regard this film as a blip in the life-cycle of an otherwise outstanding company. And I have to say, though I’ve seen some reviewers’ poor feelings on the pre feature short La Luna, I myself preferred it immensely to the feature: it was sweet and simple and rather lovely, and this gives me hope that somewhere in there, Pixar’s still got it! Now come back to us Pixie!

Exceptions Not A Rule

Thinking further about the previous post, the whole 'shouldn't have to but do have to' theme extends further. When shopping for a (quite scrumpcious I'll have ya know) Sunday roast last week, my friend Marina stated how a magazine editor had once told her the staggering fact that having a black female as their cover photo halves the magazine's sales.


I think the most jarring thing about that statement is not the existence of prevailing racial prejudices, it is the fact that they are widespread to the extent to actually have that sort of effect on such a mass-selling product in such a dominating industry.


In probably our disbelief and wish for this to in fact not be true, we began listing icons we had seen on the front of magazines: our queen and idol of all idols Beyoncé, or elegant and strong First Lady Michelle Obama. But then we stopped ourselves in our tracks. The fact we were listing these 'exceptions' at all said everything about how true it had been. As heroic and valued figures like these are, I can't wait for the day when they're figures in their own right and not viewed in regards of their race. I hate the idea that they are used to prop up the pretence that society is somehow 'over racism' because 'Look! We can't be racist - we all love Beyoncé!'. Just no.

Beyoncé: Sexy AND pregnant?! But how can that be?! I thought all women lost hope of any sex appeal the second they choose children?!?!

Obama and the need to state the obvious

So yesterday the liberal world was in a state of euphoria as President Obama stated: ‘it is important for me to go ahead and affirm that I think same sex couples should be able to get married’. The internet sprang into action, sending a mass thank you card to the President and posting fervently their joy and gratitude.

If Cameron stood up tomorrow on his podium and stated that ‘black and whites should be treated equally’ or Hollande sat and gave an exclusive to the world that he agreed with women’s suffrage, I wonder what the reaction would be? I mean sure, the motions would be welcomed by most, yet many would probably speak of the unnecessary nature of such a speech. Or that perhaps words are empty without action. And sure, those are different examples: women already have the vote in France and racial equality is an on-going battle and such a statement is vague and not linked to policy, whereas Obama’s was in relation to a specific motion that states will actually be passing or rejecting.

But a large part of me yesterday, was saying a bitter ‘whoop-de-doo’, one individual has acknowledged his agreement with a right that many people have been fully on side with for years. My friend Leila’s tweet said it better than I ever could:

‘president of one of the most powerful countries in the world acknowledges a basic human right like its so brave WOW THANK U. stfu’

But at the same time I realised that while it shouldn’t need to have to be said, it still does have to be. Especially in a country like America, with such a scarily large proportion of people holding very non-progressive, conservative views.


Obama’s words yesterday were in fact a sad necessity which I welcome hearing, just don’t welcome the need for in 2012.

So cheers Barack, but screw you world.