So what DO we do?

I have white skin and I’m angry. Even that feels like a privilege; my anger is likely to be more heard and respected than some black people’s anger. My anger isn’t because I have white skin, it’s because the world I inhabit affords me a kind of discrete superiority due to that whiteness. If we’re truly honest, I think most white people in white dominated societies are sub consciously relieved they’re white – they know that their skin colour will very rarely incite being pulled over by the police, being assessed as a threat on the streets, having their CV cast aside because they ‘don’t fit here’. I returned a toy to a large retailer just after Christmas; my four year old was having a disproportionate meltdown about the lights and sirens no longer working. I have a strong suspicion he dropped it in the bath but thought I’d try my luck anyway. They tried new batteries in the store and upon deciding it was defunct, gave me a new one. As I drove away with my deliriously happy child, I knew that I had probably been a bit more ‘middle class’ in the way I’d spoken, I’d been exceptionally friendly and behaved in a way that wouldn’t cast doubt on the toy’s faultiness. If I’d not been white and articulate and used the communication skills I was taught in my middle class school, I genuinely don’t think that toy would’ve been replaced. That’s white privilege in action. It’s not my fault, I didn’t personally cause it but I certainly benefit from it. Driving through an orange light this morning (it was early orange but still…)  I had that sinking feeling as I saw a police car stopped at the opposite lights and I smiled at them as I went past in my SUV with my blonde ponytail and they smiled back. Would that have played out similarly if my skin were brown or black? White privilege. It’s in just about every interaction I have in this world because I grew up in a world where whiteness is considered subconsciously (for the most part) ‘better than’. Which means someone who has different pigment in their skin to me will lose opportunities, be mistrusted and risk being arrested or killed by police in the United States at the moment. I can’t know what that feels like, but I can only imagine it hurts deeply and evokes visceral anger.

In New Zealand, if you’re Māori and convicted of assault, you’re twice as likely to get a prison sentence than if you have white skin. Asians achieve very well academically in this country but make up fewer than 1.5% of board directors, in fact I rarely see an executive team with a Māori, Pasifika, Asian or in fact ‘any colour but white’ person so decisions continue to be made that maintain the status quo and enhance white privilege. Not on purpose. But they do. A research project showed teachers clips of pre-schoolers playing (a black boy and girl and a white boy and girl) and asked them to press a key every time they saw challenging behaviour. 42% of 135 teachers chose the black boy when there was no such behaviour – teachers were being set up effectively. Counter wise, if you set teachers up by telling them they have academic geniuses in their classroom, those kids will do better even though they’re not more gifted. This is called the Pygmalion Effect and I don’t doubt the reverse applies. I’ve been a teacher; I know how much bias creeps into the treatment of young people. So, layer upon layer of bias and negative expectation is shovelled up to Māori, Pasifika and all children of colour in this country and many other countries every year of their schooling life. And then they leave school and hit bias in recruitment, bias in promotion, bias in network building, bias in project distribution, bias everywhere. 

One of the great privileges of the client work I do is running focus groups and interviews with staff members across an organisation to understand the barriers to a healthy and inclusive culture. Here is just some of the stuff I’ve been told over the last five years;

‘I moved to a small town in New Zealand and the first day I arrived, I took a break from unpacking and went for a walk to get the lay of the land. The police arrived soon after and said they’d had reports of me ‘behaving suspiciously’. Being black in a white town was suspicious enough to call the police’.

‘I’m obviously Pakeha and my husband is Samoan which means our children are brown. I see the racism they face constantly and the most shocking thing is that my husband isn’t shocked. He’s just used to it. When my baby was born, a woman asked to see him in the supermarket and upon seeing he was brown skinned said ‘you must be so disappointed’.

‘My wife is Chinese and people are always making jokes about Asian drivers or just making comments about Asians in general. They think it’s just banter so it’s fine and I think they forget that’s my wife they’re talking about’.

‘You have to fit the mould to work here; be a white middle class man. Māori, Asians, women – they have to work extra hard to prove themselves and even then, they don’t get the same opportunities.’

So somehow we’ve inherited a society in which some people will do better than others because of the colour of their skin and others will do worse for that reason. Let that sink in. It’s pretty dumb, right? Often blatant racism is easier to stand up to than the nuances of privilege, banter and subtle proffering or removal of opportunity based on skin colour. But the blatant racism doesn’t spring up from nowhere in a few ‘bad cops’ or idiots on the street who yell at New Zealand Asians to ‘go back to their own country’ when Covid first arrived. Overt racism is supported by an insidious underlying platform of quietly accepting privilege, stereotyping, banter and us choosing not to challenge the behaviour that subjugates certain groups to the advantage of others. 

I talked to my four year old about George Floyd. Appropriately of course, but he needs to know what’s happening in the world he has been born into. Black kids, Māori kids, racial minority kids across the world are raised to not wear their hoods up, to not look threatening, to not speak loudly, to not get arrested, to not get shot. We need to raise white kids not just with kindness and empathy but with a little bit of outrage now. The same outrage people of colour have had for generations. Rioting and setting fire to stuff is actually understandable when nothing else has worked. But that won’t work either, especially with the deleterious, narcissistic and frankly frightening leadership in the US at the moment. Kids need to have constant conversations about inequality, privilege, bias, sexism, racism, exclusion – we need to raise a generation of white kids who are actively anti-racist – who won’t purposely capitalise on white privilege, but who feel outraged that such things exist. 

Check your kids’ books, TV shows and films; you might suddenly become aware of how white and how male they are which is a dangerous impression to give our kids of the world. Give them a diverse lens through which to view society.

Check your work and social network over the last couple of weeks; how many people have you spent time with you who look, think and sound differently to you and your family? Listen to people of colour, ask questions, connect and learn. If we get to know people who are different to ourselves, prejudice diminishes. In parts of New Zealand you have to work quite hard to create diverse networks but we’re not enhancing the world if we don’t make that effort.

We’ve been having the same conversations for years about this, it’s time to not just look away when someone makes a racist joke, racially stereotypes, or casts aside a CV with the name Mohammed, we have to call this stuff out. George Floyd can’t just be one more name we add to a list of people killed due to the colour of their skin. We can no longer ride on the coat tails of privilege, it is our duty to move this mountain of prejudice, one stone at a time. We all have the strength, capacity and love to be anti-racists.

Life in Lockdown

It starts far too early with a cry of ‘Mummy, can you wipe my bum?’ or ‘Mummy, is it tomorrow yet?’ or ‘Mum, why does Michael Jackson only wear one glove again?’. Each of which are challenging in their own right at 6am. The mornings feel far more optimistic, I suspect due to an increased lockdown coffee allowance. After said caffeine injection and answering the sunrise queries to the best of my ability, I try to do some form of training – a far cry from the 4 hour training blocks I was doing a few weeks ago, but at least it’s something. I’m lucky to have a bike/wind trainer set up in my garage so I can still push myself to the point of passing out or throwing up which generally makes me a much nicer person to be around (nice being a relative term during a lockdown of course). Sonny entertains himself while I do this but he occasionally comes in to show me his latest creation; usually while I’m at the peak of a set, pushing myself as hard as possible and in a highly stressed physical state. I have to admit while I write this that it does sound like I’m being tortured. No, dear reader, the torture is about to begin. He runs his lego creation across my sweaty arm and says ‘Mummy, what transformer would you be if you could be one’. I’m physically exhausted and being touched or talked at is not conducive to the toucher or talker walking away unscathed. I pant ‘Can’t talk now darling’ and he says, laughing, ‘Mummy, you just did talk!’ Mummy you said “I can’t talk”. That’s talking Mummy!’ He is TRIUMPHANT at this point, recognising that he is right, I am wrong and he has a lot to teach me in this world. My stress levels are growing every second, my legs are burning and all my energy needs to go into turning the pedals, not staving off the ravings of a four year old semantics pedant. ‘Mummy, you DID talk, those were WORDS’. The glee is emanating from his pores now. Viscous, show stopping treacle is filling my body in direct proportion to the volume and quantity of his speech. Against the odds, I finish that set with muscles screaming and proceed to half die on my bike while he continues to teach me the laws of linguistics. Of course he pisses off to the lounge while I’m in recovery mode and arrives back right on cue for the next set. Have you finished Mum? No. What did you say no to? Your question! What question? Argh!!!!

Before I train, I feed him and leave snacks out to increase the chance of him leaving me alone. He eats a lot, my son. More than I do on a heavy training day. After waking and having nuts and a banana to tide him over until breakfast is ready (because god forbid he waits until 7:30am to eat), he downs two eggs, two pieces of toast and half an avocado. An adult sized meal. I leave him more fruit and nuts and pieces of chicken, like a peace offering to the god of well, let’s face it, fucking everything.  By the time I come out of the garage, usually not having eaten a thing all morning, he’s wailing plaintively, ‘I’m staaaarving’. How is this even possible. It’s hard not to be passive aggressive, I admit. ‘Sure, let me get you some food, my fuel starved body can certainly wait. You just relax there, I’ll prepare a feast immediately.’ Ironically when I do slave over a hot stove all afternoon and prepare a roast with home-made gravy, he spits it out and says it ‘tastes like toilet’. And there goes my intention to have an alcohol free day – wine seems to act as an absorbent for insults and enhances my ability to smile inanely at his knock knock jokes. Which have no punch line and have been known to go on for over an hour.

We fill our days with scootering around the block, reading books, building cities in the lounge, playing hide and seek. Sometimes I hide reaaaaally well. Up in the roof with a cup of tea, biscuits and a book was a winning move, he didn’t find me for three days. Wishful thinking. Imagine the food I’d have to prepare in advance, it just wouldn’t be worth it. I do lose it at times, the low level stress we all carry at times like this means we tip more easily. He loses it too; it’s with some delight I hear the words ‘I’m not playing with you anymore’ or ‘I’m not your son anymore’ or my very favourite, ‘I’m not talking to you anymore’. Result! ‘For how long? Do you promise? I was very bad just then, so I think that warrants a full day of the silent treatment’. My back up plan is to break lockdown rules and get arrested so I can spend some time alone in the cells. Even if I have a cellmate, I doubt they’ll say ‘Mummy’ every five seconds and it’s that word from which I seek a reprieve.

Seriously though, we do ok, him and I. It’s remarkably lonely having no adults to talk to, particularly when the world is so uncertain. I miss humour and I miss having challenging conversations that feel like they’re moving the dial in a positive direction. I miss work. I miss my friends and I miss running. But so does everyone else. Well, maybe not the running bit – I might be one of the few people who is doing a shit load less exercise than normal! When the going gets tough, we have to focus on why we’re doing this and it’s worth the isolation to save lives, it’s that simple. And I guess we’re all in this together and that shouldn’t make it easier as I don’t wish hard times on others, however it somehow creates a sense of solidarity. Sonny also gives me a sense of purpose and as much as there have been days I don’t want to get out of bed because I feel flat and it all seems a bit pointless, I have no choice as my son’s stomach calls, plus I genuinely want to make this a positive experience for him. Secretly, I’m actually quite enjoying our time together; after a few days of panic and sadness about money, work, not seeing friends and not training (just those minor things…), I’ve accepted that this is my reality for now and the best way forward is to simply accept it and be grateful for what I do have. Space, sunshine, health, time with my son and a total lack of time pressure and or sense of having to achieve anything. I suspect my greatest achievement over the four week lockdown will be coming up with my transformer name. There are some great options on the wiki list of transformers; Deadend, Breakdown, Long Haul, Mindwipe. Or perhaps the Feeder. The eternal bloody Feeder.

Why Inclusion Matters in the Face of Extremism

Assessing your work and social interactions for diversity is an interesting exercise. In the last two weeks, how many people have you interacted with who look, sound and think differently to you? By interact, we’re talking more than just ‘How’s it going Abdi? Hey, my laptop is doing that thing again where it…*drifts off into boring IT talk*’. If you are white and you KNOW your white colleagues better than your non white colleagues, e.g. their children’s names, what they do in the weekend, what stresses them out and what makes them smile, there is a good chance you are sub consciously excluding people who are different to you. If you are male and your meetings are mostly with other men or you mentor, coach or network with mostly men, there is a good chance your affinity bias is driving you instinctively towards others who look and sound like you. The same can of course be said about minority groups and women (who, incidentally, are NOT a minority group!), however the power and privilege structures are different so the outcomes of such interactions don’t contribute as significantly to an unequitable status quo.

It’s important to remember that the largely safe and knowledgeable world we live in is relatively new. As humans, we are biologically driven to seek out threat. Our external threat system is designed to help our ancestors survive lions, enemy tribes, poisonous foods etc. Our eyes focus in on an angry looking dog/precariously balanced scaffolding pole/aggressive email from a line manager; our hypothalamus sends a signal to pituitary gland which stimulates our adrenals, cue a hefty dose of cortisol and the diversion of blood from our organs to our limbs – fight, flight or freeze mode. We are designed to be hyper vigilant to keep us alive and historically, as those from our own tribe/clan were less likely to kill us, our ancestors were alert to those who looked different as they carried greater risk of hurting us or taking precious resources. It was a dog eat dog world. We now live in a scientifically driven era, we can seek answers to questions in the time it takes to reach into our pockets and we no longer drown people to prove they weren’t witches.

Our brains receive 11 million bits of information per second but can only attend to about 50. That leaves a whole lot of data to be categorised, interpreted and marked as ‘not as important’; to do so, we need to apply bias and stereotypes to make quick sub conscious decisions. Gaps need to be filled where there isn’t enough information, so we rely on previous exposures to relevant information – our own experiences, the media, music, books, the words of influential people (our parents, teachers…Trump….) It’s why American police officers are more likely to shoot a black person than a white person in an online simulation; the media narrative combined with strong stereotyping creates an association in the brain between ‘black person’ and ‘gun’. Which is wildly unfair as we know this then creates a cycle; biased reporting in the media, biased decision making by law enforcement and biased beliefs and behaviours by all ethnicities as they succumb to the influence of stereotyping. Throw all the other implicit biases into the mix and we’re looking at the odds being stacked against minority groups from early childhood; bias in the education system, bias in healthcare, bias in recruitment, bias in promotion, bias in the judiciary system etc. It’s not our ‘fault’ as such, but we have a responsibility to help our biology catch up to modern day living. With new understandings about neuroscience and neuroplasticity, we know we can change the way we think and respond. Mindfulness also plays a part in managing how we attend to information. Our fear orientated decision making is designed to keep us alive in that ancestral dog eat dog world. We no longer need to operate in such a way.

What does this have to do with terrorism, particularly of the right wing variety? It stands to reason that someone who picks up a gun and kills multiple people due to their religion, political stance, sexuality or skin colour, probably hasn’t really spent much time getting to know people from their target demographic. Therefore, connecting with people who look, sound and think differently to ourselves is vital in overcoming our innate fear response. Additionally, if there is a culture, either in a business or in a community, of making comments about minority groups (or women) which creates an ‘us and them’ paradigm, it quietly substantiates the thinking of those at the hateful peak of the below pyramid who believe they deserve more – more space/land, more people who think or look like them, more power, more respect. On the right wing side, it would seem there is a belief such adherents are entitled to more and taking life or land from those who are different will deliver the world they indignantly believe they deserve.

In New Zealand, I’ve heard the same people who are now devastated about the mosque terrorist attack use the term ‘towelheads’ to describe Muslims (wrong religion ironically), I’ve seen jokes being sent around (clearly older people – it’s so 90’s to send email jokes…) about women, LGBT people, Muslims, Asians, black people. I’ve heard of clients asking for anyone but a female lawyer at a law firm – a request which is acquiesced to by the firm. I’ve heard about a senior legal counsel in a government department making sexist jokes about the length of women’s skirts in comparison to ideal length legal cases. And beyond all this, I hear regular mutterings about Asian drivers, overseas property investors, ‘their type’ (in reference to anyone not Pākehā/white European) and comments about te reo Māori being overdone, indignancy about the place names on the news being ‘changed to suit the Māoris’ and so on and so forth. But for the most part, I hear and see the most incredibly kind and humble people here in New Zealand, people who would, once they know someone, give them the shirt off their back. That’s why it’s so important that in our businesses and schools, we embrace diversity and inclusion as more than just buzz words. We need to reach out and connect with different people and get to know them BEFORE there is a huge tragedy, before an extremist’s racism forces us to look honestly in our cultural mirror or before the tables are turned and a minority group extremist (whether political, state sanctioned, school yard or homegrown) creates careless carnage on our streets. There is a curiosity as to how we might be responding if the Christchurch terror attack had been carried out by a radicalised Isis extremist – would we still be reaching out to those same refugee/migrant families on our streets?

True inclusion and equity starts in our offices and meeting rooms. If our boards, executive teams, shortlists, are all white, all male (or maybe include a token female…), all heterosexual, not only are we missing the significant business opportunities diversity brings, but in a way, our companies are sub consciously and subtly contributing to a society in which we keep the fires of exclusion and privilege alive. If our social calendar only includes people who reflect the way we look, sound and think, we’re missing the valuable input of diversity which neurologically alters the way we apply implicit stereotypes to people, and additionally, doesn’t support the notion of a truly integrated community in which we welcome difference.

Being nice isn’t enough anymore. We need to be allies and advocates; apply critical thinking and empathy to the worlds of people who are different to us, reach out and genuinely get to know those who look, sound and think differently to us, and above all, lay challenge at the feet of those who persist with a fear driven and angry or mocking response to otherness. Our willingness to stand up to unconscious bias and (often conscious) bullying will significantly influence the lives of less privileged and minority group people, as well as preventing our friends and colleagues from unwittingly contributing to a world in which extremism and hatred can foster. When the sadness fades away and the flowers have dried up after each hate based crime across the world, what will each of us do differently? Let’s stop being so nice, stop sitting on the fence, stop just ‘tolerating’; let’s be allies and advocates for a safe, welcoming and truly inclusive world instead.

 

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For more on inclusion and wellbeing or to book a call to talk about anything from mental health to nutrition, stress, bullying or even the impact of pornography, visit Flipside Consulting.

 

Black Friday

At 1:40pm today as I was getting my hair cut, less than one kilometre away a gunman opened fire on people praying in a mosque. We didn’t know this at the time; the woman sitting two seats down from me reported there had been a shooting in Hagley Park. Close enough for us to make a joke about shutting the doors but with no real concern as, well, it’s only Christchurch. Sleepy and sometimes shaky Christchurch. Soon, we really were locking the doors and windows. When I made the decison to move here from London in 2016, the spate of terrorist attacks in the UK and Europe had weighed heavily on my mind, particularly with a few kilos worth of new born baby to take responsibility for. I recall saying to a friend who questioned me moving back to an earthquake stricken city, ‘I’d rather deal with environmental earthquakes than political ones’. Perhaps a rash statement, with hindsight.

We don’t expect events like this here. We didn’t expect them in London either. Our schools were locked down today and parents waited anxiously until 5:30pm to collect their children. During the London bombings in 2005 I was teaching in a school near Kings Cross and we also went into lock down so it’s not an unfamiliar feeling. Nor is being glued to the television with a slight feeling of nausea, waves of empathy and the thought that all of us have, ‘that was a bit too close to home’. Apparently there was an IED found on a car on the street next to Sonny’s pre school. That is close to home.

New Zealand is a peaceful country, not without its problems of course, but our one well known Jihadi recruit is treated as a bit of an idiot by the media and we only have New Zealand First (clue is in the title) with a slightly anti-immigrant vibe, who aren’t even vaguely comparable to UKIP. To be fair, Christchurch is renowned for being less multi-cultural than Wellington or Auckland. Which is true. But it’s also the city that survived a devastating earthquake which shifted its appearance and personality irrevocably. People reached out, connnected, donated, visited and walked alongside each other. It does seem somewhat unfair that a city still dotted with road cones as it rebuilds from nature’s shaky backhander now has to swallow a hate fuelled wave of violence such as this. Again, people will reach out, connect, drop their shyness and find ways to help. As Londoners did during the bombings, Mancunians did after the Ariana Grande concert and like many other proud locals have around the world after extremists have unleashed unwarranted rage in their home towns.

My Muslim friends are the kindest, most gentle people I know. Certainly not those who deserve to be on the receiving end of the majority of Islamic fundamentalists’ abhorrent violence in Muslim countries. Nor do they deserve the shameful retaliatory acts that often occur after terrorists strike Western countries; the acts that caused British Muslims to fear catching a bus for being spat on or attacked or told to go home when they’d lived in the UK all their lives. Most Muslims simply get caught in the middle. Will this be another example of radicalised hatred – bitter, anonymous voices on the internet telling vulnerable or arrogant or mentally unwell people that they deserve more space, less diversity of language or skin colour, more respect or fewer challenges to their religious beliefs? We don’t know yet but we do know that fifty people needlessly lost their lives today. Killing them won’t stop migration, it won’t prevent religious freedom, it won’t prevent people looking, sounding and acting differently to one another.

What it will do is encourage New Zealanders to reach out to their neighbours, to immigrants to our country, to our few refugees and to walk with them as they heal and regain their confidence here. I’m loathe to talk about silver linings after such a horrific and devastating event but I know this country well enough to know that the simmering rage in my belly will be in almost everyone’s belly tonight. We don’t and won’t allow angry, small minded, unwell people to negate our culture of welcoming diversity, helping those less fortunate, and encouraging people of any faith to pray alongside our beautiful tree lined parks on quiet Friday afternoons.

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https://givealittle.co.nz/cause/christchurch-shooting-victims-fund

David:1, Goliath:0

I’d like to hand my resignation in. From parenting. Is that allowed? Who do I hand my notice to? I’m assuming I’ll get a pay out for all my accrued annual leave? Or gardening leave in lieu of sleeps ins? It’s been two and a half years, surely I’m entitled to something. I know it doesn’t look good to hand in your parenting notice but I’m just being realistic. I’m not cut out for this shit. I lose my rag just about every day – FOR VERY GOOD REASON – the expensive earrings that he purposely pushed down the plughole (whilst looking right at me, grinning maniacally), the purposeful pouring of water into his dinner then tipping the gluggy mess onto the carpet, his purposeful refusal to choose a breakfast cereal which then makes us late and I can’t do a damned thing because god forbid I put ricies in front of him when he belatedly decides he wants cornflakes. A rage fest of spittle, table pounding and burst blood vessels would ensue. Cereal is serious when you’re two. I use the word purposeful a lot there. It’s all on purpose. He is intent on ruining me. I know all that shit about brain development and how he’s just exploring, testing boundaries, finding himself…yadda yadda yadda. He’s trying to annihilate me, quash my spirit, break me down day by day until I cave in and let him stay in my bed 24 hours a day, with 47 matchbox cars, a bedside freezer full of ice cream, and Peppa Pig on a loop on my ipad. His ipad. Let’s get real.

Sure, he’s cute. And there are fun bits. Like tonight when he put his penis into a pencil sharpener which I found amusing for about 700 reasons. Or when he quietly asks me from the back seat if there are any flies on him – as a result of him hearing the ‘no flies on you, buddy’ cliché when I’m in jovial parent mode (happens at least twice a day – the mode, not the cliché, I have thousands of the latter). I also find him funny when he attempts to rule the world, ‘stop talking, Mummy…don’t say good morning…turn that song off….get me ice cream…I don’t like this dinner…don’t touch Big Ted’. Like I want to touch that germ infested saliva sponge anyway. And seriously, I love my son. So very much. And I’m so immensely grateful that I was able to get pregnant in the NHS dictated ‘geriatric mother’ zone; many of my friends haven’t been able to and I’m really aware of that as I whinge away. But (cue the violins), it’s such damned hard work! Parenting a two year old. Single parenting a two year old. Single parenting a two year old in a new country. Single parenting a two year old who is obstructive, obtuse, oppositional and obnoxious in a new country. I could go on.

I sometimes (ok, all the time) wonder if it would be easier if I weren’t single parenting. It’s so easy to imagine couples lovingly enjoying their Sundays together, generously swapping sleep ins and smiling fondly at one another over their beautifully behaved offspring’s heads – ‘look what we made, babe. Isn’t this just wonderful and perfect and fulfilling’. The reality is they’re probably filled with resentment at their lack of freedom too, bored with more mindless swinging at the playground on Sunday afternoon (not that kind of swinging. I find shaking hands exhausting enough these days.) And just as I’m imagining them in happy family land, they’re picturing their friends drinking and laughing at the pub with nothing to worry about except a slight hangover on Monday morning. And those friends are probably weaving their way home, looking around at all the families and feeling somewhat envious of their connection and purpose. Grass = greener, whatever fence we choose to look over.

Parenting can be really lonely. And boring. The routine every single night is the same. Cook him bland food that I swear I’m not going to eat but do, clean up the kitchen mess, bathe him, wrestle him into his pyjamas, clean up the bathroom mess, coerce him to brush his teeth (with chocolate. DON’T judge me), read books about monsters in underpants, or squiggly spider sandwiches or boring bloody roadworks and then clean up all over again. And at 7:30pm, the question I ask without fail: where the fuck is Big Ted? Those precious moments once Sonny is in his cage, I mean cot, and I should be happily injecting wine into my gums, are taken up by the nightly search for stupid Big Ted. We have a fractious relationship at the best of times; Big Ted is the go-to when Sonny hurts himself, he refuses to cuddle me in the mornings unless Big Ted is pretty much between us as some sort of manky barrier, we continuously have to drive back to the house when Big Ted has been forgotten. I swear I’m going to have hip and knee injuries, not from running for the last 25 years, but from getting in and out of the damned car to get water/snacks/library cards (just kidding, we haven’t got around to joining)/jackets/medicine/ipads/fucking Big Ted. He’s got B.O (Bear Odor. Sorry) and his face is all bent out of shape. He almost appears condescending when he looks at me. And yes, he does look at me. He judges my parenting all the time. Sometimes I kick him when Sonny isn’t looking – he saw me once and lost his shit. He’s a damp mound of polyester without feelings for god’s sake. Probably made in a factory with conditions we really don’t support. And is highly flammable. Heeeeey. Flammable…now there’s an idea.

So you see my point. I tried and it’s just not my bag. If anyone wants a two year old, I’ll pop him in an uber and send him your way. And then sit on the sofa and fawn over videos of him, like a total loser. It’s Stockholm Syndrome. I’ll be over to get him in an hour. You can keep that bloody teddy bear though.

 

 

NB: this is (mostly) in jest. Don’t stage an intervention or call social services. Do send wine.

Torn Between Two Lovers

So Christchurch is your high school sweetheart. Dependable, good looking, reliable income, someone you can take to a work event and have no fear of embarrassment. But in your twenties you start to wonder if more exploration is needed before settling down for good. A fling with London seems like a great idea! Maybe a year, two tops. London is sexy and fast paced though, full of excitement, she lets you down constantly and delivers highs like no other. She’s the antithesis of the high school sweetheart and somehow your couple of years turns into most of your adult life. In a reverse trend of a mid-life crisis, as you approach forty you start to wonder about beautiful, reliable Christchurch who you could happily grow old with, fingers entwined as you toddle down the beach with a flask of tea. Sounds dreamy, right?

One problem with affairs, I would imagine, is that you’re spoilt for choice and constantly compare. When London exhibits testing behaviours, you think Christchurch would NEVER do that; come back to the house late at night with loads of mates and play Horsemeat Disco at speaker busting volumes. Christchurch, ahhh, so lovely and peaceful. Filled with reunion excitement, you fly in and soak up the tranquillity and feel at one with the world. For a day. And then you think, did I say peaceful? More like in a bloody coma. Where the hell is everyone? And so, within months, you return to vibrant, tempestuous, leather-clad London with her pubs, packed cobbled streets and the dynamic cultural pockets of each compass point. Then the voices start; hang on, I just want some space, to be away from people stepping on my heels as I walk down the street. No, I want an anonymous nightclub where nobody judges me for dancing at this age. No, I REALLY want to sleep without ear-plugs, without the sound of sirens and waking up to horrifying news alerts. And I want to drive places, be in my car and not have to deal with body odour in rammed tubes. But then how do I get home after a few drinks? No, I LOVE the tube. And Marks and Sparks. But the food in New Zealand just tastes so outrageously good! Yeah and one supermarket shop costs the equivalent of semi-detached house in Leicester. But, terrorism! But, earthquakes! And so on and so forth until each location has a defence case strong enough to force a hung jury.

The reality is that no location is perfect, no job is perfect, no relationship, no friendship, no family is perfect. Comparing and contrasting instead of focussing on the richness of our circumstance, on the boxes that are ticked, will leave us drinking from a half empty glass. While I miss the pubs and parks of London and the constant buzz of potential excitement, I also thrive on running in the hills looking out on a landscape that encompasses mountains, beaches, coves, plains, rivers and a brave half built city that is slowly arising from the dust clouds. Focussing on the positives isn’t always easy, but I figure it’s the best way to pass through this transitional phase, until one day maybe I’ll find myself just existing somewhere day-to-day, without reminiscing about another life, another location. And far from being conflicted, I feel relaxed that I’ll find my niche somewhere and am incredibly grateful that I made the move back to New Zealand to start a new adventure.

But to save all this emotional roller coastering, maybe we could hand over our geographic destinies to an app, like we do our romantic ones. Plug in your deal-breakers, your essential must-haves and see what it spits out. City Tinder. Left swipe, left swipe, left swipe. Oh, look it’s Wellington! We had that brief fling during our uni days, remember? You’re still kinda cute! Notoriously bad wind though. Oh hey, nobody’s perfect. Fancy a drink?

Let’s Strip the Wallpaper

‘He’ll need to harden up now he’s back in New Zealand’. This phrase is a sad indictment of the pressures on boys (and Kiwis, but that’s another story) to don emotional armour and show strength at all times. The he in question is 18 months old and the ‘harden up’ mentality is one of the first bricks laid in the wall that structures his understanding of being a man. There is a fascinating YouTube clip of a father encouraging his little boy not to cry when he receives his vaccinations. As the boy’s tears spill over and roll down his cheeks, he has a surge of emotion, high fives his Dad and hits his chest, calling out in a strangled voice ‘I’m a MAN!’. Poignant, terribly sad and the early manifestation of the toxic masculinity that deeply damages our boys. Tony Porter speaks brilliantly about the pressure on boys to lock emotion away; he would cuddle his little girl but shout at his little boy when each cried, such was his internal response to seeing his offspring not fit a lifelong expectation of being a man.

Beyond my own desire to do a good job of helping my little man become a big man who can process emotion, seek consent before touching another human being and think carefully about the footprint he leaves on the world, I have greater concerns about what feels like a crucial time when it comes to the limiting implications of gender constructs in society. Recently the New Zealand press covered a story in which teenage boys were screen grabbed saying that you’re not a ‘real Wellington College boy’ unless you take advantage of a drunk girl. We live in a world where Donald Trump talks of grabbing women by the pussy (and THEN gets elected as President), Eminem lyrics brag of choking and raping women, and 88% of pornography features aggression. And that’s the more overt messaging that boys and girls receive, the wallpaper that lines their daily lives is far more nuanced but contributes to a binary idea of gender that insidiously and consistently funnels children towards one of two quite disparate options; boy or girl. Boys are encouraged to aspire but not express, girls the opposite. They grow up in different shaped boxes that limit their individuality and exploration of talent, and therefore, their contribution to society.

Young people are wonderful. Creative, curious, caring and most are keen to be part of a kind and equality-seeking world. The overt negative messaging, i.e. Trump, is easier to critically analyse with kids, it’s the nuance we barely notice that is more difficult to challenge and we will better support young people on their journey to adulthood if we can provide a counterpoint and some critical thinking around this nuance. The rhetoric around manning up, the polarized marketing of boys’ and girls’ toys which funnel children down gendered paths, the language of teachers/parents which reinforce the idea that boys and girls should look and behave in opposite ways, books/TV shows which feature stereotypical characters, pornography, sexualized advertising, misogynistic music, sexist clothing, the list is endless and it all contributes to the pressure that young people feel, to very high youth suicide rates (both in the UK and New Zealand), to boys and men feeling castigated and defensive, to girls and women feeling scared and angry. It’s not insurmountable though; most humans are intrinsically good, most teenagers are kindhearted with a strong sense of social justice. With a thoughtful, wraparound approach that reframes gender and sexuality we can encourage steadfast values and critical thinking in the next generation. We can create wallpaper that focusses on being a happy, expressive, physically and emotionally intelligent human being, rather than on starkly disparate ideas of gender.

 

Recommendations:

• Introduce Unconscious Bias training for teachers to prevent the hidden funneling of children by gender or ethnicity
• Be aware of ‘toxic talk’ (man up, boys will be boys) or books/films that reinforce reductive stereotypes
• High quality Relationships and Sex Education (with no exemptions) inclusive of consent, intimacy, love, different sexualities, and an unembarrassed critical approach to pornography
• Reduce the social delineation of girls and boys in schools (gendered uniforms, lining up as boys and girls, offer gender neutral bathrooms)
• Challenge retailers on segregated boys and girls toys – the brilliant Let Toys Be Toys campaign explains the sociological impact of this
• Teach young people to critically analyse social issues and inequality; they will be our policy makers and leaders of tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

Family

My Dad has 49 rolls of toilet paper wedged around his toilet. That’s around about 21,500 sheets of paper. On average use of 1 roll per week (from toiletpaperworld.com – wtf), he has enough for a year’s supply. Most people store water and tinned food in case of earthquakes, Dad’s focus seems to be on protecting the toilet if it topples over. He is a quirky man. The walls in his house have 3 inch thick polystyrene and silver foil stuck to them, floor to ceiling. Energy conservation is his raison d’etre. He has been known to paint coke bottles black, sit them outside in a home-made tin foil cone so the sun reflects off the cone onto the black paint and heats the water for his tea. Not quite hot enough for a cup of tea, mind. It then goes into the kettle and is boiled; ‘but only for a third of the time it would take to boil the kettle normally’ he explains smugly when I look bemused by this process. As bemused as he is that I pay someone in a café five whole dollars to make a coffee that he could make for about five cents.

Dad does lots and lots of weird shit. He hangs tea bags out to dry along with empty dog food packets so they don’t smell before they go in the bin. Because you know, the bin cares about stuff like that. He looked horrified when I suggested he take Sonny for a walk in the buggy in light rain; ‘the buggy will get wet and then it goes in the car and the car has no way of getting dry’. Jesus. All these years I’ve been wasting time worrying about gender inequality, the male suicide rate, skin cancer – seriously, nobody told me about wet cars and smelly bins and uncushioned toilets. Thank god Dad is looking out for them.

The reality is though, Dad has coped pretty well with a rough ride. My Mum died twenty years ago this year. It was 1997 and she was 47. They were sickeningly loved up, wore matching track suits and did everything together, including delivering a mortified teenage me to parties. Mum was a tiny whirlwind of energy and love and cooking and providing and listening and positivity and joy. She had a tough upbringing herself; her mum died when she was two and her Dad was a wharfie who tried his best but drunk too much. We often parent how our parents parented us; I have no idea how she was such an empathetic, loving and communicative mother when she had no role model, nobody’s shoes to step into. She sat up and sewed our swimming ribbons onto blankets for my brother and I each weekend for god’s sake. Talk about over-egging the parenting pudding!

Never have I felt the loss of Mum more than I do now that I’ve got my own little sproglet to look after. I really could’ve done with her reassuring words, home cooked meals and proud smile. But I have my Dad – my tea, electricity and humidity obsessed Dad. And Sonny’s face lights up when he sees Grandad’s car in the driveway; Grandad who brushes me aside to pick Sonny up as I’m rattling off babysitting instructions to spend hours with him in the garden, playing tedious games of turn the sprinkler on and off. It makes my heart melt. My Mum might not be here, but my Dad is and Sonny and I are very lucky to have this most precious of time with him. It was worth moving home for that alone. And the comic value of seeing soggy tea bags hanging on the line.

 

Addendum: Dad’s only comment after reading this was that I had it all wrong; the toilet paper is to provide insulation, not cushioning. So he’s keeping the loo warm, not safe. Well I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.

From London to Christchurch…

I miss the BBC. I miss the cold, hard, depressing and constant global news and its grave delivery by BBC news readers. It’s so jocular and annoyingly happy here, the news readers sound like they’ve taken half a pill before coming on air. Just because it’s sunny and stuff smells nice and people smile at you for no reason other than to be nice, doesn’t mean the world isn’t completely fucked! Seriously though, last year when I was back for Christmas and the moving home seed was planted, I was relieved to hear so little about terrorism and war. This year, now that I actually live here, I feel frustrated at the lack of Trump-talk and Brexit despair. The grass really is always greener.

The radio is a good gauge of how migrating home after 14 years feels. I’m almost 40 and left as I turned 25 – finally old enough to drive the school mini bus an old teaching colleague reminded me the other day. I felt like a kid. Now I’m a mum, not just a (statistically speaking, bell-shaped curve) normal mum, but a GERIATRIC mum according to the NHS when I gave birth. So I’ve come back to a city I knew when the tunes of the day were by 4 Non Blondes, Hootie and the Blowfish, the Spin Doctors and Bon Jovi. The latter’s Bed of Roses was handjob-in-the-back-of-the-bus music. Not me, of course, but it was at least a 7 minute journey from the Square to school so it’s sure to be more than just an urban myth. So this feels like some sort time warp; radio stations seem not to have moved beyond 1998 and they continuously play ‘High School Hits’ (clearly all the DJs went to school in the 90’s). As I drive down Moorhouse Ave, Montell Jordan and Bryan Adams and Tag Team and Boyz II Men and TLC pour forth, 90’s tune after 90’s tune, memory after memory. I never thought I’d crave a bit of One Direction to plug a decade and a half musical gap. Or for any purpose at all for that matter.

Other stuff: it’s bloody expensive here. I catch myself penny-pinching over the price of milk. Even though I couldn’t tell you how much milk was in the UK. Or bread. Or houmous. Or quorn steaks. I’m sure they weren’t the (appalling exchange rate) equivalent of $13.99 though. Heavens to Murgatroyd. Maybe when I have a job I’ll stop exchanging back to pounds and thinking ‘wtf, that’s only 17p at Tesco’. It certainly costs more to buy food here but the check out folk are friendly, you can park within metres of the door, and fruit and veg come in all the odd but natural sizes and shapes they’re meant to (and my god, they taste good!). The jury is out, but maybe it’s worth the extra few bucks at Countdown.

Many places don’t have websites, they just chuck signs up on fences; ‘give up smoking – call 021 234 5678’ or ‘plumber wanted, please knock’ or the best one yet; ‘cheap dentist on weekends’ (I’m assuming s/he is exorbitant Monday through Friday). They (we) call contactless, ‘paywave’ which made me laugh but then I realized it’s two syllables compared to three. That’s a second saved, right there. And for friendly people, Kiwi drivers don’t seem too keen on letting old people or parents with buggies cross the road. Cars rule the road here even though cyclists are everywhere. Pedestrians aren’t – you look like you’ve been done for drink driving if you actually walk somewhere. Time for a campaign I reckon. Hey, maybe I could set up a charity!

English moaning over. Kiwi optimism time. It is truly idyllic here. Birds that can only be made of crystal fill the air with pure, perfectly pitched and delightfully cheerful song. The smell of hot pine saturates endless tracks through the playground that is the Christchurch hills. The sea air leaves dried salt on your upper lip after a windswept and sandy day at Taylor’s Mistake. There is a constant juxtaposition in the horizon between sky and grass; the clearest delineation of anywhere in the world, so sharp are the colours blue and green. My boy is happy running up and down hallways, lawns, beaches; each with much more space than could’ve been afforded in London. And the vital ingredient, the icing on the cake of life, is always, always people. The people here are simply wonderful; fresh, friendly and lycra-clad fit. They bend over backwards to welcome you, to learn about you, to introduce you to like-minded people. They laugh easily and can make a joke out of just about anything. Mother Nature has tested the people of Christchurch beyond measure in recent years and yet, they still smile and make jokes. I cried this week, reading a book about the earthquake; not just because of the deaths, the trauma, the damage caused to this beautiful sea-side city, but due to the comradery, the arms that extended to create a circle of protection for each other, the hope and the optimism they seemed to find even though the city as they knew it had become rubble. Now it’s a re-start city; a lot of decisions still to be made, foundations to be built, a lot of potential energy waiting to find its niche – not unlike migrant me, really. Who knows how this particular story will end, but for now, there are more good days than bad, flip flops have become jandals again, and goddammit, I caught myself singing along to Ace of Base today. Without irony. Forgive me, London.