Glass Issue 4 Double Edition: Women Edition - 2019

Why Glass?

Female empowerment is one of our core motivators here at GLASS Media. The name of this magazine was born out of the struggle and is a constant reminder that we have a long way to go. Down with the patriarchy. Let's smash the GLASS ceiling.

Cover art by Katy Bedford

Liam Nikita Lucy Alana Matthew

Letter from the Editors

Hello Glassies!

If you’ve just enjoyed a few weeks of study-free freedom – welcome back! And if you’ve just begun your journey with us at QUT – welcome!

You’re in for a wild one!

Giving the Student Guild’s magazine a complete makeover at the beginning of this year was about much more than redefining our aesthetic and branding. In our very first meetings we laid down the expectation that we would not only create a publication that would support you by publishing all types of work from students across all faculties, but by creating a community that all our readers and contributors felt equally welcome to. While this was our mission, you are the ones who made it happen. We knew we had the right people around to support this special issue of GLASS so thank you, we hope you enjoy it!

A ‘Women’ and ‘Queer’ themed double edition was a goal the GLASS team decided on before we even had a name. With a significant portion of our editorship identifying as female and/ or queer, platforming these groups has always been extremely important to each of us. We received an overwhelmingly positive response to the announcement of this issue and an overwhelming number of fantastic submissions. You’ve truly outdone yourselves, Glassies. We feel like proud parents.

This edition is full of queer stories, reflections on womanhood and the unique experience

those who are female or queer are privy to. Let’s be honest, it isn’t always an easy ride and we’d like to thank you for your honesty and generosity in sharing your stories with us. The process of going through this submissions saw us laugh, cry and yell very loudly in our very small office.

Even with this issue generating the highest amount of subissions all year, we must admit that we were disappointed to not receive a detailed character breakdown of Mr Humphries from Are You Being Served?, easily the most iconic queer television character. However, we were delighted to receive some incredible artwork of a bouquet of vulvas as well as a tale of triumph in the face of transphobia. Fucking incredible.

Like always, this issue has some exciting info about what the QUT Guild has been up to including their announcement of weekly RAPID STI testing coming to campus - isn’t that just the bee’s knees?! We’ve also got a feature about a crazy-talented woman who has brought to life a post-apocalypse QUT. Wait, what? You’ll just have to dig through this issue of GLASS to understand exactly what we’re talking about. Have fun!

With love and John Inman, The GLASS editors

Alana Riley – Liam Blair – Lucy Czerwinski

Matthew Latter – Nikita Oliver

A Woman’s Place

I know a lot about kitchens

The debris blocking the burner

The fridge light that won’t come on I know about the fourteen knives

And the one that has been missing for a while I know about the tight-lipped roll of ten-dollar notes In the blue-barrel biscuit tin

Hiding within the menagerie of bottle caps, Apologies and hopeful tomorrows

~ Anonymous ~

Archaeologist

On the first of May, they dig her up. Each bone is exposed to the cold air with tender, methodical sweeps of the brush. The gentle curve of her spine, the vulnerable notch of her clavicle. She is curled in on herself.

They marvel at the detail of a bronze clasp, the utility of a belt dagger. This is who she was, they say. This is what her nose looked like. This is what she ate. They hold her with surgical-gloved fingers and wipe dirt out of her crevices with q-tips.

On the third of June, she arrives at the museum. They spread her on a white plinth. Around her are notecards, describing the angle of her pelvis and the healed fracture of her left radius. She is surrounded by empty air and smooth glass.

There is something in the texture of her that is like tree bark, something inherently warm and rough under the pad of a fingertip. There is something in her that expands and contracts the ribcage in a soft sigh and tightens the tendons in a shiver. She is achingly lonely. This is what she is, the notecards say: A single blow to the head. 1200BC.

~ Rebecca Foley ~

I thought I was safe

They say don’t go to court and press charges because it’s only going to hurt you more.

They say don’t go to court because no one saw anything. They say don’t go to court because “what can they really charge him for anyway?”.

But two months on, I’m still hurting I hurt at the thought of his hands on me Of his tongue down my throat

Of his small excuse for a penis To go to work, one hundred metres from where it happened.

A place I thought I was safe Done by someone I thought I was safe with.

I was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, one of Dad’s That didn’t stop him I said no 3 times That didn’t stop him

When I ran away crying and didn’t come back That stopped him.

When I spent 3 days feeling alone And crying And not eating And hated being touched Numb.

He had no idea. He was drunk. He doesn’t remember. I remember. I remember his hugs of apology that coincidentally coincided with him grabbing my arse

I remember crying after he put his tongue in my mouth Hearing the words “oh well you’re a cry baby aren’t ya” I remember my boyfriend asleep on the couch just inside I thought maybe if he didn’t respect me maybe he would respect him

No.

I was wrong. I was wrong to think I could trust him. I was wrong to think that this would all be over so easy.

~ Anonymous ~

Perfect Symphony

Now I understand that my body is music. Stretch marks are my staff lines and every mark, every mole, every freckle is a note etched upon my skin.

I won’t apologise if you’re deaf to this song or if my music isn’t to your taste.

I spent so long with my hands over my ears but now I’m listening

There is nothing wrong with my skin or bones.

I am a symphony.

Untitled

Remember that time? You asked But I wasn’t okay You called on our sisters Lifted me up And out

~ Eva Hopewell ~

Photography by Katy Bedford

A Sex Education for Girls

I was once told sometimes sex is compliance.

So conditional, respect that I’m expected to sublet my body to maintain the bonds of love?

Truth told; love doesn’t require compliance.

~ Rebecca Brooks ~

Photography by Laura Fiebig

Seven Years

Science says in seven years

My skin won’t wear you But in seven years

When your touch has flaked off And you’re in my carpet

Or under the fingernails of someone new will my heart still wear you? And will you still fit?

Or will you dig into the soft parts of me like a pair of underwear Seven sizes too small.

~ Jamie McDougall ~

You Will Find a Way

You will find a way, when you are torn. Slaps you weren’t meant to borne.

You will find a way, when you are shattered. You weren’t meant to be cursed or battered.

You will find a way, when you are broken. Your silence won’t be the common token.

You will find a way, when you are down, to erase the blemish on your mind’s gown.

You will find a way, when you are fallen, to stand tall and glare never to be crestfallen.

You will find a way, when you are lost, to get your dignity back at any cost.

You will find a way, and when you are there, he will know the pain, he made you bear.

You will find a way, when you are shaken, on the lighted path Allah shines for those chosen.

You will find a way, to when you are whole, to find peace and love that will free your soul.

~ Shakira Mohammed ~ ~

Photography by Nikita Oliver ~

To Her

To her

To the girl who pushed away the ones who loved her most. You’re a disappointment to your family. You’re a selfish bitch. Your parents didn’t raise you to become the woman you are today. Society doesn’t accept the woman you are today. To her who cares for nobody but herself. Who walked away when things got hard.

The girl who cut people off who cut herself off This is to you

To her

To the girl who didn’t know. The girl who tried her best for the circumstances she was in

To the girl who was destructive in her attempt to escape pain

To the girl who was a bit too hard on herself, to the girl who was unaware They may never forgive you for what you did but I do

To her

To the girl who didn’t speak up

The girl who choked, and replaced her no with ‘consent’

To the girl who risked her own safety and violated her own body in an attempt to avoid offence

The girl that copped it all because she didn’t want to be ‘too high maintenance’ this is to you and your needs are important

To her

To the girl who is learning every day

The girl who struggles to protect her own heart

The girl who hits herself for making the same mistakes Over And Over again

To the girl who never let go

The girl whose emotions are ‘too much to bear’ this is to you and you are not a burden

To her

To the girl who struggled to forgive her mother

The girl who strives for her father’s approval

To the girl who subconsciously hurts people

The girl who’s seen as a toxic friend

To the girl I lashed out upon, who I have now come to admire

The girl whose past is filled with fear, drunken nights isolation and impulsive decisions

You are not unlovable you are not worthless you are not too much

This is to you.

~ Kell ~

APOLOGISE

I apologise for all the things, that, could have been, but couldn’t be.

For the time – lost, to uncertainties and confusion, when it could have been filled with memories so vibrant.

For the energy – spent, on trying to cover things up, when it could have been used to fix things.

For the feelings – suppressed, to numb the pain, when they could have been felt.

For all the reasons there may be, I apologise to me.

Words by Bobomi Photography by Stef Canard

Making Monsters is her Jam

Words by Alana Riley Photography by Jaimeson Gilders

Players can choose to join one of four factions: Mechanica (orange), Biochrondis (green), Void-born (purple) and gate-keepers (black).

A weekly ‘battle for the block’ would have a building on the QUT mini-map up for grabs. Whichever faction wins its battle would get to take over that block which Jam would take home and paint up for the next week.

This was no small feat, as Jam explained, as she was tasked with the role of creating each factions physical identity and what it would like if they “infested” a building.

Jaimeson (Jam) Gilders talks to Glass about the creation of QUT’s very own mini-scale monster mega-game.

Imagine B-Block at Garden’s Point sprawled with lush greenery. Ivy wrapping around the red brick exterior, entwined with the vines of giant budding flowers. Imagine it dripping in leaves as if left uninhabited for decades.

If you ventured into Gardens Point library over the first half of this year, you would have seen exactly this - well, you would have seen a minimodel of it.

Tucked behind HiQ on level two of GP library lives the mini scale model of QUT’s GP Campus. It’s part of the QUT Monster Megagame by Half Monster Games, an interactive trea-

sure hunt table top game thatwill have you running across campus solving clues.

The mini-model is the handiwork of QUT alum Jaimeson Gilders, known as Jam, who was thrilled at the opportunity to bring a monster-infested QUT campus to life.

“We have a 3D map of the campus and next to that is a stash of treasure maps. You follow and solve clues and scan QR codes, you can decode particular bits and pieces depending on the map... then you solve it.”

“The lore behind the game is that QUT has been trying to open a portal to another dimemsion for ages and they have finally cracked it … but all these monsters have started coming through.”

“I knew I had the four colours of each faction to work with and the monsters within each faction.” For example the portal-creating squid of the void-born faction was the inspiration for the oozy, purple tentacles you’ll find wrapped around Y-Block. And the green biochrondys faction inspired the cultivation of lush, green ivy across the B-Block building.

“I took all the ideas and went ‘OKAY! Let’s just run with it’. I went hunting for inspo and would share pinterest boards with the guys like ‘is this the aesthetic we’re going for’.”

Jam is one third of the crew behind the game which was launched in semester one of this year. Jack FordMorgan of Half Monster Games is “the brain behind it” according to Jam, and is studying his masters in game design at QUT. And James Elliolt, who is part of the Brisbane Treasure Hunt Society, is the mind behind the labyrinth of riddles you’ll come across during gameplay.

While the Jack and James had the concept in the works for some time before Jam came on board, she said she just fell into the role after doing some play testing of the game and “just being really enthusiastic”.

“Jack went hard into the game design part and James went hard into the

map making and puzzle part but they needed people to play test. So I just went along to those.”

“The model they were working with was just this dodgy foam thing and I said ‘Hey I can do this and I can do it better!’ and so I did.”

Jam said having complete autonomy over the creative design is “absolutely surreal”.

“To have been working on this project for less than six months and from the start to have them say ‘yep go nuts we trust you’ is very cool but spooky.”

Jam reflected on how her Bachelor of Fine Arts with a major in technical production had led her to this project. “Even though none of it made sense at the time - all the weird things you learn along the way - you look back at it and it reads like a road map to wherever you end up. Whatever you do, it’ll be fine.”

If you have some spare time between classes, catch a glimpse of Jam’s handy-work, pick up a faction infosheet and join the hunt! Look out for updates about the QUT Monster MegaGame by checking out their Facebook

Why are women’s clubs important at University?

By Sarah McCutcheon- Treasurer of Women in Law

I could tell you all of the classic answers to this question. I could tell you that women’s clubs have really great events, that they are a great place to meet friends and are a way of getting involved with your university. But even though women’s clubs at QUT offer all of these things, just like any club, they have a special quality to them that most others don’t.

When I was elected into the executive team of Women in Law, I was so excited. I felt like I was stepping up to the damn table and it’s a great feeling when you are bettering your professional identity. Although I was excited, I was just as terrified as I well knew I wasn’t the smartest or brightest there. It was intimidating to hear

Women’s groups and clubs on campus

QUT Women in Law

QUT Women in Law @qutwomeninlaw qutwomeninlaw@gmail.com

Queensland Country Women’s Association QUT qcwaqut@gmail.com

my team mates talk about judges who I didn’t know the name of, work experience they had already done and the passion that shined through them. But I grew up with the advice that if I was the smartest in the room, then I was in the wrong room. And this women’s club was definitely facilitating the right room.

There’s something about seeing women leadership in action in your immediate surroundings. It’s encouraging and inspiring. You can look up to politicians, managers and social activists, but there will always be a filter or a distance that can feel overwhelming when trying to reach your own goals in their footsteps. It’s a constant questioning of “how?”. The inspiration is the best thing about women’s clubs because you are seeing student leaders who are, most of the

time, in the exact same position as you. You can see women’s leadership at its entry level, which shows you what you can do right now to start your journey.

Instead of waiting until you graduate and for your career to settle in, these women are showing you what amazing things you can get involved with whilst you’re studying. Leadership is a big focus of Women in Law, and I’m excited for our upcoming events that represent our view on adding balance to life, to lead with kindness and for all to be accepted. Below is a list of our upcoming events, like us on Facebook to be a part of this amazing opportunity to learn and be a part of something great.

Women in Technology at QUT Women in Technology at QUT womenintech_qut witatqut@gmail.com

QUT Women in Science QUT Women in Science qutwomeninscience@gmail.com

QUT Women in Engineering Alumni

QUT Women in Engineering wiealumninetwork@gmail.com

Women at QUT Women at QUT

Women in STEM Clubs

By Saskia Mathers - QUT Guild Campus Culture Vice President

QUT is home to a number of clubs and societies for women in the fields of Science, Technology, Engineering and Maths (STEM). In the western world, STEM has historically been filled with, you guessed it, white cis males. Yet for a sector tasked with designing, developing and delivering advancements for the human race and planet, diversity is insanely important.

From childhood to university to the workplace, we see a lack of females and gender-diverse people in STEM. The problem is societal and long-standing. At QUT, between ten and twenty percent of students studying degrees such as information technology (IT) or engineering

are female. Even more worrying is the decrease from women beginning STEM degrees to graduating from them. Groups like Girls in Engineering Making Statements (GEMS), Women in Technology (WIT) and Women in Science (WIS) are crucial to supporting individuals through university and into their careers. Not only this, but they also play a vital role in uprooting gender-inequality further afield.

These clubs are not exclusively for women; they are a place for supporting women. By inviting males and all genders to participate in this, the benefits are unexpected and culture changing. The activities of our women-in-STEM clubs naturally showcase the importance of diversity, and this translates from university into the world. Through activities like

supporting women in their studies, encouraging women to achieve in their careers, and providing opportunities for development, we are not only directly helping females. We are setting a standard of support and respect for any and all minority groups, to celebrate and realise the benefits of diversity in these fields. People take this into the future, and it is powerful.

I commend all clubs, groups, and initiatives who are striving to improve diversity, and I encourage you to be involved.

QUT GEMS (Girls in Engineering Making Statements)

QUT GEMS @qutgems qutgems@gmail.com

QUT Women’s Collective

QUT Women’s Collective @qutwomenscollective qutwomenscollective1@gmail.com

QUT Women in Business

QUT Women in Business @qutwib qut.wib@gmail.com

Sharp~ Jennifer Haig ~

Sometimes I imagine I am made up of shards of glass.

Beautiful, but only when artificially coloured and moulded. Useful, but only when I am held strong by lead casings. All my outlines given definition and imbued with divine purpose - a refraction of heavenly light.

He was to be my sanctuary. Provide me with shelter and comfort and safety. Serving a husband faithfully would give my life meaning, the nuns promised me.

Even in appearance, he was not the ethereal prince I was promised. No shoulder-length, tousled brown locks. Instead, he stood upon the abbey threshold crowned with blonde ringlets. Soft blue eyes peeked from behind heavy black lashes. Even now I can picture the lines of his face, a topographic relief etched onto parchment. The page is worn with revisions - I have revisited it that many times, certain I would find a blemish, a reflection of the rot within.

I am still not my own.

He did not start straight away. Have you never inflicted pain upon another human before? An appetite must be built for it first. A woman is a fine meal, a six course degustation, each dish more delectable than the last. You take your time, heating slowly to a simmer, never letting it boil over, bringing them back from the brink every time they think they are upon the moment of disintegration. Intentionally, tortuously, consciously untethering them from time. Sometimes I imagine my body is made up of patchwork fields.

From a distance, rich fertile lands - pleasant, you think, and perhaps somewhere you would like to settle down. You would cultivate the land and plant the seeds and you’d say this is good, you’d wipe the dirt from your face and your crop would take root and you’d say this is good, you’d till the soil leaving the earth barren and admire your handiwork and you’d say this is good

It took ten winters for my hair to grow, but only a second to cut.

You said you preferred me that way, as if it mattered. Your words are sticky molasses that I pretend to be caught in. We developed an understanding didn’t we, you and I? We could live in peace if unspoken commands were followed. Leaving the house is forbidden. Locking doors is forbidden. No more knives at dinner.

The house seems to mock me, all yellows and bright wallpapers and vases of flowers.

Summer feels heavy on my skin.

At night your sweat soaks the bedsheets and I think of my father. Man lays claim

to that which he deems his, all he acquires and all he begets. I am swallowed whole from the inside out - my ribcage is exposed but at least it protects my breast. He stifles my wet heart in one thrust and has the audacity to call it love. Rivelets of blood flow, and the child screams into non-existence.

You ask me what I think of the new housemaid. My facsimile soothes your ego. Of course dear you hired the right girl do not doubt yourself. I kill you both a hundred times over, sometimes it is a broken glass bottle slitting your throat until all that is you flows through the floorboards, other times the poker is heated over an open flame until the tip glow white hot and melts your flesh with a sizzle and smoke, maybe it should be.

The heavy paper weight clubbed into your skull until it caves and your filthy thoughts are laid bare for the world to see, you know i hate the pewter colour of it why do you insist on having it on display in the drawing room i thought the house was mine to run but even that does not belong to me do i have no duties or purpose or point or function how is my life not mine i am living it and yet i am not living it you unravel and unspool and untie me from my anchor my anger my clangour my heart it drowns in red present and unpresent within and without empty and full of grace the lord is with thee blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb.

A forgotten rosary breathes life into fingertips, and repeated actions are a balm on chafing thoughts. Even without belief, a ritual is still a ritual. I am not my own. I am someone else’s. The smallest of stirrings, the barren earth has been sown.

Seasons will pass and she will ask me how she came to be. Do I speak of rivelets of blood flowing, and a child screaming into existence? Her heart will be so small and fragile. She will be entirely new and wild and beautiful. Undenied and unclaimed. I find you, seated by the fireplace in the drawing room. You are turned away from me as you sip your drink, the flames reflected in the bottle at your feet.

Man claims what he begets, but she is mine. Sometimes I imagine I am made up of shards of glass.

Broken and smashed and unrecognisable from what form they once took. But still Sharp

Ann With no E

My grandmother was a truly remarkable woman. She raised three children almost single-handedly with child like enthusiasm and unfailing love. Divorced after thirty-five years of marriage, she flourished in her new found freedom. At fifty, she returned to university and became a counsellor, officially. Before that, she unofficially supported, loved and cheered on the underdogs, the unloved and the untouchable for many years. Finally, at the age of seventy, she became Dr Ann Crawford. She would work in academia for the rest of her life, writing curriculum and teaching with a passion and care that is incomparable. I have never seen, and never will see, a person more dedicated to the happiness and success of other people.

Two years ago, she was diagnosed with Myelodysplastic syndrome, or for the uninitiated, pre-leukaemia. My mother received a phone call on the ninth of April and was told that my grandmother had progressed from having two percent leukaemia cells to fifty percent leukaemia cells and was given two weeks to live. At around ten am on

Saturday the thirteenth, I arrived at the hospital to view my grandmother’s body.

She has left a significant body of academic work, incredibly valuable contributions to pastoral care work and has touched countless lives on a personal level. That is how most people will remember her. But few people will remember her for the things I admire her for.

In December of 2014, we watched my aunt die of liver failure. I watched as my grandmother nursed and eventually buried her daughter. The two of them had a tumultuousrelationship, as my aunt was a tumultuous person. I myself had ridden the roller coaster of emotions that my aunt built and felt the rage, disappointment and heartbreak she inspired. I saw my grandmother shower her with nothing but love and support, despite everything she had been put through. I was beside her when she read a eulogy for her child, and I was supported by her strength. It was perhaps then that I realised what a truly powerful person she was. That she could bury a child and still inspire me with her courage.

run. She sat on Death’s doorstep and waited patiently to be invited in. Here again, was her quiet courage. While her family grieved she was there, still a constant source of calm and love.

She only faltered for a moment. I pointed out that she wouldn’t live to see me graduate, and I asked if there was anything I could do. Her face only fell for a moment, but it wasn’t sadness at her inevitable absence. It was disappointment on my behalf. She knew, as she always did, what it meant to me that she would not be there, and as always she knew what to say.

“Don’tworry about it. I’ll be there.”

I’m lost without our family matriarch. My mother and I often remark that we have to remind ourselves that she’s dead. But I can think of no one better to take on the baton

before her. They are both people I can count on to share their strength and their unwavering support.

My mother is a truly remarkable woman. She is clever, articulate and headstrong. I don’t know that she believes she can live up to her own mother’s legacy. I hope that she discovers just how capable she is, and how many good qualities she has inherited.

Sometimes, I can’t help but dread a future where my mother is gone, too. I hope it’s a long time before I have to feel lost like this again. Will I be able to fill the shoes, so well-worn by the remarkable women that have come before me? In the midst of my grief, I don’t know. But what a privilegeto have theseshining examples to follow, and to be surrounded bysuch a crowd of incredible women

~ Megan Burnett ~

Curfew

“I swear, sometimes you make me wonder what I did to deserve a child like you,” Maya fumed, standing to the side as her daughter strode through the door, shoulders stiff and chin thrust in the air.

“I’m only twenty minutes late, Mum,” Liz replied, not turning around or stopping. “You’re acting like I was out knocking over a liquor store or something.”

“Were you knocking over a liquor store?” Her mother followed her into the kitchen. The glares they directed at each other were remarkably similar – so similar, they could have been twins.

“No, of course not.” Liz opened the door of the refrigerator and stuck her head inside.

“So?”

“So what?” Liz asked, rummaging the fridge shelves.

“So – would you do that more quietly, please! Your brother’s asleep upstairs,” her mother hissed.

“I would bet you any money that Tom is currently playing Fortnite with the sound muted,” Liz retorted, closing the fridge door, ham and cheese in hand. “Really, Mum, how you don’t know that already, I’ll never know. He and James have been playing it for months. That’s why his grades are so bad.”

“Don’t use that tone with me,” her mother snapped. “Where were you? I must have called you a million times. You know when your curfew is.”

“My phone died and I didn’t have access to a charger,” Liz replied, taking two slices of bread out of the loaf on the counter. “I’ll make sure to charge it next time.”

“But where were you?”

Liz positioned a knife carefully over the block of cheese and pressed down. A slice of it peeled away from the side and fell to the counter. Repositioning her knife, she did it again.“Hello? Am I alone in the kitchen?” her mother asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“No, Mum, you’re not,” Liz said, over-patiently, her gaze zeroed in on the cheese. “I’m just a bit busy at the moment.” “Bullshit,” her mother lashed out, arms squeezing her sides. “You’ve used a knife before, Elizabeth. Don’t play games with me.”

“I’m not.” Head snapping up, Liz asked, “Speaking of games, though, have you seen my spare basketball uniform? Coach called me this morning and asked me to cover for a sick player this weekend.”

“You should know where your clothes are,” her mother said, her eyes narrowed. “You’re seventeen in June.”

“Exactly, Mum,” Liz said, slapping ham and cheese onto the slices of bread. She turned to face her mother, crossing her arms over her chest and gripping her elbows with tense fingertips. “I’m seventeen in June. All of my other seventeen-year-old friends are allowed out past their curfews without drama. Why aren’t I?”

“Because you are not seventeen yet. You may wish you are, but you aren’t.”

Liz stared at her mother. “But you just said I should have more responsibility for my own things. Because I’m almost seventeen. The door swings both ways.”

“You aren’t ready for that kind of responsibility yet!” her mother half-yelled.

“Me? Or you, Mum?” Liz asked quietly.

Her mother opened her mouth, then closed it. Liz turned back to her sandwich, picked up her knife and sliced it neatly in two. Placing the two halves on a plate, she cleaned up the counter, picked up the plate and walked towards the stairs.

“I’ll bring the plate down when I’m done,” she told her mother, who was still standing in the same spot, arms wrapped around her body like a vice.

Maya nodded curtly. Liz disappeared upstairs, leaving her mother in the darkened kitchen.

Words by Olivia Wooldridge | Photography by Stef Canard

RoughMy fingers rest on my hip bones. They slide along the bone, pinch into the fat on my hips, trace the stretch marks that reach down to my legs; they simply feel my skin. My forefinger slides up to my stomach. It traces the curve of my tummy which overhangs my pelvis. I once would’ve seen it as baggage. My finger slips up the sides of my ribs and takes note of how deep I need to push until I feel the bone, but I don’t cringe. I glide my palm up across my stomach and feel the softness of the skin, how delicate it seems.

When I force my eyes to the mirror, I let myself drink up the reflection. I get drunk off my curves, the freckles and stretch marks. My eyes well, a single tear rolling down my cheek and off my chin.

There is so much of me.

Once when I was younger, I wanted to slide my hands under my skin and pull out the parts I didn’t like. But now, all I see are the places he touched. His hands have left a ghostly trail of fingerprints along my skin. If I could see them under a UV light, I would light up like a single star burning in the late evening.

I want to try and remember my body before someone else decided it was worth less than the cement my cheek was pressed to. However, all I can remember is a time where I hated, hated my skin, my thighs, my stomach, when there was nothing really to hate.

There was so much of me.

But now, standing in the mirror, the bruises puckering my skin, the scabs on my lips burning, the invisible feeling of his touch snaking around my thighs, I realise there is no longer so much of me. I am a garden, and he has pruned away all of my flowers.

I dress, grab a bag and leave the house. My mind feels like two arms stretching away from my centre. One arm stretches for the need to be alone, the other reaches for company. I am terrified of both. I’m terrified of my thoughts, the ones that slip from the cracks of my mind to underneath the stitches in my heart.

But I’m terrified to see the shock in people’s eyes. That a girl like me, such a safe option, could have been at such risk. Their thoughts will blink in their eyes like news headlines: What is the world coming to?

My feet take me to the bus stop. I sit and let the buses pause and then go. My eyes never leave the cement. It was only thirty odd hours ago I picked myself up from the ground and staggered home.

A little girl and her brother walk and sit beside me on the seat, waiting for the next bus. The little girl looks down at my scabby and rough hands. I watch her. She takes my hand in hers, her small, soft thumb rubbing circles into my palm. The brother doesn’t notice. My skin shifts and softens under her touch. She’s so untouched by the horrors of the world.

Suddenly, I am glad there is so much of me, that I am a large mass of person, because I wish with every inch of my being, with every centimetre of skin on my body, that that little girl will remain untouched.

The next bus comes, and the brother stands to hail it. The little girl leans into my ear, “You should go somewhere fun. Like the dog park.”

She then stands and boards the bus with her brother.

I grip the fat on my hand. There was so much of me for him to take, and somehow, he managed to take nearly all of it. Mum had always said, “If you lose something, retrace your steps, and you’ll be sure to find it”.

I reach for my water bottle in my bag. The water burns my mouth. It slips under the scabs on my lips and sizzles. I screw the lid back on and place the bottle back down at my feet. Somehow, I know sitting here at the bus stop where my world became tilted is not going to straighten out my mind. A bus buzzes from the down the road.

Maybe the dog park is a good place to start.

~ Jaime Colley ~

With the Benefit of HindsightHindsight

It’s the kind of situation most people don’t imagine they will ever find themselves in. To be so afraid of your significant other that you spend cold nights on the street without telling anyone. It can be hard to identify when someone is experiencing domestic violence. The following tips have come from a survivor of domestic abuse who is adamant that no one should go without the help that she needed. These are the kind of things you should look out for if you ever suspect that a friend, family member, neighbour or acquaintance is in an unsafe relationship.

It’s also important to remember that anything can be domestic violence. It doesn’t have to be physical; it can be arguing or manipulation or any combination of the above.

Take note

If someone you know ever needs to take legal action against their abuser, they’ll need back up. If you ever notice anything out of the ordinary, don’t dismiss it. It’s important to record when you noticed a bruise

or cut as well as what it looked like and where it was located. This may become extremely important in ensuring a survivor receives justice in court. If you have concrete, third party evidence of abuse, you can help substantiate a claim of abuse. This is also important if you hear shouting, arguing or any unusual sounds from your neighbours.

Observe Changes in Behaviour

If their interests change, sense of style, or even their general demeanour, something might be wrong. A healthy relationship doesn’t cause someone to completely abandon their personality and the things they enjoy. Sometimes an abuser can enforce tight constrains on their significant other, including dictating what they should enjoy. Abusive partners can prevent survivors from engaging in activities that they don’t approve of, like listening to a certain type of music or wearing a certain style of clothing. Mention any changes you notice and don’t be afraid to check in.

~ Anonymous ~

Be aware of language

There are a number of assumptions people make when a friend exhibits changing behaviours as the result of domestic violence. For example, when someone falls out of step with a group and is rarely attends social situations, friends often respond by saying, “they’ve changed now they’re in a relationship with X” or “they just spend all their time with X” or even, “they don’t like us anymore”. This language can cause alienation and is the incorrect response to changing behaviour. Be patient with your friends and don’t make assumptions.

Beware of “helpful” institutions

We’ve been conditioned to believe the police will always help us out in times of trouble, but that isn’t always the case. Some police officers can be dismissive or misunderstand domestic violence. This lack of understanding can lead to emergency service officers encouraging survivors to simply talk it out with their

abusers and in some cases, returning them to unsafe places. If you’re based in SEQ, survivors recommend reporting to Roma Street Police station as they have historically shown the greatest understanding of domestic violence.

Don’t give up

It can sometimes be difficult to support a friend who is distant or has fallen out of step with your circle of friends. But people in abusive relationships need support from friends more than ever when they begin to withdraw. It’s normal for a survivor to brush off any allegations of domestic abuse but stick with it. Check in with them frequently to see how they’re doing and remind them that you are there if they need support.

Research

There are so many sources of vital information about domestic violence. 1800 RESPECT is a confidential information, counselling and support service which operates nationally, 24 hours a day. You can speak to the same person every time you call, and they can assist you in accessing help.

If you or anyone you know may be experiencing anything discussed in this article, call 1800 RESPECT for confidential support or visit the website at www.1800respect.org.au.

The website has an immediate click away feature, so no one will know.

If domestic violence is affecting your studies, you can access the Student Assist Service who can help you apply for extensions and special consideration without disclosing your situation.

You know what sucks?

~ Jess Kondys ~

Endometriosis is a disorder which causes tissue that normally lines the uterus to grow outside of the uterus. It is a chronic illness, which, for me, causes chronic pain. Endometriosis can only be definitively diagnosed through a laparoscopy, which is incredibly invasive day surgery. Endometriosis can present in a range of different symptoms. Personally, my list of symptoms is too long to list.

I have had a long and arduous journey with endometriosis. I was 11 when I got my period. My periods have always been painful, to the extent of having to take days off school. When I was 13 my doctor allowed me to try a contraceptive pill to attempt to make my periods less painful and more regular. I tried about eight different contraceptive pills by the time I was 15. Nothing helped. Some pills would give me severe depression, others would flat out not work. So, at 16 in 2015, I went to see a gynaecologist. He was very comforting and never made me feel uncomfortable. When I was 17, in 2016, my final year of school, it was time for my first laparoscopy. He would assess whether I had endometriosis and insert a Mirena or IUD to help regulate my periods.

After the laparoscopy, all suspicions were confirmed. It was official. I had endometriosis, severe, stage four

1 in 10 women are affected by Endometriosis

endometriosis. I had so much endometriosis that my doctor could not remove it, it was too difficult for his abilities. Therefore, hormone treatment was the next step.

Menopause. At 17, in 2016 I went through temporary menopause in an attempt to stop the spreading of tissue. Term four of year 12 started, and so did my hot flushes and heightened mood swings. Once a month for six months, I would be injected with the hormones before school. My year 12 experience was riddled with half days and days off, but I did it. I graduated.

Just before I started university in 2017 it was decided that this hormone treatment was not working, and it was time to move on. My gynaecologist could do no more for me and it was time to move onto someone with more knowledge and experience. I was referred to a specialist, a professor of endometriosis. He decided it was time to stop the hormones and see what my body did. Towards the end of my six-month hormone treatment my pain had come back and taking me off the hormones did nothing to help. I was in excruciating pain most days whilst still trying to get through my first semester of university. It helped that I had a disability plan, but even my disabil-

ity plan didn’t help what came next. My new doctor decided that I was to go into surgery immediately so he could determine how far the tissue had spread.

I had to defer from my first semester of university. My endometriosis was incredibly severe at this point. Layers of skin had to be peeled from my organs to remove the tissue. My doctor also found that the disease had wrapped itself around my bowel and caused a blockage. This meant that instead of a 4-week recovery, I now had a 6-week recovery from surgery followed by 3 years for my bowel to recover. I only did one unit of study in second semester as I was still recovering. In 2018 I was back on track with my study and excited to get my life back on track too. I went back to full time study. However, I had to defer again just before my final assessments to deal with a burst ovarian cyst. After another 4 weeks recovery due to infection and complications, I only did 2 units of study in the second semester, just in case another medical emergency decided to burst into my life.

Now, in 2019, I have almost finished my first full semester of university. I have an overseas trip planned for the semester break. I am so excited, yet, another thing has arisen. My Mirena

is failing and so another treatment will have to be decided on. This disorder is debilitating, at times if feels life destroying. I have had to battle depression, anxiety and PTSD because of this disorder. I still have pain, it is less, but it is still there. I will be 20 years old in a couple of months and it has taken me years and multiple healthcare professionals to be able to be the confident woman I am today without living in fear of pain, my pain.

I am not the only one. 1 in 10 women are affected by this disorder, there is no cure. That’s what sucks.

ContentWarning DomesticViolence, Abuse

And Me As Well

~ Lucy Czerwinski ~

Where Do Feminism and MeToo Intersect?

Eurovision was held in Tel Aviv, Israel this year. The winning song which brought the contest to Israel was called “I’m Not Your Toy” sung by Netta, an Israeli. That, in itself, is almost as controversial as Australia’s relentless crashing of a party we keep accepting our pity invitation to. The unrelenting Israel – Palestine conflict has inevitably caused unrest which prompted a boycott movement. Netta was also railed with criticism for the seemingly needless cultural appropriation with the use of Japanese imagery. She also made some chicken noises which happened to weird everyone out a bit.

But the element of the Eurovision winner’s performance that didn’t seem to worry anyone was the lyrical content. It was essentially an inoffensive “Fuck you” to male privilege and entitlement. But what bothered me was the media which labelled the song as a MeToo anthem. And so, I pose the question, when did the word feminism get replaced with the term

MeToo? And when did feminism go a bit... wrong?

I’ve found myself questioning the effectiveness of the feminist movement in recent months with the emergence of the #MeToo movement which has received an unbelievable level of media attention. There has been a fair bit of discussion about the kind of harassment mostly women receive. But largely this media attention has taken the form of crusty Sky News presenters whinging about how you can’t make jokes anymore and, “what’s wrong with a bit of harmless workplace flirting?”. Read: harassment.

Personally, I feel disappointed in this fizzer of a movement and I firmly believe MeToo has a long way to go still. I need to make it very clear that I am not anti-woman and am certainly not anti-feminist. I am a very proud user of the infamous “F-word” since my father explained to me what it meant when I was seven after I asked why there were no women playing sport on the telly. He explained the concept of sexism and in response I

boycotted Nutrigrain for marketing itself as “iron man food”, whatever the fuck that means. But modern feminism in the media has manifested as a tokenistic movement which serves only to empower the most privileged women in society to speak out. And while this is the case, I don’t think #MeToo is necessarily the lifeline which will break the glass ceiling once and for all.

The #MeToo movement was conceived by Tarana Burke and repropagated by actor, Alyssa Milano focussing specifically on sexual violence and harassment. Organisations have raised enormous amounts of money in support of survivors. And whilst I recognise the importance of support efforts, I take issue with the way in which the movement was, and still is, presented as the Pangea of intersectional feminist theory providing relief from inequality in all its many forms.

The movement has emphasised the importance of women feeling safe enough to share their experiences and to send an unmistakable message about the prevalence of abuse. Yet

no tangible steps have been taken to ensure that women without the privilege of being a Hollywood actor will not suffer the consequences of outing an abuser. Working class women risk far more than unfavourable Twitter reception if they decide to speak out.

In what world does wearing a black dress – an extremely unremarkable colour for a formal gown – constitute a subversive action in the name of gender equality. Women have been dealing with workplace harassment for as long as we’ve been allowed in one. Many employers are taking a tougher stance on workplace discrimination and providing employees with a greater number of resources. But that doesn’t mean everything is okay. In the last month, I have been called a “bitch”, been inappropriately touched and been trapped in a horrible conversation about camel toes. All from senior, male managers. Not okay.

And after we’d been bombarded during every news bulletin on MeToo, suddenly #TimesUp was a thing. This was less a social movement

and more a charitable fund. Helen Razer recently wrote that we need to be shifting the onus away from our Twitter feeds and onto institutions with real power. We should be seeking support in our employers and in our unions. This is often an employees’ first port of call for workplace grievances. Very rarely is an issue taken directly to a solicitor funded by a charity. Sex workers in Queensland do not even have the right to basic safety. Sex workers do not have the liberty to say “MeToo”.

MeToo is laden with an inherent level of privilege that flies in the face of the kind of feminism for which we’ve been striving. I can afford to say “MeToo” as a white, educated, middle class woman, but could a WOC, single mother? The waves of feminism have each come with a whole host of fundamental issues, mostly campaigning for the rights of some women at the neglect of others. While we neglect the concept of collective action, we excuse systematic inequality.

In light of the recent success of Bri Lee’s Eggshell Skull , I am extremely uncomfortable with intrusting problems of systematic injustice in an institution so plagued by sexism and the undermining of female experience. In Queensland, it is still an acceptable defence to rape - to claim the defendant had reason to incorrectly interpret consent. Not to mention the difficulty women have in achieving promotions in the l egal field and the glaring lack of female representation as judges in Australian courts.

While non-binary, trans and non-identifying individuals continue to be left out of the conversation, MeToo is futile. While women of colour aren’t represented, MeToo is futile. While the movement is plagued by internalised misogyny, MeToo fails women. We’ve just lost our right to choose in the United States and we’re at the risk of losing so much more. MeToo isn’t uniting us and I don’t know what the answer is. But I do know that we have a fight ahead of us that would be deeply shameful if we lost.

Work

A World Gone Mad.

The first time it happened I was 19, in retail, with my best friend. An older colleague kept grazing our bodies. We confided in each other and both realised we were having the same experience of being touched and lightly groped. We, together, reported it to our floor manager. We, together, were told, “His wife has breast cancer, how dare you suggest such a thing”.

The second time it happened I was 21. I was a few weeks into my first professional role. It was a work function and an executive twice my age got into my UBER and followed me home. He made sexual remarks in the car, then got out at my apartment and suggested he come inside. I ran into the foyer not looking back. On Monday morning he told the office he’d been to the bar across the road with friends and that’s why he’d left with me.

The third, I was also 21. I was working in the same professional role dealing with a client. He told me, “I’ll only listen to what you have to say if I can take you to dinner”. He then proceeded to tell his entire workplace that he was going to “fuck me”. He still works for this business, he’s still a client I have to serve.

The fourth was a month ago. I was sitting in

a meeting of ten staff. Eight men (managers), myself (junior) and one other women. She was completing a ‘managers in training program’. One of the most senior men at the table stated, “I don’t get it, I didn’t ever get to do a ‘men in training’ program. It’s not fair”.

What’s not fair is not a single woman in that business was a manager. What’s not fair is women having to prove their worth beyond the value of sex over and over again. If the workplace was a sprint, we’re starting the 100m race at the 200m line and expected to win.

Every day I hear, “the world has gone mad, we can’t even joke or flirt anymore”. Frankly, the world has always been mad. We can’t just do our god damn job without someone, somewhere, trying to either sexualise us or make us small. And no, not all men. But not enough men to make the perpetrators realise they’re the odd one out. I am not unique; these stories happen to us all.

Words by Anonymous Art by Brydie Perkins-Brakels

The Women Who Shaped Us

I was sat minding my own business the day a woman I had respected, until that moment, told me that “feminism is stupid, and feminists are annoying”. I didn’t know what to say. I had never met a real life female anti-feminist before; I had naively thought that women like this exist only on the internet or in political circles pandering to giant orange babies. So I sat quietly and listened.

I’ve found myself reflecting on that conversation more and more frequently of late for a number of reasons, but mostly because I am ashamed. I am ashamed because I shouldn’t have sat quietly, but what should I have said?

Should I have told her about my mother, a woman who has sacrificed more for family than almost any woman I know? A woman who had the opportunity to pursue higher education a generation before the first female university graduate in my family, but who turned it down to support her 5 younger siblings? Should I have explained how her sacrifices have given me a life she can never have? How would this woman have reacted to hearing how my Mum fought for my education?

Should I have told her about my Nana? My mother’s mother never finished primary school but saw all 6 of her children through secondary education at a minimum. What about her sister-in-law, my beloved Aunty Joan? Would the anti-feminist in front of me have cared about my 92-year-old matriarch? Would knowledge of a woman who was a monument to both motherhood and independence have swayed her mind? Would she have cared that Joan worked well into her seventies to support her children, grand-children, nieces, nephews, and grandnieces and grand-nephews? What about my great-grandmother, who had barely begun schooling before being sent to earn a wage?

Would this woman care about the struggles faced and sacrifices made for me by the women whose shoulders I stand upon?

These are questions that have haunted me for months, but more so than ever in the wake of my Aunty Joan’s death. Her loss shook my world more than I could have ever anticipated. Here was a woman who embodied the word steadfast. She loved unconditionally, laughed genuinely, and scolded blisteringly. Everything my Aunty did, she did with compassion and faith. She gave

the women she raised the temerity to demand to be seen and to rise to the challenges the world throws at us.

During that fateful conversation I held my tongue for the sake of propriety but I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had shouted from the rooftops the history of the women who came before me. The women who raised me, the women who sacrificed so that I could have a future that they could have never imagined. When faced with someone who denies the value of feminism, all we need ever do is look into our own histories to find women who fought for us and our opportunities. It’s our turn now. We must keep fighting for the rights of women who don’t have it as good as us. We owe it to them, and we owe it to the women who shaped us.

~ Eireann Pettman ~

At First I Was Sad

He liked Animal Planet and letting his baby nieces play with his hair. He was funny, charming and sociable. His favourite place was Magnetic Island, he loved fishing and the beach. He cared about his family and looked after his elderly parents. One night he called me an Uber home when my phone was dead, just to make sure I got home safely.

Another night he raped me.

In the days and weeks I spent after, lying face down on my parents couch crying hysterically, this was what bothered me the most. How can seemingly normal and nice people do such heinous things? What had I missed?

Do you ever really know anyone?

For a long time, I struggled to reconcile how these different qualities could co-exist within one person. And despite my knowledge of violence against women and sexual assault I still found it really hard to tell anyone. The one response I was deathly afraid of hearing spun around in my head at night on a loop:

“Oh no he wouldn’t do that, he’s such a nice guy’’. But here’s the thing. He’s not. He never was.

One of the biggest issues with the way we as a society frame sexual assault is our persistent discussion of the ‘grey area’. Date and acquaintance rape IS rape.

The people who perpetrate these types of crimes aren’t confused boys who missed a few sex ed classes. They’re predators who use manipulation, coercion and power to prey on vulnerable women. There has actually been a lot of research done on men who perpetrate sexual violence against women they know. It is a small number of men who commit the majority of these crimes. They intentionally target vulnerable, intoxicated women who are usually significantly younger than them. They socially isolate them, assault them and then justify their actions through society’s ‘he said/she said’ narrative and the rape myths surrounding intoxication and consent.

We need to start talking about date and acquaintance rape for what it is; predatory sexual violence, not

your friendly neighbourhood ‘nice guy’ who’s just a little unclear on the ‘complicated’ concept of consent. Rape myths that are not challenged become internalised.

When men believe that their friends or co-workers are using coercion or intoxication to get ‘laid’ then they are more likely to as well. When men believe that reducing their sexual partners to ‘scores’ or numbers is acceptable or humorous then other men who see that are more likely to as well. When men indulge in speculation on ‘what she was wearing’ or whether she was ‘promiscuous’ or ‘drinking too much’ as a means of justification for sexually violent behaviour then other men are more likely to as well.

When rape myths are not challenged, rape proclivity increases and it becomes easier for predators to justify their behaviour.

And look, I get it, I’m angry. But I’ve also spent my entire life being placid, being amicable, being

4

5

nice and I’m done with it. It is not my job to prevent myself from being a victim. And it took the most horrific and traumatising experience of my life for me to realise it. But I refuse to be nice any longer, your feelings do not come before my safety.

Eventually I told people. I told my family, I told my colleagues, I told my friends and my lawyers. And the more I told people the angrier I got; I wasn’t sad anymore. Because I shouldn’t be ashamed, and this shouldn’t be my burden to bear alone. You’re probably feeling complacent now, glad that this whole debacle is behind you. I’m here to tell you it’s not, not even close. You didn’t win, and this isn’t the end.

I know what happened

You know what happened. This wasn’t a misunderstanding, this wasn’t a mistake.

You made a choice and now you’re going to live with it because I’m not going anywhere. This time you can’t intimidate me into silence.

6 Sexual violence in Australia, (Bree Cook, Fiona David and Anna Grant) Australian Institute of Criminology – Research and Public Policy series No.36, 2001.

Predicting Perceptions of Date Rape: An examination of perpetrator motivation, relationship length and gender role Beliefs (Angelone, David J. Mitchell, Damon; Lucente, Lauren) Journal of Interpersonal Violence 2012, Vol 27(13) p2582-2602;

The many facets of shame in intimate partner sexual violence, Australian Institute of Family Studies (Australian Government) aifs.gov.au/publications/many-facets-shame-intimate-partner-sexual-violence/export

Not All Men

“Not all men”. The first line of defence from men on the internet unwilling to grasp the reality of their world. Three little words that are a barrier between who they are and the latest horrific attack on a woman in Australia.

Yes, I know. Not all men.

The truth is, I have never sexually abused anyone in my life. Add to that list my father, my grandfather, my uncles and my closest friends. Perhaps I am just lucky in the sense that the men I have surrounded myself with are men who have grown up understanding that women are not a sexual fantasy that can be “chased after” for their own amusement. However, no matter how many good men there are in the world, there are still too many that sexually abuse women, make inappropriate jokes, and demean them.

Don’t think I fail to understand your frustration because believe me, I do. When women point out the terrible treatment they still face from men you don’t know, it can be hard sometimes to not take that as a direct attack against your character. It’s a way of removing yourself from

with Matthew Latter

reality that you do not wish to acknowledge. After all, you didn’t contribute to yet another horrendous murder of a woman in a Melbourne park. You are not willing to accept the blame for the deaths and assaults of young women all across the globe. But you should.

Yes, I know. Not all men. But here is the reality of the situation.

Being uncomfortable is a part of change. As someone who for years would loudly chant “not all men” on Twitter and Facebook while trying to play political limbo in a way that Ben Shapiro and Jordan Peterson would be proud of, it is a tough reality to face. The question used to rattle in my brain and infuriate me when I thought I knew the answer, but no-one else did.

Why am I blamed for the actions of others?

What changed for me was becoming close with a group of incredibly strong, kick-ass women who were nothing like the stereotypical, raging feminists my private-school-privileged ass envisioned. The amount of

times they called me out for objectification, or inappropriate comments, or even just thinking I knew what they experienced is higher than I am proud of. However, it is even more embarrassing that every single time they politely told me to stop being a dick, it was over something I was not even aware was sexist. I was ignorant to the fact that these actions and comments have impact.

Being told your actions are sexist is not an action taken by women because they want to make you feel terrible. It is made because they know that those words and actions can hurt people, and they are doing something before you hurt others. They do it because they want you to be aware of what you don’t know.

Unfortunately, not every man has those women in his life to pull him into line, and nor should it be the duty of every single woman in the world to crack down on men for their bad antics. That is why the men aware of our toxic culture are the most important. If you are saying “not all men”, then that at the very least shows you acknowledge that these things for women are horrific.

The so called “locker room talk” is a lie. Mostly because it no longer stays within the confined walls of concrete and sweaty men showering after a footy game. It has extended to night clubs, work places, even here at QUT. And again, most men are not even aware that their actions are shitty.

When you hear your mate give explicit details about what he would do to the bartender, you probably just laugh it off and act like he’s being an ass. And while you internally may know that you would never, ever do something heinous to women, the same cannot be said about your mate. To him that laughter is approval, a challenge almost.

Am I being dramatic for saying that even something as simple as telling your mate to not talk badly about women can prevent rape or murder? No, not at all.

If the line is never drawn, men will never know when it is crossed.

The line needs to be made clear and needs to be made early.

I am confident in saying that the majority of men reading this right now would never follow a young woman into a dark alley late at night. Nor would they take away an innocent person from their friends and family because they didn’t get their way. But those men do exist. And sadly, those men could be your brother, your dad, your best mate, your boss. These men exist because awkward laughter and long silence has been the response to disgusting thoughts and discussions for too long. These men exist because instead of crying for change, men on Facebook cry “not all men”.

Yes, I know. Not all men.

Not all men have the privilege of being surrounded by incredibly strong women who will wake them up to their own ignorance. Not all men will be willing to acknowledge the toxic culture of “sexual victories” that exists. Not all men will speak up. However, even that one voice to speak up and pull your mate into line could be an influence for change. Prove to yourself, your mates and to those around you that it is indeed, not all men.

A feminist guide to reading comic books

~ Kat Langton ~

First of all, let’s deal with the elephant in the room. The pink one, the one who hates men, with the unshaven legs, the checkered shirt and the short hair, swinging a burning bra through the air while trumpeting Respect by Aretha Franklin. Would that be your idea of feminism (maybe minus the elephant)? Admittedly, it used to be mine. Let’s talk about that.

‘What?’ I hear you thinking. ‘I thought this article was about comic books! I came here for fun!’ Well, as it turns out, addressing controversial topics such as the ‘f word’ can be done in fun, playful ways. No high horse required. Not even elephants. Although ‘being a feminist’ is associated with all those hyperbolic, elephant-esque qualities mentioned above (bra-burning, men-hating and the like), these empty stereotypes and their associated stigma no longer apply to the feminist social movement. In fact, feminism has never been more inclusive of different perspectives. Contemporary ‘third

wavers’ are still pursuing equality of the sexes, but with an increased awareness of the overlapping, intersectional experiences of women from varying ethnic backgrounds and sexual orientations. This approach aims to defy categorisation, and to embrace even seemingly opposing understandings of feminist ideology (e.g. how wearing revealing clothing is seen as objectifying by some, but empowering by others).

Some of the recently published superhero comics are excellent examples of just this type of thinking, featuring women who are diverse in ethnicity, as well as in their sexual orientation, such as Marvel Comics’ PakistaniAmerican Kamala Khan (aka ‘Ms Marvel’), or the Hispanic and Lesbian America Chavez (aka ‘Miss America’). Still, we might need a little guidance to appreciate just how revolutionary these comics really are.

The classic superhero used to be one created by white male writers and artists, for white male readers; when female characters were introduced, it was either as the hero’s love-interest, whose tragic demise one issue later would spur the male hero into action, or they were completely superfluous to the story line. We’ve come a long way from those early days, even if recent adaptations of female comic heroines in films like Captain Marvel or Wonder Woman failed to effectively address sexist stereotypes. The ‘try and fail’ element is just as important. Miss America’s title for example has just been cancelled for the second time, but at least it had another chance, and might yet reappear, as readers are very aware of its subtrac-

tion from Marvel’s offerings. Despite their failings, these films and comics are bringing issues of female representation in popular culture to the forefront, making them recognisable, encouraging conversation and – hopefully – improvement too.

While some academics seem to think that gender representation in ‘low-brow’ popular culture, such as comic books, matters little to our understanding of gender roles in contemporary society, they accurately reflect the attitudes and values of their writers and readers at the time they were published. Since their original target market was young males, these representations are arguably more important than any head-on discussion of sexism and its feminist antidotes could ever be. Comic books reach a wide range of demographics, and therefore have a strong role-modelling capacity, all while remaining accessible and engaging.

But even when a heroine such as Kamala Khan successfully breaks the mold and gains mainstream popularity, many readers struggle to appreciate that it’s her difference to other main characters and their origins that makes this title great. Instead of celebrating the intersectionality of race, gender and religion that is openly addressed in Ms. Marvel, what readers are automatically trying to do is to assimilate her unique attributes into their own lived experience. That’s not all bad, of course. I’m not saying relatability isn’t important, but at least as important is an acceptance of difference. It’s this open-mindedness that allows us to learn about how members of marginal-

ised communities experience difference, and to acknowledge their struggles, as well as their strengths, both of which few of us could truly understand. After all our banging on about the shortcomings of female comic-book characters and movie-heroines and their portrayal, when a good one comes along, we still need to learn how to ‘read’ them: maybe because it is such a departure from what we are used to.

And just like how a short, dark-haired teenage girl from New Jersey, with brown-skin and Islamic faith challenges our traditional notions of what makes a superhero, these new readings exemplify that success does not depend on alignment with long-standing norms and value systems. We need to acknowledge that what makes these comics great is how different they are from those that came before them. Their value lies in their capacity to use engaging visuals and absorbing narratives to expand our original understanding of feminist concepts without having to rely on any stereotypical feminist rhetoric or representation. You might even say that’s their super-power: pushing an agenda that not only keeps feminism relevant, but makes it wicked fun (KAPOW!). (There’s never been a better excuse for reading comic books – so go check out Ms Marvel for free at KG library!)