Discrimination

Something pernicious is afoot. It’s not a conspiracy; except that it is.

As many of you will know, I research for a living. I spend many of my waking hours talking to people and then thinking about what they said, what it tells me about their views of themselves and the world, and what that might mean for my clients.

In my early “career,” I worked as a policy adviser in the Office of the Status of Women (another Whitlam legacy, already dismantled). So the term “structural discrimination” is not unknown to me.

So why has it taken me months, possibly years, to remember those two words and apply them to some of the equity issues I see arising in the social research I do?

Naturally my ageing brain should take most of the blame: those two words have probably been thoroughly buried under mounds of appointments I have missed and kindy costume days I have failed to remember (luckily, my daughter dresses as if every day is a dress up day).

But you know, for fun, I like to read about the history of neoliberalism (I don’t get out a great deal). I enjoy big words. I like abstractions. Give me a pithy phrase to explain why it is so hard for minorities or women to take advantage of opportunities, and I will use it ten times in the next ten minutes.

So why did it take me so long to remember that unintentional barriers to government services, employment, and justice are not just oversights by well-meaning people; they are actual, real instances of “structural discrimination”?

Here is my theory.

I could not remember those two words, “structural discrimination,” because we don’t talk about discrimination at all any more. On the rare occasion that one of the Human Rights Commissioners is on the evening news, just seeing the word “Discrimination” in their job title makes me sub-consciously cringe.

Implying that one social group could dominate another, is to contradict the fundamental rhetoric of neoliberalism: that everyone can make it on their own merits, and if they don’t it is their own fault. Structural discrimination does not happen; people simply fail to sort themselves out.

The word discrimination, like feminism, has fallen out of common usage as the neoliberal agenda has gained ground. (An interesting aside about neoliberalism: despite the rhetoric that greater labour market flexibility will lead to greater prosperity, in no single country has this been found to be true for the common man or woman. By contrast, corporate wealth has most definitely increased. See? I did read the first few chapters of Piketty).

People don’t want to feel like victims, which is fair enough. But it denies a simple truth: sometimes, we are.

Of course, you can turn yourself from a victim into a fighter pretty bloody fast. But that does not change the fact that bad shit happens to good people. Sometimes it is unavoidable: a car crash, a cyclone. When it is the result of discrimination, it is totally avoidable: a government service offered only in English; a continuously renewed contract which runs out just before you (publicly) announce you are pregnant.

But you can’t avoid it if you don’t name it.

“It” is discrimination. “It” is accepting that you cannot always win on your own merits. Sometimes the cards are stacked against you, and you need someone to change the deck ukviagras.com.

It helps to name things for what they are. That way organisations, politicians, and well-meaning people who may simply not have thought about it before, are confronted with the consequences of their in/actions.

So come on, friends. Let’s do some naming.

1. The Gang of Breastfeeding Nazis Calling Themselves Community Health Workers

I find it interesting that the last 15 years have seen the decision not to breastfeed equated practically with child abuse. There are some (actually fairly minor) health benefits proven to be associated with breastfeeding (See “Is Breast Best?” for a great summary). But what about the economic, psychological and societal benefits of having women back in the workforce if that is where they want/need to be? Something is going on here. When government-supported services for new mothers push you towards a choice, on slim evidence that it is actually worth stopping your career for, then I think you have to question what is happening. I blame no one. I have not done the research. But I question it. I certainly question it.

2. Career Opportunities Which Require You to be Single and Childless

Never overtly, and often not even intentionally. But if an opportunity has no flexibility about working near or from home, when the work would lend itself to it; if an opportunity means you lose your childcare, or you cannot do the childcare pick up or take care of your ageing relatives for extended periods because you have to be away; then the providers of the opportunity may be structurally discriminating against you. Even if they don’t mean to do it. Even if they would be horrified to hear those words applied to them.

3. A Tertiary Education System With Uncapped Fees

Since Whitlam’s passing, we have all been keenly mourning Australian society as we knew it. Good-bye, meritocracy; hello uncapped fees. This will structurally discriminate against poor people and retain power in the hands of a few.

4. A Petrol Excise That Disproportionately Discriminates Against Poor People

That was a classic, wasn’t it? Joe Hockey trying to explain that rich people would be more affected by a petrol tax, because they had more cars; as if he had never heard the concept of proportion. The Treasurer of the country.

5. Negative Gearing

Housing prices and rental prices will always be too high for many because of a tax system structured to discriminate in favour of the middle class and against those trying to get in.

I could go on. But over to you. Name it.

The role of art in a post-religious world

The first time I tried, and failed, to remove myself from God, I was 10 years old. I lay on the carpet, playing with the dust motes in a shaft of light which came in through a sneaky gap I had made between the heavy, dark pink drapes my mother kept closed all year around. i wondered if they were atoms; if I was seeing the smallest building blocks of matter. I dared myself. There is no God. You don’t believe in God! The world tipped sideways (I rolled on to my back and pushed myself up). It was the scariest thing I had ever thought, and I had not left the living room.

My next crisis of faith was when a documentary came out about the Dead Sea Scrolls. I was 11, just shy of my Confirmation, which is a Catholic event where you, as an adult, confirm the faith that was first confirmed on your behalf when you were a baby, your godparents speaking for you.

At your Confirmation, the bishop asks you, “Do you reject Satan?” And you say, “I do.” They really ask you that, in front of the parish. You stand up in your white dress with a red sash across your chest, representing the Holy Spirit, and you say that you reject Satan and turn faithfully to the gospel. You will have no gods but God. You believe in Jesus Christ our saviour. “I do.” “I do.” “I do.”

On the day of my Confirmation, I first encountered the dilemma of hedging your bets. I wasn’t sure about God, ever since that documentary (it had been on Channel Seven, which should have been enough to discredit it, as we only watched the Channel Nine News). My parents sent me to bed before I could see it, but I had seen the ads, I had heard the introductory statements. “Was the face of Christ really imprinted on the Shroud of Turin? (Yes, that is a real thing, not something from a Tolkien novel. Where do you think fantasy authors get their ideas?) “Jesus spoke Aramaic.” “These Scrolls reveal the shocking truth, buried for hundreds of years, about the man we know as Jesus.”

None of this should be especially confronting. Yes, Jesus was a Jew, and he spoke the local dialect. But – hidden scrolls! A secret language! What did they reveal?

I knew what they revealed. Jesus was not God. Jesus was just a man. I went to bed, scared.

On my Confirmation, I could feel the lie on my tongue, a physical presence. If there is no God, I reasoned with myself, then I am not going to go to hell for this. I did not want to disappoint my family (Allison), and I did not want to be embarrassed by refusing the bishop’s blessing. Things were a bit muddled – I saw myself, just like a Christian hero, refusing to proclaim my faith, prepared to be ashamed publicly for it. i wasn’t an idiot. I knew I had it the wrong way around – you can’t be a Christian hero if you don’t believe in Christ.

But this is what it is like, when you become post-religious. You still have all the trappings; the inner quest, the need, the longing for closeness to the divine love, the love which encompasses and frees.

Frankly, I had never felt that love. I was 12 years old. I had no idea what love like that would feel like. I tried to imagine it, there on my knees, eyes shut tight. I felt it as a warmth, a smile in my direction from a consciousness as all-enveloping as night time http://viagrasstore.net/.

I lay in bed in the room I shared with Allison. I thought about eternity. It made no sense, unless it was actually about right here, right now in this very moment, that eternity was possible. And eternity would be like ecstatic fusion with Jesus. It could happen at any moment, that was the main thing. And hell? If God is love, I surmised, then hell would be spending eternity – a forever, timeless moment – feeling how you had isolated yourself from love viagra naturel.

You can work things out for yourself, even when you are 12 years old. I am pretty sure I figured out the meaning of life one night, as I lay in half sleep. But I was too comfortable to write it down and by morning, it was gone.

Later, in my teens, I returned to God with a vengeance which I wreaked upon myself as punishment for all of that disbelief. While other ninth graders wrote Led Zeppelin and Metallica in heavy black Nikko on their canvas backpacks, I wrote “Life is God” on the outside flap, where everyone could see it, and “Individuality” on the inside, so long I had to squish the “ity” together at the very end. I was a missionary, just like the boys smuggling bibles into communist China: Springwood High was my China.

One day, as I waited outside the library with my friends, three twelfth grade boys found my bag and saw the slogan. They pulled it down and kicked it around on the ground, laughing. I looked straight ahead. My friends, nervously grinning, looked at me. After the boys left, we did not talk about it. Even now, when I do not believe in God, when I have developed a certain fondness for my young, evangelical self, I have never forgiven myself this sin.

Art in a post-religious world. Art in my post-religious world. Art is all I have left. It is the last remaining passage into mystery; the only breath left uncounted. When I hear a piece of music which touches me, I go beyond my emotions and my personal pathos, and I head out into the love that god was meant to be; that all-encompassing pain of knowing you are everyone’s mother, that every single bogan and arsehole in the world is just like you.

As I have said before on this blog, the art I am most familiar with is creative writing. When I read a book that I feel grateful for, it is because the writer has connected me through themselves to the world, but without creating a physical presence in my life, a presence which would demand and require. Instead, the writer lets me be. It is always a surprise, which adds to the gratitude. If you expected it, you would be disappointed.

When else do we get a sense of connection so deep that it transcends our individual selves? Churches are peaceful places. But they only create a sense of un-belonging for me now; a quaint reminder of something I will never have again. In short, they hurt to be inside.

Art (not all art, but some art, the stuff which you recognise as a gift) on the other hand, is not there for me, it is there for everyone. It is where the individual and the group meet, the ultimate fusion of the human condition.

I think that God is the result of society’s need for cohesion in the face of bigger enemies. She has an actual place in our brains, which scientists sweetly call the God-spot, an evolutionary result of needing to balance the survival of the group with the survival of the self. Humans’ two greatest assets, the key to our dominance – our reasonably well-timed selfishness and selflessness. The group and the individual, always in tension with each other.

Now, as religions fade and politics is a sham of self-interested groups, as public spaces become advertising arenas, art unbounded is so very, very necessary. The things we need to pull the pendulum back to the group: community gardens, where we can play out our natural animosity and find our collaborative pecking order. Libraries, where we can feel glad we pay our taxes. Parks, where we can sit with strangers and not feel the need to kill each other. And the excess; the unnecessary; the stuff that makes us laugh and delight. Art. Places where we are safe from the self (our own or other people’s) are shrinking. We need to breathe air into our souls that we didn’t pay for. We need the gift of art to be preserved.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sleeping alone

I sleep alone. I am beautifully, deeply, very married to a man who doesn’t take it personally. I tell people that it is because he is a snorer and I am a light sleeper, both of which is true. But as we all know, there can be more than one truth which relates to an event, either causally or by correlation.

(I never lie. I prefer to call it “summarising.”)

There was one time I remember when I slept with another person. It was 20 years ago and it lasted more than one hour, less than three. It was so completely unexpected – that is not the sort of thing I do. I was the person who could not casually allow a girl or boy friend to crash on the other side of my double bed when I was at uni and everyone sought to be as casual as possible about everything, even big things. (I lacked perspective). I would let them in to my bed, determined to be relaxed, then lie, stiff, alert; for what? A move towards intimacy if it was a boy friend; a call on my duties as hostess if it was a girl.

I don’t remember falling asleep, of course. I remember waking up. I looked up at the ceiling of Frankfurt airport. My friend sat peacefully, my head on her lap, looking around, not in any particular hurry. Multiple miracles: that she was still here, when I had tearfully farewelled her only hours ago, she for the US, me for Australia, our year of desperation (student exchange) over. The things I felt: total and deep peace. I was so completely and surprisingly safe. Wonder: I was completely and surprisingly safe, asleep in the most vulnerable position I could imagine – asleep, in a public place, at the end of happiness, at the beginning of 48 hours flying “home.”

I thought I would curse myself for wasting my last hours with my friend asleep. But I have never regretted it. This miracle. This gift. So many things have faded, but this has not. The sheer, pure wonder and the feeling of waking up, unharmed against all expectation here.

I wonder at people who can sleep next to the person they love, every night. I wonder if they wake feeling such deep nourishment every day. I wonder about what I am missing.

I think I should perhaps try again. But I tell myself, and it is true, causally, correlatively, there is never a good time in our busy lives to conduct an experiment which involves losing nights of sleep.

My husband now has a snoring machine, and I have tailor made ear plugs from a cheery audiologist who wished me good luck. Last time we travelled, I slept in the same room and it was ok. It was OK. There was an alertness, but still.

I try not to think about this in terms of progress. And I try not to think about what buried bones make me so alert in my sleep. Maybe nothing. Maybe something. I try not to think.

It was so unexpected: waking, seeing the ceiling, then realising what I had just done. Wonder at myself. Love for her. I only saw her once again in my life. I googled her, but there is no trace. I do not think I will ever see her again.

It was the result of a strange combination of utter exhaustion and bonus time. A gift. Extra, spent in a miracle. Sleep like that is pure luxury: in broad daylight, in public, with someone you may never see again and love desperately because of it. There is nothing of need or functionality about it. It is pure excess, which is why it stays with me, year after year, as close as I have to an experience of mystery, of total surrender, of encompassing peace. Of god.