Medical Evidence of my Taxes in Action?

Just as long as I'm standing on this soapbox...



The report and its executive summary (although it is worth the time to read it all if you can bear it) can be found here.

If you feel like you need to do something, please sign the petition here and tell others about what you have read and done.

The Consequences of Language - My triumphant return to the soapbox

In my high school year book, there was a section entitled "Can you imagine...?" In it, the staff of the yearbook committee got together and came up with a way to finish that sentence for each of the graduating seniors. For example: Can you imagine...Cindy Cheerleader having a bad hair day? Or: Can you imagine...Jason Jock not playing three sports? In reality, they were often much more cruel than that. I remember one girl who had a baby junior year was immortalised with ...as a nun? at the end of her sentence. Anyway, my senior yearbook read Can you imagine [Fate's Granddaughter]...without an opinion? I was quite proud of it at first. I hadn't realised it was meant as a dig. An insult referring to the "self-righteous know-it-all" status I had unknowingly acquired in my four years at a small town (sometimes small minded) high school. You see, back then I thought people appreciated the sharing of ideas and information, though I could make a difference somehow (I used to trumpet this as my theme song) - thought people would be grateful for stimulating debate and challenges. Silly, silly child.

It's nearly ten years later and I am still full of opinions, but go around spouting them less. I now hold stronger and deeper convictions, yet I have tried to step off my soapbox when talking about them. I am more cautious in my doling out of ideas, have learned how to soften the blow and coat the pill a bit. I'm not sure if this is a better or worse way to be. Occasionally, though, I feel unable to control myself. I still have my triggers - those things that unleash the Evangelist in me and send me on a mission to recruit non-members to my way of thinking once and for all. One of those triggers is the refusal to accept the danger of derogatory/degrading language.

I am not talking about political correctness. Not asking anyone to change women to womyn. I am just asking people to be aware of their daily discourse, and the potential it has to perpetuate ideas and stereotypes. It can be such simple things, things said in passing or in casual conversation - the things people barely even notice as controversial. Those are the most dangerous ones, because they seep into our consciousness and become part of the conversational landscape; then part of our thoughts, perceptions and finally, our actions. It's the passing racist joke that no one questions because there are "no black people in the room, so who are we offending?" It's "phwoar-ing" at a woman and looking her up and down, and expecting her to take it as a compliment. It's telling stories about a Polish family getting a house in a desirable area when a local person couldn't, with a general acceptance that local people are more entitled to that space...

I'll give you a recent example.

My friend, Catrina, went on a training course last week where the male trainer repeatedly commented on the weight and attractiveness of the females in the class. I was horrified by the stories she relayed, and even more horrified when she said no one was going to complain. I pleaded with her to say something, pointed out that he would likely continue to make other women feel uncomfortable and unwilling to attend a second day of training (and then receive a paycheck for his efforts!). But she didn't want to cause any trouble or seen to be making a fuss over nothing. "He was all talk," she added, "harmless enough really."

That night, when I had dinner with Trina and her family, the conversation led to a discussion of The Apprentice. I couldn't help but talk about how sexist Alan Sugar is and how disgusting it is that his sexism is paraded around on TV without reprisal while we all hail him as a business and reality TV hero (I have been reeling since last series and last week just put me over the edge). While everyone agreed that the female candidate was clearly stronger, they could not see the sexism in the decision. I pointed out Sugar's comment that Claire was clearly an incredibly savvy business woman, but he didn't think he could work with her because of her personality - she talked too much, always had an opinion, was generally mouthy (I am paraphrasing here). Yet weeks before he repeatedly failed to fire Michael, a man who was clearly not very clever and who was perhaps the most annoying man I had ever seen. Instead he had a funny fondness for him - saw a bit of gusto in his ability to argue. Trina's father was quick to interject.

"Here we go," he groaned. "Now we're not allowed to say that women are annoying to work with even when they are annoying to work with!" He put his fork down for emphasis. "The fact is, women are just harder to get along with in the workplace. They nag and complain, and then they want to be treated as equal. And we can't even say anything about it - because they're women!" He then went on to tell the story of his annoying female boss, and how impossible she is, and how they all think she is an overbearing, nit-picking moron.

This was all said with intermittent chuckles and a bit of light-heartedness. As if it was meant to be a bit of fun and in good humour. Everyone else at the table kind of laughed to themselves. "Ha ha. Listen to the funny sexist. Isn't sexism hilarious?" I imagined them all thinking. I tried to make a point by asking "How would you like it if I said that I don't like working with men because they never take on board any ideas except their own and they're arrogant and self-serving?" (this is, in fact, how I feel about one male colleague - not all men.) The point was missed - one of the brothers answered me with "I wouldn't care because I would know you are full of shit. That's just not true." More laughter. This family was truly hilarious.

You may think I've digressed, but in fact I am just about to reach my point.

Is it too much to think that conversations like this are exactly what have convinced Trina that it is not ok for her to complain about being sexually harassed at work? Everyone thinks it is all light and fun to make sexist/racist/ageist jokes as long as everyone knows we're joking - but we are ignoring the potential these "silly discussions" have to make these "isms" part of our psyches in such a way that they become tolerable through exposure. If your family makes jokes at the dinner table about how annoying it is when women complain in the workplace, the odds are the women at that table aren't going to feel very comfortable complaining in the workplace. If your friends all sit around and make racist jokes after a few drinks, what's to say that after a few more drinks, those jokes could be directed at a minority? If the newspapers keep telling you that black people are responsible for crime in society, aren't you more likely to be more afraid of a black person than you are a white person?

Maybe I am not making any sense. Maybe I am over-reacting. I just wish I could convince people that they need to be aware of what they say and how they say it. I don't want to live in a world where people don't feel they can say how they feel or go around panicking constantly that they've said the wrong thing - this sort of extreme reaction to the argument is often used as a rebuke when I point out the potential impact of poorly chosen discourse. It is not one way or the other - not as simple as either accept people making offensive or damaging comments under the guise of humour/news reporting/etc., or live in a oppressive regime of over-the-top political correctness. I don't expect people to be perfect (I once referred to "the natives" of Fiji in front of an African woman - she laughed for ages before telling me I should probably call them Fijians), but I do expect people to take responsibility for the stuff that comes out of their mouths, and start accepting that there is not often a lot of distance between what we say, and what we think/do.

Note:
I have added this link to show how complicit the media often are in this. Pay attention to how they take the a woman who is being discriminated against and validate the discrimination by attacking her character. I could have linked thousands more; including this more subtle one in today's Guardian about how nurses, a profession dominated by females, are to be judged partly on how much they smile on the job.

I Have Confidence! (no,seriously)

I have been a ghost of a woman these past few days. I have started to count the number of people who see me and looked surprised or ask me if I am sick - it totals 10 in the last 24 hours. I am normally a terribly vain person, the kind of woman who washes and styles her hair before going to the hair salon or puts make up on to go to the local shop. But these days I barely have the energy to wash my hair and match my socks. Instead of mascara and eyeliner, my eyes are adorned with dark circles. I have an outbreak of pimples on my chin that rivals one of an oily teenager and my make-up is standing unused on my dresser - crying out "wear me!" each time I glance in the mirror to tie my unbrushed hair back. I've had heartburn for seven days straight that will not be subdued by any amount of antacid, and I have been awake into the wee hours of the morning trying to avoid shutting off the TV and facing my own thoughts. Ladies and gentlemen - the life of a procrastinating PhD student in the weeks leading up to Confirmation.

I have always been a procrastinator. Pressure of a looming deadline has always been the thing that drives me to my best work. All-nighters and panic driven research sessions have been part of my life since I was in high school, and while it has always had a horrible effect on my poor body (not to mention the unfortunate people who have to live with me) it has never failed to produce the best work. When I work on things in drips and drabs, there always feels like something is missing. I need to give birth to something - to slave over it for hours uninterrupted and feel the immense relief when it is finished. When I pour over work for hours and days at a time, there is more fluidity to the language. The ideas seem to fit together like pieces of a puzzle instead of having the appearance of a list. It just works better.

While this may have been an acceptable strategy for smaller pieces of work, with a PhD you just can't leave things to the last minute. Writing and ideas must be shaped and reshaped - sometimes smooshed into a big ball of clay and started all over again. This has been a terrible culture shock for me, the queen of procrastination. I find myself now looking at piles of notes and "think pieces" that I have done along the way to keep myself from leaving it all to the last minute, and all I want to do is chuck it all in the bin and start over again. It's not flowing, not making sense in the way I want it to make sense. I know this material so intimately, and yet the writing on the pages seems so detached and impersonal. How can I convey 9 months of my life and passion into a six page report? That, I suppose, is part of the exercise. The most important part of research is the sharing of the results, and it deserves nine months of consistent writing and re-writing, not a few hours and a few sleepless nights at the last minute.

I will admit that part of my procrastination has been fear. What will I say? How will I say it? How do I prove my research is worthy of a PhD? How can I convince a room full of experienced academics at an international conference that what I have to say is worthy of their time and consideration? I have been paralysed with feelings of inadequacy - images of an audience of disgruntled know-it-alls asking impossible questions and shooting holes in my theory, a panel of examiners shaking their heads in disbelief that I have managed to only get so far in such a length of time. I have had moments where I have literally shut off my computer screen in a panic, afraid to look at what I have written because it feels so pitiful in the face of what is required.

But alas, just when I needed a good slap in the face and glass of cold water thrown over my head to stop me shriveling into a mess of sweat tears and panic, my lead supervisor has dragged me out of my panic and back into the world of the sane and composed.

He said my paper is the strongest he has seen in a lot of years.

Shrieks of joy and delight abound! Birds are singing in the trees again and I can see the sunshine beaming through my office window. I want to do cartwheels down the hall way and shout across the car park "I AM NOT A MORON! I AM ACTUALLY QUITE CLEVER! EVEN MY SUPERVISOR THINKS SO!" And all of this at an impromptu meeting in a coffee shop. My supervisor does not hand out compliments willy-nilly, friends. I am, in fact, referring to the same man who handed me back the draft of my last paper looking like someone had bled all over it. I honestly welled up with tears when he said it. I felt like pinching myself, and I involuntarily asked "what?" just to ensure I had not heard him wrong. And I hadn't, he said it again! And then went on to say that he is not at all concerned about my confirmation, that he believes I will pass through without incident.

Armed with this new information I feel invincible. I am finally ready to write the paper I had been afraid I was incapable of producing. Oh, what a sad little girl am I to require such validation in order to move forward. I'll not dwell on that now, though. I will simply bask in the glow of my supervisor's faith in me, and my newfound faith in myself. I, my friends, am the creator of quite a fine research project (in progress). Hurrah for me!

The Need for a Proper Goodbye

I was at a funeral yesterday - not of anyone with whom I was close, or who I even knew very well. But she was someone very close to someone close to me, so I was there to show my support. It was terribly sad - funerals always are, I suppose. I always struggle the most with the moment when family members first lift the coffin. There is something about them bearing the physical weight of their lost loved-one in this moment of grief. As if suddenly there was a physical manifestation of the heaviness of losing someone you hold so dear.

On our way to the cemetery, Max and I talked about what we would want done with our remains after our passing. We both agreed that the thought of being put in the ground and taking up valuable countryside was unpleasant, but that it was nice for friends and family to have a place to go if they wanted to feel the presence of a lost loved-one. Really, when you think about it, the things we do to honour our deceased aren't much about them at all. It's for us - for the living. Thinking yesterday about our recent loss, I began to feel a sick sort of jealousy for the bereaved in the church. There they were, able to listen to a priest say kind words, able to weep quietly in public and receive warm embraces and words of consolation. They threw flowers and other symbols of love into a waiting grave, they were allowed to bear the physical weight of their grief for all the world to see.

After the dark day, I cried quietly in the bathroom, careful not to upset anyone. I questioned the legitimacy of my grief given the tiny lifespan of an unnamed person whom I had never met. Oh, how there is part of me that wishes I could have donned a black dress and cried over a coffin that day, surrounded by friends and family all offering warm hugs and kind whispers.

My mother told me early on that I should do something to bring closure to my loss. That I should give my unborn child a name and say goodbye. For many reasons I have avoided doing that - fear of feeling silly or being over dramatic, fear of making it too real. Yet now, two months later, I still feel unable to let go. Still crave the comfort of my grief and wish for some sort of outlet. Max and I went shopping this morning for friends who have just had a baby. Standing there amid pink ruffles and booties I thought I would be sick. Max noticed my shaking hands when I picked up a little red dress and began walking toward the counter. He put his arm around my waist to steady me and squeezed a little while I paid for the outfit and "congratulations" card. I dropped him off at work and cried for baby in the car, the first time in several weeks. Over a dress.

Two days before we were married, Max and I met the priest to go over the ceremony. Father Rob talked about having children. He said that a family is a gift, a beautiful symbol of god's grace. I am no longer a religious woman, nor can I remember exactly what Father Rob said that day, but I do remember the feeling I had in that moment. I was so moved by what he said, and so excited to begin my life. The word "grace" stayed with me. I thought it was a beautiful way to describe a child. So, yet again taking advice from my mother at which I had previously scoffed, I am naming baby. I am not going to make a memorial or weep in a church, but I will post this poem. Just remember that I am not a poet or a writer.

Full of Grace

Faceless and formless,
the most beautiful nothing that never was.
How unimaginable that a blue line could be come a bright soul, could become three days of red
And then nothing.
If only emptiness bore visible scars,
like stretch marks.
I would wear them as badges of honour-
A memorial to a brief moment of Grace.

Where are your mourners, Grace?
Where are your flowers and wreaths?
What becomes of the mother of a blue line that became a bright soul, that became three days of red,
And then nothing?
A childless mother with no grave to weep over,
no face and name to miss.
I will remember you, though.
My moment of clarity, my glimpse of something miraculous,
My Grace.

This is my goodbye,
My love song to you.
Full of all the words I can't find,
and all the words that don't exist,
and all the sentiments that fail
to describe the love of a mother for her child.

Even if he's not the president, he can still be my boyfriend

I was a little weepy this morning. No, I haven't dipped back in to the land of the miserable...these were tears of excitement, happiness and relief. I was weepy because I was watching Barack Obama's speech after surpassing the number of pledged delegates needed to clinch the nomination.

I started out supporting Ralph Nader, convinced that none of the mainstream parties would represent my views in politics. How could they? I'm so left I'm almost off the political map (my anarchist friends are convinced I am an anarchist in denial). At first I was taken with the idea of a woman as president, but realised quickly that I was unwilling to elect a woman at any cost - Hillary just didn't convince me that she wouldn't continue to make such disastrous decisions as suppressing trade union activity for Wal-Mart employees or getting into bed with corporations. Obama was appealing, but I was skeptical. I was wary of letting my emotions get the better of me and voting for a man I frankly was developing a bit of a crush on, instead of making my decision based on the facts. Yes, Nader was for me. Good old liberal, anti-capitalist Nader.

The the Race Speech happened.

I was blown away by Obama's frankness, his willingness to talk about things that politicians tend to dance around at all costs. Never had I seen a politician stand up and say what I was thinking without wondering if they were just feeding me a bunch of lines. He took my breath away. I resisted for a bit longer, but it was futile. Like so many others I let myself get carried away with the emotion of having someone use words like "hope" so willingly and unashamedly. I watched him during the debates, watched him speak with passion and humility. It's true, he doesn't always give direct solutions - that scared me at first. But by God, he is asking the questions! He is saying what needs to change, and it is all the same things that have left me ashamed and afraid for my country over the last several years. When he told the Tennessee GOP "lay my wife" I wanted to kiss him.

I know there is every chance that Obama's speeches are simply laced with rhetoric, that it is all a persona or that he is just a charismatic speaker with empty answers to the world's problems. But I believe him. I really believe him. Maybe it is just because I want to, because I need to feel proud of where I come from (or at least not have to defend myself to everyone who wants to pick a fight with me over American foreign policy). Whatever the case, I was giddy all day at the thought of hearing speeches like this for the next four (eight?) years.

On Not Getting Lost

I should undoubtedly avoid all things blog at present given my impending deadlines, but it is nice to get away from work and clear the cobwebs that sometimes interfere with reading and writing. The sun is beaming through my office window and distracting me terribly. I feel like a child stuck in school on the last days before summer vacation, staring at the clock and counting the minutes until I can go home and run through the sprinklers. At the moment, going home means eating dinner and then heading straight back to work so it holds less appeal than it used to.

I have subjected myself to a ridiculous amount of self-analysis lately and that can only lead to trouble. Emotional outbursts and misinterpretation of things people say to me abound...I have become so familiar with this cycle that I knew what was coming next before it actually happened. There is always some attempt at reinvention at this point - a frustration with what I feel I must reject and yet seem unable to control. Naturally I decided to dye my hair instead, going from a natural blonde with a bit of peroxide help to a dark red-head. Voila - new me.

How odd it is that changing something about your physical appearance can make you feel better. It is a control issue, I suppose, a way of taking charge of change in a place where you can see fast and immediate results. But it always works, if only temporarily. It is another facet of my extreme personality, my tendancy to demand radical and instant change in response to feeling discontent. In a prior life I changed location (ah how my wanderlust longs for the same reaction now), but my job and relationship have me rooted firmly in Belfast. At one time I would have changed social circles as well, leaving behind the people who know the persona I am trying to shed in an attempt to create new circles which will accommodate the new me. But alas, I am an adult now and fully aware that while we must never stop striving for self-improvement, we must also accept who we are and grow to love ourselves for it. Besides, I quite like my people and would miss them far too much if I were to set bridges alight as I have in previous years.

Really I just need to get out of my own head and back into reality. I miss the lightness of contentment - these periods of frustration and self-pity are shrinking in duration, and each time I start to crave the land of the living more quickly than the time previous. I will take this as a positive step, proof that in spite of the old cliche about the leopard changing its spots I can still progress towards better reactions and coping skills. And if change takes too long, I can always just dye those pesky spots the right colour in the meantime.