Abuse: The World-Wide Cultural Epidemic

On Feb 22nd, Oscar Pistorius was granted bail for the shooting of Reeva Steenkamp.
With all the attention violence against women is getting in the news lately, from the skyrocketing reporting of assaults on women in Manitoba to the rape and murder of aboriginal women by police in BC, Pistorius' bail offers no break from the well-deserved coverage of women’s issues.In fact, this breathing time gives many of us a chance to asses, and fully form or opinions and compartmentalizasations of what this means to us individually. This might mean a strong word from us feminists, or a doubtful headshake from those doubting Pistorius’ guilt. Whatever the case may be, I think it’s important that we are careful not to put the Steenkamp case on a pedestal as “Supremely Horrifying and Outlandish Things That Don’t Happen Very Often.” I’d stand to argue that something in the DNA of our patriarchal (oh no the P-Word!) society --that is far and wide on this planet-- gives room for said Horrifying Thing.

Particularly important, is the way that men come to understand, internalize, and regurgitate the Steenkamp tragedy. Me, a female, has never claimed to be a full-on expert on generalizations of the male thought-process (partially because I only believe in human thoughts and learned gender-ingrained societal differences, not biological traits), but this does not mean that I cannot recognize the significance of how men come to view the Steenkamp case.
And so I do my best to put myself in the gender-prescribed idea of Male. And in order to properly clump around in my new comfy man-shoes, I tend to picture my dad’s reaction to the atrocity (sorry in advance, Dad). I picture his groggy stumbling to the coffee pot, pouring a straight black mug-full and patting my little step-sister on the head. He happily remembers it’s Sunday and picks up the paper. Pistorius’ name is plastered across the front page, his dead girlfriend, Reeva Steenkamp featured a third of the way down.
“Ugh. Can you believe what a psycho that blade-runner turned out to be?” he says to his partner.

Boom. The discussion that follows is a back-and-forth about how crazy Pistorius must be, including speculations that maybe he was on roids and comments about his childhood/history and any other information that seeped into Dad’s brain.
I’m not a psychic, but this is how I see things going. In this hypothetical situation, my dad hypothetically did what a lot of men( and women) would do: he distanced himself from the perpetrator by labeling him. Not only did he call him psycho (which clearly separates him from the rest of sane mankind), he called him Blade-Runner, a nickname, which, given its negative context, dehumanizes the guy. And I don’t blame Dad’s hypothetical choice to do so. None of us want to seem even slightly relatable to a guy that shot his girlfriend three times.

I’m sure there is a kitchen somewhere on this end of the earth where this hypothetical situation was a reality. In fact, I’m willing to bet there were many. People seem to assume that by giving Pistorius the hefty “psycho” label they are solving an unanswered question. Whether subconsciously or not they are saying, This girlfriend killing thing is just a one-off, cuz that guy was a disabled looneytune”
This is the wrong answer to the unsaid but well known question of, is abuse an individual or a world-wide,societal problem?”
It’s the wrong answer because the Steenkamp case is not an isolated instance. Visit any emergency shelter. Step foot in any violent-partners women’s group. In either setting, you’ll find handfuls of girls who escaped just before the gunshots. You’ll meet women who were made to feel loved, adored, until they took on his last name. You’ll hear the stories of women who tried to leave many times but were consistently stalked, threatened, or lied to until they returned, more confused than ever. You'll come to know women who were slowly, and surely degraded over time, each blow compensated for by intense apologies and loads of flowers and phone calls.
Labelling abusers as insane helps us ignore a key factor in the problem of abuse: Something about the gender gap, the manliness which both sexes are taught to accept, allow us to--on some level--expect and accept an imbalance of power. And until that gap is met, different kinds, types, and extremes of partner abuse will continue to occur.
So next time you’re tempted to deconstruct Pistorius into little pieces that put him in that 2% population of psychopaths, remember...he was raised on the same earth, at the same time as you, I, and Chris Brown.

The Start of The Stick Man that Sits on a Circle

Recently, I read an article that purported to know the origins of The Wheelchair Symbol. Published in the Huffington Post--a credible site that mixes blogging, opinion, and current events in a fashion that creates an atmosphere of social liberation for all-- I expected something factually juicy, at very the least. I wanted to read that the stick figure sitting on the three-quarters circle had received much judgement at first, because people would rather a boy with his hand in cap . I wanted to discover that upon first suggestion, people were adamantly opposed to even recognizing people with disabilities.
But the story is much simpler. With almost no adversity, as if it was taken straight from a children’s story book, the wheelchair symbol was birthed from a favour done by the Director of Swedish Handicap Institute in the 60s.

According to HuffPost, the original artist submitted a picture of a bright-white stick-figured wheelie on a negatively black background. Differing from its now universally accepted version, this symbol featured a wheelie that was exceptionally close up--so much so that it had no visible head or limb below the knee--much like a too-close photograph that one might accidentally take of their own nose while trying to capture their smiling face. It sat like a mistaken photograph, and the acceptors of the first-draft symbol fixed it up in such a way that they believed ‘humanized’ the figure.
Humanized? How about, “brought it into focus”? I think its spectacularly liberating that they’ve decided to add a head and shins to a stick figure. How kind of them. If I pin my hair back and turn sideways I’m sure that the stickman symbol and I are almost complete replicas. Kudos to the able-bodies who finally decided on the stamp of human approval by giving us a stick figure. Way to represent.

Newer visions of how people with physical disabilities should be symbolized include:
-A bent arm, propelling a wheelchair, meant to show an active disabled person, instead of a lounging one. And,
-A stick arm which appears to be shooting out like a wing from the stickman’s torso, representing self-propelling at a very fast pace.
Essentially, these more modern symbols are an attempt to show disabled people’s equality, but in my opinion, the standards by which they do it are an impossible contradiction. Think about it. Someone with limited mobility, is symbolically measured by their physical mobility. What a paradox.
So, you still want to be seen as a person--a full-fledged stick figure--and yet people are still measuring you by whether or not your stick arm can push your unsupported stick-wheel? Go figure.
The saddest thing about all of this is that promoters of the newer able-centric symbol find it wonderfully progressive, saying things like, “eventually we won’t need a symbol at all” with the assumption that all spaces will be available to all ability levels.
In my opinion, viewing disability as one big holistic accessibility party creates an air of ignorance that overlooks the needs of those with specific disabilities. And rating disability by the super-crip standards of magically self-propelled disabled people is one step further into ignorance, no matter how much good intent is present.

Drinking Kills Brain Cells...And Your Count is Already Low.

I’ll never forget it: A little over a year ago, my new shrink stared me in the face. There was a solid two feet between us, so her fresh, fake-smiling face wasn’t all too overwhelming. That first session, I did what I thought all good patients should do, and poured my heart out. I told her about my fears, and my hopes and all that in-between, what-do-I-about stuff. My eyes fluttered around the room, all the while hoping that my simultaneous verbal diarrhea would strike a chord with her.By the third session she told me that I don’t have to process all my feelings and treat them as fully formed thoughts, “You’re an over-thinker.” she said, as if she had discovered something new. Was that an official diagnosis? Her triumphant smile pointed to yes. The fifth session is where the punch-line happened,
“You need to cut back significantly on your drinking.” she said bluntly.
I blushed. She was broaching a real topic.
Then, within a span of 10 seconds, my cheeks drained:
“Someone as high functioning as you, considering your brain injury, should cherish the brain cells they have.”
All at once, different explanations of why this was offensive flooded my brain. High functioning? What does that mean? I asked her, probing for an answer that would unfold itself so I didn’t have to.
“You’re sharp” she said, furthering my fears about her prejudice against those with Cerebral Palsy. “You’re aware of your situation and hyper-aware of your presentation to those around you.” I don’t know if you’ve ever received a compliment inside of a stereotypical insult, but it creates a clusterfuck of feelings.
I remember wondering if it was worth it to explain where her assumption went wrong, deciding I owed it to myself to do so. “Sometimes Cerebral Palsy has no intellectual impairments,” I tried.
Her supervisor, an older woman, who had been sitting in the corner monitoring our session with her hands folded in deep contemplation spoke,
“I’ve worked with two others with what you have.” she says nodding, in what I guessed was approval. What I have? It has no name. Which makes me wonder if she was only viewing my symptoms, which can be similar to many other disabilities. How much did this person truly know?
In that moment, I felt I was sitting behind a panel of ignorant strangers. Words swelled in my throat, but I realized no amount of explanation could take down preconceived notions of those with Cerebral Palsy, and their intelligence. In this case, the two therapists’ ignorance would take a lot of un-learning, which couldn't be done within the frame of my therapy hour.
Later, when I was alone with my therapist, I tried to voice my concerns with her. I said something about the danger of generalizations regarding any disability, to which I was greeted with a condescendingly sweet reassurance that they “meant well” and “were just looking out for my well being”.
It made me think. It made me sad. It made me realize that people are absolutely content to simmer in their stereotypical wrong thinking, without even a thought of budging or accepting new, constant truths.
It upsets me to think that every person who has Cerebral Palsy, is at some point, bound to encounter this weird form of novelty brought on by those who profess to be knowledgeable.

Needless to say, I never went back to that shrink. I figured I did not need to see myself through the same cracked lens which society already tends to see many disabled people.

And who knows, maybe someone with an untainted opinion will convince me to drink less one day.

And You Thought Grade One Was Tough

If you’d asked me where I’d be now 15 years ago, I wouldn’t have guessed here. I live in an even snowier city than I was raised in, where half the people speak French and a new face pulls me out of bed every day. Not the life I imagined, especially that last part. I’m not sure exactly what I expected to happen, but in my kid-mind, I thought in extremes--either I’d be fully independent (able to shower myself, dress, and by proxy walk) or I’d be dead. Either way, life was sure to have its way with me.
The second guess at my future goes as far back as my memory does. I can remember being in my junior kindergarten class with my light purple lunch pail and a piece of blank paper on the L-shaped table in front of me. Knots wrapped around knots in my stomach as the teacher called out instructions in her beautiful sing-song voice. She was telling us to fold the paper in all sorts of different ways, her hands making dainty creases with the paper until it became an airplane. Though I don’t remember the story behind why we were making an airplane, I know that it was tied to being good children of God (My JK year was spent at a private Christian school connected directly to our church).
“And after you’re finished folding, you can wash your hands for lunch,” She said in her kind-but-firm voice. I stared down at my page, with all it’s shaky creases in all the wrong places. I tried to start over. flattening the lines of my mistakes with an all too gentle hand.
Why couldn’t I do this?
I looked around the room. On my side of the L, most of the kids had already had their planes checked and refined by Ms. Coates, and were heading to the sink. I made a new fold, pushing down extra hard in hopes that the paper would do what the teacher was asking of us. But again my hands shook in a way that wasn’t welcome.
Tears started to form as the slowest kid in the class headed for the sink.
I was the new slowest. Or just a newly realized slowest.
“Don’t worry,” Ms. Coates said, “sometimes you just need a little more time.” She smiled sweetly, and then took the page, pulling a new one out of nowhere. “Here,” She put her hand on top of my small one and made all the right creases, all the while acting like she hadn’t said all of these instructions 5 minutes ago.
Ms. Coates felt like my saviour. And I was grateful. But I also felt a strange, muted sense of loss. I still don’t know how to fold a paper airplane.
School continued on with more of the same, with only my age and grade changing. At 10, when people would ask what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said that I wanted to be a bus driver and work for Sears. Most of the adults cackled and would inform me that school bus drivers didn’t make much money. In truth, I knew I couldn’t hold money easily and that I wouldn’t likely learn to drive a car or a bus. I thought this was a silly question though, so I gave it a silly answer, and people seemed to like it. I really couldn’t picture me doing anything when I grew up. The adult me that grew up to drive a bus and works in retail is able bodied and has perfect, unfrizzy hair. But no one ever asks about her.
By the time high-school came, I decided I could try writing for real. It was the opposite of my nemesis math, so it seemed fitting. When I informed my dad of my new plan, he said, “But writers don’t make much money.”When I asked what I should do instead, he said I should try many things and then decide. He left the conversation before I got to ask what I should try.
I’m old for a young person now, and still don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I’ve applied for school again and look for jobs daily that I think can manage. But every time I read that “some errands are required” with receptionist positions or “must be able to multitask,” I can’t help but think of that ruined piece of paper, with all its ugly creases. And wish I’d become a computer programmer.

Screw Valentine's, Feb 15th is All the Rage

I have always, always hated Valentine's Day. In fact, I remember being a little kid staring at this mickey-mouse cupid poster my mother had festively plastered on my bedroom door, despising heart-immersed Mickey. I wanted to flip his arrow over and make him stab himself. Then maybe he would understand how much v-day sucks.
My sociopathic daydreams didn't last forever though, because soon enough I discovered that the day after Valentine's made the horrible Hallmark holiday worth living through. And being that this wonderfully underrated post-holiday holiday is upon us, I thought I'd share why you should hold off on swallowing bleach (until at least the 16th). Here we go:


1. All the candy goes on sale--I know the same can be said of Christmas and Easter and Halloween and Thanksgiving turkeies, but Feb 15th is the only time when you can feel like a well loved bargainer, in stead of just your average joe cheapskate. I take the time to specifically bulk up on candy hearts which say "Be mine" and "Always and forever". Boys may come and go, but those preservative-infused hearts are virtually indestructible.

2. Everybody gets dumped-- And boy does misery love company. Around Valentine's, I often wish I was some sort of security agent, so I could watch people hold hands and make out in elevators on their way to work. And then watch the same people fight and cry and throw diamond rings at each other on Feb 15th. Because I'm sick like that.

3. Things turn into Easter--All the eye-sore hearts come down to be replaced with gentle pastel easter eggs and Cadberry boxes. No one cares that you don't have a boyfriend to bring you rosepedals and/or that lingerie you've been hiding in the back of LaSenza for 5 months. You don't have to lie about being busy on Valentine's--where busy means chocolate truffles, The Horse Whisperer and a box of tissues because Robert Redford never gets the girl--because it's Feb 15. You're free. Now go buy yourself a Marshmallow Caramel chocolate egg or a Kindle Surprise and pretend it's for your nephew.

So next year, when the calender has only 28 days in Feb, don't sleep through the 14th, because time is limited. And you know you have a whole lot of awesome waiting for you on the 15th. Might as well make the best out of one of the worst holidays--the very worst of course, being Family Day.

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Why the Grammys Sucked This Year

Come Grammy time, some people sit in front of their wide flat screens with a big bottle of Merlot and an even bigger dress, in hopes of catching some Grammy glam spirit. Personally, I have never been over the moon about an event that rewards already famous singers with a sprinkle of extra attention, and a cherry of private limos, red carpet, and continually unprecedented luxury.
Despite my apathy towards the Grammys, I make a point of watching every year, mostly so I have some go-to topic of conversation when my usual fallback of "How bout that weather?" fails. After this year's event though, I'm proud to say that my ice-breaker topic has gained momentum, because the Grammy's were thoroughly disappointing.
Rather than watching the three-hour event, I've provided you with some Cliff Notes as to why the Grammys were more sub-par than usual. Feel free to use entire sentences when your friends are yammering on about how great everyone looked.

1. Sad,sad songs-- I'm pretty sure those poofy-dressed Grammy-heads I previously described had layers of mascara streaming down their cheeks about half way into the show. Kelly Clarkson's tribute performance of The Tennessee Waltz was beautifully reminiscent, and wonderfully tragic, but also horribly depressing. I don't know about you, but when I watch the Grammys, I usually have super secret hopes that I'll be temporarily swept away into the land of luxury and charm (even if I do think the whole premise of the show is redundant). I definitely couldn't do that with Kelly Clarkson in her funeral black dress cry-singing about some waltz I've never heard of and a time when she felt like a natural woman.
To add insult to injury, Rihanna then busted out a new single Stay, joined by Mikky Ekko, whom I just heard about tonight. Much like Clarkson's song, Rihanna's song had a beautifully tragic sound to it, though it differed from Kelly's in its dark undertones. Again, I was unable to escape into Grammy-land, instead being reminded of the beautiful dysfunction love can bring. No Grammy-get away for me.

2. LL Cool J--I don't really feel the need to elaborate much on this one. He sang a song called "Whaddup" with Travis Barker and captain 99 Bitches. The word "Whaddup" was scrolled across the back-drop over head for most of the performance, in case audiences couldn't make out what was being said. This was considerate of the Grammy Producers, since both Jay-Z and Mr. J were shouting the lyrics, made inaudible by Travis Barker's crazy drum playing and the fact that "Whaddup" is not an actual word, nor intelligent slang. And that classy act was the Grammys final performance. It was clearly meant as a satiric statement about the state of music today. That's my story and I'm running with it.

3. Chris Brown- He's at the bottom of the list because that exactly where he belongs on the celebrity totem pole. In fact, he shouldn't be on the totem pole, but the fact that he is shows how nonchalant the public eye is about abusive douchebags. Apparently everyone's forgotten --and by proxy forgave-- even though Brown is still being violent and losing his temper. Let's not forget, the guy also sports a tattoo of a beaten woman with a striking resemblance to Rihanna, unabashedly. When he is questioned about his previous treatment of his on-again-off-again girlfriend--whom he beat up-- he usually states, "Everybody makes mistakes. But I'm here to talk about my album."
He gives no "I'm sincerely sorry." No tears. No explanation (probably because any attempt at explaining such an atrocity would make him look worse, as it should.). Just blatant signs of zero-remorse and an abundance of some old-time narcissism. Yeah, let's promote the dude further. He seems like he totally deserves it.
I could go on forever about all the millions of implications that Chris Brown being at the Grammys bring, but I'm really busy puking in my mouth over it. The most significant point is that it covey's America's complete lack of awareness and conviction surrounding abuse and people with abusive personalities. Very disheartening.
So, there it is, the reasons why the Grammys this year left a sour taste in my mouth. Better luck next year. Who knows, maybe Rihanna or Kelly will come out with a bubble-gum hit, LL cool J will finally give up the gig and Chris Brown will move to a solitary island.