Month: November 2013

I Hope Their Kid Is Gay

Aoife O'Riordan, , , , , , 7 Comments

Have you seen the latest hoax this week? Several articles- all copying and pasting the same thing, of course- claiming that Robert Mugabe‘s son has come out as gay. In case you’ve been under a rock for the last few decades, Mugabe has been either Prime Minister or President of Zimbabwe for longer than I’ve been alive. And I’ve got more than five or six grey hairs. As with most people who’ve been executive heads of states for thirty-odd years, his career hasn’t exactly been a wonderful golden age of prosperity and safeguarding of human rights. I’m no expert in Zimbabwean politics, though, so let’s just stick with one point: Mugabe is a virulent homophobe whose government has brought in laws making it illegal for two people of the same sex to as much as hold hands, and who has described LGBT people as “worse than dogs and pigs”.

He’s probably not volunteering to set up a local chapter of PFLAG, y’know?

Of course, the story isn’t real- Robert Mugabe doesn’t have a son called Chipape, never mind a gay one. But it did spread quickly before (and, it seems, even after) the inevitable 5-minute debunking. That’s not a surprise- it’s exactly the kind of story that people like to hear. Because LGBT people show up in all kinds of families, it’s never too much to hope that well-known homophobes will have to face up to people they love dearly coming out. And we all know that nothing crumbles homophobia to dust quite like knowing, loving and understanding someone who’s queer. Wouldn’t it be amazing if someone like Mugabe was forced to come to terms with having a queer son or daughter? Couldn’t it change everything? Wouldn’t it be the perfect combination of redemption narrative and schadenfreude?

Not really. No.

Where is your empathy?

Seriously. If that narrative sounded glorious to you, where is your empathy? I ask this in a very literal sense. Who have you empathy with?

It seems to me like the people being noticed here are you and the homophobic parent. The homophobic parent gets their comeuppance. With any luck, they learn a valuable lesson about acceptance and (eventually) come to love and accept their gay son or daughter, after getting the shock of their lives. You get to sit back and enjoy watching your enemy squirm, before putting on your most benevolent smile and welcoming them over to our side. Everyone has a great time.

Except for the kid.

You see, in this story you forget about that kid. The one who had to grow up knowing that their parents- the people who are supposed to love you most unconditionally- despise a basic part of who they are.

In the best-case scenario, it turns out okay in the end. Before that, though? The best case scenario involves that child growing up learning that anything other than cisgender heterosexuality is an abomination. It involves the dawning realisation on the part of that kid that they are the abomination everyone hates so much. Years of trying desperately to change themselves. Years of trying to hide. Years of fear of losing everyone that they love. Of knowing deep down, every single moment, that they have to pretend to be someone they’re not.

In the best-case scenario, this child- who has been unknowingly brutalised their entire life- finds support and love somewhere. They find a place to stay and a community to accept them when their family rejects them. Over months or years, their family comes around and, eventually, things are okay. Mostly.

Okay, except for the pain inflicted on that innocent kid in ways that never truly goes away.

That’s the best-case scenario. I don’t think I can stomach the worst.

We are not your punchline. We are not your punishment.

I’m going to say that again. Queer people? We do not exist to provide punchlines in straight people’s stories. We do not exist to punish straight people for the error of their ways. Life is not a fairy tale, and we are not supporting characters in someone else’s morality play.

I don’t hope that Mugabe has a queer kid. I don’t hope that the WBCers do- although it’s highly unlikely that all of their kids will grow up cis and het. For their sakes, I hope that they do.

I don’t want queer kids to be born into families that hate them, so that they can do the work of converting their families to our cause. I want queer kids to be born and raised by families who love and cherish them for exactly who they are. I want the to grow up knowing that whatever the rest of the world will throw at them for being queer- and it will- they always have somewhere safe to come home to.

And if you don’t agree? Put yourself in that kid’s shoes. Then get back to me.

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I Hope Their Kid Is Gay
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Comfort Food: Crispy Slow-cooked Chicken Wings

Aoife O'Riordan, , , , , , , , , 8 Comments

‘Round this hemisphere, winter has been setting in. With the nights getting long and the air turning chilly, thoughts in my house turn to comfort food. Things that are warming, wholesome, filling and delicious enough to make up for an inhospitable outside.
Oh, and in a house with one broke person and one gluten-free, comfort food’s gotta be edible by everyone- because what’s worse than getting in to a warm home on a cold night and not being able to tuck in?- and not break the bank. Without further ado, then: Crispy Slow-Cooked Chicken Wings. Melt-in-your-mouth delicious. Gluten-free. Not too pricey. Win!

Ingredients

  • A packet of chicken wings. Thighs are good too, if you prefer them.
  • Stock- check to make sure these are gluten-free, if that’s something you need. I normally use chicken or vegetable cubes for this- but fresh stock is always incredible if you can get it.
  • Chopped garlic to taste. I love garlic, so I use at least 4-5 cloves.
  • Chopped ginger to taste. Again, I love ginger so I go for a good 2-3 square inches of the stuff.
  • Tamari soy sauce. If you don’t need to avoid gluten, by all means use regular soy!
  • Sweet chilli sauce.
  • A little bit of oil. I tend to have olive oil lying around, so I use it for most things. I’ll bet that sesame oil would be amazing for this, though.

Method

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Finely chop or grate the ginger and garlic. Add them to a pan with a smallish dollop of oil. Fry them over a very, very low heat for a couple of minutes, stirring all the time, until they soften.
Add a crumbled stock cube, a few tablespoons of soy sauce and of sweet chilli sauce, and the chicken wings to the pan. Mix them around until the chicken wings are well covered with the sauce. Add enough boiling water to cover everything.
Bring everything to the boil, then cover and reduce to a very gentle simmer. Simmer for as long as you can stand it. It’s gonna start smelling really yummy after not very long, but if you can manage to leave it for an hour or two, I promise you won’t regret it. Stir it every so often- every 15 minutes or so should be fine.

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When you truly can’t deal with the deliciousness anymore, distract yourself by preparing things to go with your chicken wings. I love them with rice, peas and roasted root veggies like carrots, parsnips and Jerusalem artichokes. They’d probably be almost painfully yummy with mashed spuds as well.

Heat up your grill. (Now, I am aware that what Americans call a grill is not what I’d describe that way. Here in Ireland, a grill is something that gives intense, non-contact heat from above. It’s normally a setting in your oven. So if you’re American, turn on the thing that turns the heat at the top of your oven on. And then leave me a comment letting me know what you call the dam thing. If you’re from somewhere that Proper English is spoken, just get the grill on.)

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Take the chicken wings out of the delicious liquid- and oh yes you are gonna be reserving that tasty chicken juice- place them in a baking dish, and pop them under the grill. Keep an eye on them! They’ll go crispy within minutes. Turn them around and repeat.
Fill up your plates with beds of delicious rice (or mashed potatoes) and veggies. Put the chicken wings on top. Ladle some delicious, delicious juice on top of them. Eat amazing chicken wings while falling hopelessly in love with your tastebuds.
Marvel at how something so easy can be so tasty. Leave me comments telling me all about it.

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One little hint: make more of these than you need. They are every bit as ludicrously tasty heated up the next day.

Comfort Food: Crispy Slow-cooked Chicken Wings

Stay out of my bubble! Personal spaces and public places

Aoife O'Riordan, , 14 Comments

A man sat next to me on the bus the other night. The bus wasn’t crowded- there were plenty of free seats around me. It was late in the evening, the second last bus of the night. He sat next to me and, without reacting visibly in any way, I noticed all of those things. I saw the empty seats around me, I remembered that it was late and, from then on, began to take more detailed notice of my surroundings, very aware of exactly where he was, how he was sitting, where the closest other people were. I kept on reading my book- I wasn’t about to let some guy with a less than stellar grasp of social niceties keep me away from Emma Woodhouse- but I did keep a closer eye on my surroundings than I had been doing. As you do.

I’ll bet that’s familiar to most of you, right? A stranger invades your personal space in public in a minor way. You’re not scared or tremendously put out, but you do notice, and you do find yourself alert to the possibility that they might, possibly, follow the minor invasion with something a bit more substantial.

I don’t think that guy on the bus was a terrible person. I don’t think he had any idea whatsoever that he was causing me discomfort- I’d be willing to bet that he was as wrapped up in his own day and thoughts as I had been before he arrived. I was sitting in prime bus territory, after all- right up front on the top floor. The spot with most leg room and the best view of where you’re going- extra handy on a dark, damp night when it can be tricky to see where you are. And the man on the bus had every as much right to sit there as I did, regardless of what other seats were taken.

Of course, that trifle was something I connected immediately to things that hadn’t been quite so trifling. The people who sit next to you and don’t see a book or a pair of headphones (or, in one impressive incident, a pair of headphones and my best impression of someone fast asleep) as the sign to leave me alone that they are. Or, of course, the people who will sit far too close, push their leg against mine (oh, I hate this so much), or, of course, actually get gropey. That last one isn’t as common for me as I’ve heard it is for others, but it’s happened. And it’s horrible.

None of those things happened the other day, but they’re things I couldn’t but be aware of, along with the sinking feeling that if any of them did, my chance of having a quiet trip home after a long day was over.

I’ve no reason to suspect he had any idea that he was causing me discomfort. He probably had no idea that sitting next to a strange woman on the bus when there are plenty other seats around will likely make her feel a little bit penned in, uncomfortable, and wary. In a way I almost feel embarrassed to write about it at all, because he is probably a perfectly nice person who just wanted to get the best view and the best legroom. And it’s a tiny, tiny thing that didn’t make a massive impact on my evening or even stop me reading my book for more than a few seconds. A trifle, really.

That’s the problem though, isn’t it? I know not to sit next to a stranger on public transport if there are other seats available. I’ll bet that most of you who, for one reason or another, feel vulnerable in public know the same. And yet if you’ve never been in the position of feeling that way, it’s likely that it simply wouldn’t occur to you, or that the idea would seem ludicrous. It’s a public space in a city, after all- of course there are going to be strangers in close proximity! Where else would they be, am I right?

I’d love to say something like “listen, guys, heads-up: taking seats next to people when you don’t have to doesn’t just impact their legroom (although it does that, and who wants squashed legs when they can help it?). Especially if they’re women, or if they’re otherwise more physically vulnerable, you’ll likely make them feel uncomfortable in ways they’ll almost certainly not tell you about. So, eh, maybe don’t do that if you can avoid it?”.

Of course, we all know how well a “don’t do that” goes, when it comes to giving women space in public. But y’know, just in case you didn’t know, and you are up for hearing it: it’s probably a thing not to do. Even though doing it doesn’t make you a bad person. Even though you’re not going to get touchy with anyone.

If you get too close in public when there’s plenty space around, then the person you’re getting too close to is going to be on her guard. If you don’t want her alert to the possibility that you might escalate the situation? Leave her her bubble. Even if you do end up in a slightly less prized seat in the process.

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Stay out of my bubble! Personal spaces and public places

TDoR and the right to remember

Aoife O'Riordan, 6 Comments

Do you know the feeling of disbelief you get sometimes, when you find yourself in an argument that simply doesn’t make sense? Someone is pushing back against something that shouldn’t be subject to debate, and you really can’t see how or why you’ve ended up in the conversation. Surely there are some things that, even here online where people let their worst side hang out, people know they should simply let be?

Things like taking a day to remember your dead.

Transphobia isn’t a surprise. Dismissal of trans people isn’t a surprise. If people didn’t hate others because of perceiving them as trans, there would be no need for a Trans Day of Remembrance. If everyone saw trans people as fully human and their genders as legitimate as cis people’s, life would be a hell of a lot easier for a hell of a lot of people. I accept- I don’t like it, but I have no choice but to accept it- that many people out there have a lot of misconceptions about trans people. Some through malice, some through ignorance, some for entirely different reasons of their own. We’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do.

But.. questioning people’s right to mourn their dead? I imagine the people I have profound disagreements with. Fundamentalists of all stripes, antivaxxers, people who think irony excuses terrible behaviour. No matter how much I dislike a group of people, I can’t imagine denying their right to grieve their dead, or questioning why they honour and remember them. There are times when we all need to step back, show respect, and leave the arguments for another day.

And yet, today, that was exactly what happened. It started, for me, with Suzanne Moore comparing harassment she received online- after writing a disgusting attack on trans people- to the murder of two hundred and thirty eight people this year. I questioned her on this, and her answer was to wonder if these murders had really happened. To deny that trans people are killed every day, to say that cis people are killed too, and to vaguely allude to links (which she never produced) to stats saying.. something.

On the one hand, I could respond to this. I could say that of course cis people are murdered, every day, and to accuse me of being somehow unaware of that fact is disingenuous at best. We’re killed for all sorts of reasons. Trans people are murdered for all of those reasons too- reasons of race, misogyny, good-old-fashioned dislike and rivalry and fear and random acts of senseless violence- and also simply because they exist and are trans. And these things add up- lists of the dead on Transgender Day of Remembrance are always filled, far too filled, with poor trans women of colour.

I could respond, and I could say all of that.

Another person, responding to Moore, questioned why we should bother having TDOR in the first place. It’s not like it’s going to stop people being killed, he said. It’s not like we have any connection to people in other parts of the world who were murdered. It’s not like we have indisputable proof that all of those murders were purely motivated by the victims’ trans status anyway, he said.

And I could respond to that. I could say that trans people around the world get to take a day to remember their dead. To honour them, as every group of people honours their dead. That trans people have the same right to candles, to silent moments, to people standing holding hands together in the dark of night, to having their names read out loud for all to hear that we all do. That remembering those who have been killed is about trans people, their partners, families and friends, and not about those who kill them. That it is about mourning those we have lost, and those we will never get a chance to know. And it is about standing with people who have to live their lives not knowing whether next year their name will be one of those called out. And- not that it helps, not that it is ever enough- knowing that if it has to be, it will be.

I could respond, and I could say all of that.

Or I could simply say- we could simply say- that some things aren’t about you. You need to stop.

You need to stop now.

All of this.

TDoR and the right to remember

TDOR

Aoife O'Riordan, 1 Comment

Two hundred and thirty-eight people, that we know of, have been reported to have been killed this year for no reason other than that they were trans.

That we know of. That were actually reported. That we heard of.

Are you tired of it yet?

I said some things this day last year, and I don’t think I can better them today- it’s the same damn thing, just two hundred and thirty-eight more people killed because they existed. Because they were trans. Mainly, because they were trans and poor and women and POC, because as a society we sure do like to add insult to injury. Twenty of those people- again, that we know of- were minors. Kids.

I’ve got nothin’. I’m tired of it. Here’s a thing from last year:

Like most of us, I’ve said goodbye to people I love over the years. They’ve died in different circumstances. Some after long years of illness. Some after short months or weeks. Some expected, some unexpected. Some peacefully, some in pain. The loss of every single one of them tore- and tears- my heart apart. But there’s one thing that is common to every one of them that I will always take comfort from. Every one of them died knowing that they were dearly loved. Everything that we could do to ease their suffering was done. They didn’t want for a hand to hold. They were cherished as they died.

Nobody can tell how each of us will end our lives. But that one simple thing- that in our last moments we know that we are loved and cherished, and that if there is any way to ease our suffering it will be done- is something that we can hope for everyone we care for. It’s the one thing that we can do.

Too many of our trans* community are denied that.

So every year on November 20th we gather and we take time to remember the trans* people who didn’t make it this far. Whose last moments were hatred, violence, contempt. Whose deaths were nothing but sport for those for whom their lives meant less than nothing. The latest victims in our wars of privilege and oppression. The overwhelming numbers of, in particular, poor trans* women of colour, caught in the crossfire of too many intersections of hate. We gather together in the cold. Send short-lived, brightly burning lights into the darkness.

And every year I hold my loved ones closer.

Are you tired of it yet? Are you tired of this?

TDOR

Every time you spend money, you cast a vote for the kind of society you want

Aoife O'Riordan, , , 9 Comments

Have you ever seen a thing and thought to yourself, “that thing there is both true and.. kind of disingenuous? Maybe a bit problematic?” Agreed with something while simultaneously thinking it’s fairly dodgy?

Take a look at this quote:

Every time you spend money, you're casting a vote for the kind of world you want

Yep. I can’t argue with the truth of the statement- the fact that our money does support the companies making the things that we pay for is not something that we can get away from. I’m generally in favour of people voting with their wallets. If my money goes toward a sustainable, local business that provides great working conditions from its employees and sources its products ethically? That’s obviously a hell of a lot better than that same money going towards a company that tears apart communities and environments.

But it’s a problematic statement to make, as well. Because- like more kinds of voting than most of us are comfortable admitting- voting with our wallets isn’t something that we can all do.

Can you afford to vote?

When I have money to spare, I buy ethically sourced products and try to be careful about where my money is going. I minimise the amount of my money that goes towards people that I know to be seriously unethical. It’s something that I keep in mind. I do my best.

But I can’t do it all the time.

It’s unavoidable that the people who are most screwed-over by our economic systems are those who are least able to exercise choice in what they spend their money on. If I’m completely broke, I don’t get to decide to spend my money on sustainable products. I need to eat and I need new socks and I get what I can afford. Yes, that means that sometimes I buy things made by people I know to be dodgy. Yes, I would prefer if it wasn’t so. But there’s not much I can do about it.

Except when there is.

Sometimes, of course, I’m not flat broke but I don’t have a massive amount of disposable income. Then I’m faced with only having the basics, all sourced ethically, or else getting some dodgy things and having money for little luxuries. That’s the choice. And a lot of the time, yes, I choose to take care of myself. Most people do.

I’ve heard a lot of people talk (often loudly) about how they only buy things that are organic, free-range, fair-trade, locally sourced, and all of the rest. I rarely hear that from someone who can’t afford not only their basics, but also the odd treat, that way. And yes, affordability is about time as much as it is about money. I can have cakes if I can buy them, or if I can bake them.

If I had enough disposable income to afford the things I need to keep going, the little luxuries that keep me happy, and to do so ethically, I’d do that. But if I have to make choices, then, well.. those choices will depend on a lot of factors. 

And I’m not sure those choices make as much of a difference as we tell ourselves they do.

What are we changing, really?

The idea that we should purchase ethically sourced and produced things from people who treat their workers well is a great one. And it definitely has the potential to make a certain amount of difference. But it’s not going to fix everything.

Not everyone can buy more expensive things that were produced ethically- the very system that makes it important leaves many of us without the resources to do it. When the problem is that people’s resources and work are being stolen from them or auctioned off for far less than they’re worth, are they really going to have much left over for buying things sold for what they are worth? Of course not. The cards are stacked against people from the beginning.

And it’s not going to fix things. Even if everybody in the world bought ethically sourced products from fantastic businesses all the time, we’d have, at best, a precariously balanced kind of good. We still have a system ripe for exploitation. One that would require constant vigilance on the part of, it seems, absolutely everybody in order for it to work to make a decent standard of living for everyone. Even a profoundly flawed system could work okay if everyone in it was decent, upstanding, good people who always work ethically towards the common good. But we don’t live in a world where that’ll happen, and we evidently don’t have a system that is robust enough to work with flawed people without leading to ridiculous exploitation.

Shaming

Oh, I love talking about shame, don’t I? Shame gets on my nerves. A kind of shaming that really gets on my nerves is where people who are privileged to have enough resources to regularly support ethically sourced products and businesses (yay!) seem to think that absolutely everyone has a moral obligation to do the same.

No.

The people who are most messed-around by a system are not those who have the greatest moral obligation to do something about it. They’re the people who often end up doing so, yeah. But that’s mainly because nobody else will.

But people- even people who aren’t in a great economic situation- have the right to make decent lives for ourselves. And blaming the worst-off people for a situation that is not of their making, because in some small way they don’t have much options but to contribute to it? That’s just not okay.

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Every time you spend money, you cast a vote for the kind of society you want

How to respond to racist attacks? Put your money where your mouth is!

Aoife O'Riordan, , , , , , 1 Comment

TW: racism, violence, pictures of racist graffiti. TL;DR, if you’re not up for facing that: Racists say shops run by immigrants aren’t welcome. How about supporting your local immigrant-run businesses? Today!

Continue reading “How to respond to racist attacks? Put your money where your mouth is!” →

How to respond to racist attacks? Put your money where your mouth is!

Abortion: Is it safe? Who decides? And what about birth control?

Aoife O'Riordan, , , , , , , , 1 Comment

An interesting comment showed up in my filter the other day. It’s a reply to a guest post from Penny Gets Lucky back in February, Pro-Life vs Pro-Choice: Missing the Point, where Penny argues that if you want to prevent abortions, there are far better ways that criminalising and demonising the people who have them. Here’s the comment, from Jemalacane:

The thing I don’t like about abortion the most is that sometimes, both the mother and child will die during. If I were a husband or boyfriend, I would rather you spare my wife or girlfriend though. I’d rather the unborn child die than her. If someone can come up with a way which makes it nearly impossible for a woman to die while going through an abortion, I would be much less hostile to abortions.

I also do not think abortion is a necessary form of birth control. That’s what contraception is for. It’s better to prevent the pregnancy than to terminate it.

This comment raises several important questions. Is abortion dangerous? What is the role of partners in deciding whether someone can have an abortion? And, of course, the question of whether abortion is a preferable method of birth control.

Let’s get the last two out of the way first.

It’s better to prevent the pregnancy than terminate it.

Yes! Yes, it is. With the exception of cases of fatal fetal abnormality and threats to the health or life of the pregnant person, people who seek abortions generally don’t want to be pregnant. Pregnancy was not part of the plan, and even if the pregnant person knew immediately that abortion was what they wanted to do and didn’t have any difficulty with that decision, a certain amount of stress is almost inevitable. In Ireland, where abortions involve travelling overseas, this is doubly the case. Even without that, it seems silly to suggest that someone would, all else being equal, prefer to undergo an uncomfortable medical procedure instead of preventing it. Medical abortion pills cause painful cramps, and who actually enjoys being trussed up in stirrups for any kind of gyno visit? Contraception is normally a hell of a lot easier, and there are enough different methods around that most people can find something that suits them fairly well.

There’s just a few problems. We haven’t yet invented an infallible method of contraception (aside from having the kinds of sex where there’s no more than one kind of gamete around. I gather that a lot of people don’t swing that way, though). We do a terrible job of educating young people about sex and birth control. And people commit rape and sexual assault every day.

It is, in most cases, better to prevent a pregnancy than to terminate it. But once you’re pregnant, you don’t have the option of going back in time and changing what happened weeks or months ago. Once you’re pregnant, the decisions left to you are to carry to term, or to terminate. While sometimes it might feel like both of those options, quite frankly, suck? It’s what you’re stuck with.

And yes, we should do a lot more work around preventing people from getting pregnant when they don’t want to. And around empowering people to make all kinds of informed decisions about their bodies. Let’s do that too!

If I were a husband or boyfriend, I would rather you spare my wife or girlfriend though. I’d rather the unborn child die than her.

That’s… nice? I’m glad you think that way? I’d like to be honest about one thing before I go further: this was the only part of this comment that annoyed me. If you’re reading this, Jemalacane- and I do hope you are- then I’d like to state for the record that I can see that you’re probably not trying to say anything hurtful or damaging here. And I’d ask you to read this next part carefully.

There’s just one thing, though. If I were a girlfriend or wife, and you were a doctor, I would rather you ask me about what medical procedures you carry out on my body. I’d rather you ask me if I would want you to risk my life to save my pregnancy, or if I would choose for you to do everything necessary to save my life.

If I were a girlfriend or a wife of someone who would prefer to put me in danger to continue a pregnancy, against my will? I would want a doctor to take absolutely no notice whatsoever of what that person, who is not me, said. And if I were to be unconscious and unable to have those conversations with my doctor? I would want that doctor to act in the best interests of their patient- me– and not listen to anyone who tells them otherwise.

In short, I do not want my life to be dependant on whether or not I’m currently making wise decisions about dating. I would really prefer if the worst consequences of bad dating decisions were epic facepalming, having my friends sit me down and ask me if I don’t think I might do better, and some embarrassing memories. I’d like to be alive to have those, thanks.

With that question firmly sorted out, let’s go to the last- but by no means least- question. Here we go:

The thing I don’t like about abortion the most is that sometimes, both the mother and child will die during.

That sure is a point. It’s a scary one at that. If you feel that abortion risks the pregnant person’s life, then I can see how it would disturb you! I would never want to advocate something that would hurt and endanger people.

Looking at statistics, though, we find that abortion is safer for a pregnant person than carrying to term. Much safer, in fact. A person is fourteen times more likely to die during or after giving birth than they are of any complications following abortion! I’m going to say that again, because it’s a staggering figure- you’re fourteen times more likely to die from giving birth than abortion.

This doesn’t mean that I’m going to go picket antenatal units and GPs offices around the country, begging women not to have babies because of the risk to their lives. The vast majority of women survive pregnancy and birth, and they have the right to make informed choices and bear and raise children. It simply means that, of all the reasons that a person could choose to oppose abortion, the minuscule risk of life-threatening complications simply doesn’t add up.

Except.

Except where abortion is illegal. While only one person in 167,000 will die from a legal and safe abortion, death rates for unsafe abortions- which are what pregnant people will and do turn to when they have no legal alternative- are, according to the WHO, 350 times higher. Three hundred and fifty times higher. And that’s just counting the women who actually die. Add to that the incidence of complications that don’t kill outright, and you have a massive, preventable health crisis on your hands.

If the thing that you don’t like most about abortion is risking the lives of the people who have them? The single best way to prevent that and save lives is to make abortion legal and accessible to everyone who needs one.

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Abortion: Is it safe? Who decides? And what about birth control?

Derby Names and Alter Egos

Aoife O'Riordan, , , , Leave a comment

Remember how on Monday I said I would have really liked to waffle on about roller derby for a bit, but ended up dismantling some antichoice arguments instead? Today we’re going the other way ’round. Yeah, the government finally announced that we’re getting a referendum on marriage equality the year after next. I could talk about that, and I’m sure we’d have an interesting and productive discussion, at the end of which we all agree that equality is good, and waiting another year and a half isn’t. So let’s pretend that’s done, shall we, and talk about something fun?

kissingmenow
Can’t we just skip all that? Can’t we just be talking about derby now?

Let’s talk Derby Names

I love derby names. I’d say that they were one of my favourite things about the sport, if I weren’t so head-over-heels with skating fast, hittin’ people, taking hits and staying up, damnit, those fleeting seconds when I’m on the track and I actually have the faintest idea what’s going on, that moment when I get my jammer through the pack, and- oh yes- that moment when I am the jammer that just got through the pack and I see the ref signalling lead right next to me. When that jammer is behind my butt and she isn’t going anywhere. Oh, and new wheels. And freshly-washed pads. And the four (hopefully!) women on the track who’ve got my back. And the five I’m pitting my nascent wits and my skills against. And how much I love becoming stronger, faster and smarter skater. And… let’s just say that there’s another post or six to be dedicated to things I love about derby.

If it weren’t for all of those things, derby names would be one of my favourite things about derby. Always clever and often nerdy, I never fail to get a kick out of reading through a team’s lineup. And they serve a practical purpose too- creating a division between the mundanities of our everyday lives and this sport where we can be strong and aggressive women who take what we want, never, ever ask permission, and (literally) knock over anyone who dares to get in our way or try to get past us. It’s all part of the ritual- strapping on your pads, tying your laces and checking your toe stops, you put away your responsibilities and let out (what you hope is!) a clean, focused predator. Fuck, yeah.

I love derby names. I love changing into my derby gear. I love crossing the boundaries between real life and track. I just wish that this wasn’t such a cliche.

Derby Skater In Shocking Having-A-Real-Life Revelation

I’ve seen a few derby documentaries. Scratch that- I’ve seen a lot of derby documentaries. I love ’em. Love seeing how much this sport means to the women who play it around the world. Love watching them train and play and hearing them talk about what their teams and bouts and training are like. What can I say? I’m kinda in love with this game, and any chance to get to add to my (long) list of derby crushes is a chance I’ll snap up in a heartbeat. And while I love a derby documentary, and I love learning more about the different lives of the women who skate, I’m not in love with how derby names are portrayed.

Tell me if you haven’t heard this one many times before. It goes like this: “By day, she’s a mother/student/doctor/accountant/engineer/programmer/PA/etcetcetc. But by night, this everyday lady becomes something extraordinary: InsertCleverDerbyNameHere from SkatingLeague”. And then it talks about her alternate lives as if they were totally different things. Sometimes they go further, with voiceovers asking things like “would you believe that BadassMcSkatesAlot is a regular person who does ordinary things in the daytime?”

Well, yes. Of course she is. How do you think she affords those skates? I’m sure she’d love to devote herself fulltime to skating, but, for the moment at least, nobody’s getting paid to play. It’s the opposite, in fact- we pay for the privilege. We buy all of our gear, pay our membership dues, and volunteer our time to keep our leagues going.

That’s not surprising. What is surprising is.. well, that anyone thinks that it is. Sure, I think that roller derby is the best damn sport on the planet. I’m sure that people devoted to a different sport- from football to hurling to tennis to synchronised swimming- feels the same way about what they do. And the vast majority of them have day jobs, too.

Why is it considered weird that BadassMcSkatesAlot does regular-person things? It is because derby is new and different? Or is it because full-contact women’s sports are rare, and it’s simply not expected that everyday women might want to let their hair down for a few hours a week and knock some people over? Is it, perhaps, that that is considered subversive in a way that a bunch of guys knockin’ each other over in a rugby game isn’t? It is related to the aesthetic of roller derby- which is all about celebrating and playing with the artifice and decoration that women are expected to engage in every day, and making it something powerful and ours? Is it just another rehashing of the tired old Strong Female Character cliche? Or is it just that some people who make documentaries and reports are a bit lazy and inclined to grab an easy take on something, run with it, and then call it a day before popping out for a couple of pints?

That’s not to say that the day/night trope is always a terrible thing, though. This London Roller Girls promo, which pretty much relies on that, is brilliant. It takes the day/night thing and turns it on its head- we start off at work. I also love that it shows Vagablonde actually checking her gear (although I’m a bit mystified as to why she puts on her skates and pads before her makeup..). Safety first, y’all! Either that, or it could just be that I love everything LRG do, ever.

Here’s why it bothers me so much, though: while derby is different from our day jobs, the things we learn from derby stay with us throughout our lives. Yeah, I put away my gear and go back to my everyday life after training. Of course I do. But- and yeah, this is gonna sound cheesy- I’m not the same person I was before I skated. Derby taught me that I’m stronger than I think I am. It taught me that asking permission is overrated and sometimes you’ve just gotta take what you want- and that about 7 or 8 seconds later, you’ve gotta do it again. Derby taught me to not be scared of screwing up or looking ridiculous- that you need to fall over a couple of hundred times before you learn a new skill, that there will be people watching you fall, that you won’t always fall small and gracefully, and that throwing yourself into it anyway is the only way to be amazing. Derby taught me to open my mouth, shout out when I need a hand, listen to the people around me, and if you fuck up? There’s another chance to do better speeding ’round the track to meet you in, oh, a couple of seconds- so hustle, damnit. And derby taught me to get up off my ass and do something now, even if it isn’t perfect, before I lose my chance. (I also, er, learn an awful lot on a regular basis about sitting in a box and keeping my mouth shut for two minutes that I’m pretty sure last several years but the less said about that the better, amirite?)

I love derby names. They’re funny, they’re clever, and there’s something delicious about calling your teammates by their favourite puns every day. I love how the simultaneously create a separate derby world where different rules apply, and give us something to live up to and carry around with us. And while they’re fun for spectators and fans too, at the end of the day, our derby names are ours.

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Aoife O'Riordan, , , 1 Comment

Writing I do elsewhere officially counts for my NaBloPoMo. Also, if you read all of my rabbiting on about abortion, you’re probably not entirely uninterested in seeing what some other people have to say.

Welcome to another Weekly Roundup, where each week our media team highlights how abortion is discussed at home and abroad. This week: marking the first anniversary of Savita Halappanavar’s death, calls for revised abortion guidelines in Northern Ireland, and abortion access is under threat in Texas.

-Read the rest over at the Abortion Rights Campaign

 

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