Walking Home Again

I had a couple of experiences which jolt me with surprise about how I view my safety.

1. Walking home from work

I walk home from work through a large expanse of park, called 'The Common'. I find this an exceedingly pleasant way to end my working day. With the long summer hours, I can even walk home when I have had a late day at work. I tend to change my working shoes into running shoes, and I leave my work shoes at work, under my desk.

Other uses of The Common are fellow walking-commuters, evening-exercisers, dog-walkers and youthful layabouts. I say hi to the exercisers and dog-walkers, but my fellow walking-commuters ignore me (and I them), and I am much too uninteresting for the youthful layabouts.

A couple of weeks ago I was walking home and otherwise meandering inside my own head. There were three youthful layabouts, two female, one male, sitting on a park bench. As I passed, one of the girls said something, which I knew to be aimed at me, but which I did not quite hear. The tone was derisory. I chose to ignore her. Then she spat at me. Frothy white goop landed at my feet; I stepped over it and kept going. Behind me, the boy shouted something I could not make out and all three started laughing. When I got home, I was shaken. No one has ever spat at me before. I have had racist comments yelled at me. I have had sexist comments yelled at me. I have been grabbed, and held, by a mentally unstable man - I did not feel threatened by him and managed to extricate myself. I have had a broken bottle shoved into my face, also by a mentally unstable man, and again, I did not feel particularly threatened (although I was scared). The spitting was just uncalled for. And it made me feel unsafe. (I half knew the man with the broken bottle would jab it in my face).

2. Walking to the shops

I walk to and from the grocery stores. Not too long after the above spitting incident, I was walking home with my shopping. Picture, if you will, a young east-Asian woman in a pinstripe suit with a grocery bag under each arm - one bright orange, one hessian - just minding her own business and perhaps frowning a little as she carried her heavy groceries home. Going in the opposite direction, on the other side of the road, were two young women and one young man. The young man shouted something at me, which sounded like: ra ra ha ha ra. And then there was laughter. I stopped. I went to turn towards them to say something - anything - back. Except I did not know what. And the thought that ran through my head? This is not a nice area. I've heard of cars being burnt here. I walked on in fear. About a few metres later, I got really angry. I hate it when fear prevents me from defending myself against inanity.

3. Running through the Common

I occasionally (I've done this once, but I would like to more, hence the choice of word) run through the Common on my way home, for excercise. Usually when I run in the Common (on weekend mornings) I stick to the large paths. My partner on the other hand has waxed lyrical about how lovely ducking into the woods themselves are.

On my first afternoon run, I took the large paths, then darted off on a walkers only path. I ran up beside the lake and saw a lovely path into the forest, that twisted enticingly out of view. I took it. I ran until I came to a junction where three paths crossed. I chose one that veered off in the direction of home, as it was about roughly time to circle back again. The path I chose got narrower and narrower, and windier and windier. I leapt fallen trees and dodged nettle as much as I could. Then the blackberry bushes grew so close together I had to use my hands and shoulders to clear my path. I had turned so much I no longer knew which direction I was facing. I heard laughing voices in the near distance. I freaked out, did an about face and retraced my path back to the junction, back to the walkers only path, back to the nice large open concreted-over path. Heart thumping more from fear than from the exertion, I jogged on home again.

Not only had the laughing teenage voices reminded me of my earlier unpleasant encounters, I realised that no one knew where I was. My partner knew only that I was running home, via the Common. He would not expect me for another hour, would not start to worry for perhaps another two hours. I know that I would not, in his position. Work would not realise until the next day, and no one knew which direction I headed off in anyway. Only my partner and work would note my absence in the short term.

When I lived in a share house and went running in the early mornings, I drew a map of my planned path and my expected return time for my housemates. I almost always returned before any of my housemates even aroused themselves from sleep. Only one housemate, in my five or six years of house sharing, even saw my map. But I felt much better with the thought that, if I did not return and there was a note to say where I had been, someone would think to come looking for me.

When I lived with my parents, the rule was that I would inform them if I would not be home before dark. In my early university years, my mother got used to me walking out of the house calling out not to expect me home before her bed time. I once overheard my mother on the telephone to my aunt, complaining about how I was always out and she had no idea where. I tried a few times to tell her I was at a library until it closed, but she did not believe me. I think she wanted to believe that I was out with boys, taking drugs and partying hard, rather than holed up on the fourth floor of the law library with casebooks, or the second floor of the arts library with journals. At worst, I was in a cafe or movie theatre with friends. My juvenile delinquency never did get off to the right start.

I have got lazy. I do not do the little things anymore that make me comfortable doing activities which otherwise put me at risk of the nebulous thing out there that is dangerous to young women. I forgot to live in fear, because I have my mobile phone and my partner is well-versed with my habits. But the fear has come back in this New Place, so I need to find my parameters again.

Cat's Eye by Margaret Atwood

I don't know why, or how, I came to Margaret Atwood so late in my life. She seems to be the perfect author for me and, as prolific as she is, I seem to have read much more of her non-fiction, than her fiction. I read Cat's Eye on holiday.

One of the things that struck me most about this novel was its insightful portrayal of relationships among girls and women. The protagonist, Elaine Risley, is a successful painter who returns to the town of her childhood, teenage and early adult years to attend a retrospective of her work. Alone in Toronto, she begins to reminisce about her life, and in particular her friendship with Cordelia: her nemesis, or a foil, or the example of what the protagonist herself could have become.

This post is not a review. Atwood's work is excellent, and I highly recommend her if you haven't read her already. Like much else on this blog, this post is about ME.

Cat's Eye got me thinking about my relationships with girls and women. I was a resilient child; I grew into a resilient adult. I had a large family and network of siblings and cousins of both sexes. At home, I was closest to my brother in age and, as a child, in games. I don't remember my very early childhood years but my mother's anecdotes tells of a brash, outspoken, cheeky and rather confident brat. I haven't changed much. I am hoping any child I may have will not be like the young me (I'd like her to be much better behaved!).

The first primary school that I went to had kids from a mish-mash of many and varied cultural and ethnic groups. I formed friendships with almost everyone: Indigenous kids, Islander kids, fellow Viet kids, Chinese kids, Lebanese kids, Greek kids. They were all girls.

Even in early primary school, I knew we weren't 'cool'. We were generally excluded from games of 'tiggy' (a chasing game) and I, in particular, was banned from 'catch and kiss' (I had punched the last person who caught me, before he could kiss me, because he grabbed me around the waist. I did not play by the rules.) We spent our lunch hours in one corner of the playground. There must have been a reason for that, beyond mere choice. After all, the monkey bars and the swings were in the diametrically opposite corner of the playground. I remember playing on the monkey bars and swings AFTER kids had left school for the day. So there must have been someone preventing me from doing so. I have no recollection of who they were, nor why. Although I'd be quite happy to take a racialist stab in the dark.

In grade five (aged eight), we moved from inner city, mixed class, multi-cultural, to outer suburbs, blue collar, mono-cultural. I and my brother were the only two Asian kids the school had ever seen. The school I attended was a very small school, which was a shock to me. Previously, there would have been more people in one of my classes, than in the entire school. It was not large enough to form cliques, so most of the time, everyone played with everyone else. But there was the occasional spat. I got into fights a lot. I have previously posted about one particular not-quite fight.

Grade 5/6 was when the social outcasting bullying set in: I would have been 10/11. My brother was in grade 7, the last primary school year, at the time. At that age, everyone was at markedly different stages of physical development. I was still small and weedy and childlike. So was my brother. Some of the girls who were my friends had begun to develop breasts and hips, and a giggling interest in boys (still germ-filled in my eyes). Some of the boys had a swagger and were heads and shoulders taller than everyone else.

One rainy lunchtime, I came out of class to sit with the usual circle. As I fought for a space between two people, they turned their backs to me, shuffled forwards and closed me out again. I got up and went to sit beside someone else, also in the circle. The same thing happened. I persisted and sat there eating my lunch in a strangled silence. A few of the group got up and moved. Then, one of the girls came over to me. She had, a few weeks earlier, declared that she was my best friend. She whispered that everyone was unimpressed with me because one of the boys, whom another of the girls liked, might have a crush on me. That boy was my brother's best friend, and he was, of course, full of cooties. While she was talking to me, her head swiveled back and forth; she was watching how the other girls were reacting to her talking to me. "I hope you don't mind," she whispered, "but we've all agreed not to hang out with you", and then she scuttled back to the group, who were by now all facing towards me, hands menacingly on out-stuck-hips.

I remember being bewildered, and not saying anything, but feeling that it was absolutely necessary that I did not move; that they move. So I just stood there, looking back at them. I may have looked sad or fearful or confrontational. I don't really know. It did feel like I had done something wrong, but I was definitely not going to say sorry. And they had not exactly done anything to allow me to lash into them, as Craig had. They whispered together, giggled together, and then left. After they had gone, I deflated, and slunk off into the library.

The next day, I did not bother. I went to join the kids in the junior school and sat with kids 2 to 3 grades below me. I played on their swings and monkey bars and fortresses. I played chasey and skipping rope games again, instead of sitting around gossiping at lunch.

Though my friendship with the older girls re-ignited, it never felt true afterwards. I was wary. And if they shut me out, I defended by disappearing off to have more fun with the younger kids. Some days I just played their games, which were much more fun anyway.

In high school, three girls one grade older than me decided I would be fun to pick on one term. Wrong choice. They gave me a nickname (midget), because I was short, and I hung out with girls, one in particular, who were at least a head taller than I was. One of my friends became quite friendly with them, which was fine by me. The three would be sweet as pie to me when my friend was around and horrid to me when she wasn't. My friend did not understand why I didn't want to spend time with them, like she did.

I had quite quickly developed a reputation at high school for being arrogant - I presume because I was reasonably confident in my abilities, and tended towards cold silence when angered. I do recall being hurt by them, but I always did my utmost not to show it. When they taunted, I stared at them and waited until they left. If I was walking by, and they would begin to taunt, I would stop and look at them, stubbornly standing still until they went quiet. Then I would move again.

I broke my silence, once.

I was walking along the crossover area between the grade nines and grade eights, going to class, I think. I was by myself, as frequently occurred. Ahead, I saw the three girls, surrounded by a bunch of guys, one of whom was my friend's boyfriend. One of the girls called out: "There goes lonely little midget. When is she going to get a friend?" I stopped. I turned towards the girls. My friend's boyfriend said: "Oh, leave her alone. She's alright." I spat at him: "I don't need YOU to defend me. I'm FINE on my own." I started to walk off when one of the girls began laughing: "I know what gets midget. Someone CARING about her. Not so tough now, are you midget?" I straightened my probably already ramrod straight back and kept walking.

The girls moved on from taunting me; they probably found another target.

University was different: there were no obvious cliques at university, and the cool girls who would have done all this alienating stuff just did not seem to be around. But they were back again at the very first job I started. Silence and staring does not work so well when you have to co-operate together on projects. I just pretended I was part of the group during working hours, and ate my lunch with other people or by myself, and let the sniggers behind my back be just that: sniggers behind my back. My clothes were not as nice, and I did not like the same movies. If they couldn't be my friends, they were nevertheless work colleagues. They might not like me, but they were definitely going to respect me.

The cliquey work girls did respect me: they sought my advice and assistance when things went wrong. And I would give them my advice and assistance, and raise an eyebrow and sigh when they excluded me from invitations to lunch or nights out.

In a moment of blogosphere coincidence, Minor Revisions has a wonderful piece on this intangible form of bullying, called "Why don't you like me?" I like Post-Doc's mum's advice: (paraphrasing): There are too many people in this world and they can't all like you. And there will be worthwhile ones who do like you.

That's good advice.

I can hear my defensiveness as I proof-read this post. I am defensive. It does hurt to be excluded. But if people don't like you, that's their problem: just as long as they respect your work. Now, I figuratively stand still and stare people down: I stare them down with my work.

I'm going through changes*

The web is a wonderful place.

I am finally catching up on all my blog reading which, much like my blog writing, has dipped into near non-existence of late. Slowly, slowly however I am clawing my way back into the ether world.

I also finally got myself organised and have a feed-reader thing. So now, I have my people onto you. Or those of you I know about.

One of the blogs I enjoy but don't visit with sufficient frequency - What We Said - had an interesting post about name changes on marriage by Emily. In response, Span posted on her own site the following post.

Name changing on marriage is a no-brainer for me. Mostly because I have no intention of getting married. But also because in Vietnamese culture, women do not take their husband's name on marriage.

I was always very confused when people called my mother Mrs (my father's family name). Who were they talking about? And they were always very confused when I explained what my mother's family name was. Who was I talking about? Why was my name different to my mother's? And anyway, what difference does it make when there are only about 25 family names in Vietnamese?

Um was not the avant garde of Viet feminists, retaining her name because she held some belief that she was resisting her status as chattel in a married relationship. No, my mother is very much not a feminist. I recall her saying to me at an early age when I was fighting with my brother that I was not supposed to argue with him because he was male, older and stronger. She also told me at the same time she was asking me to desist from battling my bro that when I married I should always defer to my husband in an argument otherwise he would not remain my husband. I was, oh, I don't know how old - maybe 6 or 7. Salutary lessons for a 7 year old - how to keep the husband you don't have by subjugating yourself and your worthless opinions.

No, my mother just did what tradition and culture dictated.

Traditional Viet weddings symbolically pass the woman over to her husband's family. The groom comes to the bride's house and asks her family if he can take her. The dowry that he must bring represents a form of payment for the wife, who will become the husband's newest acquisition in his working household. Husband and wife together offer tea to all of the woman's family to thank them for looking after her up to that point in her life. Then husband and wife trundle back to the husband's family and offer tea to all of them to ask them to accept the wife into the family. It's time consuming.

Even though this ceremony passes the bride into the groom's family, the bride retains her father's name and does not take on her husband's.

If I were to marry, there would be a lot of baggage about whether to change my name. The answer, if you're curious or had not already guessed, is that I would not. I like my name. It took me a long time to become reconciled with it, so I'd like to keep it, thanks. And I am not disappearing post marriage. To not, follows Viet culture. To do so, would be to follow the mainstream of which I am now a part but which is too patriarchal a gesture for my liking. (That is not to say that Viet culture is not patriarchal; it is.) I expect that I would discuss the issue with my partner, too. Although I suspect we both already know the discussion will be brief.

Some of my acquaintances get defensive about not keeping their name on marriage around me, presumably because I am an unapologetic feminist. I bandy "feminist" about like I'm comfortable with it. Because I am. But it does not mean that I judge people for their decisions. At least, not all the time.

I am curious about why people do, or do not, change their family name. The rationale that an entire family should share the same family name for unity's sake strikes me as insupportable. I agree with Span's reasoning. I met a family who had a plethora of surnames: Mum & Dad each kept their families' names and, when the first child was born, a coin was tossed to decide which surname that child would take (Dad's as it turned out). The second child took the Mum's remaining family name, thereby carrying on her name, too. I do not know what happens if there is a third child. They were a delightful family unit.

I do not understand why the article Emily refers to says that the woman should ensure that her female children carry her family name? Why not any of the children, or half the children? How does ensuring the female children carry the woman's family name undermine the tradition? I have wondered about this myself: if my partner and I were to have a child together, whose family name would the child take? I am inclined to think the child should have my partner's - because there are fewer of his names floating about the world than mine. And if we were to have a child, that child would probably be the first of his family's next generation, whereas it would be - oh, maybe - the 30th (give or take) of my family's next generation.

And in any event, why does the decision whether or not to change one's name on marriage affect the decision regarding what name any child of the relationship should have?

I agree with Emily that choice is relevant, but more than that - thinking about the issue is what is important. I would prefer we lived an examined life, and if there is value to the individual of doing what the mainstream dictates, fine. And if there is not, then an analysis of the reasons for acting one way or another will provide the solution for an alternate path.

* that's a song. Not a reference to me. I think I'm staying the same.

Who wears short shorts?

Meredith writes an interesting post about Promo Girls here.

The incisive point Meredith makes is about how men decorate their bodies and possessions (mostly cars) in an outwards space claiming fashion, and women minimalise in a near-naked, take up as little space as possible and inhibit movement fashion.

I can certainly relate to this observation - and I think it is manifested in how men and women - and indeed boys and girls - sit / are taught to sit. I remember being posed for school photographs. In group photos, I am always placed in the front left hand corner. I think this is where my height inevitably places me. Girls were always asked to put their knees together and their right hand over the top of their left. Boys were asked to sit with their knees hip-width apart, with a fist on each knee. I'm in a grade two photo where I have obviously been confused by the instructions - or don't know which gender I am - as I have my knees together but a fist on each knee. Otherwise, I am clearly "girl": I'm in a pink dress with my hair in pigtails either side of exposed ears.

I also had to comment with my own observation about "Promo Girls":

***

On the streets in Brisbane, there are young scantily clad women in short shorts advertising … something. I assume one of our girly bars, but I am not entirely sure. I have a little argument with myself every time I see them. My first reaction is annoyance.

Then I think: No, wait. Not their fault. Probably lucrative. Should be annoyed at … something/one else. Society! It’s society’s fault.

Sometimes, pity. Aren’t they cold? Don’t they hate it when horrid men ogle them? When women look at them disapprovingly?

Sometimes, in judgment: Hmm, if you’re going to wear that, you’ll need to walk a bit taller. Swing those hips, sass it out. No use huddling into yourself.

With eyebrows raised: I don’t know that short shorts suit your cellulite*

Then in judgment on myself: That’s not very nice, Oanh. Good on them. They’re comfortable with their bodies and they’re using society’s obsession with women’s bodies /sexual object status to their advantage. Plenty of other women will look at them disapprovingly, no need for you to do so. You can be more generous than that.

With my feminist rejoinder: But they’re perpetuating women’s oppression!

Basically, I end up with all these thoughts which probably flicker across my face (I’m terrible at masking my emotions) and these women edge away from me, so I then feel forced to give them a tentative smile, just to show that I’m, er, friendly or approve or something. Which I’m not. And I don’t.

***

I really do not like the Promo Girls. But I also know that it is not their fault, and that the work may be a perfectly valid and probably lucrative choice.

There is also mention by Legal Eagle of an advertisement for tailor-made suits. I agree with Legal Eagle that it is valid to exploit sex appeal but I consider it inappropriate in a workplace and it occassionally angers, and sometimes saddens, me.

I think the reason is that Promo Girls and that ad perpetuate a notion of women's power as based predominantly on their appearance and sexual worth to men. I do not agree with that. I do not think that that is valid. But I think, so long as it exists, it's okay for my sisters to exploit it. I'm just going to keep tying myself up in knots every time I think about it, however.


*when I wrote the comment I'd forgotten the word for cellulite...(!)

Walking Home

I have always been a walker – it is my preferred travelling means to the unreliability of public transport, the unpredictability of taxis and the expense (not to mention parking hassle) of a private vehicle. There are downsides of course: pragmatic shoes, sweating in Brisbane sweltering heat, limited distances and time.

When I was a carefree university student (ha!), I lived in a lovely student neighbourhood that was, as the crow flies, a mere kilometre from the university grounds. But there was a river that wound its way between my Queenslander share house and my place of study, and no bridge. To get to university I could either catch two buses – one into the city (away from the university) and then do an about-face to head back towards it – or walk about half an hour – again away from the university but keeping it always in my line of sight – and then alight onto a CityCat (catamaran / ferry – Brisbane's pride and joy). Both took me equal amounts of time, so my preferred method was to walk and then catch the CityCat.

Often I would stay at university quite late. At least half of my days at the university I stayed until the library closed (I'm not incredibly studious – my days usually did not start until after lunch). I would catch the last CityCat home. There was a bus which met the CityCat and that went into the city, skirting near my house. Occassionally I would catch it if I was laden down with text books or the weariness of a too-long day with my head in those dusty case books. Through some quirk of time, the bus ride and short walk home cost me as much time as a much longer walk home. So, usually, I walked home too.

One night, as I was leaving the law library and strode off towards the CityCat terminal, a young man ran after me. He studied law too, and lived nearby. I did not like him much. He was pleasant enough but, even now, my lip curls as I think of him. He was greasy. He was, I surmised, a sexist boor . He had a girlfriend who stood behind him and whom he proudly identified as 'looking after' him and making his packed lunches. His girlfriend was Asian (I never spoke to her, nor she to me, so I can be no more precise than that) and he gave off those shudder-inducing waves of Asian fetishism. These are all my impressions, and my prejudices, and I freely admit I could be wrong. I had a non-Asian boyfriend at the time, and he often blithely and to my great irritation opened conversations with: “Where's J?” Because I knew I would have to endure him on the CityCat and in future classes, I slowed down to let him catch up and we made small talk about our studies and assignments.

As the CityCat pulled into our home terminal, he asked how I was getting home and I said that I was walking. He offered to give me a lift home and I politely declined. He said: “What would J think of you walking home? It's dangerous.” I snorted. “It's none of J's business that I walk home, actually,” said I, bristling. He stared at me, and then said - “If you were my fiance, I would not let you walk home.” Sometimes people push me over the edge, and he'd done it. But a veneer of politesse remained with me as I said, as pleasantly as I could: “Good thing for both of us that I'm not then.” A woman nearby must have heard the contempt in my voice, because she said to me, to my disbelief: “Dear, he's just tryng to be kind. Why don't you accept his lift?” And I was gone. I gave up my best behaviour and let me colours show: “Lady,” I said loud enough for him to hear too, “He and you are condescending pricks. And I can take care of myself.” I could feel them shaking their disappointed heads at my reckless back. I'm not exactly proud of being horrible to that woman – but I had no regrets about finally telling the greasy man what I really thought of him. No more pretend niceties in classes or in the library. I see him occassionally about the city, and his eyes flicker recognition, and I respond in kind. But we don't bother saying anything to each other. And that's just how I like it.

I have only once had an unpleasant, and slightly dangerous walking home encounter in my many years of walking home at 9 or 10 at night. I can assure you the man who followed me ended up more frightened of me, than I of him, when I finally – sick of walking a circuitious route home – confronted him and asked him to leave me alone (in no uncertain terms). In retrospect, the confrontation was reckless, but I had been poised to run should it turn ugly.

I walk to and from work now, too. It takes me a bit longer than half an hour, which is roughly the same amount of time as the bus, depending on traffic and the number of other people trying to get to work. A lot of people are shocked to discover that, when I leave work of an evening, I walk home, even when it is quite dark. Especially in winter, I can be coming home in the complete dark. It is difficult to evade the concerned murmurs of my co-workers. Occassionally I lie to them: little white lies about how I intend on travelling home. Once, one of my bosses on seeing my trainer enclosed feet insisted that I accept a lift home from him. Now, I try to leave at a different time to him so that he is not burdened by generosity.

People who have concerns about me encountering dangerously crazed and criminally intent people on my walking commute, do not always realise how much more dangerous the young professional men are, at a post work Friday drinks function. I am always more on edge, more alert and more often uncomfortably confronted when walking through the city on a Friday night than I am when walking along the river home on weeknights. They move in groups, these self-assured men, and they goad each other on. Sometimes into reprehensible deeds.

I recalled all of the above CityCat story when I read Galaxy's blog, and in particular, her Public Transport Diaries. I once attended a talk on sexual violence where the speaker insisted that women live in fear. To illustrate it, she asked us to write down what we would do if we were working very late in the office. Unthinkingly obedient, I started scribbling the things I would do: phone/email my partner; check the time of the last bus; grab a taxi voucher from work if it was permitted. The speaker stopped us, and asked a few women if they noticed anything when they started to write their lists. No, was the general response. She asked some women to read out items from their list. Similar things to mine – ring a partner, move the car closer / check public transport times etc. Then the speaker asked some of the men what they did, and if they noticed anything unusual when writing their lists. Mostly the men would phone a partner, and that was all. The speaker, with her view of the audience said this is what she noticed: Whenever she asks a group of men and women to perform this listing task, the women, almost as a cohort, bury their heads and scribble frantically. The men put pens in mouths, write one or two items and look around, waiting for the speaker to resume. Her point was that women live in fear because they take all these safety measures. She was not suggesting that women should not take care of their safety – merely highlighting that the threat of violence to women was, at whatever level, real for all women. And not present for men.

I am not stupidly and recklessly setting off into my endangerment. I do not wish to be constrained by a fear of violence; a fear that is misplaced because violence usually emanates from someone one knows and rarely the archetypal stranger in a dark alley. Rather, I undertake some basic safety measures, and I remain observant of my surroundings as I walk home (even when plugged into my orange i-river). Although I have a partner sometimes waiting for me at home, and sometimes on his own way there, I prefer to rely on myself for protection, and for transport.

My adventures in the Law (Episode I)

In 1998, I was horrified to discover that Western Australia was patting itself on the back for having legislatively removed the concept of a wife always consenting to sex with her husband. Yes, way back then in 1998, the State of WA changed its laws so that a man could rape his wife. Before 1998, a man who had sexual intercourse with his wife, whether or not she agreed, could not possibly have raped her. That act of having said "I do" in some half-thought out ceremony however many years ago was all the 'consent' the law needed.

1998.

And then I was even more shocked to discover that the change to the laws was only just on the cards for Queensland.

What prompted that change was the horrific case of H (1995) A Crim R 88 - whose husband raped her, in front of the baby-sitter and their children, and who was sentenced to a non-custodial sentence (he didn't go to jail). I'm not highly supportive of the prison system, myself; but it was the WA Court of Appeal's reasoning that really made my blood boil. One of their reasons for imposing a non-custodial sentence was that, to imprison the husband, would be to deprive the raped H and her children of "the support and assistance" of the rapist vis-a-vis his role, presumably, as breadwinning husband. Never mind the clear treatment of her as something less than human.

As a commercial lawyer, I don't often have to deal with any type of crime, so this has lain dormant in my mind until I read about some further proposed changes to the law.

The law is inherently conservative. I am aware of this. Change is slow. Changing the law requires multifarious strategies: 'softly, softly'; fight from all angles; agitate; cogitate; but most of all persistence.

Western Australia is, with much fanfare, considering whether to bring in a statute (parliament) created defence of 'battered woman'.

I would, most certainly, advocate the creation of the defence of battered woman/person syndrome.

It was in 1998 that 'Battered Woman's Syndrome' hit the big time law books - in the case of Osland v the Queen. This meant that it had been lurking in the lower courts system for at least half a decade prior. In Osland, it didn't succeed to mitigate the woman's sentence, or, indeed, vitiate her conviction.

You see, BWS doesn't fit into traditional self-defence. Because the defence of self-defence was created by men, with men in mind - it requires immediacy, proportion of response to immediate threat created. Case law has come some way to altering and broadening the definition of self-defence. And it will be a very good thing that a statue-based defence is created.

But I am flabberghasted that it has taken so long. And I expect the furore to be great - people still fail to acknowledge the devastating impact family violence has on an individual, and it is still viewed through a stereotyped "it doesn't happen to people like us" lens.

I sincerely hope it the 'BWS defence" gets into the lawbooks, and that other states will follow suit.

Ashamed to be feminist

I am technologically challenged. And what's more, sadly and ashamedly non-proactive about it.

My partner is the IT geek. IT is his problem (and a rather big problem it is at present - having to write up his PhD.) My partner is not currently with me. He is over the seas, tramping around New Zealand. I am at home, mostly alone for the little time that I am actually at home. I thought that, being on my own so much and without him to distract me, I would post more. But no. It's been almost three weeks and nothing from me.

There is a good reason. sort of.

My internet connection was not working and I've made a new resolution not to go near blogs at work during the day. Yes, not even at lunch time. Basically, each time I tried to log on, my lovely internet host (who cannot be named for legal reasons har har) would tell me I was not allowed to. I read the forbidding message. There was nothing I could do: I was forbad. I fiddled around on my computer and then tried to log in again. The nasty message appeared again. I looked at the message and then turned the computer off. A few days later, I tried again. Same message. I thought, "My partner will be home soon. I'll wait for him to fix it."

I'm terrible. What kind of feminist am I? Damsel in technological distress patiently waits for about two weeks until Knight in Shiny IT Armour rescues her?

Well, let me tell you that I logged onto the internet all by myself. And the evil message thing just let me. I snuck past it - I did not fix anything at all. It did not work last week but it works today.

And don't worry, I am not at all ashamed to be feminist. But I am hanging my head a little because of my victim-like approach to Technological Problems.

Fetishising Asian-ness

I was going to call this post 'asian fetish' but then I got worried about what people might google and come up with. In any event, I read this story which is both humourous and sad, and it made me want to respond. But because I babble and comments are meant to be brief, here I am responding in a little web-room of my own.

My partner is not Asian. Although it has been suggested that he is Asian looking (his eyes, though blue, are almond shaped). We regularly have dinner at a Viet restaurant near where we live and were there beside a table at which sat three east Asians - I am not sure from which specific country - one man and two women, all roughly my age-ish.

The tables, like many Viet restaurants, are set reasonably close to each other. I am notorious for eavesdropping on other conversations - something about having once read that if you want to be a writer, than you should observe conversations - but it would have been quite difficult not to overhear. The conversation was about a movie called Glitter which I think was one with Mariah Carey in it. I tuned out. But I tuned right back in again when I heard - "There's another Asian girl with a white boy."

The speaker made the comment that lots of Asian girls went out with white guys because white guys think they're hot, but Asian guys then get left with no one because no white girls will go out with Asian guys. Instead, Asian guys go 'back home' and find some girl from home to marry.

There were so many assumptions in this brief monologue that I wanted to scream - not even counting the complete non-attempt to pretend she wasn't talking about my partner and I. I could not even discuss it with my partner because then I'd be guilty of the same thing!

First of all, I was thoroughly insulted that she thought the reasons why my white partner was dating Asian me was because he found Asian girls hot. Not because I might be interesting, that we shared intellectual and political interests, a sense of partnered independence, or the plethora of reasons, some known and some unknown to me, why we might be together but because Asian girls are hot. Insert oriental or exotic.

Secondly, the idea that Asian guys get left with no one. An inference I draw from this statement is that it is the hot Asian girl's fault that the Asian guy has no one to partner with. That the Asian girl should be preserved for Asian guys only.

Oh – and as an aside which I won't delve into – why not an Asian boy?

Thirdly, that white girls won't go out with Asian guys. Has she asked a white girl? Although in my anecdotal experience, I certainly do know more couples that are Caucasian male & Asian female than I do Caucasian female & Asian male, I know a number of couples of the latter description. My favourite pair met in Viet Nam – both as travellers, he from Australia and she from a northern European country. In Australia, he has no accent and she does. And I've known the reverse fetish to occur in women, most memorably captured in the statement (said to me): I want a chocolate baby. This blog is not even go to go into the can of worms that statement unveils. Not today.

Fourthly, does she have a fear of miscegenation? Is that an implication of her words? That's also a topic for another day, boys and girls.

Finally, that the Asian guy must go 'back home' to find someone to marry. Because the entire purpose of a relationship is the end goal of marriage. But marriage is another socio-cultural assumption that I currently don't have the patience to dissect.

My thoughts in response relate to the role of women from non English speaking migrant background. I don't know which type of Asian these two women and man were or if the same place / country, whether they would consider themselves Australian or not, whether they are migrants, or indeed, anything at all about them. The one assumption I allowed myself to make of them was that they were not local – they were discussing how best to get to somewhere in the city and certainly weren't discussing the most direct route.

Here are the bare bones of a theory: Women embody culture. (That one should not be very controversial). In a diasporic or migrant community, women come to represent the continuation of the culture and traditions of the homeland. The 'loss' of women to the dominant culture is a loss the greater because it is a putative loss of the next generation. To prevent this happening, women are more strictly policed – their behaviour more circumscribed to ensure that no loss will occur. I am a feminist; I believe that, in most societies and certainly in both the societies of which I am a part (mainstream Australian and first generation Viet-Australian), women are subservient to men and women's interests are subordinated to that of men's. In most societies, women are still “the other” - the one who is seen, not the one who sees. Women's roles are still limited – not necessarily to just being a wife or a mother – but limited in the extent to which women are referable to something other than their own autonomous beings and their own autonomous desires to flourish as complete humans. There are rules about how a woman should behave – and within a first generation migrant community, there are distinct ideas about the type of woman that a migrant woman can be. Even more so than in mainstream Westernised cultures, a woman is to be chaste, family oriented and obedient. And when she ceases to be any of these things she cannot be a part of the migrant culture from which she arose.

A woman of a background different to that of the mainstream may enter the mainstream for a relationship because it does not necessarily require her to behave in strict or limited ways. Although there are probably still limitations, these may be fewer than those expected of her as a migrant woman, within the migrant culture. A man of a background different to the mainstream has greater freedoms to explore his ideas of flourishing and remain within the strictures of his culture, and may not need to seek out a relationship from the mainstream because his ideas of his autonomy are accepted within the migrant culture or community.

As the generations go on, there should be less distinction about whether an Asian girl dates a white boy and not the other way around. Because the Asian girl and white boy may be remarkably similar to each other. I have a good friend who appears Asian. She is Australian and has been in Australia longer than my partner and, though few people will ask him where he is from, they invariably ask her. She is more gracious than I am, and will tell them that her grandparents are Chinese.

I wonder how my nieces and nephews, who will be second generation and who speak only English, will navigate these rocky multi-cultural and assumption filled seas?

Home again

I have returned from Viet Nam and I am ... ambivalent.

Only a tiny portion of the trip was about visiting my family home in the South Mekong Delta. The tourist part will be discussed elsewhere - I am still doing my best to keep my genres clean.

The landscape around Hang Day 9 was undeniably beautiful, and poignantly bare in places. Where our house once stood, a thriving garden of watermelons, chilli trees and random herbs now live in neat rows. My uncle's house is a new structure of concrete and tiles, bright and gaudy in the way rich Vietnamese like, and is directly behind where my father's house was. It is luxurious for the region. I preferred the dark palm leaf huts with their patted down clay floor. All my father's family have given up rice farming, and some have given up the fishing life, hiring out the fishing nets to people who are poorer and have to work harder to survive.

Nevertheless, the area is still very dependent on the river. Travel was entirely by boat - our initial trip out from Ho Phong to Hang Day 9 was on a small, low 'long tail speedboat'. It was about one metre across, 7 metres long and half a metre deep. One could stand in it reasonably comfortably, but 3 sisters, Um & Ba plus all our luggage filled it up quite quickly. The rest of our travel on the river was on a suong - also a long tail speedboat but this time only about 70cms across, 4 metres long and about 30cms deep. One could not stand and it was best if one sat serenely in the middle, with as little shifting as possible. The locals squat, but our cousins knew we would not be accustomed to doing so and had placed reed mats on the floor of the boat for us to sit on.

I felt lost and timeless out there. We left when the tide was high, ate when we were fed and went to bed not long after dark. I never knew where or when I was going next and I never grasped the geography of the twists and turns of large river and little and littler tributaries.

I wished to be left to myself more, to wander around the prawn filled dams, my grandmother's tomb and the gardens surrounding the area but each time I walked off, someone would follow me for fear that I would get lost or fall into the river. My westernisation comes out most strongly in my desire for peace and quiet and my inability to spend lengthy amounts of time with people. This all manifested in a migraine which I could not shake the whole three days I was there, because I could never lie down in a cool, dark and quiet spot.

The twists of filial relationships confused me and I called most of my male cousins: older brother (hia or anh - also the polite term for any male). Many of them are older than me and almost all have young families. Most traced their relationship to me, meaning that they were to call me older sister (che) and I to call them younger sibling (em). I could not do it. I was so useless and dependent out there, I had no claim to demand a term of greater respect.

My female cousins I did not see very often. They were almost always busy in the kitchen or garden. They woke before me and started breakfast. After setting up and clearing away breakfast they disappeared into the garden to collect the vegetables and begin preparing lunch. And after lunch, the routine was repeated for dinner. I wandered into the kitchen a few times to talk to them but was ushered out again after it was discovered I did not want anything. I offered my washing up services but was politely declined. My mother suggested that I would be unable to do the dishes because I was unfamiliar with how it was done. When we wished to bathe, my cousins boiled water for us and came to get us when the water was ready. I felt coddled and suffocated. The only cousin I spoke to for a lengthy period of time was excused from serving duties because she had a child still at the breast. She conversed with us in between dealing with her young son.

My position would have been no different if we remained in Viet Nam. I was only served because I was a guest; in another life, I would be serving. All my female cousins called me 'che' but I tried to use their names. Even they called each other by filial denominations and I was confused again.

I found Viet Nam beautiful and moving, and I could imagine living there - as a foreigner in the city. I could not live as my cousins do. I have changed too much to be able to accept their life. I am too outspoken, too feminist, too intellectual and too different.