crazyjane: (eclipse)
Hundreds of thousands of people just to our north crawl through the splintered remains of their lives, trying to ignore the smell of stagnant water, raw sewage and rotting bodies. They're looking for something, anything, that they can salvage. Each day they queue up in front of the trucks for their ration of water and rice, perhaps the odd ready-to-eat meal. It's not enough to feed a family - in fact, barely enough calories for one person - but it's better than starving, or risking disease. They can't rebuild without help, but they're not getting it.

A country claiming to be the chosen homeland of at least three religions sits under the control of one. It exercises power ruthlessly, building walls and allowing infrastructure in selected areas to degrade to shocking levels. When it learns that one of its traditional enemies has agreed to a deal that will prevent it from developing nuclear weapons, it responds with anger. Why? It doesn't think the deal is tough enough. It wants to be the only power in the region with nuclear capability. It threatens to 'take matters into its own hands' - in other words, to provoke another war in the Middle East, which would draw in nations from all over the world.

Back home, our government systematically breaks every one of its election promises. It cuts education funding, punishes low-income workers for the 'crime' of being underpaid, unravels even the most pitifully small action to mitigate climate change. It rewards the highest paid with handouts and tax cuts. It threatens to keep those unable to work on a pittance that, as time goes on, is less and less able to meet daily needs, let alone medical expenses. Our hideously-misnamed 'Immigration Minister' spearheads the effort to refuse those most in need of refuge, doing everything he can to demonise them while at the same time giving out as little information as possible.

Meanwhile the press prattle about Kardashians, satire TV programs provide better information and comment than the news, and we wring our hands or march in the streets and confess our outraged impotence, over and over.

And I'm no better. I ask myself daily, what is the fucking point anymore?

Nothing changes.
crazyjane: (eclipse)
There are days when I think the worst thing about being bipolar is the medication regime, with all the side-effects that disrupt my life almost as much as the mood swings. The sudden sedation, the fucked-up dreams, the inability to get my eyes open in the morning. That sense of being kept on the level, something I do not understand because I do not, cannot feel that way on my own.

There are days when I think it's the mania, because I feel so damned good for a while, and it's only when I start to go out of control that I realise I need to stop, right now, and I can't. The part of me that says, skip the meds and stay up all night, ride the lightning, just once.

And there are days when I think it's the way the bottom can fall out of my mood without warning, like a sugar crash, only a thousand times worse. When gravity seems to increase, and the volume turns right up, and there's something faintly frightening about everything and everyone around me. When the last thing I want is to be behind the wheel of a car or handling a knife or pouring boiling water - not because I want to hurt myself, but because of the fear that I'm not safe.
crazyjane: (Default)
I went to see my orthopaedic surgeon today, nominally about my tennis elbow (ridiculous bloody name). It was inevitable that my arthritis would come up in conversation, though. It went something like this:

Him: So how are the knees?

Me: They suck. A lot.

Him: I thought so. Ready for that knee replacement yet?

Me: Soon.

Him: Okay. Let me know when. Now, about your elbow ... go away and take some over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. Anything else is stupid.

Me: Cortisone injections?

Him: Hurt like hell, and probably won't help. Same with surgery. Don't worry, it will go away. But it'll probably come back. Mine does whenever I do a hip replacement - it's all that work with a hammer.

Me: You're not inspiring me.

Him: Not my job.

Me: I'd say thanks, but ...

Him: See you next time.

We have a ... blunt relationship. Much like the instruments used to, oh, replace knees and hips.

I like him.
crazyjane: (eclipse)
CNN's Anderson Cooper interviewed the mother of Rebecca Sedgewick. The girl had committed suicide after she was subjected to a truly horrific campaign of bullying (both online and off) by her schoolmates. It was a fairly standard piece designed to humanise the victim, while highlighting a significant social issue. Asked to describe her daughter, the mother replied, 'She was beautiful ... she was smart ...she was funny'.

Heard that before? Sure you have. In fact, if you watched any coverage at all of, say, the Sandy Hook Elementary School shootings, the Boston Marathon bombings, the Trayvon Martin shooting - and the list goes on - you heard those phrases. Those exact phrases. Oh, sometimes the gender changes, or there's a synonym slipped in here and there - but what it all boils down to is 'beautiful, smart, and funny'. A description so generic that it could apply to anyone.

This isn't coming from the interviewers. These aren't the words of a reporter standing in front of a 'scene of tragedy' (another handy little phrase). These are parents, loved ones, friends, all describing the dead in terms that effectively render them faceless, colourless, and utterly without personality.

What does it mean that someone was 'beautiful', anyway? Did they have shining hair? Immaculate makeup? Up-to-the-minute taste in fashion? Soulful blue eyes, smooth chocolate skin, a dancer's physique?

How about 'smart'? Did they ace their exam results? Did they have a natural aptitude for tinkering with all things mechanical? Were they just good at problem-solving?

And let's not forget 'funny'. What does that mean? Quick-witted? Clumsy, in a kind of 'cute' way? Maybe they had a famous party trick involving spoons? Or did they just have a great repertoire of jokes for every situation?

When we think of those who are taken from us, whether by malice, accident, illness, or their own hands - we don't think 'beautiful, smart, funny'. We think about how her eyes sparkled when she was excited, or how he was about to graduate from high school as a top student. We think about the self-deprecating anecdotes he'd tell at parties that had everyone laughing along in sympathy. In other words, we think about the person.

It's the same at funerals or memorial services. We tell those who come up to commiserate with us, even those we barely know, little stories about our loved ones. It may mean absolutely nothing to the hearers, but what matters is that we tell them - because in a way, the dead person still lives as long as we share our memories of them.

And yet.

Shove a microphone in front of our faces, hear that question, and suddenly all that disappears. Instead of telling the world about our loved one, we fall back on stock phrases. We seem to be incapable of going beyond that, and the interviewers certainly don't push for details. Even in 'long form' interviews, we talk and talk about the circumstances of our loved one's death, taking great care to include every aspect - but we don't talk about the fact that she took the teddy bear she was given as a baby off to college with her. That sort of story doesn't come out unless we agree to do a 'special' program. Then - and only then - we are allowed to tell the world anything that will wring a few more tears from the TV audience.

There's a script. There are stock phrases, permitted synonyms and taboo topics. Think politics is full of standardised language? That's nothing to the media language of death, especially murder or teen suicide. Here are a few more. Every town is a 'tight-knit community'. Every mass shooting is an 'unspeakable tragedy'. (I find this one particularly ridiculous, since it's inevitably followed by a breathless, detailed description of exactly what happened.) Suicides 'slip through the cracks'. 'He was a quiet boy'. 'Everybody loved her'. 'The system failed her'. 'Cut down in his prime'.

Et cetera.

Don't believe me? Go hunt down some archival footage from any one of a dozen such incidents. And play bingo.

There's no doubt that the media encourages the script. No interviewer likes to be surprised, and no reporter likes to be caught without the 'right' words. Before we roundly chastise them for what amounts to an absolute de-humanisation of victims, however, we need to stop and acknowledge something about ourselves.

We read from that same script. We embrace that script. Confronted with the opportunity to tell the world about our loved one, we run back to the dubious safety of 'beautiful, smart, funny'. We are complicit in making them faceless.

It's easy to understand the media's motives, but why do we do it? Is it because we find it just too painful to talk freely? If that's the case, though, surely we would have a similar difficulty speaking openly at memorial services and to relative strangers.

What about context? Do we automatically shy away from sharing details about our loved ones with an audience we can neither see, nor hear? Is it simply safer to take refuge in vagueness?

Perhaps these contribute, but I believe there is a third - and most important - factor. We don't even think about it. Our mouths open, and the stock phrases are out before we realise it. It's a self-reinforcing paradigm. We've seen it at work so often that it's become 'the way things are done', or even 'the right words to use'. The microphone appears, the question is asked, and we respond as expected - and our loved ones become part of a generic mass of 'tragedy', indistinguishable from each other.

We owe them more than that.

I'm not advocating we give up our right to grieve privately. No one should be forced to walk in front of a camera. But if we make the decision to speak publicly, we must do so in a way that makes every one of our dead unforgettable. We do it with those who take the lives. How many of us know the names of the 35 people killed by Martin Bryant at Port Arthur in 1996, or the eleven elderly people murdered by Roger Dean's arson? Even if we can find their names, what do we know about them? We might be able to find out which ones were related to each other, but not much else. Unless we tracked down the relatives, we wouldn't know if one was a Dad with a penchant for cracking embarrassing jokes in front of his kids' friends. We'd know the exact causes of death for those who died in the Quakers Hill Nursing Home, but not whether one of those ladies had a secret love of watching Law and Order while drinking hot chocolate with marshmallows.

But Martin Bryant? Sure, we can find out all about him. There are papers, books, documentaries and any number of web pages devoted to the man who obliterated those 35 people. He has become part of our collective memory.

Surely those 35 people deserve at least as much from us.

In the end, it comes down to this - We who know the dead must speak for them. We must refuse 'beautiful, smart, funny'. We must grieve, we must be good to ourselves, and then we must say who our loved ones really are. We need to be more than a society that fetishises the killer and forgets the victim.

We must refuse the script, and speak from our hearts.


Aug. 16th, 2013 05:20 pm
crazyjane: (shit_list)
In the last few days I've listened to sports commentators talk about how going to Russia for the Winter Olympics will be okay, because the government has promised not to be nasty to any gay athletes. I've heard news pundits saying it's not as bad as 'gays' are making it out to be over there. And I've seen people on social media even defend Russia's homophobic laws, because if you believe their polls, 73% of their population don't want their kids to know that gays exist, and 3 out of 4 of them claim they don't even know any gay people, anyway.

It's sickening. Actually, it's beyond sickening. It's fucking unbelievable. Stephen Fry was slammed for writing to British PM David Cameron and actually begging him to boycott the Winter Olympics. He was accused of over-reacting. And a Russian Olympic pole vaulter sat down in front of the cameras to call another athlete 'disrespectful of our laws' ... for daring to wear rainbow nail polish.

A friend sent me these links. Fair warning: the descriptions and images are terrible. )

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