#MeToo, page 7
When they found a table, Tania sat silently through her rapid analysis of recent events. Jane thought the famous writer had used his body of work and own experiences of trauma as a distraction, referring to the New Yorker article, which implied that his recent behaviour was a reaction to his own abuse. As she rattled on, she suddenly became aware of how raw the subject matter was for Tania. When she’d first read her friend’s manuscript, she had been struck by its gravitas. Her memoir described a history of abuse that wasn’t immediately clear, that could be confused with care, or even love, allowing the reader to understand why Tania had stayed. A creative writing lecturer–cum-lover pulses through her life, seducing her while casually observing her deterioration into hospital care. It becomes increasingly obvious that he is part of a tapestry of bad men: a monstrous father and cruel ex-husband.
When Tania decided to write the book it had worried Jane on several levels. She understood the impulse to reveal these experiences; she had often imagined how easy it would be to unravel her own early relationships with men, scrutinising the power imbalances that only materialise with age. But whenever she sat down to write, googling articles about Mr— and aware now of the unsettling similarities to her own relationship with her boss at the time, something always stopped her. She wanted to document the confusion and the strange combination of fear and pleasure but felt that there was something irresponsible in that. As Indigenous women their identities were already fetishised. She wondered whether another narrative detailing a young woman’s naive attraction to an older white man satisfied unacknowledged hunger for native pain and the voyeuristic pleasure, which seemed to fuel the sudden rise of minority memoir. If she was ever going to write a book it would have to be some sort of queer erotic crime thriller with moments of light, free of any men.
As they kept talking, Tania told her that she wanted to call the book Messy Women, something that also jarred with her. It reminded her of Roxane Gay’s collection Difficult Women. She saw Tania in the relentlessly troubled women who occupied Gay’s book, whose difficulties were heightened because they were too frightened, or unable to escape the hideous men who surrounded them. But she wondered whether ‘difficult’ was an appropriate name for them. And even if Gay was trying to own the word difficult as she imagined Tania was reclaiming messy, it annoyed Jane that blame remained with women while men blended into the background. Difficult Men would have been a more appropriate title. She hoped for something strong for Tania’s book, with stature, and language that captured her nightmarish relationship beyond standard tropes. It wasn’t about shocking safe audiences. She hoped the book would avoid the type of publicity that often came with the sudden interest in minority memoir, where the diverse writer is obligated to bleed for the white middle-class gaze. Books like Tania’s were about revealing narratives that the male canon had suppressed or dismissed as personal, small and unworthy of literary merit.
As famous men started to slip from prominence she thought about the editor and the power he continued to hold in publishing. For a while after the drink they’d shared he continued sending her emails. There was nothing particularly sinister in them but each implied that she had talent and offered her career advice. And she continued to answer them even though it was obvious his statements were hollow. While she’d never felt compromised at the level others had, her career had always felt elastic, stretched in unfavourable directions just moments away from snapping. She wondered whether it would be different for Tania. Books traditionally denigrated by literary gatekeepers were becoming fashionable as the interest in marginalised voices grew, but it felt too early to understand what it meant or what change looked like. As they continued discussing the final steps towards the publication of her book Jane hoped they were moving towards something new. And writers like Tania would name their pain with skill and men would fear their power.
Carly Findlay is an award-winning writer, speaker and appearance activist. She has a Master of Communication and Bachelor of eCommerce. Her first book, Say Hello, was released in January 2019. She’s editing Growing Up Disabled in Australia. She writes on disability and appearance diversity issues for publications including ABC, Daily Life and SBS. She also co-hosts a funny podcast called Refreshments Provided that could do with a few more listeners. You can follow her at CarlyFindlay.com.au.
Us, Too
I identify as a proud disabled woman and I write and speak about living with ichthyosis – a rare severe skin condition – and the discrimination that comes with it. A lot of my work is online, where I have acquired a huge network of followers, many of whom are facing similar challenges. In recent years my media career has soared, which has increased my public profile. For the most part I’ve received support, but I have had some dark times – and sadly some of the most abusive behaviour I’ve experienced has come from my own community.
My first true experience in the disability community – and in the media – was when I was in my late 20s. I was a volunteer presenter on a community TV show produced by disabled people, for disabled people. It was a lot of fun. It gave me a chance to not only meet others and practise my journalism skills, but also gain an insight into some of the big issues disabled people face.
One of the male presenters was blind. He would sometimes make inappropriate comments about women’s bodies. One day, while sitting beside me at the desk, he said – completely out of the blue – ‘34B’. I asked him what he meant, and he replied, ‘I think that’s your bra size.’ I told him how disgusting that was, and that I didn’t want to sit next to him. When I spoke to a more senior volunteer, they laughed it off, saying that this was ‘just his schtick’. I’ve seen his name around the disability sector, and it makes me sad that he’s still considered a leader.
Another man, a former friend, constantly commented on my breasts in a photo of me with my cousins and their young children on social media. He also ridiculed a high-profile disabled athlete, and passed on information about my work to known bullies. The breaking point for me came when he watched a group of people bully me online. He showed me fake concern, texted me to say that he was thinking of me, but that he didn’t want to get involved. I told him that if he didn’t speak up, he was no better than the rest of them. Months later, I found him tearing down my work with one of the bullies. I reminded him that in his last message he’d claimed that he would never intentionally mistreat me. I told him how disappointed I was to see this lateral violence (where members of minority communities attack each other) and I wished him all the best.
His reply was both concerning and manipulative. He told me that I was right, that this was lateral violence, and that he would kill himself. In the days after, he messaged my husband and mutual friends telling them he would suicide. He also called me a number of times from a private number, including in the middle of the night, and hung up when I answered. I messaged him asking him to stop, and provided the Lifeline number. This wasn’t the first time he had responded this way when I had called him out on inappropriate behaviour.
Another man, an acquaintance who moved in the same chronic illness circles as I did, wanted my support. In the early months of us talking online, he pressured me into meeting him, saying that if I really cared about my work I would meet him. I did not feel comfortable in his presence. He openly criticised my work – both to my face and in messages – but would tell other people (including my parents) what a hero I was to him.
There was a cycle. Abuse, apology, flattery. I didn’t trust him and his behaviour did not make me want to collaborate with him, despite his repeated suggestion that we should.
One night I was at a concert and he messaged me to ask me why I had not responded to his latest Facebook status. I had a quick look, congratulated him and explained that I had to keep my response brief because I was at a concert. He told me that he was really disappointed in me and that he’d just wanted validation.
I was growing increasingly uncomfortable. Even though this behaviour was on Facebook that doesn’t mean it didn’t have an emotional impact on me. I mentioned to my then fiancé that I was thinking of cutting contact with this man. I wrote him this message and unfriended him:
I’m sorry you’ve been sore. I know what it’s like. But this is one outburst too many, and I’m not letting you treat me like this anymore. You show very little respect. I wish you all the best. What you said last night, your expectations of me, were upsetting. I am sorry I didn’t see your post, but you can’t expect me to react a certain way to it. I hope you find peace with yourself and respect for others soon.
He replied via a lengthy rant hours later, all in capital letters, calling me a ‘fucking stuck up brat’. When I blocked him on Facebook, he emailed me pleading that we remain friends and that we collaborate.
A month or so later, I discovered he mentioned me during a hospital appointment (we attend the same hospital) and also pleaded that we remain friends, asking for a message to be passed on to me. I was frightened but didn’t pursue a restraining order at that time as I was about to get married and worried about how long it would take.
The following year he discovered I was writing a book. He was adamant that I needed to be stopped, calling for people to write to him if they’d been wronged by me. He said I was using disability for fame and personal gain. He said that he and others would prevent my book deal from going ahead, and would not tolerate my ‘fake and ridiculous martyrdom’. He left the same post on a number of Facebook illness support group pages.
I knew none of what he said about me was true, but his post made me scared that he would go to great lengths to take down my career. To me this felt like gendered violence by way of misogynistic and entitled language. It was online abuse from a man to a woman. In my work as an online activist, I rarely, if ever, see this kind of abuse happening in reverse.
I went to court to apply for a restraining order, and even though he denied his behaviour, the pages and pages of screenshot evidence ensured the order was granted. I was pleased that the judge recognised that this online abuse affected my work and confidence. Online is real life.
Sadly, almost all of the support groups decided against banning him from their pages. In fact, the main illness support organisation, a charity based in America, left his defamatory post on their Facebook page for three weeks, and I had to contact them to ask if they could remove it. I also lodged a complaint through the board. They responded by asking me for suggestions on how they could do better on social media in the future. This blasé response was deeply hurtful, as they have continued to support this man. I feel like I’m the one to lose out. This particular organisation researches ichthyosis and connects families with medical support and each other. I spent years referring people to them, making friends through them, yet now I feel burnt. And when I raise this issue of the way they treated me, I am seen as a troublemaker, a difficult person, because the organisation is seen to do such good work for so many.
Violence towards disabled people by non-disabled people is at epidemic proportions. I am not denying that. There needs to be a Royal Commission and hate speech laws introduced and enacted. However, what’s not often discussed is the violence that happens by disabled people, within the community. This piece is scary to write because not many people speak up about lateral violence – there are so many ramifications if we do. We risk being shunned by our own community – a deeply lonely experience.
Yet the three men in the examples above are clearly engaging in lateral violence. The question is, why? Is it due to professional jealousy? In my case, I definitely believe this to be the case. Men who feel inferior are quick to tear down successful women, as if our work and achievements might somehow detract from theirs. But the truth is, there’s enough room for all of us. I know this because I’ve written and spoken about being disabled, and it has encouraged other people to do the same.
Other times, I think lateral violence occurs because disabled people haven’t been given the tools – or experienced the kind of relationships – that teach them how to behave appropriately. I believe this, in turn, is an outcome of the low expectations of disabled people.
There is a perception that disabled people are angelic creatures, put on this earth to teach other people lessons, so it’s unfathomable that we could be badly behaved. Disabled people are often segregated in schools and in workplaces (special schools and sheltered workshops still exist). We are not expected to be sexual or professional people. Many disabled people are not taught about sexuality or social norms. I believe that disabled people need to be educated about respectful behaviour and appropriate boundaries, despite the oppression we face. We also need to be accountable for our actions and reprimanded when we cross those boundaries.
When I’ve spoken to people in leadership positions about these men’s actions, they’ve all made excuses for them, some even showing concern about how my speaking up could affect the men.
‘He’s lonely.’
‘That’s just his schtick.’
‘Don’t tell too many people, you’ll cut off his support network.’
‘Maybe he fancies you.’
‘He’s mentally ill.’
‘He just wants to be your friend.’
There was an expectation that I’d remain friends with these men, or at least continue working with them. And I feel they were treated more leniently because they were disabled. The standards set for them seemed different to non-disabled people.
I wonder if they treated me this way and then demanded my friendship because they are lonely? I acknowledge loneliness is a big issue for disabled people. A 2017 UK study by Scope11 found that two-thirds of the disabled interviewees identified as lonely, and this jumped to three-quarters for those of working age. On a typical day, one in eight disabled people had less than half an hour of interaction with another person.
But loneliness is no excuse for unwanted or inappropriate behaviour. And we shouldn’t have to be friends with abusive people, whether they’re a part of our community or not.
I also encourage those who receive reports of online abuse to understand that it is just as serious as the abuse we face in the home or the street, and to take the necessary steps to reprimand the perpetrator, and provide support to them.
I can endure ableism (discrimination from non-disabled people), but when the awful behaviour is from my own community, I fall apart. I have cut ties with friends because I am not able to trust those who knowingly support abusive people. I feel the need to take a step back from online support groups and face-to-face activities because of the expectation that I will tolerate abuse as part of my work.
Speaking up about gendered violence has consequences for me – self-doubt, performance anxiety, broken friendships, anger and loneliness – but I don’t regret doing it. I hope that it helps other women to speak out; encourages educators, workplaces and organisations to acknowledge the impact of lateral violence; and makes disabled men look at their behaviour and change it.
Olsen, J., 2018, ‘Socially disabled: the fight disabled people face against loneliness and stress’, Disability & Society, vol. 33, no. 7, pp. 1160–64, DOI: 10.1080/09687599.2018.1459228.
Harriet Shing is an Australian politician. She is a Labor member of the Victorian Legislative Council, having represented Eastern Victoria Region since 2014. Shing is the first openly lesbian member of the Parliament of Victoria.
We’re Not There Yet, But We Are on Our Way
My story begins in a suburban restaurant near a big shopping mall. The restaurant had well-used cutlery, paper-covered tablecloths and windows that would catch the late afternoon sun and briefly turn the front of house into a furnace.
My uniform was a white shirt, black skirt and whichever small black apron hadn’t already been taken by someone else when I arrived at 6 pm. I would stay until I was no longer needed, ferrying oysters and scallopine and thin, light baskets of garlic bread.
I split petrol costs with another waitress, who was funny and slightly wild and wore much better make-up than I did, and I’d come home with flyaway hair and tired feet and a handful of money from the tips we divided. And once a week, I’d also get a paper envelope with my wages, in cash, and a list of the deductions for tax. Never superannuation, never leave, never payslips, never a group certificate. Eight dollars an hour.
Three nights a week I traipsed from table to bar to kitchen and back. Spring changed to summer and Christmas appeared in the form of tinsel draped over the cash register and surreal spray-on snow across the bottom of those hot front windows. Sometimes the air-conditioner would falter and in the sweat of it all we’d joke about how good it was to lose weight at work.
And during the busy times, the owner would make his way around the restaurant to shake hands and joke with customers. To me, his humour was hard to understand – his jokes delivered in a loud voice, often as part of three conversations he was having at once. He would switch from yelling to smiling, competing with men and flirting with women. Sometimes he would bring a plate or two out himself, or cook crepes in front of a couple sitting at his favourite table, basking in his own commentary with every deft spoonful of orange sauce. ‘You are lucky,’ he’d say to them as he poured the same amount of liqueur that he always did into a pan, ‘I’m giving you extra, I must like you.’ He watched his customers closely with his bright, sharp eyes, his staff even more so.
He had a temper, but unlike the boys in the kitchen, he also had the authority of rank. He was the king of the place. Sometimes while the front of house smiled and smoothed the service, anger and insults would spit through the doors from the kitchen into the dining room.
