Up Front by Emma Hart

You deserve a column. I know you do. But my brain has been locked in the house – or more specifically, the lounge – for two days with the rest of the family, and frankly coherent prose is beyond me. Emma not write good.

But you've waited long enough, and today, while so many of you are doomed to a day of snow-bound tedium, might be the ideal time. So here it is: the full text of PAStory.

Thanks to everyone who contributed. I tried really hard to work in every single idea and piece of text, and I didn't quite succeed. But then neither did I integrate the very cheesiest of the Wham! lyrics. And special thanks to my spare-brain proof readers.

Enjoy. (Please, seriously, otherwise I'll cry.)

Two years ago, I wrote a column about same-sex marriage, and how there were no sane or logical arguments against it. I have to admit something now: I said something in that column that was wrong:

 There is an argument I take notice of, though it’s not an argument against gay marriage. It’s that we couldn’t get a law passed, that too many ordinary people are opposed, and it would never be worth burning off the political capital to try it.

Well, here’s what I believe. There are a small group of people passionately opposed, and a small group passionately in favour, and like any issue, a huge mass in the middle who just don’t give a crap one way or the other.

 I was wrong, and I know this for sure now because we actually have polling data. (Hat-tip to No Right Turn here.) Research NZ did the polling and I've just had a thorough read through the results. Turns out almost nobody doesn't have an opinion. In a survey of 500 people, with a margin of error of +/- 4.6%, 60% of New Zealanders over 18 are in favour of same-sex marriage, and 34% are opposed. Only 2% offered no opinion. The question asked was:

 The next few questions are on a range of topical issues, the first is on marriage... In your opinion, should same-sex couples also be allowed to marry?

 In a way, this is a huge relief. As far as public opinion goes, it turns out that we're not "more socially conservative than Iowa", or "more religiously-influenced than Spain".  

 So given that in fact voters favour same-sex marriage by nearly two to one, why is this considered such an untouchably dangerous issue for any political party? It is, after all, what "we" want. (Yes, I know, on polling, "we" have wanted some pretty fucking insane things, but nobody's been arguing against, say, being "tough on crime" because it would be a vote-loser.)

 Well, okay, maybe there are variations in support by demographics that would make it risky for a particular party because of where they draw their support from. Labour and Maori and Polynesian voters, for instance.

 Support for same-sex marriage among Pakeha? 61%. Among Maori and Polynesian? 66%. Okay, maybe poor people are more socially conservative? No, no significant difference by income.

 The significant differences are by gender – males 54% yes 41% no, females 66% yes 27% no – and by age. Over 55 is the only category where support drops below half*, to 44% in favour and 49% opposed. Among people 18-34, support is at 79% in favour and just 19% opposed.

 So really, the only way a party refusing to support same-sex marriage makes any sense is if their target voters are old. Even men are more in favour than they are opposed. And as we've seen, targeting older voters is a long-term winning strategy.

 To be fair to the Greens, they do at least have a solid, specific policy platform on this issue. This hasn't, however, led to a Green MP submitting a private member's bill amending the Marriage Act, or commiting to personally fighting for such a bill.

 Of course, any vote on removing the discriminatory language from the Marriage Act would be a conscience one. What that means is that it's worth asking the question of every candidate for every party. I'll be writing to every candidate in the Port Hills electorate, for instance, pointing out this polling data, and asking:

-          would you personally be prepared to put this bill forward?

-          would you vote in favour of it if someone else did?

And I'll be letting them know that yes, my electorate vote is entirely up for grabs on this issue. Here's a list of candidates by electorate so, if you want, you can do the same. Here, also, is a list of how MPs voted on the Civil Union bill. The Labour candidate for my electorate is Ruth Dyson. She voted in favour. The National candidate is David Carter. He voted against. He also voted in favour of the Marriage (Gender Clarification) amendment. What a guy.

 My party vote? Currently with the Greens. But if another party is prepared to publicly make a commitment to put the bill forward and back it, and the Greens won't match that commitment, I will change my vote. For serious. That's how important not being More Socially-Conservative than Argentina is to me.

I also think it's really important to let our politicians know that the 60% vote too. Given we outnumber them nearly two to one, why can't we get heard over the morally-conservative opposition? Why aren't we saying, very loudly and publicly, you know what? Yous were wrong about Homosexual Law Reform. Yous were wrong about Civil Unions. The sky didn't fall. In fact, nothing bad happened at all. You're also wrong about same-sex marriage. Our current marriage law is unjust, it's unfair, it's discrimatory and it needs to change.

 

*Except for the very amorphous "other" ethnic category, which does so because the "don't know" is significantly higher.

A while back, Russell got in touch with a proposition. Junket to Auckland, if I could produce some kind of performable collaborative art project. The response was, as you can probably imagine, a heady combination of "W00t!" and "oh fuck."

 I mean, I write, right. I have one performance skill and it's the ability to make Thomas the Tank Engine sound like pornography. Funny as that is, I don't think I could sustain ten minutes of "Thomas was a little engine with a long tongue..."

 And then it struck me. It took me only several days to realise that I actually produce collaborative art all the damn time, at Bardic Web. What we do is kind of like a combination of writing and theatresports. So, in what might be a complete disaster, because as far as I know it's never been tried before, I'm going to try to adapt one of our games to produce a collaborative story that'll be read aloud (by me) on the night, and available for download afterwards.

 Who will I be collaborating with? You guys.

 No, seriously. I love you guys. The last couple of years, Public Address System has been there for me through brain surgery, earthquakes, and the death of my mother. You've made me feel supported, and just as importantly, you've made me laugh. And that's my brief for the night. The others will hit the deeper notes. David and I, our job is to make you laugh. And I can't think of a bunch of people I'd rather Make Art with.

 So here's what yous and I will be doing over the next couple of weeks, using PAS and Twitter. We're going to write a story. Right now, I have absolutely no idea what about. That's where you guys come in. Give me ideas. Themes, genres, settings, characters, lines, dialogue, short paragraphs, objects, incidents. I'll write the story using as many of them as I possibly can. Leave them here, or on Twitter using the hashtag #pastory.

 Every now and then I will interrupt the process and say something like, "Okay, here are the last two lines, tell me what happens next," or "Okay, stop, now give me an object to find."

 Play off each other. Safe to say no suggestion will be rejected for being too fucking ridiculous. (Giant mutant space weta? Right you are.) Contributions become more likely to be used for being short (say, no more than fifty words) and funny. Bounce ideas off each other. PLAY. To be honest, if the end product is completely incoherent, I won't care if we've had fun. But I'm betting I can construct something out of your chaos that's worthy of the spirit of this place.

 I'll give you our starting setting: it's the Red Zone. Now, you give me:

-          a type of story to tell. That's genre, but also... object quest? Journey of self-discovery? Harrowing of hell? I'll probably combine two or three of the least sensible of these

-          a cast. Names, occupations, character traits

 All other contributions are welcome all the time, I just want to make sure I get those things in amongst it all.

 Okay, let's go. I can't wait to see if this is actually possible. And with any luck, you can hear me telling the story of your bongo-playing corgi in a voice that'd make the Rev. W. Awdry Really Uncomfortable.

You probably won't be aware of this, but I just had a discreet and utterly decorous short break in Wellington. I had some excuses: dear friends I hadn't seen for too long, and of course SlutWalk, but whether I knew it or not, my main need was to get the hell out of Christchurch for a while.

 Don't get me wrong, I love Christchurch. It's just that Wellington has always been rather like the Other Woman in my life. Even before the earthquakes, people would ask me when I was moving up there. Now they're all "Dude, you gotta get away from that city, it keeps knocking you round." And I'm steadfastly refusing to leave my disfunctional relationship.

 Anyway. My trip to Wellington and environs was enormously relaxing. I mean, relaxing's not just about long baths and nobody wanting me to cook for them. It's also about shouting to Bon Jovi at one in the morning and being called for illegal double-teams. And there was the being able to flush the toilet and having baths that didn't reek of chlorine and driving on flat roads and not looking at what you're walking under in case it didn't stay there. It's the little things.

 I flew out in the evening, and Wellington was all twinkly and lovely and "See you again soon, beautiful," but it was time to go home. The perfect length of a visit, when you're sad to leave and happy to arrive. So it was night when we flew into Christchurch. She's beautiful at night too, the missus, all her strong brilliantly-lit arterials pushing strongly into her heart... Her dead, black heart.

 That was Monday night. First thing Tuesday morning I had an appointment with neurology, to get confirmation of my brain WOF. The time of the appointment conflicted with the school run, which takes an hour now, since February. So this was everyone up early so we could drop the kids off, then drive to the hospital, search desperately for a park because all the parking buildings are shut since February, and then sit and listen to a guy discuss earthquakes with the man he was handcuffed to...

 So we were driving out to Halswell, and the relaxed high I'd come back from Wellington on was battling with the gray horribleness of being up in the morning, but still pretty much holding its own. And then we went down Colombo St and I saw the mess of the back of the Smiths City building, which I must have seen dozens of times, and something happened. I felt something in my chest shut down, lock into a hardness. Like drawing in a cold winter-morning breath and having it stick. It was, I realised, Coping. It was ensuring that what I saw wasn't going to make me feel upset – or much of anything else.

 I hadn't even known I was doing it. I didn't feel it let go when I left – though to be fair I was probably drunk. I'm not all that conscious of it now, two days later. This is just life now. But I felt it kick in. That's the only way I know how much I'm not myself any more, and you know, I don't much fucking like it.

 But. This is my home. I stay in my disfunctional relationship with the ground, never knowing when it's going to get up and smack me round again. You'll see: if I stay, things will get better. It'll calm down. It wasn't like this when we first got together. And it's not like I'm alone. We're all in this together, all Coping. We can talk to anyone now, as long as the conversation is about earthquakes. Now I know about the hardness, I can see it in the people around me, how they're so slightly different. More brittle. Especially since the June earthquakes. Now, we've lost any real sense that this will ever be over. We have so little left to give each other. We're all down to the last of our Coping. Brittle.

 I still love you, Christchurch, I really do. I just... right now, I can't be with you all the time. I know it's selfish, I just need some time to myself. Maybe. I don't actually know whether it's better to keep opening myself up, ripping all the scabs off. But come August, Auckland, it's your turn. You'll be all twinkly for me, won't you?

Warning: triggering for rape, sexual assault, and massive twatcockery.

Some good news. On the 25^th of June, I will be in Wellington, attending a protest. As with all protests, we will be endeavouring not to attract attention, and to only express our views in the most patient, thoughtful and well-mannered way possible. Well alright, not quite. In order to be as inclusive and inoffensive as we possibly could, we'd all stay home and do nothing.

 Sometimes, however, one's patience is simply tested to its limits, and one is tempted to become almost vulgar in one's self-expression. Such a test might arise from a case such as this:

 When a police officer from Toronto went on a routine visit to Osgoode Hall Law School to advise the students on personal safety, little did he know that he would unwittingly inspire a movement that has caught fire across Canada and the US.

"You know, I think we're beating around the bush here," Michael Sanguinetti began, blandly enough, as he addressed the 10 students who turned up for the pep talk. Then he said: "I've been told I'm not supposed to say this – however, women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimised."

There are some things to note here. Firstly, this was a police officer: a representative of the people you go to when you've been sexually assaulted. The ones whose investigative technique apparently includes the question "What were you wearing?"

 Secondly, he's been told he shouldn't say this. Now he's all embarrassed, but he clearly knew he was doing something wrong. Not why, obviously, or that he was perpetuating a dangerous myth and encouraging a culture that makes victims afraid to report rape. In any case, hardly an innocent mistake, something that just fell out of his mouth when he wasn't thinking.

 These remarks have certainly caused something of a tizzy. In Canada, the U.S., Britain, Australia, Sweden, the Netherlands, Argentina, Denmark, Brazil, South Africa and New Zealand, people are taking to the streets, so cross they're almost snippy, to protest victim blaming.

 Now, it's true, some of them have the temerity to try to reclaim the word "slut". It's an ugly and unlady-like word, and if one woman uses it, even in a positive fashion, it tars us all. I wouldn't understand this, of course. "Slut" was what my girlfriend called me after I was sexually assaulted by five of our friends, and I'm sure she meant it as a compliment. (I was wearing a bat-wing sweatshirt and jeans and I'd had one beer. Does it matter?) And it's not like offensive words can ever be reclaimed, and have their poison drawn.

 It's also problematic that people might be dressed in an unseemly fashion. Because how can you possibly be taken seriously if people can see pieces of your body? Nobody's judging, of course, but everyone knows that women who show breast and thigh tissue are stupid. And here they are, in Brisbane, all dressed like silly tarts, and here again in Melbourne. Look at all the slags. And in Wellington in June, I'm quite sure it'll just be an ocean of exposed flesh and giggling and wobbling about in high heels. Alright, perhaps we'll leave that for Auckland SlutWalk, where it might not be quite so nippy.

 One of the wonderful things about my open support for SlutWalk has been the way it's allowed people to explain to me what rape is like. It's a property crime, apparently, rape. It's just like having your car stolen. You know, the way 80% of car thefts are committed by someone known to the victim, who takes their keys from them by force or coercion. And then when you go to the police, they want to know who you've let drive your car in the past, and what colour it was, and how fast it went, because perhaps it wasn't stolen after all. You're just making that bit up, right, to get attention? And twenty years after the fact, a discussion of car theft can still reduce you to shouty tears. It's just exactly the same.

 For those tempted to protest that remarking on the risk factors of dress, or alcohol, or going out after dark is just common sense, and who can't quite get their heads around the concept of rape culture, an exercise. Try imagining what you might think listening to Sanguinetti's comments if you were a rape victim. Now imagine what you might think if you were a rapist. And you know, if our rapists are people we already know, then they're people you already know. Your co-workers, your acquaintances, your classmates. So why can we only talk about what potential victims can do to make sure someone else gets raped instead of them?

 We SlutWalkers expect these protests to immediately change the world, and bring an end to sexual assault. Of course we do, why else would we be bothering? No social change was ever incremental. And there's no way that making each other feel supported and understood could be an end in itself.

 It's a modest proposal. We're not asking much. An end to victim-blaming, and an end to slut-shaming. If that sounds like something you could get behind, perhaps you might come along. But it's also completely okay if you don't. We'll be too busy drinking and staring at each other's tits to notice.