I’ve been driving Dan to work; he can now walk forwards again but is a long way from the right knee flexion required to accelerate or brake our automatic vehicle. We’ve been listening to the Mortified Podcast in the car. Nat suggested that I’d might like it and I do: adults reading their awkward adolescent journals to an audience. I have boxes of folders of adolescent and beyond journals; I have compulsions to document things, relevant or not. Saturday night my nose started to twitch from the dust as I flicked through a 1994 foolscap folder. I was in Year 10, age 15. Most of the pages were capital letter expressions of frustrations about my relationship with my Mum. The following letter was an example of what I had to endure:
Since the weekend the NewsFeed on my Facebook and Twitter (I really should get around to subscribing to an actual newspaper or journalism-based source of news and current affairs) swapped from the affluent white guy rapist getting a lenient sentence to another U.S. mass shooting, except this time the target was a gay nightclub and people we know knew people killed. Sunday morning I scrolled past the news. There is a mass shooting in the U.S. every day. There were bigger mass shooting in Africa last year. Friends on Facebook were beginning to comment, profile pictures a motley patchwork of rainbows and ribbons.
In the past 48 hours two things have stood out:
Firstly, a massacre is a sad event and everybody is affected but to ignore or omit the fact that it was in a gay nightclub, targeting the gay Latino night, is silencing and oppressing a few minority groups. We seem to have an obsession with creating dichotomies. Not all events are mutually exclusive. It could be a terrorist event, a psychotic person and an attack on LGTB citizens. Everybody will perceive this event from their own perspective but refusing to acknowledge the sexuality minority that was targeted, or worse, straight-splaining the attack, is an oppressive act. It’s the media report and water-cooler conversations that have affected me more than the killing of 49 people on the other side of the planet that I don’t personally know. Things like the Westbro Baptist Church celebrating the shooting, compared to Torontonians holding a vigil.
Secondly, I’m really luck to live in Australia. Even though I don’t feel comfortable to hold my husband’s hand in public, and we had to sign our wills as un-married (with my five copies of our Ontario Marriage Certificate still crisp in the envelopes they were sent in) and for us to start our own family we will have to move overseas (I’m not so keen on simply having sex with a woman, as my Aunt and Mum unhelpfully suggested, because ewww)… we have gun control legislation.
We spent last night offline; on the couch watching Season Four of Orphan Black, on iTunes.
I spent my morning post personal training planting seedlings and weeding in the garden. It’s chilly but sunny. Our suburb is quiet and there are birds (a willy wagtail and another small bird) tormenting our cat from the other side of the glass sliding doors downstairs.