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Category: LGBTIAQ+

  • Finding my way back to women’s history

    A celebrity decorator with blue hair. A single mother who advised JFK in the Oval Office. A Christian nudist with a passion for almond milk. A century ago, ten Australian women did something remarkable. Throwing convention to the wind, they headed across the Pacific to make their fortune. Historian Dr Yves Rees tells their story in a new book called: Travelling to Tomorrow – The modern women who sparked Australia’s romance with America.

    In 2008, back when millennials were still young and skinny jeans were fashionable, I was procrastinating in the Melbourne Uni library when I stumbled upon an article that changed my life. On the pages of an old magazine, I discovered the story of modernist artist Mary Cecil Allen. An enfant terrible of the Melbourne art world, in 1927 Mary decamped for the brighter lights of New York, and later introduced abstract expressionism to Australia. Sounds like a good research project, I thought. I was twenty and had just stepped onto a trajectory that would shape the next sixteen years.

    Once immersed in Mary’s life and times, I started wondering if there was a bigger story here.

    New York was a daring choice for an Australian in 1927—let alone a young and unaccompanied Australian woman. Had any other women done such an audacious thing? Turns out, they had. Hundreds and hundreds of them.

    Writers and musicians and economists and actors and librarians and more. Over four years, I did a PhD on the Australian women who, in the early 1900s, set sail to seek their fortune in the United States.

    Back then, I still thought I was a woman too. Why wouldn’t I? I’d been born with a vagina, and so everyone concluded: girl. I was a people pleaser, a perfectionist, and I was determined to ace this gender assignment. In 2012, when I started my PhD, I had long hair and short skirts and twenty-four years of female socialisation that kept me making nice.

    As a novice women’s historian, I approached my subjects from a position of identification. Like them, I was a white Australian with the privilege and appetite to orient my life around travel and education and career. They felt, in many ways, like a version of me born a century earlier. They were my forebears, direct ancestors in a lineage of feminine resistance to being put in small boxes, women who could model how to navigate womanhood in a world that still positioned men as the default human subject. Through them, I might finally learn how to be.

    Over my long years of research, I ran towards these forebears like an orphaned puppy looking for a mother, a hot mess of confusion and gaping need. How do I do this strange thing called womanhood? If I study you hard enough, if I join all the dots of your big and rebellious lives, will I finally crack the code? Teach me, show me the way. Solve my gender trouble, oh ye fellow white ladies who went before.

    You can probably guess how this story ends. Spoiler alert: when womanhood feels like a puzzle with a missing rulebook, or a role you never signed up to play, or a scratchy jumper a few sizes too small, you might not actually be a woman at all.

    It took me until 2018 to figure this out. By that point, I was thirty and revising my PhD into a book. I had a publishing contract, an academic job. The whole shebang. I was a real women’s historian. Only I wasn’t, and never had been, a woman myself.

    Travelling to Tomorrow

    Cover image: Travelling to Tomorrow

    Once this realisation landed, I didn’t know how to think about women in the past. Were they still my forebears? Was their history still my history? Women’s history was my inheritance, or so I thought. Now, however, I’d been disinherited—or had disinherited myself. It was too painful to consider, so I didn’t.

    Instead of revising the manuscript, I invented other work for myself. For years, I wrote economic history, migration history—anything to avoid my ‘women’s history’ book, that rotting corpse of my old certainties. I didn’t know how to write women’s history anymore because I no longer understood my relationship to that concept. My book remained in the form of Word drafts and manila folders, collecting dust.

    Then one day, I remembered that Mary Cecil Allen played fast and loose with her own gender assignment. The painter preferred pants and came to be known by her masculine middle name. If a Cecil in pants was part of ‘women’s history’, was this field really so far removed from my own experience?

    Would someone like Mary have understood themselves as nonbinary if they’d had this concept at their disposal? The possibilities of self-definition are always shaped by historical context. With different ideas and words floating around, the same person might think about themselves in an entirely new light.

    I had already met countless older people who told me, somewhat wistfully, that they would call themselves nonbinary or trans if only they were 30 or 40 years younger. Had they’d encountered this idea in their youth, their lives might have looked very different. How many other people, dead and buried, might have thought the same way?

    When I started looking for it, gender non-conformity was everywhere in my ‘women’s’ history.  There was the nurse Cynthia Reed, who was known by the nickname Bob and had surgery to reduce her breasts. Then there was the author Dorothy Cottrell, who wrote an autobiographical novel with a male protagonist. In that same novel, another character is described as having a mix of male and female energies – a gender expression we’d now call nonbinary. ‘In some natures sex is definitely marked in every fibre of being’, Dorothy wrote. ‘But in rarer cases the blending of the elements masculine and feminine seem almost equal.’

    This is not to say that these ‘women’ were not women at all. It is not to say that every person in history who challenged gender norms was nonbinary or trans. It is simply to say that we know less than we think. We can know the gender people were assigned at birth, we can glimpse whether they accepted or challenged that assignment, but beyond that is a whole realm of unknowability and mystery. We can only wonder and imagine.

    How marvellous, how beautiful.

     

    Picture at top: Yves Rees. Picture: Catherine Black

    The post Finding my way back to women’s history appeared first on BroadAgenda.

    This post was originally published on BroadAgenda.

  • Navigating the employee lifecycle: Trans and gender-diverse edition

    Understanding and raising awareness about the obstacles and disparities faced by trans and gender-diverse employees in Australia can help managers access a larger talent pool by implementing inclusive initiatives.

    Manager’s knowledge should include the awareness of discriminatory challenges of a decent proportion of employees (approx. 11% LGBTQIA+) to demonstrate sensible actions concerning the International Day Against LGBTQIA+ Discrimination (IDAHOBIT) or throughout Pride Month. Unlike rainbow washing, inclusive initiatives can result in an increasingly positive work culture and equitable customer engagement.

    Towards the end of this year, the Australian Human Rights Commission will publish a project mapping current and emerging threats to trans and gender-diverse human rights. I provided a submission that encourages organisations to rethink their workplaces that must uphold human rights to unlock the immense value of diverse talent.

    As a non-binary academic researcher, I have had the privilege of consulting with trans and gender-diverse individuals about their experiences in Australian workplaces. The stories I have heard paint a sobering picture of systemic discrimination, exclusion, and denial of fundamental human rights throughout the employee lifecycle.

    Workplace cultures and processes – we can do better

    From the very start during recruitment and selection processes, trans and gender-diverse applicants face significant hurdles. Starting with job application forms often force them to misgender themselves by requiring a binary gender selection. Followed by selection panels harbouring unconscious biases that can discriminate against trans and gender-diverse candidates. Additionally, there is the dilemma for trans and gender-diverse applicants of whether to risk outing themselves by providing documentation like prior certificates listing former names and incorrect gender markers.

    Securing employment does not mean the challenges end. The onboarding experience alone can be traumatic, such as introducing new trans and gender-diverse hires to colleagues using incorrect names and pronouns. A lack of transparency around inclusive policies on matters like gender affirmation leave can leave trans and gender-diverse employees feeling unsupported and vulnerable.

    The workplace itself is often rife with ignorance and hostility. Co-workers and managers lacking LGBTQIA+ education perpetuate an unwelcoming environment, while gaps in anti-discrimination policies fail to protect trans and gender-diverse employees from harassment and abuse, even from customers. Abuse by customers towards trans and gender-diverse employees is often not addressed.

    Robin's latest paper includes practical recommendations concerning language use, leadership style, work practices and arrangements that should be considered for increasing transgender and gender-diverse workplace inclusion. Picture: Adobe Stock

    Robin’s research shows that “…from the very start during recruitment and selection processes, trans and gender-diverse applicants face significant hurdles.” Picture: Adobe Stock

    It takes a toll

    Such chronic discrimination and minority stress take a heavy mental toll, undermining trans and gender-diverse employees’ ability to perform and develop professionally. Even when adequately performing, they are frequently overlooked for career advancement opportunities or promotions due to stigma and bias against their gender identity. Many feel forced to work “twice as hard” and conform to outdated gender norms, just to avoid being targeted.

    Consequently, the impacts extend into areas like performance reviews, where trans and gender-diverse employees may be graded poorly not due to merit, but because of a manager’s prejudice. Or learning and development programs, which can be minefields without LGBTQIA+ knowledgeable trainers and safe travel policies for trans and gender-diverse staff overseas. Even participating in an “inclusive” event can become an exercise in tokenism rather than an authentic growth opportunity.

    Faced with these relentless headwinds, it is no wonder many trans and gender-diverse employees opt to leave hostile work environments, knowingly sacrificing future job prospects because they can no longer get supportive employment references. Those who do pursue exit interviews often avoid them, fearing re-traumatisation from recounting their negative experiences.

    The cumulative effects are staggering higher unemployment, job dissatisfaction, and economic disadvantages for Australia’s trans and gender-diverse community as they are systematically excluded from opportunities and robbed of dignity in the workplace.

    In my view, protecting the rights of trans and gender-diverse employees is both a moral imperative and an economic necessity. Beyond the ethical obligation, organisational cultures that marginalise trans and gender-diverse talent severely undermine their diversity, innovation, and competitiveness. No workplace today can afford to ignore such a glaring inclusion failure.

    How can we go forward?

    Initiatives or organisational changes are outlined to offer organisations practical recommendations translatable to their daily business, such as utilising employee resource groups, reviewing best practice recommendations by the Diversity Council Australia, or establishing clarity about organisational values. Concluding by highlighting the organisational duty and responsibility for the employee’s psychological safety in the workplace.

    The way forward requires a comprehensive reckoning by Australian employers. At every stage – recruitment, onboarding, development, retention – proactive measures must be implemented to combat discrimination, educate staff on allyship, enforce inclusive policies and practices, and ultimately create safe, empowering environments where trans and gender-diverse employees can thrive authentically. Only then can we realise workplaces that fully uphold human rights and unlock the immense value of diverse, liberated talent.

    Five key takeaways for employers 
    • Putting gender inclusive and/or gender-neutral language into practice in all organisational communication
    • Providing comprehensive LGBTQIA+ education and training for managers and team leaders
    • Establishing and enforcing a gender affirmation policy to support trans and gender-diverse employees
    • Championing the formation of an Employee Resource Group or staff-led Pride Network to foster inclusivity and support within the organisation
    • Creating diverse platforms and channels for employees to express their perspectives and have their voices heard within the company

     

    Picture at top: The Progress pride flag/Shutterstock

    The post Navigating the employee lifecycle: Trans and gender-diverse edition appeared first on BroadAgenda.

    This post was originally published on BroadAgenda.

  • Nurses redefine patient care during the AIDS crisis

    HIV and AIDS devastated communities across Australia in the 1980s and 1990s. In the midst of this profound health crisis, nurses provided crucial care to those living with and dying from the virus. They negotiated homophobia and complex family dynamics as well as defending the rights of their patients.

    A new book, Critical Care, unearths the important and unexamined history of nurses and nursing unions as caregivers and political agents who helped shape Australia’s response to HIV and AIDS. Its author, Geraldine Fela, tells BroadAgenda why this moving slice of history matters. 

    Transforming the Nightingale Nurse: Gender, Nursing and HIV

    On the brink of a new pandemic – though none of us knew it then – I travelled around the country interviewing nurses who had been involved in HIV care during Australia’s ‘AIDS crisis’. Between 1983 – the first recorded AIDS-related death in Australia to the introduction of effective treatment in 1996, nurses played an extraordinary role in responding to this profound public health crisis.

    The distinct virological nature of HIV brought to light and elevated the crucial role of nurses in patient care. This, combined with a broader political context in which both nurses and patients were challenging the rigidity of the hospital hierarchy, saw a significant change in the relationships between doctors, nurses and patients in many clinical settings.

    The Nightingale nurse

    Nursing was and is a highly feminised profession. The long association of nursing with women has its history in the Nightingale school of nursing, an approach to nursing developed by Florence Nightingale in the second half of the nineteenth century. Under the Nightingale reforms, nursing became a distinct, highly disciplined profession emphasising hygiene, order and hierarchy.

    Nightingale nursing was imbued with Victorian ideas of womanhood. The “Nightingale nurse” was a woman, she was self-sacrificing, chaste and middle class in her sensibility. The subordinated position of nurses within the hospital, particularly in relation to doctors, was entrenched in this gendered ideal of nursing. Nurses were taught not to challenge the authority of doctors – who held a monopoly over medicine.

    This tradition lasted well beyond the nineteenth century, and is an element of the social dynamics of hospitals and medicine today. For example, it remains the case that the majority of nurses are women and doctors and surgeons men. However, in the 1980s and 1990s and in context of HIV and AIDS care, these rigid hierarchies and roles were shaken.

    Cover: Critical Care

    Cover: Critical Care

    Shaking up the hierarchy

    The difficult medical circumstances of HIV and AIDS highlighted and elevated the importance of the type of care that nurses provide. This challenged established roles in many of the clinical spaces dealing with HIV and AIDS. Brad Hancock, who nursed at Ward 17 South, the HIV and AIDS ward at St Vincent’s Hospital in Sydney, reflected on this transformation.

    Brad recalled the difference between HIV nursing and paediatrics, where he had also worked. In paediatrics, ‘the doctors have all the authority and knew all the answers and you were just carrying out their wishes’. By contrast, in HIV care, he remembered that, ‘[w]hen you came to HIV it was, the nurses are going to be the ones that are going to be caring, that are going to know what’s happening… It was collaborative’.

    The confidence of nurses to assert their expertise was also a product of growing union militancy within the workforce. In the late 1970s and early 1980s there was a surge of industrial activity among nurses. For example, in 1986, Victorian nurses took the national stage and struck for fifty days. Simultaneously, an insurgent rank and file had elected radical leaderships in the New South Wales Nurses Association. Nurses were fighting for their pay and conditions, and were also starting to challenge their subordinate role in the hospital.

    ‘Loud and angry’: A new kind of patient

    People with HIV and AIDS were not the generally compliant, elderly patients that many doctors and hospital administrators were used to. Many were young gay men used to asserting their rights. Activists, patients and patient/activists demanded that doctors collaborate with them under a ‘consult, don’t prescribe’ policy’.

    Trevor, one of the nurses I spoke to who worked at St Vincents Hospital in Sydney during the crisis, described this new dynamic: ‘the gay men that were dying were loud and angry as a rule’ and that ‘[t]hey would challenge about the therapies, they’d challenge about anything that they could challenge about’.

    The confidence and assertiveness of these patients had a profound impact on relationships between healthcare workers and patients. As community nurse Sian Edwards, who also worked in Sydney, recalled ‘The relationship between doctors and patients phenomenally changed. People were learning together… So the relationships equalled’.

    When people with HIV and AIDS demanded input into their care and a say over the public health approach to the virus, nurses and their unions stood with them. They opposed discriminatory measures like compulsory HIV testing, long campaigned for by doctors and surgeons, and they supported the aspirations of people living with HIV and AIDS who wanted control and agency over their treatment.

    One of the best examples of this occurred in 1991, when the Victorian AIDS Nurses Resource Group—a working group of the Australian Nursing Federation—held a large conference of rank-and-file nurses working in AIDS care. The conference floor passed a series of recommendations related to HIV and AIDS care. These included resolutions opposing mandatory testing. They ‘put the medical profession on notice’ resolving that nurses ‘will not assist you [doctors and surgeons] in carrying out non-consensual HIV testing on people seeking care. We will not assist you in making health care conditional on consent to HIV Testing.’

    In the depths of a devastating crisis, affected communities, in Australia predominantly gay men, issued a challenge to the medical establishment; they insisted on having input into their care, they questioned the status quo of drug trials and regulations, and upended the traditional medical hierarchy that elevated the expertise, power and decision-making of doctors and surgeons. In this bold endeavour, they found consistent allies among nurses, who were themselves pushing back on the rigid, gendered hierarchies of the medical system. Change rippled through the broader healthcare system, perhaps the last word on this is best left to Sian:

    The relationships between the healthcare professionals and the patient was changing dramatically in HIV. And I think it had an impact on many relationships and hierarchies amongst healthcare professionals now, but it took a while.

    Picture at top: Geraldine Fela. Supplied.

    The post Nurses redefine patient care during the AIDS crisis appeared first on BroadAgenda.

    This post was originally published on BroadAgenda.

  • What I’ve learned after 12 years fighting on the frontline

    As I step down from my role at Meridian – Canberra’s leading LGBTIQA+ organisation – after 12 years, I reflect on how we can priorities lived experience in policy, research and service delivery.

    How we talk about lived experience is critical. It defines how we engage with and prioritise the development of lived experience in policy, research, and service delivery.

    Meridian is an organisation with lived experience at its heart.  The importance of peer leadership in LGBTIQA+ community organisations like Meridian is increasingly intersectional. This means that leaders within these groups are not only addressing issues specific to sexual orientation and gender identity but are also navigating and integrating other significant aspects of identity and experience, such as disability, mental health, and homelessness, to name a few. I had always assumed that these intersecting lived experiences were static phenomena: a person was either disabled or they weren’t, a person was either homeless or they weren’t.

    However, I have come to understand that these experiences are far more fluid and dynamic. For instance, someone might struggle with mental health issues at one point in their life and experience homelessness at another, or they might be managing a disability while also facing challenges related to their sexual orientation or gender identity.

    This evolving understanding highlights the necessity for peer leaders to be adaptable and empathetic, as they support community members whose needs and circumstances can change over time. Peer leaders with lived experience in these intersecting areas can offer unique insights and support, fostering a more inclusive and responsive community organization that better serves its diverse members.

    While I am a privileged white woman, you might wonder how I can comment on these issues—I am queer and I have lived experience of disability  – am I an imposter? This is a question I often grapple with. The concept of imposter syndrome is not uncommon, especially when addressing issues that intersect with identities and experiences different from our own. However, acknowledging my privilege and the limitations it may impose on my understanding is crucial. It compels me to approach these topics with humility and a willingness to listen and learn from those directly impacted by them.

    Engaging in these discussions isn’t about speaking for others but about amplifying the voices of those who might not have the same platform. It’s about leveraging my privilege to support and advocate for a more inclusive and equitable community. By recognizing my positionality, I strive to be a better ally, continuously educating myself and working alongside those who face these challenges firsthand. This process is ongoing and requires a commitment to self-reflection and growth, ensuring that my involvement is both respectful and constructive.

    Phillippa, centre rear, is passionate about working alongside peer leaders with lived experience.

    Phillippa, centre rear, is passionate about working alongside peer leaders with lived experience. Picture: Supplied

    Meridian employs staff who have lived experience and use this openly, appropriately, and effectively to build professional relationships with the people they work with. Lived experience is used to inform and contribute to staff culture and encourage community understanding and reduction of stigma and discrimination for all affected communities.

    Without lived experience, there may be a lack of deep empathy and understanding of the challenges and nuances faced by the community.  Services and supports may be less effective when both designed and delivered.  Without the perspective of lived experience, there is a risk of inadvertently reinforcing stigma and discrimination.

    Staff may unknowingly perpetuate harmful stereotypes or fail to challenge societal biases, leading to environments that are not fully inclusive or supportive.  An absence of lived experience can lead to a homogeneity of perspectives within the organisation. Diverse experiences bring diverse solutions and innovations. Without this diversity, the organisation may become stagnant, relying on outdated or ineffective practices.

    Policymakers cannot speak for other people when they have never walked in their shoes. Without lived experience decisions are informed by assumptions and, in some cases, bias and stereotyping. Truly effective initiatives must be based on the real lives of those they aim to serve   Lived experience enriches an organisations approach, making it more empathetic, effective, inclusive and capable of fostering trust and driving change.

    I would like to see the narrative change – Lived experience is what people personally know and understand from experiencing specific situations or events themselves. It includes the insights, perspectives, and emotions gained and felt from firsthand encounters with different aspects of life. This might include health issues, living with disability, experiences of drug use, homelessness, cultural dynamics, or any other lived reality.

    For example, someone with a mental health condition can share insights about the challenges of dealing with the mental healthcare system, the stigma around mental illness, and the everyday struggles of managing their well-being.

    Similarly, someone who has experienced homelessness can provide firsthand perspectives on the barriers to accessing housing, the impact of socioeconomic factors, and the need for supportive services.

    This lived experience is authentic and rich. It’s a powerful resource with depth that captures the nuances and intricacies of individual journeys. Incorporating lessons learned from lived experience into policymaking, research, and service delivery is crucial to more empathetic, inclusive, practical, and effective outcomes. It ensures decision-makers understand the realities faced by those directly affected by the issues.

    In the research space, for example, lived experience enriches the quality and relevance of studies. Quantitative data provides valuable insights but often fails to capture the full spectrum of humanity. By using qualitative methods and including people with firsthand experience, researchers can better understand their subjects’ real lives. This helps create more relevant interventions and ensures that the findings connect with the individuals and communities they aim to understand.

    It’s our collective responsibility to create space for all individuals’ voices—especially those from marginalised communities—to be heard and valued.

    This is a call to action, but it doesn’t exist in isolation. The ongoing discussion about how lived experience should inform public policy, research, and service delivery has a long way to go. We have many challenges to overcome, including representation, power dynamics, and the need for support and compensation for individuals sharing their experiences.

    But only by embracing the full diversity of human experience can we create policies, conduct research, and deliver services that genuinely meet the needs of all individuals and communities.

    *Picture at top: Supplied  

     

    The post What I’ve learned after 12 years fighting on the frontline appeared first on BroadAgenda.

    This post was originally published on BroadAgenda.

  • Summer profile series – inspiring women: Danielle Scrimshaw

    Over summer, BroadAgenda is featuring a short series of profiles on amazing women and LGBTIQ + folks. Our first Q and A is with Danielle Scrimshaw. She’s is a writer living on Boon Wurrung country whose work has been published in Archer, Overland, Lilith Journal and elsewhere. Her history of queer women in Australia, She and Her Pretty Friend, is out now with Ultimo Press.

    If you were sitting next to someone at a dinner party, how would you explain your work and research in a nutshell? 

    For the past five years I’ve been researching Australian queer history, specifically women’s. My book She and Her Pretty Friend is the brainchild of a history Honours thesis and the subsequent research that followed, full of the stories of women who identified as queer in their lifetime or whose personal history is more ambiguous. I have also written creative essays and short stories which explore themes of sexuality, identity, relationships and grief.

    What are you currently working on that’s making you excited or that has legs? 

    I’m giving nonfiction a break for now and working on a novel I wrote during the 2020 lockdowns. It’s about best friends Greer and Andie—young queer women from Melbourne’s eastern suburbs—and their respective obsessions: Greer’s, a girl at university she has a debilitating crush on, and Andie’s, attempting to solve the mystery of prime minister Harold Holt’s disappearance in 1967.

    It’s a lot of fun to write and is making me feel nostalgic for my years at uni (and the girls I had a crush on…). 

    Let’s wind back the clock a bit. Why did you go into this field?  What was compelling about it?  

    I’ve wanted to become an author since being gifted the first four books in the Vampire Academy series for Christmas ‘09. I vividly remember devouring them over summer, sitting in the kitchen with a towel over my shoulders as my mum dragged a nit comb through my hair (for the last time in my life, thank god).

    I read the author’s—Richelle Mead—blog weekly, mystified by photos of her book signings and glimpses of notes scrawled across drafts. I wanted to be something like her so wrote versions of my own supernatural boarding school romances until, eventually, I found a love for Australian history in my last year of high school. If it wasn’t for my teacher, I would never have considered studying history at university.

    Danielle Scrimshaw

    Danielle Scrimshaw. Picture: Supplied

    What impact do you hope your work has? 

    A friend reached out to me while she was reading Pretty Friend to say it made her feel seen and valid—this, I think, has been the most touching response to my work.

    I hope my book helps readers connect with our queer past (and present) and encourages people to seek out more queer history.

    It’s still a growing field but there are some amazing books being published, such as Transgender Australia by Noah Riseman and Growing Up Queer in Australia. The ABC documentary Queerstralia, hosted by Zoё Coombs Marr, is another important (and funny) introduction to Australia’s queer past.

    Do you view yourself as feminist researcher? Why? Why not? What does the word mean to you in the context of your own values and also your work?

    I do. Even when I’m not consciously writing from a feminist perspective, I believe my values are so closely tied to feminism that my work can’t be separated from it. My research is primarily interested in filling the gaps of women’s stories and bringing a closer focus to queer women in history, who have so often been dismissed or left behind.

    My relationship with feminism has grown and shifted over time, from first reading The Feminine Mystique to learning more about intersectionality. As I continue to read and consume content from a variety of people with different lived experiences, I expect my idea of feminism will continue to change and grow. 

    What have you discovered in your work that has most surprised or enchanted you?

    I always love revisiting the 1970s gay liberation movement in my research, as it’s full of such rich documentation and primary resources. Something that surprised me from this era was an article about Australia’s first lesbian feminist festival in 1975, held at a small mining town in the northeast of Tasmania called Derby. Several women travelled from the mainland to attend; the festival ran over a weekend and included activities such as hiking, camping and skinny dipping. An ideal weekend, really.

    AP Pobjoy has also directed a beautiful documentary about Francesca Curtis and Phyllis Papps, the first lesbian couple to come out on national television in Australia. It’s called “Why Did She Have to Tell the World?” and is inspiring and deeply moving.

     Is there anything else you want to say? 

    If you want to be a writer, one of the best things you can do is make friends with other writers. There is nothing more important than having someone to share drafts with, cheer you on and keep you accountable.

    Also, submit! My book’s journey to publication began by an editor reading something I wrote for Archer’s online magazine. Write many, many words and do your research to find a home for them.

     

    The post Summer profile series – inspiring women: Danielle Scrimshaw appeared first on BroadAgenda.

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  • Waltzing Matildas: How is Australia Faring on Gender Equality?

    The following is a shortened, lightly edited excerpt of a speech given by Australian politician, diplomat, gender equality advocate and author Natasha Stott Despoja AO, at the National Foundation for Australian Women annual dinner, 2023. Natasha is currently a Professor in the Practice of Politics at the ANU. She’s also an elected member of the UN’s Committee on the Elimination of Discrimination Against Women.

    What an honor to address this dinner with some reflections on the state of gender equality in Australia and globally.

    I use the reference to the Matildas during this difficult time globally, as one of the great highlights of this year has been the successful Women’s World Cup which brought our nation together and highlighted women’s leadership and prowess.

    Tonight, I pay particular tribute to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander women tonight, especially those who championed The Voice.

    It was a profound experience to be on the Prime Minister’s Referendum Council and see the painstaking work and collaboration that went into the Uluru Statement from the Heart and – like many of you – I express my despair at the result.

    From an international perspective, it was concerning to see how my UN colleagues reacted. The specificity of the referendum was lost, but the general message of the rejection of the rights and recognition of Indigenous Australians is a narrative that understandably has currency in some multilateral spaces.

    My not-for-profit work these days involves protecting and advancing the rights of women and girls in UN Member States as a member of the UN Committee on the Elimination of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW). I have just returned from State Party dialogues with countries ranging from Uruguay to France, Albania to Malawi.

    Regardless of the differences, no country has achieved gender equality, including Australia.

    Yet, no country or community, regardless of its circumstances, can reach its full potential while drawing on the skills of only half its population.

    This session was particularly daunting: I spoke with families of the hostages in Israel as well as Palestinian and Israeli feminist NGOs terrified about the welfare of their friends and people as well as the disproportionate impact of war and terror on women and girls.

    We continue to see examples of the deterioration of women’s human rights globally: and the impact and prevalence of Conflict Related Sexual Violence in conflicts such as the Middle East, Afghanistan, DRC, Sudan, Ukraine.

    Despite the crises occurring globally, and the backlash against women and girls, our seat at the table is still missing, especially in peace negotiations.

    This is in spite of the UN Security Council Resolution 1325 and subsequent resolutions on ‘Women, Peace and Security’ which acknowledge “the important role of women in the prevention and resolution of conflicts and in peace-building” and insisted on the increased participation of women in all stages of a peace process, including peace negotiations. 

    We know there is a strong correlation between peace agreements signed by female delegates and durable peace and yet, seven out of every ten peace processes do not involve women mediators or signatories.

    In the multilateral sphere, we are not only dealing with countries which have been slow to advance gender equality, we are now confronted by countries actively backtracking.

    The High Commissioner for Human Rights, Volker Turk, has warned about the “pushback and backsliding”, the “systematic countering of women’s rights and gender equality”.

    On IWD, the UNSG Antonio Gutteres said, “the patriarchy is fighting back”, warning it would take 300 years to achieve gender equality at the current pace.

    The covid pandemic also exacerbated existing inequalities and made the lives of those already marginalised — including the poor, people with disabilities, and women and girls, much worse.

    Before COVID, approximately 244 million children were out of school, mostly girls.  Now, the education of almost 1.5 billion young people is at risk.

    As a result of the pandemic, over the next decade, up to 10 million more girls will be at risk of becoming child brides.

    These examples remind us that everything is relative and of course Australia is doing comparatively well. But, the enduring comment I get from my UN colleagues about Australia is that they are surprised that we are not doing better!

    The reality remains that when it comes to gender parity in Australia: women are still paid less for the same work, are more likely to engage in part-time and casual work, carry the primary responsibility for care-giving, for both children and parents, and retire with less superannuation.

    These situations are compounded for women from poorer, diverse and Indigenous backgrounds and for women with disabilities.

    Women represent less than 36% of board positions, there are only 10 female CEOs of ASX 200 companies; women comprise 20% of the ADF workforce and until recently, Australia had fewer women in its highest ranks of government than nearly every OECD country.

    Yet, we know that an increased number of women in leadership roles leads to improved distribution of resources, better maintenance of public infrastructure, better natural resource management, and actually has a positive effect – right down to measures as simple as profit and loss.

    Companies with more women in senior management teams have about 30% higher profit margins than those with lower gender diversity.

    The business case is compelling. As Sam Mostyn and the Women’s Economic Equality Taskforce has made clear, a tax system that eliminates “negative gender biases” could unlock $128 billion lost annually to inequality.

    Apart from this being the fair thing to do, increasing women’s leadership and voice are the right thing to do.

    Research also shows women in leadership positions changes perceptions regarding the roles and aspirations of girls (including reducing the time girls spend on household chores in developing countries), results in more girls attending school and becoming equipped, themselves, to play leadership roles, including in conflict prevention.

    We can’t be what we can’t see.

    When I became a Senator, so many messages came from young women, saying that “if I could do it so could they”.

    That was more than 27 years ago, and the federal parliament was around 14% female, and I was sure that we’d have gender parity long before now.

    I take heart in recent changes: there are more women than ever before, 4% of MPs are of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander backgrounds, and we have more diverse cultures and backgrounds reflected and represented. The Senate is now 53% female.

    I was serious about changing public perceptions around who was a politician (male, white, privileged, older) and worked with others to change the policy landscape for women generally, and the culture of the parliament specifically. I dealt with ridiculous stereotypes, unsolicited comments and touching, double standards and discrimination.

    Being a younger woman underscored these experiences, but no woman is exempt, and these experiences are compounded for women of color, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander women, lesbian and trans-women and for women with disabilities.

    All of whom have been profoundly under-represented in our decision-making institutions and whose injustices deserve bolder attention. Along with those of older women, the fastest growing group moving into poverty.

    But, as my CEDAW colleague, Nicole Ameline reminds us, it is not just about numbers – and of course reflecting the difference and diversity in our population – but we need serious ‘disruption’ when it comes to decision-making institutions and ‘systems’.

    Left to right, Jane Madden, President of NFAW, Zali Steggall MP, Natasha Stott Despoja, Aunty Violet Sheridan, Ngunnawal elder, Stephanie Copus Campbell, Ambassador for Gender Equality, Zoe Daniel MP, Sally Moyle, Vice President of NFAW and Mary Atkinson, Ngunnawal elder. Picture: Supplied

    Left to right, Jane Madden, President of NFAW, Zali Steggall MP, Natasha Stott Despoja, Aunty Violet Sheridan, Ngunnawal elder, Stephanie Copus Campbell, Ambassador for Gender Equality, Zoe Daniel MP, Sally Moyle, Vice President of NFAW and Mary Atkinson, Ngunnawal elder. Picture: Supplied

    This is the rationale behind Madam Ameline’s GR 40 which calls for a “paradigm shift towards parity as a key norm in support of the realisation of women’s rights to equal inclusive and meaningful representation in decision making systems at all levels of the CEDAW Convention”.

    These changes are those that the National Foundation for Australian Women has been calling for since its inception.

    Your admirable goal of advancing and protecting the interests of Australian women in all spheres, including intellectual, cultural, political, social, economic, legal, industrial and domestic has been pioneering.

    And, importantly, you goal is to ensure that the aims and ideals of the women’s movement, and its collective wisdom, are handed on to new generations of women.

    It is an honor to be the dinner speaker for this pioneering feminist organisation which I have watched and been honored to connect with since it began. I have admired its founders, including the late Pamela Denoon, and its members. NFAW is one of the most important bodies in contemporary feminist herstory.

    Your work on a gender-lens on budgeting and social policy, the women’s archives and other projects have made Australian women’s lives better and have guided and held accountable governments of all persuasions. I thank you.

    We still have a long way to go before we have a more gender equal future. 300 years is shameful statistic.

    But it is not easy when 59% Australians believe that gender equality has mostly or already been achieved.

    Only 26% disagreed that women are more naturally suited to be the main carer of children and elderly parents – 37% agree with this statement, and 37% are ‘on the fence’.

    Just 53% agree that it is important for Australians to stand up for gender equality in other countries. I am particularly proud of the work that Australia does, especially in partnership in the Pacific.

    We have to tackle the historically-entrenched beliefs and behaviours that drive gender inequality, and the social political and economic structures, practices and systems that support this inequality.

    That means we have to make changes in all the areas in which we live, love, learn work and play!

    Speaking of play… it brings me to sport, and my initial comments. A feature of our State Party dialogues has been the increasing acknowledgement of the role of women in sport. In many areas it has undergone some of the most exciting gender revolutions in recent times.

    I cried on the inaugural night of the AFLW back in 2017.  And has the same feelings as I watched the opening night of the WWC2023. The WWC 2023 was the biggest women’s single-sporting event in the world with ticket sales smashing the previous Women’s World Cup ticket record.

    As a consequence, we have seen greater investment in women’s football and an emphasis on gender equality. And we may be sceptical about some countries. In 2018 women couldn’t enter a stadium in Saudi Arabia and now there’s investment in a national women’s team.

    I loved watching young girls and boys, mostly in their Sam Kerr shirts, at the game and clamouring for photos and autographs.

    I loved this Matilda effect.

    I do note that there is an actual Matilda effect: it is a bias against acknowledging the achievements of women scientists whose work is attributed to their male colleagues.

    Australia celebrates a goal during the International Friendly Match between Australia and Canada at Allianz Stadium on September 6, 2022 in Sydney, Australia

    Australia celebrates a goal during the International Friendly Match between Australia and Canada at Allianz Stadium on September 6, 2022 in Sydney, Australia. Picture: Shutterstock

    And who would have thought the actions of a man would overshadow the greatness of this event?  Football boss Luis Rubiales’ forcible kiss of Women’s World Cup player Jennifer Hermosa — was an abuse of authority and reminded us how women – even in the highest echelons of their sectors or professions – can be subject to inappropriate and abusive actions.

    But these actions were called out and condemned globally. Increasingly, I take great heart from the brave young and diverse women calling out bad behaviour and holding perpetrators to account.

    I think NFAW’s mission to ensure that the aims and ideals of the women’s movement and its collective wisdom are handed on to new generations of women is in good hands.

    But the price of feminism is eternal vigilance, something NFAW has been aware of for decades.

    There are many hard won rights that we must protect and advance, in spite of the global backlash.

    Friends, this is not a women’s problem: this is everybody’s business.

    And I thank you all for being a part of this mission!

    • Picture at top: Natasha Stott Despoja during a welcome reception at ANU, in Canberra, ACT, Australia, 05 September, 2022. Photo: Tracey Nearmy/ANU

     

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  • How to increase the inclusion of gender-diverse employees

    I recently published a paper Managerial influences on the inclusion of transgender and gender-diverse employees: A critical multi-method study in the Australian Journal of Management. The paper discusses the influence leadership can have on increasing inclusion of gender diversity in the workplace. The following post reflects on my findings. 

    What comes to your mind when I ask you about gender equity in the workplace? Well, my Google alert is mostly making me aware of news and research papers about the significance of women on boards and general leadership positions with these prompts.

    We are still far from equity for women in the workplace as this year’s gender pay gap again sadly established. Nevertheless, gender diversity and equity should also include acknowledgment and inclusion of gender-diverse employees or people with trans experience. Especially, with a growing number of Gen Z and Gen Y people identifying as non-binary.

    The increasing necessity for organisations to include diversity, equity and inclusion as vital parts of their institutional structure and workplace culture emerges to become a minimum expectation of most employees. However, the Australian Human Resource Institute (AHRI) published a report The State of Diversity, Equity and Inclusion in Australian Workplaces (2023) that clearly indicates the gap between the employer’s awareness, intent and action when it comes to DEI initiatives.

    As Trans Awareness Week is in November, organisations should be conscious of taking actions that resist the temptation of rainbow washing.

    Thankfully, an increasing number of organisations acknowledge that systematic change of structures and workplace culture is necessary instead of purely changing the individual. The link between the organisation’s mission, values and aims, and the staff member’s engagement, loyalty and contribution are embodied by managers.

    Consequently, managers play a central role when nurturing an inclusive work environment for diverse people to thrive to their best potential. This includes the expansion of the workplace dialogue beyond the gender binary to be inclusive of gender-diverse people.

    Robin's latest paper includes practical recommendations concerning language use, leadership style, work practices and arrangements that should be considered for increasing transgender and gender-diverse workplace inclusion. Picture: Adobe Stock

    Robin’s latest paper includes practical recommendations concerning language use, leadership style, work practices and arrangements that should be considered for increasing transgender and gender-diverse workplace inclusion. Picture: Adobe Stock

    To increase the inclusion of gender-diverse employees, managers can impact three areas: building an inclusive organisational infrastructure, fostering a safe psychological environment, and supporting diverse impression-fit management.

    Every organisation has its own infrastructure, such as documents, uniforms, and workspaces. Although filling out forms can be a mundane task, it is even more frustrating and distressing if your gender identity is not recognised due to the limited options of titles or gender boxes. Reflecting on the mandated collection of binary information or the relevance of gathering specific gendered data in the first place is a relevant exercise for all managers.

    The significance of psychological safety in the workplace has been underpinned by various legislative and policy changes in 2023. A healthy team environment and a trusted relationship between employee and manager are crucial to psychological safety at work.

    Feeling unsafe by being unable to speak up and share ideas risks damaging the security of the psychological environment at work. Leaders function as role models and therefore, should apply principles of inclusive language and universal design to their leadership approach.

    Did you ever join an occasion in the wrong outfit which consequently made you feel at least uncomfortable? This is a sign that you might have missed the mark for the right impression-fit management. In the workplace, you may want to think of the (unwritten) dress code that corresponds with certain expectations, some of them gender-related or prejudicious. Reproducing occupational gender stereotypes based on assumptions, such as assigning a gender (woman or man) based on a person’s voice, can be harmful.

    Managers can intervene by being role models, and step in if they hear inappropriate language or give autonomy to the employee to design tasks in a way that reduces the risk of being misgendered. Work flexibility is not merely about where we work but also how to craft the process to achieve the required aim of the work task. Instead of micromanagement, leaders can showcase trust in the employees’ capabilities by giving them the autonomy to fulfil their responsibilities.

    A lot of the recommendations on how managers can support gender-diverse people in the workplace come at a low cost of personal determination of leadership. Another positive side effect is the benefit to other marginalised or underrepresented employees. It might even be supporting gender equity for women in organisations after all instead of increasing the gender divide.

    • Please note: Picture at top is a Stock photo.

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  • Intersectional feminism and diversity in secret institutions

    This blog post was first published by The Australian Women’s and Gender Studies Association (AWGSA), the leading organization representing researchers, academics, and students in the fields of Women’s Studies and Gender Studies in Australia. Read the original here. 

    Feminist research is increasingly intersectional, yet the way in which intersecting aspects of identity – like gender, race, and sexuality – are experienced in secret institutions is less understood. It’s also multiply problematic, with challenges layered and obscured by the lack of transparency.

    Over the last three years, my colleague Professor Susan Harris Rimmer and I have spent time researching the impact and experiences of diverse groups in the intelligence sector. Spanning a broad spectrum of institutions, the intelligence community (IC) is at the forefront of everything from tactical and strategic intelligence to criminal intelligence, domestic and international intelligence, civilian and military intelligence, and strategic assessments on political, economic and social threats to security. Think: spies and analysts, counterterrorism, espionage, and foreign interference.

    Secret institutions like in the IC both replicate challenges in other forms of government and the private sector while (re)producing unique constraining environments minoritized groups.

    Yet, the intelligence sector is not the only one experiencing these same trends. Broader national security institutions or general government agencies can often be highly secretive and obscured by layers of classification, as can religious institutions, secret societies, and cults.

    There are a few compounding factors when it comes to understanding women and minoritized groups’ representation and experiences, not to mention impact, in secret institutions. From our study of the IC, mechanisms such as security classifications can create an environment of obscurity and non-transparency, where even non-classified information may be withheld from the public gaze. This contributes to a classification halo-effect which limits what is and can be known about people’s experiences in intelligence – from recruitment to retention, leadership and representation, harassment, power, resourcing and more.

    It can also take decades for data to declassify and even then, some parts can remain classified. Moreover, the gendered rules and experiences of intelligence were seldom written down – so declassification may not reveal much if data and experiences were not documented. Challenges in sourcing accurate and timely data therefore skews our understanding of how diverse people experience secret institutions, favouring historical analyses, one-off biographies, and the odd popular work of fiction that does little to help institutions know what is and is not working.

    How this lack of transparency ultimately impacts organisations and individuals is threefold: it can amplify inequalities; obscure progress and regression; and impede accountability.

    It can also ultimately impact on organisational operability, and in the case of the IC and national security institutions at least, result in critical vulnerabilities stemming from an inability to understand and create diverse, inclusive, and strong teams. These impacts include everything from narrow threat detection and threat analysis gaps to excessive groupthink, not to mention high ‘churn’ rates and loss of retention which ultimately costs organisations and fails to support individuals.

    Australia’s new Workplace Gender Equality Amendment (Closing the Gender Pay Gap) Bill provides one way to think about the impact transparency can have on reducing inequalities. Honing in on the issue of the gender pay gap, the Amendment is designed to allow the Workplace Gender Equality Agency to publish the gender pay gaps of organisations over 100 staff in size.

    Transparency is seen to encourage better accountability to employers and stakeholders, as well as potentially promoting competition between employers to improve their workplace conditions relative to their peers. It also helps individuals know what they are signing up for when they join an organisation or industry.

    Another way to think about (a lack of) transparency is its impact on research: what is – and can be – known about diversity in these sectors. Methodologies for researching the IC for instance are not well-established, mostly relying on decades-old datasets, biographical accounts (where available), and ‘insiders’ who can give insights to the true state of affairs. Insider accounts can be particularly beneficial for research.

    Yet, they remain challenging to achieve in practice due to ethical approval processes (which may be additionally demanding, particularly in researching national security institutions), high levels of secrecy, a lack of transparency, the prevalence of backlash, and a lack of whistleblower protections. Depending on the secret institution in question, there may be additional barriers that impede understanding, and therefore action around problematic trends. This can be an aim of some secret institutions in itself – to cover up, obfuscate, and ultimately remain unchanged.

    Ultimately, government in particular requires a social license to operate. In Australia, this relies on accountability and transparency to establish and maintain trust between institutions and constituents.  As Professor Susan Harris Rimmer and I argue in our research, these institutions often have access to huge resources, hold significant and very special privileges, immunities, and duties under the law, and carry significant status in state societies.

    Whilst I remain hopeful that institutions take it upon themselves to revisit just how much – or how little – is known about diversity in secret institutions, it is also critical that citizens and constituents advocate for their own right to know. Gone are the days of operating in a black box. Understanding, researching and building practices and policies for diversity is critical across all institutions – secret or not.

    • Picture at top is a stock illustration. Source: Adobe Stock

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  • Book banning: What it means for queer people

    Pride month ended last week, and I cannot tell you how many social media posts I’ve seen reminding us in the queer community to take care of ourselves, especially in these times. As a queer person, it feels like my heart is forever sinking in my chest because another book has been banned in the US.

    We may be in Australia, but we’re not as separate from America as we like to think; many of our cultural cues are imported from the US, and as I’ll explain, Australia has its share of book bans too.

    Over the last two and a half years, a constant stream of new laws across the US have targeted the queer community, in particular transgender people, including access to healthcare, drag shows, and education within schools. A specific example of these sorts of attacks is book banning, which is the removal or restriction of access to certain books in schools and libraries.

    While not a new phenomenon, school districts in the US have been experiencing alarmingly high rates of ‘challenges’ against a range of books, often depicting stories representing the LGBTQIA+ community, immigrants, and people of colour. The practice of ‘challenging’ a book results from an objection to the book’s content, and triggers a systematic review process to discern whether the book is deemed appropriate by librarians, teachers, and administrators.

    Professor Mary Lou Rasmussen, an expert in gender, sexuality, and education from the Australian National University, believes that they can at times be politically motivated towards a certain cause. “I think that cause often involves children…and [is] about evoking children as a figure that needs to be saved.”

    Professor Mary Lou Rasmussen. Picture: supplied

    Many of the challenges to books have been from a minority, sometimes even a single person, lodging a complaint directly to school boards and administrators. For instance, the Florida Citizens Alliance has lodged many of the complaints in their state responsible for book bans.

    Yet, their official Facebook page is followed by approximately 1.3% of Florida’s total population (3 thousand out of 22 million). Other conservative groups, such as Moms for Liberty and the Concerned Parents of the Ozarks, are no different.

    Despite those small numbers, lack of access to any queer books can still affect the LGBTQIA+ community. “Books are powerful. They can teach empathy, but they can also teach self-awareness,” says queer writer and author Karis Rogerson. “I might have realised who I was sooner if I’d read a broader selection of books as a teen.” Karis isn’t the only person who struggled with a lack of diversity in books.

    Trans and queer writer Robin Gow, founder and director of Transcendent Connections, released a novel in 2022 exploring the story of two transgender teens and their relationship. “With my verse novel, A Million Quiet Revolutions, I wanted to write a story I would have wanted to gift myself as a young person grappling with my gender who was without the language or resources to explain my experience.”

    Just like Karis, Robin, and many other queer people, discovering queer stories changed my understanding of who I was as a teenager.

    Between July and December of last year, the state of Texas banned 438 books, a 28% increase from the previous six months. This huge number of bans is partially due to books being immediately removed once challenged, despite the American Library Association and National Coalition Against Censorship recommending that challenged books should remain accessible during review. In some instances, school boards have been overwhelmed with a high number of challenges submitted together, dragging out the review processes.

    We’ve seen this in Australia too. Throughout the 20th century, many literary classics, such as Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita, and Bret Easton Ellis’s American Psycho, were banned or restricted in Australia, often vaguely citing “obscene content” as the cause. As recently as March this year, Maia Kobabe’s Gender Queer (which is also currently the book with the highest number of bans in the US) was removed from a Queensland public library after a complaint from a member of the public. Progressives have used book bans as well; two years ago, several Dr Seuss books were permanently pulled from publication due to racist stereotyping.

    What makes the current book bans in the US so frustratingly painful are the type of books being banned and why.

    Many of the books being challenged are accused of containing sexual content. While some do include implicit sex scenes, plenty do not. First published in 2001, Susan Meyers’ Everywhere Babies was included in the 2021 “Objectionable Materials” report (written by the Florida Citizens Alliance and often known by its inflammatory name, the “Porn in Schools” report), which listed 58 books as sexually inappropriate.

    Each book in the report has a link to an individual review, requiring the reader to actively open them – and the Everywhere Babies review states that there is no ‘objectionable content’. It is listed as an LGBTQIA+ book, due to some images that show two same-sex people looking after a baby. The complete absence of sexual content in the book makes it clear that LGBTQIA+ themes have been sexualised and deemed ‘age-inappropriate’ in the report (to see a video read-through of Everywhere Babies, click here).

    The popular Heartstopper books, written and illustrated by Alice Oseman, have also been challenged and banned in several school districts. The series primarily follows Nick and Charlie, two young teens navigating their feelings for each other, and later, their blossoming relationship. Having personally read these books, I can attest to the distinct lack of sexual content throughout the entire series.

    I only recently reread the series, and I wholeheartedly agreed with journalist Gary Nunn when he told me that it “particularly stings” that Heartstopper has been part of the book bans. Even more so when considering that Oseman actively counteracts narratives of hypersexuality throughout the series, focusing on other aspects of Nick and Charlie’s relationship.

    Nick and Charlie in the upcoming second season of Heartstopper. Picture: Netflix

    “It’s rare to have such an innocent depiction of same-sex romantic affection,” continued Gary. In a previous article discussing the ambiguous grief Heartstopper stirred in him, Gary stated that Heartstopper depicts “an innocence that a whole generation of gay men like me were denied.”

    So, why are we seeing books such as Heartstopper and Everywhere Babies being banned for non-existent sexual content?

    PEN America’s 2023 banned books report found that of the 874 book titles banned in various US school districts between July and December last year, 26% (roughly 227) contained queer characters or themes. People of colour were also being targeted, with 30% (approximately 262) containing characters of colour or themes of race and racism.

    The 2021 “Objectionable Materials” report specifically attacks same-sex parents and couples by insisting that novels portraying same-sex parents “undermine Florida Constitution that marriage is between [a] man and a woman” (Florida’s Constitution has not had its marriage section removed, first adopted in 2008, despite the legalisation of same-sex marriage back in 2015).

    While some intentions behind the book bans might not be political or biased, homophobia and transphobia are, regardless, playing a large role. We all know that our teenage years can be a time of figuring out our identity, and books can be an important tool in discovering ourselves as individuals. Reading has always been a source of comfort and guidance in my life, and to think that others will not always have this opportunity is both frustrating and devastating.

    “The stories we consume matter,” says author Melissa Blair. “The first way we learn is through story, and therefore the stories we read, even fictional ones, impact how we see our world.” What is just as important is the books we don’t read.

    Banning and removing books that represent real people tells us that we will not be accepted as who we are, if who we are is outside of a white, heteronormative and cisnormative identity.

    Professor Rasmussen, who we heard from earlier, worked in the US during the 1990’s as a queer activist. She dealt with book bans at the time. “In some ways, I think that the symbolism of the bans is more pronounced now that it was then,” Professor Rasmussen said. “LGBTQIA+ people already often feel like they’re not welcome, and these cement that.”

    When discussing the impact on health and wellbeing, Professor Rasmussen voiced her concern that these book bans would “do nothing” for the mental, social, and economic wellbeing of the LGBTQIA+ community, especially young people with limited independence and choice in where they go to school. “The issues on them are compounded because of a lack of autonomy associated with the bans, which makes them all the more onerous.”

    Working as a bookseller myself in a part-time job, I have witnessed the moments of joy and pride that teens especially experience when they see books that represent themselves. As a reader myself, I have come to value the experience of not only critically engaging with books, but expanding my worldview through reading. Inclusive and hopeful books such as Heartstopper are especially critical – as Gary argued, “it ought to be compulsory reading for all schools to tackle homophobia, promote equality and nourish empathy via the imagination.”

    Access to a range of books, especially those reflecting our diversity, is joyful and essential. Removing that representation takes away a chance to see ourselves be understood and truly embraced, even if it’s just through fictional characters.

    If you’d like a powerful reminder of why books like Heartstopper mean so much to queer viewers, Jesse Blakers wrote this piece last year.

     

    • Feature image at top: Heartstopper, Season 1, Episode 2. Nick and Charlie lying in the snow. Picture: Netflix

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  • How sports became a battleground

    There has been a sharp increase in public resistance and backlash to the advancement of LGBTIQ+ inclusion and equality recently. The UK charity Stonewall reports that LGBTIQ+ recorded hate crimes in the UK have increased in recent years, and in Australia, there has been a large uptick in anti-LGBTIQ+ related events.

    Sports have become a flashpoint for these issues, too. Globally, international sports federations have introduced bans to exclude trans and gender diverse athletes from sporting competitions.

    FIFA even banned teams and players from wearing the “one love” armband. The armbands were to be worn by players in the men’s World Cup in 2022 to protest against the treatment of LGBTIQ+ people in Qatar, where it is illegal to be gay.

    A history of LGBTIQ+ people in sport

    Sports have a long history of exclusion and discrimination towards LGBTIQ+ people. In Australia, around 75% of LGBTIQ+ people have experienced or witnessed homophobia in sport.

    Professional athletes such as Megan Schutt and Moana Hope have spoken out against discrimination of LGBTIQ+ athletes.

    However, efforts have been made to address problems within the sporting world
    around homophobia, biphobia and transphobia. Organisations like Proud2Play, of which the author of this piece is a co-founder, and Pride Cup aim to increase the visibility of LGBTIQ+ athletes. Celebrations such as pride rounds and games across sporting codes show targeted diversity work.

    LGBTIQ+ representation and diversity across sports is important because research shows that young people, in particular, need role models and to see themselves both represented and celebrated.

    There is still a lot of work to do across the Australian sporting world, though, and this work must be prioritised through appropriate funding and targeted action.

    With increased activity and visibility of LGBTIQ+ inclusion efforts, however, comes increased resistance from people and organisations who believe that LGBTIQ+ people are a threat to modern society. This resistance and activism against the advancement of LGBTIQ+ equality has been termed “heteroactivism”.

    What is ‘heteroactivism’?

    Heteroactivism was coined by queer scholars Kath Browne and Catherine J. Nash. It is defined as “a term to conceptualise oppositions to LGBTIQ+ equalities, in ways that seek to assert a particular form of heteronormative sexual and gender order”.

    It is a framework which positions heterosexuality and gender normativity (being cisgender) as superior, and the foundation of functioning western civilisation. Christianity is central to heteroactivism, with roots in the US Christian right.

    In Australian sport, heteroactivism has been bubbling away for many years.

    Sports seen as a key arena for heteroactivism

    Sports have become a key platform to mobilise and advance resistance to LGBTIQ+ equality. Some Australian sports organisations have banned transgender women from participating in elite competitions.

    Bills have also been drafted in parliament to “save women’s sport”, seeking to limit and exclude trans and gender diverse people from participating in both elite and community competitions.

    Heteroactivism has a history in Australian sports. Both NRL player Israel Folau and tennis star Margaret Court are high-profile heteroactivists, using their platforms in sports to vilify LGBTIQ+ people.

    More recently, players from a variety of sporting codes have refused to participate in pride rounds and wear pride jerseys.

    Often, arguments against supporting LGBTIQ+ inclusion efforts centre around LGBTIQ+ identities being at odds or going against a player’s religion. Court even once stated that transgender children were the work of the devil.

    The impact of ongoing heteroactivism in sport is profound, and has been very successful in halting progress for LGBTIQ+ people in that world.

    Ongoing efforts to resist advances in LGBTIQ+ equality in sports have included:

    • trolling on social media and abusive messages when sports organisations support LGBTIQ+ inclusion
    • allegations and abuse towards out lesbian athletes
    • abuse towards out gay male athletes
    • targeted campaigns and complaints towards sports that engage with LGBTIQ+ inclusive practices.

    For example, one group, Binary Australia, sent over 2,700 emails to Football Australia, protesting the inclusion of transgender football players in NSW.

    The targeted and coordinated activism directed at sports organisations stops administrators from enacting LGBTIQ+ inclusive policies and practices. It silences them in speaking out in support of LGBTIQ+ people. It makes LGBTIQ+ inclusion too difficult to engage with in comparison with other areas. It becomes too political or “not worth the pushback”.

    The mental health implications for LGBTIQ+ people are significant, too. Research shows
    that ongoing discrimination can lead to poor mental health, increased anxiety and depression and dropping out of sports.

    Sports for good or bad?

    Administrators in sports have an opportunity to stand up to and address growing resistance to LGBTIQ+ equality. This can happen through policy development, anti-vilification efforts and, more importantly, demonstrating support for LGBTIQ+ achievements and contributions in sport.

    By allowing heteroactivism to be mobilised through the medium of sports, administrators continue to alienate LGBTIQ+ players, fans and employees.

    There are both opportunities and challenges for the Australian sporting world and how it responds to heteroactivism. Australia can be a world leader in efforts to improve outcomes for LGBTIQ+ people and make meaningful steps forward in the fight against homophobia, biphobia and transphobia, ensuring LGBTIQ+ people are represented and included across all levels of sports.The Conversation

    Picture at top: Proud2Play

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  • Diversity and Inclusion in Space: What can we do?

    “This isn’t just about exporting existing structures and systems into outer space, but new possibilities and new futures for all”. When asked why diversity in the space sector matters, this answer summed up the key message at Australia’s Diversity at the Frontier: Gender Equality in Space Conference held in April this year. 

    There is a misperception that the space sector is a niche field concerned primarily with rocket launches and astronauts and not deeply grounded in what we do here on Earth. In reality, space and space technologies are everywhere. 

    From the use of satellites for communications, GPS technology, the internet, business transactions and even climate monitoring, to space innovations converted for earthly purposes such as artificial limbs, memory foam and PCs, we all interact with space and use space technologies on a daily basis. 

    What, then, is the role of diversity in space? 

    The data is clear. Women represent only one in five space sector workers, and almost 90% of all astronauts have been men. 

    Even though women have demonstrated biological and psychological advantages when it comes to space travel, they remain side-lined. What’s more, the false narrative that working in the space sector requires a background in STEM discourages employees from more female-dominated humanities and non-STEM industries from even considering a career in space.

    The challenges faced by other historically excluded groups are duplicated, with those from First Nations, culturally and linguistically diverse, lower socio-economic status and gender and sexual minority backgrounds even more underrepresented in the sector.

    Yet, diversity matters because space missions and space technologies are expensive and entail risks that we cannot fully comprehend. Quality decision-making is critical to the longevity of both the sector and humankind, but this is not possible without a ‘gendered’ lens or inclusion of diverse perspectives. 

    In 2019, NASA had to cancel its all-female spacewalk due to a shortage of spacesuits on board to fit women. If a leading space organisation like NASA – which has a range of diverse programs aimed at improving representation of historically underrepresented groups – struggled with something as simple as uniforms and equipment for their female astronauts, what else is being overlooked?

    A future with more historically excluded groups in the picture looks infinitely brighter. After all, it seems unlikely that, had more women been involved in planning the failed spacewalk, the same critical gaffe would have occurred. We know from research in space and adjacent industries that diversity results in more innovative and inclusive teams, increases productivity, and reduces groupthink. 

    Sending more women and historically excluded people to space or part of the sector expands our understandings of how space affects diverse bodies and allows for the development of space technologies and their potential applications across myriad contexts on Earth. 

    So, what can we do to advocate for diversity, belonging, inclusion and equity in the space sector?

    At the heart of the Conference lay a recognition that, to change humanity’s trajectory in space, rectify past imbalances, and maximise the benefits of space and space technologies, a more diverse workforce and approach to space is crucial. 

    The Diversity at the Frontier: Gender Equality in Space Conference was held in April 2023, convened by Dr Elise Stephenson, Dr Cassandra Steer and Prof Meredith Nash, and hosted by the Global Institute for Women’s Leadership (GIWL) and ANU InSpace. This breakthrough conference brought together experts and practitioners, policymakers, and the next generation of the space workforce to ask the hard-hitting questions and to reinforce the critical gaps for marginalised groups and individuals in the space sector. 

    Covering everything from the problematic language surrounding the space sector (space is often talked about being for all “mankind” rather than “humankind” and “colonising” is common language when talking about “settling” new planets), to historically excluded groups’ experiences in the sector, the conference looked to industry and government to pave the way forward. 

    While some initiatives have begun to address pockets of inequality, like women in space initiatives, mentoring and leadership programs, an intersectional approach is crucial to recognize the cross-cutting ways in which gender, sexuality, culture, ethnicity and other human demographic factors impact on those in the space sector.

    Pluralising the workforce will lead to significant gains and mitigate major risks to the future viability of the space industry such as stifled innovation, poor staff attraction and retention, and reputational damage. 

    Elise Stephenson of GIWL

    Elise Stephenson of GIWL peaking at the conference. Picture: Supplied

    Research undertaken at the Conference highlighted that employees in Australia’s space sector see leadership as the number one priority for diversity, belonging, inclusion, and equity in the sector, whilst the ‘lack of political will to enact change’ is seen as the biggest barrier to overcoming diversity issues. This presents tangible opportunities for the sector to make a difference and there is no time like the present for individual organisations to lead by example. Those who are quickest to embody diversity and inclusion (D&I) will likely have the best access to talent and obtain tremendous advantages.

    That said, there are still many inevitable challenges left unsolved in this field – including pockets of resistance and backlash. Further research, plus policy development, is needed, particularly to support the large contingent of small and medium sized enterprises in the space sector which lack the resources to do this themselves. Key recommendations from the Conference included the need for: 

    1.     More research on representation and experiences of diversity in the space sector.

    2.     Leadership commitments, policy development and practical changes in the space industry to support historically excluded groups’ participation and experiences.

    3.     Formal and informal strategies, ranging from equitable parental policies, leave policies, promotions/hiring policies, to the support of informal networks.

    4.     Funding, procurement and sponsorship assessment criteria across the sector that prioritises action on D&I and recognises demonstrable improvements on a regular basis.

    Australia’s emerging space security institutions and rapidly growing industry provide an unprecedented opportunity to influence the future direction of the sector. ‘Now’ matters, as we have the best chance to embed diversity and equality from the ground up. 

    Read the full Diversity at the Frontier: Gender Equality in Space Conference insights here. 

     

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  • Online dating safety: we need more than ID verification

    Online dating apps have become an integral part of human connection in the digital age. For many it’s a convenient way to connect, have fun and fall in love. Like traditional dating you have bad dates,  mortifying message exchanges after refreshing yourself at the local with your friends. It seems easy and a good way to find you person.

    There is a darker experience of online dating, though. Research from Australian Institute of Criminology showed three out of four participants in the study had been exposed to sexual violence, facilitated through a dating application.

    It also showcases the attitudes that are prevalent in society towards women and girls and the behaviours that are commonly experienced by them online, and the gendered impacts that has on women’s participation in the digital realm.

    In response to the rise of sexual violence, and concerns  from the eSafety commission, Minister for Communications Michelle Rowland MP set up a National Round table bringing together; government, civil society and tech to talk about the current issues in Australia and understand what solutions and opportunities for change exist in an Australian legal and cultural context.

    There will be no singular linear solution, violence against women is a wicked social policy issue and dating apps are one niche aspect makes up a broader communications eco system.

    The intersection between different communities and people’s perceptions of personal safety also needs to be taken into consideration.

    The usability of these applications can make it easier to find matches on other platforms; Tinder offers a Facebook login which can lead to your facebook profile showing up as a suggested friend option to people who you’ve matched with on Tinder (who also use facebook as a sign in option). There’s certainly a safety concern there.

    Similarly, other app engagement strategies encourage and incentivise linking to personal social media accounts, as access to that data set is incredibly valuable for further marketing purpose. For this reason we need big tech to join the discussion.

    Addressing the problem at one point won’t necessarily address the problem elsewhere, but designing a best practice national standard for dating apps hopefully will lead to transforming the overall communications safety standard.

    Last week Kat Berney did numerous media interviews last week explaining that online dating and safety was more complex that just ID verification. Picture: Supplied

    Kat Berney, Director of the National Women’s Safety Alliance, did numerous media interviews last week explaining that online dating and safety was more complex that just ID verification. Picture: Supplied

    This round table is great start in what needs to be a detailed discussion between key stake holders and most crucially understanding the breadth of user experience.

    The ways someone can use a dating app to harass or exert violence on another person is very dynamic and comprehensive, including both online and face-to-face abuse, pressure to send material, extortion, digital stalking, physical stalking, online facilitated child abuse, manipulation of users who have children to access their children.

    There are a wide net of opportunities for perpetrators, so it can look different depending on the complainant’s experience.

    Addressing dating app safety is multi-faceted, especially as it’s common for people to move off the dating app itself quickly.

    We need to explore opportunities to bridge the gap between different platforms  – for example, consider a couple moving their initial match and conversation from Tinder onto WhatsApp. How will they stay safe? It would help understand common behaviours when moving between platforms and risks that are then introduced along with potentially mapping perpetrator behaviour.

    Some “safety features” might actually have the opposite effect. For example, identity verification has the potential to inadvertently jeopardise the safety of some users with LGBTIQ+ status who are not ready to disclose.

    Identity verification also isn’t a compulsory feature of dating apps. The domestic, family and sexual violence sector is calling for mandatory ID checks, but this needs to be a collaborative piece of work examining impacts on varying communities.

    Current ID verification is voluntary and it’s been shown that some of the verification systems can be ‘’gamed’’, so perpetrators could effectively pose as someone else using a profile of photos that have otherwise been ‘verified’ as a means to disarm someone into thinking they are someone else or doxing and harassing their ex-partner by posing as them in a dating site.

    This is commonly known as catfishing, there is limited formal research into impacts on victims often due to the shame carried by the victims.

    Catfishing became vernacular in popular culture after artist Nev Schulman made a documentary detailing his experience with being catfished by a woman named Angela. It transpired the practice was  disturbingly commonplace the documentary became a show on MTV with 8 series and spinoff specifically looking at predator trolling.

    Viewers are able to write in their suspicions and get help in confronting their “catfish”. This is a double edged situation has the acceptance of this behaviour as a cultural norm in this kind of communication, meant that we have lowered our tolerance threshold towards the damaging behaviour experienced online?

    The rise of informal peer support pages in social media,  shows that people who have experienced abuse – be it unwanted sexual images, explicit conversation or harassment – are looking for an outlet to share their experiences and gain support from peers.

    Pages like Bye Felipe, Tinder translators and Beam Me up Softboi invite  followers to send in Direct Message exchanges, dating profiles highlighting unacceptable online behaviour. The submissions range from ridiculous to terrifying. All submissions are deidentified and one assumes that formal outcomes haven’t been sought.

    These peer supports need to be taken into consideration when designing policy solution. The role they play in people unpacking  negative experience and behaviours they have been exposed to.

    This is an issue we need to address from multiple angles. There have long been calls for mandatory police/criminal record checks – this has become especially pronounced in the wake of the recent murder of Danielle Finlay-Jones, whose death could have been prevented through this mechanism.

    However, we must also recognise that the vast majority of perpetrators who exist in our society are unlikely to have a criminal history. For this reason, we need to work alongside industry to develop ways to disrupt ALL abuse. Along with developing a deeper understanding of who these perpetrators are and how they are using digital tools like dating apps to advance their agenda.

    • This article was written with thanks to Leah Dwyer, Director Of Policy and Advocacy at YWCA Canberra and Hannah Robertson, PhD Candidate at the ANU 

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  • Understanding and addressing everyday sexisms in Australian universities

    “Well sometimes I don’t feel like I belong and that I’m taking up someone else’s space […] I don’t want to paint this big dark picture, but that’s the easiest way for me to describe it –  that I’m occupying their space. [That’s] how sexism makes me feel”.

    Everyday sexisms are part of the fabric of university life, they are built into the spaces we move through, the interactions we have, and the disciplines we work in. And yet they are almost entirely absent from university Gender Equity Plans, policies regarding sexual harassment and assault and discussions about workplace-based discriminations. 

    Partly, this is because of the slippery nature of everyday sexisms. That is, they happen in a moment, often unexpectedly, in a question, a comment, or glance; or in the way your idea might be ignored and then repeated by a cismale colleague to fanfare. (Editor’s note: Cis is short for cisgender and it’s a term that means whatever gender you are now is the same as what was presumed for you at birth.)

    We see everyday sexisms when we look around at our workplaces, at their leaders, at those who have research only positions – and we don’t see people that look like us. 

    As three queer researchers who have all experienced everyday sexisms, we wanted to investigate if and how these are understood by universities, the extent to which they are experienced and to develop creative interventions that enable universities to address everyday sexisms differently. We developed our research project Understanding and Addressing Everyday Sexisms with this in mind, as well as with a focus on the intersectionality of experiences of sexism. 

    We applied for Australian Research Council funding to do this work, based on our pilot research during the start of the COVID pandemic, and no-one was more surprised than us to be successful in the heyday of the Morrison years. Our work uses the term ‘sexisms’, as we understand that such oppressions are experienced differently by people who identify as women as well as gender diverse people. Our research has four phases. 

    First, we completed an audit of every Australian public university website (N = 37) that identified where the concept of “gender equity” appears. We can share that our findings were that university websites tended to reproduce colonialities of gender, in that they siloed identity and gender equity to specific places. Second, we interviewed key stakeholders, such as complaints officers, women STEM leaders, and First Nations women academics. 

    These interviews served two key purposes – they helped us to develop vignettes about everyday sexisms that were used in phase three of the data collection for the project, a large-scale survey. The vignettes were designed to tap into the extent to which academic workers recognise sexisms in everyday interactions. The interviews also gave insight into experiences of everyday and structural sexisms from university workers. 

    The interviews revealed some of the ongoing issues, tensions and problems in relation to gender equity and higher education across disciplines as well as at the administrative levels of the university.

    What we found here was disturbing in that the gendered and racialised experiences of participants highlighted how little is understood about microaggressions and how these accumulate to produce exhaustion and burnout. 

    The interviews also demonstrated that the conclusions Sara Ahmed draws in her book Complaint! ring true in the Australian context, where policy functions to victimise the complainant while universities rally round perpetrators – especially those who are seen to be ‘useful’ to the academy in terms of intellectual esteem and funding success. 

    We are currently working on phase three, which is the distribution of a large-scale survey we hope will capture how Australian academic workers experience and understand everyday sexisms. We are interested in how everyday sexisms play out differently within different university contexts. We are about to begin the final phase, a series of creative focus groups where we will be presenting our data-so-far and working together to develop responses to everyday sexisms. 

    If you are interested in participating in an online or a face-to-face creative focus group held in Sydney or Melbourne during early 2023, please contact us (email contacts below).

    Dr Emily M. Gray, School of Education, RMIT University: emily.gray@rmit.edu.au

    Professor Mindy Blaise, School of Education, Edith Cowan University: m.blaise@ecu.edu.au

    Associate Professor Jacqueline Ullman, Western Sydney University: j.ullman@westernsydney.edu.au

     

    • Please note: The picture at top is a stock image. 

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  • Break the ice. Not trans and gender-diverse students

    The tutor is shouting that we all should pair up and get to know three interesting things about our partner to share with whole class: fun facts like their favourite flavour of ice-cream.

    Fun fact: These kinds of activities are not fun for transgender and gender diverse students who instead of choosing between double choc and rum n raisin need to decide whether to introduce their pronouns or be misgendered in front of the whole class.

    The first option will likely take up the entire conversation and may still not be understood, while the second could mean a whole semester struggling in silence.

    Transgender Awareness Week (November 13-20) falls too late in the year to address the agony of first-class icebreakers. Nevertheless, it is a valuable opportunity for transgender and gender diverse people and their allies to take action to bring attention to the diverse needs and voices of the transgender community.

    Yet, looking beyond the rainbow optics of diversity policies and international days of celebration and memorialisation, the everyday experiences of higher education for transgender and gender diverse students are complex and varied.

    As Moses*, a trans masc student with non-binary elements, noted there is a fine balance between having a “teachable moment with someone…which is interesting but also it is not our job, we are just people.” Or as Ollie, a student from the University of Adelaide student put it: “We’re not at university to have trans-rights battles…We’re at university to learn about whatever we’re meant to be learning about.”

    For Ollie being “so hyper-aware of being perceived” made concentration and learning difficult. Psychologist Charmine Härtel explains that a transgender and gender diverse students will look for clues by scanning the new environment of a tutorial.

    They will be sensitive to negative cues which results in non-disclosure of information and self-editing.

    The coping and security mechanism of self-editing takes up a lot of brain power and emotional energy, energy that could be used for learning.

    Annie and Robin believe Transgender Awareness Week (November 13-20) falls too late in the year to address the agony of first-class icebreakers. Picture: Shutterstock

    Annie and Robin believe Transgender Awareness Week (November 13-20) falls too late in the year to address the agony of first-class icebreakers. Picture: Shutterstock

    The problem also frequently extends beyond pronouns, as one queer student shared with us: “The use of ‘preferred name’ did not update across the various administrative accounts, and so I was outed publicly in each of my classes until my teaching staff learned to correct themselves.”

    For one Sydney University student updating their legal name in the University system did not result in changes to how they were being addressed in class. In this case, less than half of the commonly used student interfaces actually recognised the change leading the student to  note that: “It was easier to change my name legally than through the Student Centre.”

    But it doesn’t have to be like this. Moses also described having a mostly positive experience with “some really amazing professors and tutors”. That it is possible to offer amazing pedagogical experiences alongside moments of gender euphoria should set a standard for us all. So rather than fun facts, try reaching out to your gender diverse students for their hot tips! To conclude here are ours:

    Robin: Keeping an open mind that everyone can learn new things by staying curious and courageous to educate yourself, especially when occupying a student-facing or teaching role at university.

    Annie: Be willing to be guided by students, be willing to apologise and be willing to do things differently.

    • Participant in Robin’s research project concerning work experience and career development of transgender and gender diverse individuals.

     

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  • The isolation of being transgender: How I got here

    Nothing to Hide is Australia’s first mainstream anthology of trans and gender diverse writing. In this excerpt, Stacey Stokes writes about her tough and painful journey to become a woman. This excerpt is published with full permission. 

    Content notification: This post discusses sexual violence, stigmatisation and discrimination based on a person’s gender identity.

    When I was three years old, I started wearing my sister’s old dresses. They seemed so pretty to me. My favourite was the colour of a Cherry Ripe wrapper. The soft satin felt nice on my skin, and I loved the way it swirled around my legs. My parents must’ve told me that I wasn’t allowed to wear dresses because I hid them in a box deep inside an unused wardrobe, and wore them only when I thought I was alone.

    One night, I went to my hidey spot and discovered that all my pretty dresses were gone. Who had taken them? Did they know that I’d put them there? I didn’t know. I was devastated, and afraid that I’d be told off by my dad at any moment for my secret, lost collection.

    After all my pretty clothes had been taken away, I had to find new forms of beauty. Like fire. I loved the way that I could make it appear whenever I wanted and watch it dance around in its beau­tiful red colours.

    When I was four, I set fire to the lounge room by inserting rolled up paper into the pilot light of the wall heater, then using the lit paper to make little fires on the carpet. My parents asked me if I had set the fire, but I shook my head. Then they asked who did it. ‘A little boy with brown hair, a Transformers T­shirt and grey pants,’ I replied. That’s what I was wearing, of course, but I was no little boy.

    When I started primary school, I’d choose to play the princess in make­ believe games with the boys. It didn’t make me popular. I liked playing with the girls, but soon they began to exclude me too. I started to hate school, and did everything I could to avoid it.

    One school day, I told my mum that I was sick, and I stayed at home alone watching daytime television. Mum was doing the washing, dad was at work and my brother and sister had gone to school, so I had the run of the house.

    I sat cross­legged in the lounge room with the sun streaming in, watching our old boxy TV that looked like it had been sitting there since the Cold War era. TV was my window into the real world. At 12 o’clock, Jerry Springer came on. It was an episode about transgender people, and the audience cruelly pointed and laughed at all the guests. It hurt me terribly to see them being laughed at.

    At the end of the show, Jerry talked about being transgender. He said, ‘If you want to be a girl, then you can be a girl. All you have to do is want it enough.’ So every night before I went to sleep, I concentrated as hard as I could on my dream of being a girl. But every morning, I woke up to find that I still had a penis.

    My penis was so embarrassing to me. It was a dark and horrible shame that I didn’t want anyone to know about. When I dressed in trousers to go to school, I’d tuck it back and pretend it didn’t exist. I’d never, ever wear shorts, even in summer, because I couldn’t stand the sight of my little bulge. I refused to participate in sports carnivals, because they insisted that everyone wear shorts. I never even learnt to swim because I’d never,ever wear bathers.

    My mum is bipolar, and she was always in and out of psychi­ atric wards when I was growing up. In fact, a family member told me I was conceived in one. My mum’s condition had a large influence on everyone in my family, but challenged her the most. She’s a smart, caring and non­judgmental person who was deeply maternal, but the medication the doctors put her on really dumbed her down.

    When the meds stopped working or when she’d refuse to take them she’d get sad and cry a lot, or would stay up all night babbling on about things that made no sense, and laugh hysterically. My dad was deeply avoidant and just buried himself in his work.

    Nothing to Hide: Voices of Trans and Gender Diverse Australia

    Cover image: Nothing to Hide: Voices of Trans and Gender Diverse Australia. Picture: Supplied

    When I was 10, my parents separated for good. My mum took me up to NSW and my sister stayed in Victoria with Dad. I got sent back down to Victoria to see Dad from time to time, but I didn’t know how to act like a proper boy, which I knew I had to do in front of him. It made me feel awkward and withdrawn. My mum was either dumbed down from her medication or she was in hospital. I felt so alone, with no one I could tell my secrets to.

    I started missing so much school that the truancy officers started knocking on our door. My dad was so worried that I was falling behind that he got a Family Court order to say that I had to see a child psychologist. When I went to their office, the psychologist held up a picture of two dogs having sex and asked me if anyone had ever done that to me.

    My first thought was, ‘No, this is the first time an adult has shown me pictures of animals having sex, you pervert!’ They didn’t ask me anything about wanting to be a girl, and I didn’t know how to bring it up. They declared me a strange, troubled boy, and sent me back to Victoria to live with my dad and my sister.

    When I got back to Victoria, my sister told me I was gay. She tried to tell me that it was okay to be gay, and that I shouldn’t be ashamed. I kept telling her I wasn’t gay, but she didn’t believe me.

    Her boyfriend at the time wasn’t as nice about it. He called me ‘fag boy’, and would stick his tongue in my ear and ask me if I liked it. I didn’t, it made me feel upset and dirty. My dad joined in, and started calling me ‘poofter’ as a nickname.

    My dad decided I needed to be toughened up, and he sent me to a Catholic boarding school, wherethey trained us to be ‘Christian soldiers’. All weekend, we were made to march or pray to Jesus. I didn’t fit in, and the boys kept themselves entertained by taunting me. They covered me in shaving cream while I was sleeping and heated up bits of metal with lighters, burning me with them, which scarred me for life. It got so bad that I ran away from school one night and slept in a public toilet. I called my mum the next day, and she drove down from NSW to come and get me.

    I think my dad gave up on me after that. Back at Mum’s, I enrolled in a new school, which I was hoping would be a fresh start. I decided to make myself over as a ‘metal head’. I grew my hair long and got a guitar that I never did learn how to play. I would blast ‘Cemetery Gates’ by Pantera so loud that sometimes the police would come round to tell me to turn it off. I started smoking and drinking, and Ioften hosted drunken parties at my place when Mum was in the psychiatric unit. I stopped eating and lived off coffee and alcohol, and I lost heaps of weight.

    Eventually people started mistaking me for a girl because I was so skinny and long­haired. Whenpeople got a better look at me they would all react differently; girls would usually say sorry, assuming they’d offended me. Guys would do adouble­take and then call me a ‘fucking faggot’.

    When they pointed and yelled this at me out of car windows, it reminded me of the audience on the Jerry Springer show, treating the transgender people like circus freaks. I imagined how much worse things could be if I actually transitioned.

    Eventually, I dropped out of school altogether. I stayed up all night drinking and smoking and playing PlayStation. Somehow, I got a girlfriend, and for the first time in my life I felt I finally had someone I could trust. She would come over, stay the night, get changed into her school clothes and go to school, leaving her orig­inal outfit behind. All her clothes fit me really nicely, which I’d wear alone in the house while she was away. I thought I looked pretty nice, and things were going well between us. I even started to consider telling her about the real me.

    Instead, one night she looked at me and told me she wanted to cut off my hair. ‘It looks too girly,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong with that?’ I replied. She disclosed to me that her dad, who was no longer in her life, had had a ‘sex change’ just before she’d met me.

    She said that she’d never forgiven her dad, and that she’d sent him a letter telling him that she hated him and wanted nothing to do with him. While she told me this story, she kept using ‘him’ over and over again.

    ‘He’s dead to me,’ she said as she ended her story. I was devastated to discover that the first person I felt I could trust hated transgender people. I felt more alone than ever.

    I started to feel that my body was a stranger’s. I hated what I saw in the mirror. I didn’t know who Iwas or what to do, so I just drank, smoked and slept with every girl I came across. My girl­ friend and Isplit up, and I moved up to Newcastle. In 2000, I was such a drunken mess that when the Olympic torch went right past my flat, I was too smashed to even stick my head out the window and look.

    My flat was practically empty of furniture, and there was even a bullet hole in one of the windows thanks to some local criminals who did a drive­by shooting at my house after I pissed them off somehow. When 9/11 happened I only found out because they interrupted DragonBall Z—the only show I’d wake up before midday to watch—to show the footage.

    I had a new girlfriend by then. I often asked her to dress me up in her clothes, which were little miniskirts and tight cocktail dresses. My favourite was a green velvet dress that I paired with some knee­ high boots. She said I looked better in it than she did, which meant a lot to me, but we ended up splitting up because of my drinking.

    My dad put a lot of pressure on me to move back to Victoria, because he was worried that I’d die or end up in jail if I stayed in Newcastle. He gave me a job in his office, where my brother also worked, and I got to know him a little. I told him that Dad thought I was gay, which really frustrated me because I knew that I liked girls.

    Determined to prove how not gay I was, I slept with every girl that I could. I even called my dad to tell him I wouldn’t be coming into work as I’d torn my penis during sex. My brother, who overheard the conversation, drove over to see if that could really happen, and went really pale after seeing all the blood.

    I eventually got sick of my dad’s homophobic taunts, and decided to try and get my high school certificate at Victoria University. I made some nice female friends who also thought I was gay, mainly because I had stopped trying to have sex with women all the time. I had replaced that addiction with playing World of Warcraft obses­ sively as a female character. My beautiful avatar was a Night Elf, who was tall with long, platinum blonde hair past her waist, and an ever­changing array of dresses that noone could take off her.

    A beautiful girl started coming over and just sitting with me while I played World of Warcraft. She called me at night and we’d have long phone conversations, talking about anything and everything, and that’s how I started falling in love with her. She seemed to truly care about me.

    We started dating, and soon after I asked her to dress me up in her clothes. She put me in a stunning blue dress that matched my eyes. I asked her if she’d still love me if I was a girl, and she said that she would as long as she could see my beautiful blue eyes. But she didn’t think I was serious.

    Despite my new love, I was still drinking a lot and got arrested for drunkenly climbing the roof of a restaurant, apparently looking for a table with a view. I got charged and pleaded guilty, and copped a big fine.

    My girlfriend became pregnant, and soon we had two beautiful baby girls. We married, and I landed a job as a maritime security officer. I was desperate to get on the straight and narrow to support my family, and I swore off booze and smokes.

    One night, I asked my wife if she’d leave me if I got a sex change. She thought about it, and said that she definitely would.

    I was crushed. It brought me right back to the shame I felt when I’d first seen the audience laughing at Jerry Springer’s transgender guests. I started drinking again. I was passive aggressive, and increasingly painful to be around, as I projected my unhappiness onto everyone around me.

    My house stopped feeling like my home, it just felt like a stranger’s. I had such bad anxiety that I developed an eye twitch and had trouble swallowing food. I kept drinking more and more, and alienated my family through my increasingly toxic behaviour.

    "I started to feel that my body was a stranger’s. I hated what I saw in the mirror," writes Stacey.

    “I started to feel that my body was a stranger’s. I hated what I saw in the mirror,” writes Stacey. Photo: Shutterstock 

    One day, my kid’s teachers got so concerned that they called child protection, who started asking me lots of questions about domestic violence and child abuse. Pretty soon, the police took over asking all the questions, and I ended up in jail.

    When I finally got bail, I moved in with my nan and my mum, who were living together back in Victoria. It was at my nan’s house that I really had time to stop and think about what I’d done, and how I had pushed everyone away with my awful behaviour. I decided that since I was now a complete outcast,I might as well transition after all. How could things get any worse? I went to court back and forth, and disclosed to my defence lawyer that I was transgender.

    My lawyer disclosed this to the judge during my sentencing hearing. The judge said that I wouldn’t have any trouble with that since I wouldn’t have access to women’s clothes anyway. The judge said that I could minimise my harassment by growing a beard, cutting my hair and using my deadname. Basically, don’t be trans and you won’t be harassed. It really made me wonder about how out of touch the people who decide our fates really are.

    In prison, I began an epic battle to receive gender­affirming health care with longstanding help from a community legal service. It took years to get a referral from a doctor to get on hormone replacement therapy, to be allowed female clothing and for staff to refer to me with female pronouns. I’ve been on female hormones for years now, but I am still not allowed to legally change my gender marker as the government says it may ‘offend’ the community. I’ve only stayed sane because of an incredible social worker who has volunteered their time to support me and help me lodge endless paperwork.

    A men’s prison is not a safe place for a trans woman. Since I’ve been inside, I’ve been bullied, bashed and raped. I have nightmares most nights and I have tried to end my life many times. If it wasn’t for the external support I’ve received, I probably would’ve kept on trying until I succeeded.

    Despite the cruelty I’ve been exposed to in prison, I’m still glad that I finally know who I am. I’ve learnt that I can live without alcohol, and that I don’t need sex to make me happy. I am still haunted by some of the things I have done, and I am terribly sorry about the harm I’ve caused to the people who loved me. I wish I had been able to live as my true self when I was younger, as I might’ve been able tospare many people a great deal of pain and projected anger.

    I still haven’t gotten out of prison yet, and some days it’s tough in here. But I am grateful that my body is now mine, and that I am starting to love the person I see in the mirror.

    Nothing to Hide: Voices of Trans and Gender Diverse Australia is out now. 

    • Please note: the photos in this story are stock images. 

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

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  • Why ‘Heartstopper’ means so much to queer viewers

    Netflix’s adaptation of Heartstopper has been confirmed for two more seasons and we–queer people–are thrilled about it. Originally a webcomic written and illustrated by Alice Oseman, the Netflix series currently has a critic rating of 100% on Rotten Tomatoes. 

    We follow a group of queer British teens as they learn to navigate life, love, and friendship. The romance between two of these teens–Nick and Charlie–is the driving force behind the series. But, where the Netflix series deviates from the original webcomic is in its wider focus on each supporting character. Tao, Elle, Darcy, Tara and Isaac (I’m sensing an aro-ace storyline for Season 2! Editor’s note: Asexual, for those who aren’t familiar with the lingo) all feel like meaningful characters in the story. 

    As someone who works in a bookstore, I witness the latest bookish trends come and go all the time. When Netflix’s adaptation of Heartstopper hit our computer screens, I watched as what felt like hundreds of queer people ran into store to buy the books. I haven’t gone a day since its release without either a) breaking someone’s heart and telling them we are sold out or b) squealing that yes! We finally have more stock, right this way!

    As a queer person, each time I see a queer teen with a pride pin on their school bag bumble into the store, their eyes darting around until they spot the Heartstopper displays, my heart leaps. Sometimes they’re shy and nervous, other times they run in and slam their books down on the counter with glee. I vividly remember one girl who gasped and turned to me to say, “There’s so many!” and I saw my own bewildered joy mirrored in her eyes. 

    So, what is it about Heartstopper that means so much to us as queer viewers? 

    Well, one of my close friends, Luke, is slowly working his way through all the classic teen TV shows–we’re talking hits like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Vampire Diaries and Glee. I’ve come to expect late night messages from him saying: “Guess what, another queer character was killed off and/or their story was used as trauma porn?!” He is genuinely shocked when a queer character doesn’t die, or when they have complex storylines.

    We aren’t used to seeing coming-of-age narratives that feature a spectrum of queer identities and experiences. We are not used to seeing queer characters survive for the duration of a show, but we are very familiar with seeing queer pain and trauma play out on screen.

    Even TV shows like Glee, which featured some queer characters, those characters came of age through a very particular linear ‘coming out’ narrative that suggests identity “can be revealed in a single moment of truth”. 

    Journalist Gary Nunn recently wrote an article along this theme; he speaks of the “ambiguous grief” queer people may feel while watching Heartstopper. When I approached him for further thoughts, he reflected that “we wish this had been our story, and we never envisaged a day someone would tell it”. 

    Gary went on to tell me that it “stings” to realise that we, as queer people, have been taught not to “..expect […] a happy ending” for ourselves. This struck a chord with me. We are shaped by the media we consume, and the coming-of-age narratives that raised me also told me that my queerness is deviant and must be dismissed. 

    I did not go into Heartstopper with the trepidation or fear that part of me does not belong.

    When I talk with my queer friends about Heartstopper, we always come back to the same two words when we attempt to describe it; “safe” and “warm.”

    The over-representation of coming out narratives in popular media has been repeatedly interrogated by queer academics, and rightly so. However, Rowan Ellis, a queer author and public speaker, has said that the unapologetic sentimentality and fantasy of Heartstopper gives viewers “a sense of permission to romanticise a queer childhood”. 

    I connect so deeply with this show and the webcomic because I don’t have to translate a heteronormative coming-of-age narrative to fit my own experiences. My ability to relate to and escape into media has always been dependent on my ability to suppress my identity.  

    I am a white, cis-gender, able-bodied woman, so I imagine that I do not feel this as intensely as queer people of colour, trans folk and disabled people do. It’s not that I cannot relate to the straight characters on screen. But my queerness is the part of myself that I chipped away so I could enjoy movies or TV shows that simply did not acknowledge queerness, or handled it poorly. 

    In Episode 3 of Heartstopper, Nick sees Darcy and Tara kiss at a birthday party. The music swells, rainbow lighting strobes, and confetti rains down. Each time myself and my friend Erin watch this scene, we tell ourselves that, “This time, this time, we will not cry.” But we always do. 

    Tara and Darcy. Picture: Netflix/Rob Youngson.

    Tara and Darcy at the party. Picture: Netflix/Rob Youngson.

    It feels almost indulgent, after seeing such limited positive sapphic representation, to have two girls kissing on screen in a moment of undeniable joy. The sentimental awe that spreads across Nick’s face in this moment, the over-the-top imagery, Darcy and Tara’s grins, all harmonise in such a way that celebrates queerness.

    At the beginning of this same episode, Nick is sitting alone in his room and staring at the results of the ‘Am I Gay?’ quiz he just took on his laptop. We all take different quizzes, we all get different results and respond uniquely to those results. But any queer person with internet access would likely tell you they felt that moment deep in their blood and marrow. To see this moment represented in a coming-of-age narrative was validating, even though it’s been many years since I took one of those quizzes. 

    The catharsis of seeing Nick’s journey over the course of the show isn’t as escapist as the party scene, but it’s equally as valuable. Rowan Ellis, again, says, “We have this great sense that coming out doesn’t have to be this definitive one time certainty.” In a coming-of-age narrative, it is crucial that queer kids understand that their queerness does not have to be finite or fixed.

    Each time I rewatch Heartstopper, I feel like I come of age again and again. I learn from Nick, Charlie and their friends, the varied ways I can take up space as a queer person, the ways I can inhabit my queer body.

    Something as simple as seeing a group of young queer teens eat lunch together at school changed how I perceived my queerness. It simply ‘is’. 

    The gang at the arcade. Picture: Netflix

    The gang at the arcade. Picture: Netflix

    That we also have a host of other queer characters with their own backstories and relationships to one another is probably my favourite thing about the show. Seeing a piece of media affirm that queerness is not a monolith, that there are many identities and ways to be queer, was cathartic for me.

    Heartstopper is not the be-all and end-all of queer teen media; it feels like a new beginning. It does not claim to encompass every queer experience and every queer identity. But this coming-of-age story has given me more hope for the future of queer teen television than I ever thought possible.

     

    • Feature image at top: Heartstopper, Season 1, Episode 8. Nick and Charlie at the beach. Photo: Netflix 

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  • Research wrap: time poverty, parenting and mental health

    BroadAgenda Research Wrap is your monthly window into academia. We scour the journals so you don’t have to. 

    This month’s research wrap comes to you from the covid recovery bed. While the ‘mild to moderate’ version I had caught felt like someone had sucked all energy out of my body, I couldn’t help but be thankful for the fact that my kids are now old enough to fend for themselves, and that the most labour-intensive parenting years are starting to be behind us.

    And in the series of crappy silver linings, the plague was kind enough to jump from one person to the next only every couple of days so that no one was looking after others while going through their worst days.

    On day four of her covid recovery, Dr Pia Rowe posted to social media: "Bored. Rewatched a lot of Grey’s. Can’t get enough of sour & salty things. Will probably turn into a lemon soon. A salty lemon." Picture: Supplied

    On day four of her covid recovery, Dr Pia Rowe posted to social media: “Bored. Rewatched a lot of Grey’s. Can’t get enough of sour and salty things. Will probably turn into a lemon soon. A salty lemon.” Picture: Supplied

    Recent research shows that caring for others remains as one of the biggest stumbling blocks when it comes to gender equality. The weird thing is that this holds true regardless of the individual’s own values and the level of gender equality in the society more broadly.

    A 40-country study on gender equality and maternal burnout (Journal of Cross-Cultural Psychology, 2022) provides a fascination account of the paradoxical effect gender equality has on mothers’ wellbeing.

    That is, high egalitarian values at the individual level and high gender equality at the societal level are actually associated with higher burnout levels in mothers.

    On one hand, this is hardly surprising. As the old cliché goes, instead of ‘having it all’ we somehow just ended up ‘doing it all’. But on the other hand, it provides an extremely timely reminder of the importance to keep care labour at the front and centre of the gender equality debates. As the authors note:

    “The results suggest that gender equality backfires on mothers when equality is achieved in many areas such as education, employment, health and political empowerment, while inequality still prevails in parenthood. The results point to the need to implement social policies to achieve the same degree of gender equality in parenthood as in other areas.”

    However, it’s not exactly a bed of roses for fathers either. As a study (Health Promotion Journal of Australia, 2021) on the facilitators and barriers to fathers’ participation in a health intervention during the early years of their parenting journey notes, early fatherhood is now recognised as a significant determinant of men’s health, and mental health issues are common during the first six years of their children’s lives.

    According to the study, approximately 10% of fathers report symptoms of depression, while 18% report elevated symptoms of anxiety and/or stress. What’s more, the statistics for their physical wellbeing are not exactly encouraging either.

    A whopping 10% of Australian fathers of young children aged 4-5 report at least one health issue, 12% report poor overall health, and 70% are overweight or obese.

    The researchers identified both individual and program related facilitators and barriers to fathers’ participation in support programs. At the individual level, fathers noted three motivating factors: The desire to make social connections; wanting to learn how to be a batter dad and a partner; and the support and encouragement from their partners to attend. From the program perspective, factors such as the accessibility of the program, and in particular organising programs outside of business hours; having a male facilitator, preferably a father himself; the advocacy of other fathers; including a group fitness/exercise component; and marketing the programs clearly as exclusive to fathers, were noted by the participants.

    In terms of the barriers, fathers mentioned being time-poor, in particular as it related to their work commitments, as a significant deterrent; the reluctance to sacrifice family-time – especially for those in a two-parent relationship who wanted to give the other person a break from caring duties after their own paid labour; and general apprehension to go because they weren’t sure what it would entail.

    The program related barriers included travel (the location of the programs), lack of awareness of the programs available; and traditional gender roles. One father noted that the society still perpetuates the idea that men are more stoic and therefore do not need additional support services, which in turn can also result in lack of appropriate programs targeted at fathers specifically.

    And things get more complex still when you start moving beyond the heteronormative parental gender binary. A study on transgender parents’ mental health in Australia (International Journal of Transgender Health, 2021) noted that research on the topic has been scarce in Australia, and they sought to bridge the gap by examining how trans adults contextualise and experience issues around their mental health.

    The researchers used online surveys and one-on-one interviews with 66 trans parents aged 24-67 years old. The results showed that many participants experienced significant mental health challenges, such as depression and suicidal ideation, which made parenting more challenging. While gender affirmation as well as family and social support had a positive impact on mental health, the majority of the study participants noted that they had to educate their therapist, felt pigeon-holed by their gender identity, or had concerns about confidentiality.

    While the results were concerning, one of the key takeaways is the importance of appropriate training for mental health and associated health services to be competent in treating trans parents.

    To put the onus on the patient to educate the very people responsible for helping them is nothing short of a failure. And at the information age, it is inexcusable.

    In general, all the studies discussed above are exactly the kind of research we need right now to shift the dial on gender equality. They highlight the areas we need to zero in, and provide clear ideas as to how to do this. But at the same time, they are also undeniably infuriating. How is it possible, that after decades of research and advocacy, we still fail at the basics?

    I’ve written about my own experiences with infertility in the past. I’ve experienced first hand the strange divide that can exist with parenting related issues. While I received exceptional care over the years as I tried to become a parent, my partner was often nothing but a mere afterthought. Of course, the physical dimension was strictly related to my body only, and as such it was perhaps inevitable that the care then also focused on the identified ‘problem’.

    However, getting pregnant, carrying the baby – while obviously necessary for the actual creation of life – are only a fraction of the parenting journey. Quite often, there is more than one person involved, and regardless of their gender identity, or any other identity attribute for that matter, they need and deserve to be supported.

    That’s the very least we can do if we want to talk about genuine gender equality.

     

     

     

     

     

     

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  • A life huge with possibility: my transgender son

    I’m a teacher educator at the University of Canberra, and a part of my job is helping students negotiate the bureaucratic aspects of their chosen profession. This is not my favourite task: I prefer spending time supporting the emotional and intellectual development of the young teachers themselves.   I like to remember the concept of seeing education as ‘small’ and ‘big’, in the manner coined by the late American educator, Maxine Greene.  A ‘big’ perspective is when you move in close to the life of a student.  You find out about their loves and hates, their learning style, what it’s like to be in their family.  ‘Small’ is when you telescope out, to see the student in relation to the system.  You focus on bureaucracy, rather than individuals.

    My son Nick has always pushed me to ‘see big’. Very big. Not long before his tenth birthday, Nick told me he was transgender. Actually, what he told me was that he was a boy and he needed to live as a boy and to have a boy’s name. He also rather urgently needed me to do something about the school toilet situation and he was keen for me to sort out his fears about impending puberty.

    In his own words Nick says:

    Something I say often is that you can lose memories but you never forget the way you felt. If I’m honest, I remember very little from the early stages of my coming out, because it was traumatic.

    I wasn’t ignorant to what people said about me, I saw the looks, heard the passing comments. But what I knew when I came out to my mum is that I needed that change, I needed to be a boy. I was scared, terrified even. But I trusted my mum and I was willing to withstand what was coming in order to live my life as it needed to be lived.

    Selfie Nick and Rachel

    Rachel and Nick hanging out. Picture: Supplied.

    “Coming-out” stories have become so common in the media that they’re almost formulaic. But in August 2014, we’d never known another transgender child, and it soon became apparent that there were no other ‘out’ transgender children in Canberra primary schools. In truth, Nick’s revelations were both minor – he had been presenting as fully masculine for some time – and enormous, because Nick’s Dad and I really had no idea what to do.  We did know, from the time of Nick’s coming out, that our child would follow a path far from ordinary and pre-determined.

    Nick’s Dad and I soon became minesweepers, clearing away the small stuff, skirting around the potential explosions.  There were no “trans child rule books” about negotiating names, pronouns, health cards, education, counselling, clothes, sport, toilets, changerooms, passports, birth certificates or health care.  The principal of Nick’s school did everything he could to ease Nick’s social transition. Nonetheless, I became aware of parents and teachers who could no longer meet my gaze. It was humbling to see, as a white middle-aged, middle-class, straight woman, that my presence had become awkward and that I was now – albeit fleetingly – the “other.”

    I haven’t even mentioned yet the socio-political changes that were just about to take off: the plebiscite leading to the Marriage Equality Act; the Safe Schools ‘debate’; the US ‘bathroom bills’ and Trump’s transgender military ban. The Australian Family Court (re ‘Jamie’) had determined that court authorisation was unnecessary for ‘Stage One’ treatment for transgender children in 2013, and earlier in 2014 a group of committed activists had succeeded in their campaign to allow transgender people in the ACT to alter the sex identification on their birth certificates. ‘Re Kelvin’, removing the need for trans children and their parents to apply to the courts for ‘Stage Two’ treatment, was still years away: it was finally determined at the end of 2017.

    The social, legal, political and health changes in the past seven years have been wonderful, but none of them happened by accident.  Today, if a trans kid transitions without fuss, it’s because they are standing on the shoulders of thousands of people who came before them and fought every step of the way. In the life of a child, bureaucracy should be small, but for transgender children it can be a behemoth, preventing them from existing in a place without turmoil.

    Our whole family has suffered mentally and physically. We’ve had the support of several amazing organisations – A Gender Agenda, Transcend and the Paediatric Unit at the Canberra Hospital in particular – but in between the appointments, forms and campaigning, we’ve also grappled with opposition from our extended family. These weren’t challenges that could happen between 6-8am in the morning and 6-8pm at night. At the end of 2017, Nick’s Dad quit his fulltime job in order to support and look after our children. At one point we were in danger of losing our house. We’ve hung onto the lower rungs of Canberra middle-class privilege by our toenails.

    Here, I have to be very clear: Nick’s Dad didn’t quit his job because Nick came out as transgender. It wasn’t direct cause and effect, but through the process of Nick’s transition we all lost some of privileges that until then we probably hadn’t questioned enough. Lack of good health, time, support and money are still pernicious problems for many LGBTIQ+ folk and we’ve experienced only a faint echo of these struggles. Nonetheless, I grieved the loss of ease and simplicity in all of our lives: for a while my heart literally ached.

    None of this compares to the strength that Nick needed every day to turn up to school and to turn up in the world. The counsellor and academic Elizabeth Riley said to me that the whole of society is, in a sense, a form of gender conversion, because most people and institutions will respond more favourably to a person who presents as cis and straight. This is undoubtedly true, but Nick has never faltered. His older sisters have also been incredible: they’ve been consistently kind, curious, honourable human beings under pressure. It’s often been hard for them to perform traditional ideas of ‘success’ but I burst with pride when speaking of all three of them.

    Let me return to some of the ‘big’ things.  Firstly, Nick’s experiences often inform my teaching of preservice teachers. Sometimes it’s just about explaining that as much as 1.7% of the population are intersex, so dividing your class into ‘boys’ and ‘girls’ might throw some students into confusion. I teach literacy, so I enjoy explaining that the plural (or nonbinary) pronoun, ‘they,’ dates from the 14th century, and that many indigenous languages use pronouns to indicate animacy rather than gender. Everyone’s perception of their lived experience is gendered and this is reflected through our use of language: it is not a niche or ‘special interest’ issue.

    Nick helps me remember that his life is huge with possibility – and marvellous really.

    He says:

    I don’t know what the future holds for me. But over my 16 years I’ve learned to trust the process. My family and I have been through hell and back… multiple times. But every time we have come out the other side bigger and better people. I’ve found my passions, I love to act and perform, skateboard, play music, I love the people I surround myself with and I’d do anything for them. Through my life things will change, but that’s okay because people have continued to believe in me, and now I know that I can do whatever I set my mind to.

    The evening when Nick first told me he was a boy, we needed to go and pick up his sister from soccer practice directly after his revelation. I still remember how Nick danced and skipped ahead of me. He seemed lighter, ebullient even. This is one of my sweetest memories: nine-year-old Nick, dancing under the floodlights on a winter’s evening at the sports oval, seemingly without a care in the world.

    Nick playing guitar with Rachel by the fire. Picture: Supplied

    Nick playing guitar with Rachel by the fire. Picture: Supplied

    Feature image: Nick with his Mum, Rachel, enjoying the Canberra blossom. Photo: Supplied 

    • Editor’s note: This piece was written with Nick’s full permission and input. He took part in the editing. As the saying goes: “Nothing About Us Without Us!”

     

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  • Designing our way out of gender inequality

    Monash University’s intriguingly named “XYX Lab” – a team of design researchers exploring gender-sensitive design practices and theory – recently received a prestigious national prize in the inaugural Designers Australia 2021 Awards for the ground breaking work, titled ‘HyperSext City.’
    The work highlights the impact of gender, exclusion and sexual violence to encourage participants to co-design a more equitable city. 
    Here I’m chatting with one of HyperSext City’s creators,  XYX Lab’s co-director, Associate Professor Nicole Kalms.

     

    Nicole, congratulations on the award you’ve won for Hypersext City! What is it exactly?

    HyperSext City is an exhibition consisting of a series of graphic provocations that tells the story of how gender interacts with urban spaces – revealing the particular experiences of women and LGBTIQ communities internationally.

    The HyperSext HyperGraphic (see image above) is an overscaled black and orange information graphic that dramatically confronts its audience with the startling state of our cities through immersing its audience in stories, statistics and data.

    Two video works in an adjoining room are a call to action. In an urban montage A Billion Views speaks to the urgency of designing cities that are responsive to gender inequity. Do you Feel Safe shows the precariousness of women’s shared experiences of feeling unsafe in cities.

    The HyperSext Repository is a digital component of the exhibition and invites the audience to interactively document and reference data and research. The repository is an ongoing live project.

    What is it designed to show?

    It’s designed to make public the confronting data associated with gender inequality, harassment and lack of safety in cities for women, girls and gender diverse people. Data like this is usually dispersed across multiple repositories, embedded in reports, and other places the public never accesses. Through the different components of the project, we’ve consolidated the data into one impactful experience, and an ongoing singular website where people can access, read and respond to the data. Hypersextcity.com is an open resource that also permits contributions from experts from across disciplinary fields and geographic locations.

    How did you go about making it and collating the information?

    ‘Making’ is pivotal to any design practice. The hyper graphic was designed as an immersive data visual, realised through the same production processes commercial operations use in cities to promote themselves publicly. Store fronts, advertising and other visual devices contribute to a highly gendered vernacular of the city, and it seemed an appropriate medium to talk back to these messages in an equivalently persuasive mode. The display of data is not easy to make engaging. The work draws on icons, visual representations of cities and countries, alongside traditional methods of representation: pie charts and graphs. The vibrancy and stark contrast of the red-orange (traditionally associated with warning) against black and white (aligned to the pragmatism of statistics and facts) allows for a very easily read collection of data.

    Associate Professor Nicole Kalms

    XYX Lab’s co-director, Associate Professor Nicole Kalms. She was one of the creators of “HyperSext City.” Picture: Ella Mitchell

    Why did you use so many different mediums and data points for the work?

    The exhibition space was curated into different experiences and mediums and each plays a pivotal role in the narrative journey. The audience is drawn in by the graphic quality of the wall data, ultimately overwhelmed by its content; and eventually moved emotionally by the video narratives. This complex intersection is intended to drive people to action; whether it be through the embedded gender justice workshops we ran as part of the exhibition experience; through the take-home cards that create a portable ‘wall’ of data; to ultimately the hypersext.com website that exists in perpetuity, providing both a resource for the public to access and place to add expert knowledge.

    What’s the desired effect on the viewer or consumer of the project?

    Being the immersive, larger than human scale experience, the intent was to ensure people saw themselves IN the data. They’re not just passive viewers, but participants to the overwhelming narrative of the gender inequity that exists in their city and every city across the globe. Utilising data that is connected to acknowledged expert sources, provides an indisputable truth that is difficult for the audience to dismiss. Indeed, most of the audience has seen it in action, and were able to align one or some of the facts to their own lived experience or news stories they were familiar with.

    The exhibition is a call to action, not just for designers but all disciplinary experts who contribute to the building and operationalisation of our cities, to address gender as a constituent part of their planning.

    How do you think it could actually make cities more equitable?

    Women, gender-diverse people and the LGBTIQ community are among some of the most vulnerable groups in cities. Designers, architects, and urban planners can’t make assumptions about what vulnerable people experience. We must actively work with communities and bring forward their lived, sometimes hidden, experiences to co-create solutions.

    By encouraging and empowering people to understand the present, and imagine desired futures, we challenge audiences to consider how we might intervene in public spaces to make them safer for women, girls and LGBTQI+ communities. This is a project of change that will benefits everyone.

    I found the films very moving. Can you explain how/why they were made this way and what they show?

    Co-creation is a core value of the work of XYX Lab. We have collaborated with content producer/creator Ella Mitchell to showcase our work on several occasions. The medium of video allows us to create a bridge between the academic research and a general (non-design) audience. The scripts and images illuminate complex – and often sensitive – materials to bring humanity and beauty to research activism.

    Feature image: People viewing the HyperSext HyperGraphic, an overscaled black and orange information graphic. Picture: Brett Brown

     

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