Sally Jesse and the Baying Masses

I used to watch TV instead of going to school when I was in my teens. Now, now, don’t leap down my throat. You think just because you’ve read one sentence, that gives you the basic idea so now you can spew bile on the comments section. No, no. I was sick okay? Also, that’s a bad way to behave.

I learned a lot about good and bad ways to behave, stuck at home with the TV remote. Daytime TV is super educational, in a brain rotting sort of way. First infomercials (home gym equipment, Suzanne Clip), then between Oprah (book club, touchy-feely, car giveaways) and MASH (honestly it was a welcome relief), was Sally Jesse Raphael. The queen of trash talk TV.

Families would drag their teenage daughters on to the show. Tearfully, angrily, they would divulge their disgust in how they dressed and who they spent their time with, because there is no better parenting than slut-shaming your child on internationally broadcast television. Concerns would be brushed aside, brazenly, brashly, by these abrasive girls.

Sally Jesse, in her power suits and oversize red glasses would look suitably disgusted and appalled at all this carry on. Revolted by the choices these girls were making. How they chose to dress. Dragging it all out for the drama, and then offering platitudes in the guise of helping these families. We were all with her, weren’t we? It was a learning experience. A chance to clear the air, between loving family members and a declining audience share.

Looking back I do not for a second think that these girls (and they were girls) were exemplars of feminine empowerment. I think many of them were making very unhealthy choices. How easy it is to blame them. To blame their families. Perhaps even to blame the television executives who used their poverty of choices as fodder for entertainment. Millions bounced around by corporations, creating growth, profit, jobs for the hardworking, and here was the bread for the masses. Keep the crowds happy with the cut and thrust of a domestic spectacle. A drama where the only people hurt were those already on the bottom of the heap.

Years later I lived in the UK with my husband. Cambridge, a town full of elites and drowning in its own beauty. My husband was completing his PhD, while I worked a low wage job. Looking for a flat for our last year was stressful, we looked at many shitty flats in many dodgy locations before finding a reasonably good option. A one-bedroom terrace flat in a block of council flats. The type of flat with pre-pay electric meters, and neighbours who stocked up on extra large cans of lager at the corner store in the morning. The type of flat whose previous tenant had decided to disappear after the mounting debts got too much. The houses across the street had nice gardens, but the occupants never said hello, unlike the guy who thought I should be grateful for the aggressively friendly attention of him and his two large pitbulls as they wandered the neighbourhood.

We shared an entrance with a boy in his late teens (and he was a boy), who moved in not long after us. Let’s call him Mark. I don’t know why Mark ended up in a council flat on his own at such a young age, though I can make a few guesses. It’s clear Mark had been badly let down, first by the family who should have looked after him, and then by the social structures that should have been supporting him when his family failed. But, he wasn’t a bad guy. He didn’t set off the alarm bells that some of our other neighbours did, or that some of his friends did.

The flat had been noticeably quiet for some days before we were woken, early, by banging on the doors, “Mark!” The police had turned up. We opened the lower door, let them up, said we hadn’t seen him for a few days, and then minded our own business like good neighbours should. A few days later he came home, but he stopped going out at night.

Mark was under a curfew.

I don’t know what Mark had done. I only know that by the time we left Cambridge, Mark was in prison and his girlfriend was pregnant. I only know that social services worked in such a way that, though money was thrown at housing him, we never once saw someone checking if Mark, this barely literate teen, was okay. The only officials we saw in our time next door were police and debt collectors. He was dumped in a flat without the emotional skills to cope on his own, the maturity to keep him out of trouble, and without a clue how to manage basic tasks like putting out rubbish and recycling until we took the time to show him how.

All these years later, I still feel angry for Mark, for all the Marks. For the waste that was once a child with promise. I liked what I saw of his girlfriend. I’ve always thought she’s probably doing a good job of raising that child in a society full of hurdles. One where we set up single teen mums to fail and then wonder why it happens, if they do. But Mark? I’ve never thought a stint in prison would see him come out a better man. I wonder, how safe I would feel now, opening my door onto a quiet corridor and seeing him there.

And that curfew? It didn’t solve anyone’s problems. It didn’t stop Mark from having his mates over. It didn’t stop the noise, the drinking. It didn’t stop his mates from hooning off in a hurry in their cars late at night and probably drunk. It didn’t stop him from collecting a sawn-off length of pipe and running a lap of the block the night that bricks got thrown through our second floor windows. It didn’t stop Mark from trashing his apartment in a rage one night. I don’t know, but I think I’d feel like punching holes in walls if my life felt that hopeless too.

All it meant was his problem was contained. Away from the rest of Cambridge. The nice Cambridge.

Away from the successful middle class who tut-tut at these messy people with their messy lives as though somehow our societies are completely separate. As though the choices we make about how we share, and with who, are fair. As though it is these kids’ damn fault for the mess they find themselves in. As though we solve their problems by forcing them to be home, even if home is where they don’t feel safe.

Do you think Mark ended up where he was without the people who work on those front lines supporting kids thinking, ‘we are failing this kid’? Without someone wishing they had the resources to offer him something more. We listen to the mainstream media asking their tough questions. But when people tell us what they need, we peer into our bank vaults, count our change, and shake our heads sadly. Tell them to find ways to manage. Pour scorn on these wayward youths in a Sally Jesse style trial by media, and yet we refuse, refuse, to listen to the evidence for how to prevent Marks from becoming Marks in the first place.

We pretend we live in better, fairer societies than the Victorians, or the Romans before us. These days I get to sit in my nice flat, in my nice neighbourhood, and listen, as our politicians punch down. We all nod our heads, as though we too know what these kids need. Fool ourselves that we are not complicit.

Then we take our ring side seats, switch on our TV sets.

Grab your popcorn folks. Real life. It’s the best damn show in town.

Thanks for reading. Please drop by my Facebook page to let me know what you think. Or join me on Twitter or Instagram.

Change

Teenage girls have a reputation for being hysterical. Think Salem, The Beatles, Justin Bieber.

It can be hard, as a teenage girl, to get adults to take you seriously, even when the context is incredibly serious.

It was hard for me as a teenage girl to get doctors to take me seriously. I had fallen on my knee playing sports. I was brushed off at an A&E, despite serious swelling because nothing was showing on the Xray. In fact, I had ruptured my anterior cruciate ligament, tissue too soft to show up on X-ray. It was operated on, and a graft put in to replace it. I began to recover, and then my recovery stalled. I was in constant pain. Some of this was caused by nerve damage from the operation. The other pain, an explosive feeling of pressure in my joint, could not be explained. It was, in some doctors opinion, unbelievable. They had done their job. Now it was up to me to do mine, to rehabilitate myself. Two and a half years after the initial operation a surgeon finally agreed to open up my knee again. They found a soft tissue growth in my knee, caused by an incorrect graft placement. It was, by this stage, quite large.

That explosive pain was the feeling of my knee joint literally being pushed apart from the inside.

As I said, I was a teenager, trying to complete my high school years. Teenagers are meant to be discovering who they are, and where they belong in the world. I was discovering that, in the eyes of authority – doctors, teachers, ACC – my words were not to be believed. I had to account for myself again and again.

I remember an ACC assessment, an “independent” doctor, weighing my words. Trying to figure out where I fitted in their book. What I would be entitled to. Pain, in and of itself, was not enough. At this stage I did not know a recovery would be in my future. I would be 18 soon. How would I navigate my life through this world, as I navigated my growing disability? It felt very uncertain. It was clear I couldn’t expect much help.

I was extremely fortunate. My parents were emotionally and financially able to support me through this time. It was, I have no doubt, a strain on them. They were able to pay for crutches while ACC dithered about whether I really needed them. I was treated in the private medical system, through work-related health insurance. I wonder how much longer I would have waited for that last operation in the public system, and at what emotional, and physical cost?

To this day when I visit a doctor, and they frown, or question what I am trying to explain, I feel the slow burning fear of not being believed. The visible scars have all but faded, but underneath my skin it is all still there. Burnt right into me. Is my perception accurate? Am I being hysterical? Am I imagining it? Do I just want attention?

If you have never experienced it, it is hard to explain the devastation of not being believed. Of being measured, and found wanting. Of feeling that the slightest misstep as you explain yourself can be used against you. It is hard to explain the exhaustion of having to constantly account for yourself. To the adults who want your seat on the train. To the teacher who thought I should go get my own library books for research, while I was dependent on crutches to walk. To the doctors and case workers whose job it is to slide the abacus, watching them flick the beads as they say “Not that. Not that. Not that.”

When people constantly doubt your word, you begin to doubt yourself. When I read the stories of the inhumane treatment people are receiving it breaks my heart. I know how easily those actions can slide under your skin and become part of you.

Sometimes it feels like a different life. One where my experiences were less valid than they are now.

My life was every bit as valid then as it is now.

Being a teenager, being dependent, being disabled, did not make me less a person. It did not make me less deserving.

I haven’t had to deal with authorities in New Zealand for some time. I am a married mother of two. I don’t know what it is like to be on the DPB. I have, nerve damage aside, made a full recovery. I can’t tell you what it feels like to walk into a WINZ office now to fight for what I need to survive, to thrive.

I can tell you that when people say it is time to change, I believe them. I can say that when people say the emotional cost is too high, I believe them. The stress of constantly having to prove yourself is immense. I don’t know how I could do that now, and simultaneously parent successfully.

No one can thrive when they cannot support their most basic needs. No one can thrive when they are constantly questioned, doubted, refused.

Listen to what people are trying to say. They are not being hysterical. They are being honest. They are telling you something important.

It is time for change.