Where did I learn about masculinity?

Trigger warning for violence and sexual abuse.

I learnt about masculinity when the son of my father's best friend from his teenage years kicked and punched me when I was a child because his father was bringing him up to be a 'real boy'.

I was so much physically weaker than him and didn't really do anything to provoke him... It's just that play to him was tackling his older brother and therefore it was okay to tackle me.

I complained to my gentle father and he told me that if the son of his friend were to do this again I had his permission to kick him firmly in the groin... And so I was taught self defence and about the patriarchy and about how I was less than a man and so I must learn to defend myself...

I learnt about masculinity when I was sexually assaulted by an older cousin abroad when I was 9. He was a 15 year old boy in a society dominated by religious and social systems that meant he had no idea what a naked woman would look like in real life... All he had learnt of the female form was from some pornography he'd found at the house of an older relative... That's how he explained to me why he wished to remove my clothes and have a look at my genitals... And so I was taught that raising a child in isolation of what the relationship between self and sex is with predominantly male role models and seeing women as objects it becomes acceptable to cross a line in trying to decipher what sexuality means.

I learnt about masculinity when I was assaulted again when I was older... Physically,  sexually...  Inappropriate touch... Groping....  Call it what you want...  But never ever try and tell me that patriarchy doesn't harm everyone...  My cousin needed a better education... I don't blame him... I do blame the system that tells one half of the population they have a duty to control the other half.

My Faith

Below is a story of my faith perspective I shared with a congregation of over 100 at the Closing Ceremony for FUSE 2014 in Worthing on the 22nd of February.

I'm going to start by saying I visited my first Unitarian service on this day in 2009. I didn't come back for another four and a half years in which time I have been on a huge journey of self acceptance a journey I'm still on so thanks in advance for listening.

All this last week I've known that today's celebration would require me to speak about my Unitarianism. And a few disparate moments have strung themselves together into a narrative to share with you today.

On Tuesday with for some reason a conversation started up on Twitter with my ex someone I broke up with just over nine years ago. I explained I'm visiting Bristol in June, where he now lives and talk of Coffee shops and the explanation of why I'm visiting led to the question from him of "pardon my ignorance, but what's a unitarian?" I realised I didn't have a useful answer, that I could condense into 140 characters... I didn't want to simply say... Me, I'm a Unitarian... And while I was fussing trying to find what to say, he said "ok. I've Wikipediad it. Seems an interesting concept". And it is an interesting concept... But it's far more than that.

The thing this is someone I started dating 14 years ago,  when I was a Roman Catholic. I'd grown up in the Catholic faith, my father is Polish and my mother, though not Catholic, herself agreed to us being raised as tiny defenders of The Faith. I wasn't, until more recently, what someone might even describe as a lapsed Catholic. I actually took my faith incredibly seriously. I wasn't on the edge of the communities I belonged to, I was, typically for me, in the middle "being noisy". In choirs, music groups, and planning committees young adult events. I was on the service reading rota. And for a time I taught in a small Catholic primary school in the suburbs of Birmingham. On several, all memorable occasions, other Catholics, I barely knew, suggested that maybe my vocation lay in "nunning". I couldn't explain in 140 characters the journey I have taken from that place to standing in front of you today and saying I'm a Unitarian. Even this time last year,  when I appeared on a video shown at the GA,  I self described as an IT Specialist,  which is my job!

The second thing I would like to talk about is Music. For me personally music has always been the most constant and centering force on my life, listening, playing, singing, making, experiencing. And something I shared with my ex (and luckily with my husband) is going to gigs and those concerts, for us, are meaningful and connecting and deep.

I have seen two great gigs this week... The band here (we used to make things) and on Wednesday a small group of amazing musicians from Portland Oregon called The Decemberists.

I heard the lyrics of the first song on Wednesday and they were:

Cause we know, we know, we belong to ya
We know you built your life around us
And would we change, we had to change some
You know, to belong to you

I was struck by the depth of philosophy in this simple slightly humorous song and how people connected with the band and each other and loved being there. Much as we did here last night.

I apologise to those who know this story or part of it, but the reason I was in a Unitarian church for the first time six years ago is my twin sister who also sings and loves music. She is a Pagan who is a Unitarian because,  as well as the acceptance of her path, she loves that we sing as part of our worship!

And in this circle drawn to accept us both as we are, loving who we love and believing as we we believe, we can stand side by side in the same place of worship and belong equally. Valued for and valuing what we actually hold dear. Which is that connection with others who are like and unlike us... And although as twins in some ways we couldn't be more alike it is how we are unlike that makes us who we are. And in Unitarianism I can comfortably be myself.

How do I feel about extremism?!

The title of this post is a serious question.

Very serious, because sometimes you can ignore events that happen in far away countries, or to people you don't know. Or that are so removed from your everyday existence that giving them a second thought takes genuine effort.

And them something happen's like last weekend's EDL march and counter march by Unite Against Facism happens. The contentious issue which has been causing debate for at least seven years is the redevelopment of a derelict ex-manufacturing site alongside the road which allows much of the local traffic to bypass the centre of the town. (The BBC carried the latest decision in November)

In Dudley. In my town. The place I grew up.

I remember Christmases, marveling in the department store in the Toy Department at the toy train that ran back and forth above the shelves.

The tiny "world famous" sweet shop, the chemists, the supermarket, the fountain, the market, visiting the shoe shop to be fitted for new shoes.

The BBC carries the story the day after the march with two pictures 

And I have stood there, I have walked those streets, I have driven my car those corners, I have visited those shops.

I feel deeply, but I can't put what I feel into soundbite. And there are those who would say I don't have a right to an opinion. I'm not Muslim, so why would I care about the right of those from that faith to build a place of worship and I'm not English/Anglo-Saxon/Local. Go back about three generations back in my family you've covered most of the UK and also a significant geographical area around two of the largest cities in Poland.

But it's still my town.

A place, that for all it's faults, I still love. I love the people, I love the quirky 1960s architecture of the pedestrian bridge, I love the fact that we have a real genuine historic castle! I love our crazy accent and dialect.

I even moved back here, I brought my husband down here from Scotland. I work for a local health trust because I believe that local people deserve high quality care, all local people, from whatever racial, social-economic or religious background.

We don't get a lot of love from the rest of the UK, from politicians, from those who mock: our accent, our local food, our bare and decaying high street, our poor housing, our aging and increasingly ailing population.

But love is exactly what we need. It's not as simple as being on the correct side or opposing something... we need to start loving.

We need to love our town, we need to be able to take pride in it.

We need to love our neighbours, and recognize and celebrate our commonality.

All many of us could do during the march was stay away. I chose to stay home, as much as I would have liked to show some civic pride, show some resistance to extremism. Previous protests have resulted in violence and damage. And as much as I value my freedom, support liberty and the right to protest those sort of stories make me quite afraid. No one wants violence... and in the event their was none.

Bad days and winters

Bad days...

Some days are just bad days. Sometimes you might just be having a hard time. It might be a blip on a generally upward slope.

Apart from its not that simple.

Depression sure feels like a large charcoal crayon that scribbles out everything good in your picture without asking.

But it's not that simple.

I woke up one morning earlier this month feeling disorientated and anxious. Like I had repeatedly for several days.

I felt blank. Like I'd been bleached.
Everything was bleak.
I was confused and angry at every little thing.
I couldn't bear how cold it was in the house.
I couldn't bear the thought of showering and being wet and cold.
And I felt like I couldn't move. Like all I could do was lie there. Every suggestion my husband made to help was a personal assault, I was in pain and suffering, and I wanted everything to stop.

When I'd woken up stupidly early I'd gone to check my phone, for the time, apart from it was flat.
It had been left charging when I went to sleep, it wasn't charged.
My husband fixed this for me, he ran and found a charger and plugged things in.
And I should have been grateful... I was grateful... But I couldn't feel grateful. It's hard to express genuine thanks when you're having a hard time working out if you are functioning.

I found, as I started to take tiny steps, I was in fact functional enough to get dressed...  I skipped the shower...  I couldn't find the reserves to wash thoroughly too.
I found I could drink a cup of tea.
I managed to put how I was feeling into enough words to send an email to a friend.
A cry for help...
A cry... on that day when there had been other days I've woken up ready to sob...  But they weren't bad days.

And that day wasn't a bad day either.

I got to work.
I taught some classes.

On my lunch break I got some water, grapes, snacks and crackers from the shop... I walked there.. In the cold.

I called my husband and apologised for my irritability... And the yelling I had done that morning.

I smiled...  I saw something bright green in the hedges and realised I was staring at a real life intact ball of mistletoe.... That had obviously been noticed by no one during the festive season.

Small thing, a tiny glimpse of joy.

I clung to this image of the bright green amongst the stiff grey branches and thought about how depression is a lot like a winter... The need to shut down and rest, to reserve energy until things are warmer and brighter. It's sensible... We don't punish the trees for winter... They are within a system where it makes sense for them to rest. Shouting at the Sun to spend more time with us doesn't do any good either... Sometimes the right behaviour is the one that conserves and heals.

The distinction I have learnt to make is that my bad days, have not all been bad days in that they're not exclusively bad... It's possible to experience glimpses of joy in the gloom... If I look carefully just now at my precious Acer in my garden I can see the buds ready and prepared for the eventual spring... And where I can't see under the ground she has roots holding her up.

There has not yet been a winter so harsh as to destroy her... Me neither.

Sometimes I'm just too bouncy...

I'm in Year 3 at primary school. I'm in the Juniors now... I'm not supposed to ever ask to leave class for the toilet any more... Our bladders should be made of steel apparently, I think this rule is ridiculous.

We're learning to write 'joined-up'. Last year we were the first year to do the Year 2 SATs pilot. I was in an extra class for the "gifted and talented" pupils in the class... Handwriting went towards the level so we were taught to join up...

I enjoyed joining-up in pencil.

But now I'm in the Juniors and I've been given a pen... And apparently I'm not managing very well with it... My teacher wants to teach the whole class to do joining-up... So I'm told to stop joining-up my way and do it his way... It's difficult and I can't read what I've written.

I'm often told not to rock on my chair... Apparently I'll fall backwards and crack my head on the floor, or a table, or something. I've been rocking on my chair, I've been shuffling on my chair... We're meant to be quiet... We're writing something (22 years later I'm not sure what exactly is was we were writing) but my teacher has had enough of my rocking and fidgeting, and my talking, and fussing, and general exuberance. And I'm going to have to do without my chair for the rest of the lesson. If I can't learn to sit still I can see what it's like with no chair at all...

Everyone else still has their chair...

I try not to cry, to not be totally embarrassed, but I am, I'm flushed and angry, and I really was not rocking on my chair just to annoy the teacher.

I try writing while standing up and but I'm taller than every other girl in the class.. And I'm taller than the 6 boys as well.... I'm the tallest and I'm trying to stand at a desk and carry on working and everyone is looking at me.

Tall and chair-less...

I decide that I'll have to crouch I tuck one leg under the other and I spend the rest of the lesson balanced... I am now definitely being defiant... All I can think of is annoying the teacher because he embarrassed me. So I'm determined to balance AND do my work... Balancing and being able to write become the most important two tasks in the world... And I think that the teacher should know that I'm perfectly okay WITHOUT my chair... And so I tell him so... Not a good idea... He's more exasperated than ever and even though I get my chair back, eventually however, it's clear that I'm just too bouncy.

Later on I'm in Year 6... My parents are good friends with the teacher of the parallel class and her husband (he and my father were colleagues.)

I'm now the tallest girl in the school, I still talk too much, I still have too many opinions, I still shuffle about on my chair and don't finish my work. But still seem to learn everything I need to... Other than correct spelling, punctuation and handwriting. I have yet to finish a whole book from the reading library... (In the whole school year, I read two books, eventually)

It's Christmas, I'm at school late a lot for rehearsals and events... The night of the Carol Service, it's late (past 9) and I'm still going strong, I've played my flute, I've played my recorder, I've sung, we're all standing around... Mum, Dad, Jackie (the teacher) and John (her husband) and I am involved in the adults' conversation and I am being polite, but voicing my opinions and (for some moments of peace for my parents) I'm sent to fetch some mince pies.

I return to the circle and Jackie says (because it's the end of term, and they are all teachers and teachers work crazy hours)
"Aleks, I don't know what you're on, but I think we could all do with some!"

I'm 10... I am not entirely sure what she means, but I'm pretty certain that she wouldn't... I seem to elicit an "Oh no, 'too much Aleks'" response from most adults and even though they think I don't understand I'm like an over-wound spring, I totally do, I just can't do anything about it.

This morning I arranged to meet a friend, someone I've known for years online, but have never met in person. We meet at 10... I have a coffee and then something to eat and another coffee.... For the two and a half hours I talk almost nonstop... I talk with my hands, I draw invisible diagrams on the table with my fingers and I'm vaguely aware that I'm jiggling my own legs occasionally. But I'm engaged and the time flies by, and soon we're walking down the high street, and hugging, and saying "Goodbye" and "We must do this again soon."

I do some shopping and come home and still have buckets of energy... And I realise I need to pace myself.

Today is my first day working for myself. Not to make money or to become famous. But to be able to balance out the requirements of my work, with the requirements of my own life and wellbeing.

Now I'm 30, I can go to the toilet when I wish, if I want to rock on my chair, I can, no one is going to mark my handwriting. As long as I harm no one else I can, within the shape of my Friday every week, work towards my own goals and objectives. And I'm overwhelmed and I'm so bouncy... I am occasionally 'too much Aleks' even for myself. But it's good harness-able bounce... Energy that, if I spend it wisely, can make a difference in the world.

So I'll try, and even if I can't change the world it will make a world of difference to me.