I love women. For our resilience, our strength, our ingenuity, our vulnerability, our capacity for empathy. We are weapons of mass creation.
As a mama who came to this game a little later in life (all hail the geriatric mamas!), it is most especially in motherhood that I have felt our power. And I don’t mean in the context of birth, or breastfeeding, or multitasking our faces off. I am in awe of our deep wells and our commitment to provide and to persevere, even as so many archaic patriarchal concepts and constructs still stand in our way.
I also love men. And it is pure joy and utter frustration to bring a little man into the world.
I am trying to distance myself from gendered politics as I provide a space for this tiny human to flourish. I am ever-conscious of the fluidity of gender. I am trying to be a level-headed feminist and to raise one who sees humans first. I am trying not to ask too many questions about nature versus nurture as our (almost) threenager runs through the world with either a fire truck or police car clutched tightly in his hand.
I experience his surges of testosterone with compassion rather than judgement as my own levels are rising and the potential for a contract as the circus’ bearded lady is within reach (!!). His fists curl, his teeth clench and mostly it is a rush of excitement as the grimace turns to a smile and he can exhale before allowing those fists to connect. He has the capacity to be gentle, to be sweet, to be overwhelmingly loving, but he is also a big energy and when those fists are raised, even slightly, especially up close to his goldilocked best friend, I too clench. My buttocks. And hope.
The levels of domestic violence in Australia are peaking. And as we traipse around the world and experience male entitlement and toxic masculinity, deeply entrenched in some of the world’s more ancient cultures, I wonder how far we have really come. How far we can ever go.
I am surrounded by excellent, inspirational male role models. One of my favourites is an enlightened feminist, one who has read more literature in this space than I ever will, one who is committed to reading predominantly female authors, one who facilitates space for his wife to flourish and genuinely champions the female voice. He has grown into this manhood as a father, working hard not to emulate his own father’s traits, constantly unpicking male privilege and doing his best to be a true ally. But even the free thinkers, the educated, the enlightened, have the capacity to raise their loud voices louder.
I grew up in a household where the boys outnumbered the girls. We are a household where passions run wild and when we unite the sparks fly as the old archetypes entangle. The younger generation is a fusion of Anglo polites and Italian fire. We have all sought partners to temper and bolster us, to stoke the fire as a backburn rather than a full frontal blaze.
In high school, two of my greatest teachers and mentors were men. My English teacher Mr Taaffee was an exceptional facilitator. He opened our minds to great work and paved the way for my deep appreciation of the written word. In my uni days, on exchange to Ireland, I travelled to the grave of W.B Yeats and stood there in wonder, gasping under bare Ben Bulben’s head, later penning a thank you card to ol’ mate Taffy, gushing with appreciation for his guidance to these transcendent thinkers and poets. My Latin teacher Mr Marshall fostered my mischievous spirit, supporting my Latin grammar hacks and allowing me to flourish as the “culture” queen, only too keen to escape the archaic structures of this language that eventually formed the basis for my linguistic pursuits.
But as I grew into womanhood, carving my own pathways into journalism, theatre producing, festivals and artist management, it was mostly the women who rose up to shine the brightest lights and inspire my personal revolution. A few of the most magnificent were fierce, independent, whip-crackingly smart, vulnerable and courageous all at once. Marguerite Pepper, the most creative of all producers, Anna Reece, a beacon of clarity, vision and dynamism and Mama Kin the most spectacular artist and indeed human who taught me integrity, power and dolphinesque mindfulness.
And always in my very core, my own mama. The greatest believer, the fiercest advocate, the truth sayer and investigator. Oh, how we clash as our world views diverge and I become louder in my leftiness as she lauds the commentators of the right, but our foundations remain steadfast. We are curious, passionate lovers of life.
Unfortunately, there have been a handful of women who have not been lighthouses, preferring instead to blockade my path and cripple my progress, tearing strips off my armour and shredding my albeit engorged self-confidence. My devilish headmistress was the first, a senior editor at The Sydney Morning Herald an even more significant speed bump. This woman thrust her own insecurities all over me, aghast at my boldness and confronted by my independence. She made me cry hot tears of self-doubt and it was her snubbery that walked me out the door through those supposedly hallowed halls.
But ain’t nobody got time, nor more than a paragraph, to lament such vacant souls. Most of my deadliest mentors have been kickass, radical femmes. Those I have stood beside, those I have observed, and learned deep lessons from, as we walked into the fire together.
I have plenty of time for good men, solid open-hearted humans, willing to listen, love and learn. But where I can count my female betrayals and disappointments on one hand, my boyo shortfalls have come fast and furious of late.
And yet I live in hope. Always. Open, smiling, ready to receive. Let’s all continue to do our best, to persevere, to believe in possibilities. Stay human, babes.
montreal, canada : june 2024