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[hacker-witch]

Pussy Hats & Police Attacks

Protecting Yourself & Your Rights While Protesting

Are you going to the Women's March on Washington? Or maybe you’re going to a local sister march? I’ll be at the Women’s March on London. Wearing my awesome Pussyhat Project hat with pride. 

But here's the thing, protests can be scary. But they can also be empowering and awesome. There are some good starting points at this link (some of which I am going to repeat because they are important), but I'd like to add some further comments, especially in relation to any interactions you may have with police.*

As the medium post above says, police will be at any protest you attend. They are supposed to be there to monitor the route of the march, direct traffic, and keep you safe. But we all know that's not necessarily what all police officers everywhere will do. Especially not on Saturday. Especially not with a march like ours.

So what are your rights? What can you do to protect yourself?

BEFORE THE MARCH

Memorise an emergency contact's phone number! Don't just write it down. Don't rely on your phone. Memorise it.

Write an emergency contact #, and any allergies or medical conditions you may have ON YOUR ARM IN SHARPIE in case you become unconscious or otherwise unable to communicate. DO NOT INCLUDE YOUR NAME, in case you have an encounter with antagonistic cops. (More on this later).

Decide whether or not to bring your phone. So, here is where I differ from the medium post above. Having your phone is great! Pictures are great! Livestreaming your march is great! Tweet all the things!

Except.

If you are detained by the police, they will attempt to force you to unlock your phone and allow them access to its contents.

~~~So what are your options?~~~

(a) Don't bring your phone at all. This is not ideal, since you won't be able to record the event, and won't be able to record the same interactions with police that would lead to you needing to make this decision.

(b) Instead of leaving your phone at home, and ESPECIALLY if you live in the USA; TURN OFF FINGERPRINT UNLOCK BEFORE YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE. Until very recently, courts in the USA have held that it was unconstitutional for police or the courts to force someone to divulge their phone's unlock password as this was protected under your 5th Amendment rights against self-incrimination. HOWEVER, the same courts have held that they CAN force you to use your fingerprint to unlock your phone as that is equivalent to taking DNA or fingerprint samples which are not protected under the 5th Amendment. Now, a Florida court has recently gone against this, and ruled that they COULD force someone to unlock their phone by password OR by fingerprint. This was not a circuit court, so is only directly applicable in Florida, and even then is not binding on future courts. Which is to say,

++++++++++ TURN OFF FINGERPRINT UNLOCK BEFORE YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE. ++++++++++

For those of us outside the USA, we don't have any positive right against self-incrimination, BUT, police need either a SEARCH WARRANT or PROBABLE CAUSE to search you. This includes compelling you to unlock your phone via password.

Which brings us to:

DURING THE MARCH

MAKE NEW FRIENDS! Talk to your fellow marchers. We all share a common cause, and this is just the beginning. Your fellow marchers are your comrades in arms in the fight ahead.

to quote Jtander over on medium, "Above all, DO NOT GET VIOLENT, HURT PEOPLE, OR DAMAGE PROPERTY."

But we all know that isn't necessarily enough to avoid a confrontation with police. If police are disrespectful to you, do your best to not engage. Keep Marching. Ignore them, if you feel safe to do so.

~~~YOUR RIGHTS WHEN CONFRONTED BY POLICE~~~

A. DO NOT SAY ANYTHING. You do not have to answer any question from police.

B. DO NOT GIVE THEM YOUR ID. You do not need to prove your identity to police.

C. KEEP FILMING. If the police are doing something wrong, RECORD IT. Post it on twitter, facebook, youtube, snapchat. Spread it wide and fast. If it's already online, they can't stop the signal.

+++TURN ON AUTO-UPLOAD OF PHOTOS AND VIDEOS ON YOUR PHONE+++

If your data plan can support it, turn on auto-upload over mobile so the files will backup immediately.

If you're out of iCloud space, get the Flickr app - it comes with a free 1TB of backup storage for auto-backup of photos and videos. If you're on android, Google Photos comes with free unlimited storage of photos and videos for backup purposes.

D. DO NOT DELETE YOUR FOOTAGE. The police cannot force you to delete incriminating footage of them. IT IS EVIDENCE. If you have auto-backups on, then by default, deleting the photos or videos on your phone shouldn't affect the ones in the cloud. But, if you feel safe doing so, don't delete either!

E. SUPPORT YOUR SISTERS. We are all sisters around the world in this march. Some of our sisters may be brothers, some may be non-binary, genderqueer, genderfluid, agender, or any other identity siblings. BUT WE ARE ALL TOGETHER. If the police are disrespecting your sister, AND YOU FEEL SAFE DOING SO, check in with her and make sure she is ok.

F. IF YOU ARE ARRESTED, DO NOT ANSWER ANY QUESTIONS. CALL A LAWYER IMMEDIATELY. SAY NOTHING UNTIL YOUR LAWYER IS PRESENT. THEN LISTEN TO YOUR LAWYER.

++++++++++++++++++++++++ ABOVE ALL ELSE STAY SAFE!!! +++++++++++++++++++++++++

If you are a member of any marginalised community, take extra care when interacting with police. I know that nothing above has or will protect our Black brothers and sisters who continue to be executed in cold blood by police in the USA. None of it has or will protect our First Nations brothers and sisters who continue to be murdered and go missing in Canada.

If you are white, or male, or straight, or cisgendered, or any, or all of the above, USE YOUR PRIVILEGE TO PROTECT THE REST OF US FROM POLICE. Intervene. De-escalate. Deflect. Be the Ally you are looking to be by attending this March.

AFTER THE MARCH

KEEP SPREADING THE MESSAGE. KEEP FIGHTING.

This is just the beginning. Don't let the new Co-Monster in Chief normalise Nazis in Cabinet. Don't let the new Pissant of the United States of America normalise sexual abuse and sexual assault. Don't let the new Lilliputian of the Free World strip away the rights of Women, POC, LGBTQIA* folks or anyone else.

We're stronger together. And we are stronger than Trump.

FURTHER RESOURCES

I only have one. A fantastic video from @dylanmarron about how to protest as a Person of Colour:

Stay safe. Have fun. Be heard.

*[THE FINE PRINT] While I am a lawyer, nothing contained in this post is or should be construed to be legal advice. What is herein contained are my personal opinions with reference to the personal opinions of others. If you are concerned that your legal right have been violated, contact a qualified lawyer in your jurisdiction. In the USA, the ACLU can help. In the UK, Liberty can do the same.

[hacker-witch]

On Archer and Trans Inclusivity

I just watched the newest episode of Archer (season 7, episode 8: Liquid Lunch) and am having hard to express feels. (Mild spoilers ahead) 

There's a bit in the episode where Archer is talking smack in his usual way (being an awful human being). He starts off saying that only women are affected by waterboarding. Which he gets called on. And then adjusts it to "ok, ok, I mean people with vaginas, however you identify." 

And, like, it's awful and misoganistic and a really stupid insult but also inclusive? 

Like, here's the thing, the dialogue of a show exists and has an impact beyond the character saying it. Same with character decisions. That's why fridging women and magical black people and white saviour narratives are called out and problematic. What characters do and say are conscious decisions of at least one IRL person (writer(s), director(s), studio exec(s), Jim from down the hall - someone). 

They also influence the audience they are presented to. Which brings us to the audience of Archer. I can't find specific demographic breakdowns for its viewership, but I think it's safe to say that it's aimed at 18-34 year old cis-men. A demographic not exactly known for its inclusivity. This is the demo that brought us #gamergate and #notallmen. They make up the vast majority of the MRA and meninist "movements" as well as the toxic communities around 4chan, reddit, and whatever that new "worse than 4chan” shithole is called. 

And then Archer slips in trans positive language into the misoganistic crap their protagonist is spewing. Crap that likely gets repeated ad nauseum by the shows target demographic. All of a sudden, consciously or not, some meninists are going to start acknowledging the difference between gender and sex. It's not perfect. Saying that having a vagina makes someone inherently weaker than someone with a penis is not ok. But, even if one cishet white dude stops conflating womanhood with vulvatic nethers* then it's a step in the right direction. 

*Vulvatic Nethers is the name of my Barenaked Ladies cover band.

[hacker-witch]

Hello, my name is... what?

My name is... who?

My name is... ticka ticka Sli--- okay, no. But then again, I never thought an Eminem song from 1999 would have any relevance to my life now.

And yet, here we are.

When I meet someone for the first time and they ask:

“Hi, I’m <name>. What’s your name?”

Or some variation thereon.

I don’t know what to say.

There are two things that heavily affect my answer to this question that start racing through my head in an epic sword fight on par with Inigo Montoya fighting the Man in Black. Leaving me stumbling over this simple and innocuous question.

Except, of course, it’s not simple. Or innocuous.

Our names say a lot about who we are. It’s kind of why we have them. Within a common cultural framework, names can convey assigned gender, cultural heritage, age, even social class. Granted, it’s almost impossible these days to tell social class from someone’s name. Same with age, unless you’ve studied historic trends in naming conventions for babies in different parts of the world.

Even gender and heritage are becoming harder to tell just from a name. Surnames are more helpful for heritage (usually), but more and more we are trending towards gender neutral names for babies. Which is great! But, well, I’m not a baby.

My birth name is hella gendered. I am very confident in saying there are no afab (assigned female at birth) people out there with the same first name as me.

Which would be fine. Except, I’m not a man. I am no longer particularly comfortable going by a man’s name.

On the other hand, I’ve only really gone by Willow online so far. Which means it still feels weird saying it out loud. Let alone being referred to as such.

Do I want this person I’ve just met to call me <birth name>? Or do I want them to call me Willow?

Maybe I’ll just go with Slim Shady.

But, Willow, you said there were TWO things that affect your answer! That’s only one!

Very astute of you, fake reader whom I’ve just made up.

The second issue is presentation. Generally, I still present very masculine. I’m lazy when it comes to shaving my face, I wear typically masculine, if effeminate, clothes. Basically, I look like a dude to random passersby.

If I introduce myself to someone with a masculine name, I continue to pass as a cishet white dude (of which I am none) and don’t have to immediately deal with whatever this person’s views are on trans, non-binary and genderqueer issues.

If I introduce myself as Willow, it’s rather clear that I’m not a cishet white dude (at least the “cis” and the “dude” bits are out the window) and that’s a very stressful position to put myself in with someone I’ve literally just met.

90% of people I knew or met before ~2012 don’t even know I’m genderqueer, do I really want this random stranger to know? What if they’re a transphobic douchecanoe?

I know nothing about them. Do I really want them knowing this about me?

If we become friends, yeah, they’re probably going to find out pretty quickly. But if we don’t…?

Which leads to my current answer to the question of “What’s your name?”:

[hacker-witch]

A poem is. A poem is feelings. It's raw, It's destructive, It's beautiful, It's you.

A poem is. Is a poem?

[hacker-witch]

I Already Have Great Ones

Me: *working alone at the cash desk in a very empty book store*

Woman: *approaches the desk, on her mobile*

Woman: *to person on the phone* "Hang on a minute."

Woman: *pulling a book out of her purse* *to me* "Hi! Do you have anything else by this author?"

[ed note: this book is very clearly erotica]

Me: "Let me check..." *searches author in our stock system*

Me: "Well, we do have one, but I don't think it's what you're looking for..."

Woman: "What's it called?"

Me: "'The Perfect Orgasm: How To Get It, How To Give It'. It's in our self-help section."

Woman: "Oh, yeah, that's okay. I am very happy with the quality of my orgasms."

Me: "Well, that's good at least."

[ed note: whoever she was talking to on the phone when she got to the desk heard this entire exchange]

[hacker-witch]

This is My Story

So I was going to write a post today entitled “Poly As An Orientation”, and I still might, but it’s going to go up tomorrow. There’s been an ongoing discussion in the Swing/Blues dance community on Facebook about rape, rape accusations and the value of the legal system in rape cases. This discussion, as any discussion about rape, has a number of cishet-presenting white dude apologists. IE: people who are claiming that if a rape accusation is not reported to the police and tried in a court of law, then it couldn’t possibly be true.

Obviously that’s utter bullshit for a lot of reasons that I’m not going to get into here. I’ve done my best to be supportive of survivors and use my lawyer-powers for good in dismantling insane and wrong arguments in the thread. I complained about the frustration of it all in a very supportive group of Quidditch players and I was going to leave it at that. But then I came across this article: 

http://jezebel.com/uber-dismisses-thousands-of-rape-customer-support-ticke-1763265194

The jist? Uber is claiming that over 5,000 rape and sexual assault claims submitted through their customer support system are just people misspelling “rate”. So, I’m done just being an ally, it’s time to tell my story.

I was physically assaulted/abused by 2 counsellors at summer camp when I was 10 years old.

To tell this story, I have to back up a bit further. There is a Jewish overnight camp about 2 hours drive east of my hometown. The camp is situated on an island and has been an institution in the Jewish community of my hometown since the ‘50s. Although Jewish in name and function (daily morning prayers are conducted in Hebrew, blessings are said before and after each meal, Saturdays are rest days, etc) the camp is more focussed on outdoors … stuff. Canoeing, kayaking, orienteering (maps and compasses and shit), building a fire, knife/hatchet/saw safety when camping - that sort of thing.

My dad was OBSESSED. This camp was a cornerstone of his childhood. He went there for 8-9 years as a camper (more on the different levels/bits of camp in a bit) and worked there for a number of summers afterwards. There was no question about me going. Of course I was going to like outdoors stuff! I was a first born son! That’s what son’s do!

Yeah, no.

But what choice did I have? I was an unbelievably shy 8-year old. Of course I went.

The structure has changed somewhat since I was there (as happens after 20 years) but when I was there camp went like this:

8 years old = 5 days of camp in mid-July [includes a 1-day cookout at a hiked-to camp site on the island]

9 years old = same thing

10 years old = 2 weeks of camp the 2nd week of which overlapped with the above (this’ll be important later) [includes a 2 night/3 day “overnight” camping trip spending each night at a different campsite on the island reached by canoe (although most also technically reachable by hiking)]

11 years old = same as 10 but the “overnight” is an extra day - 3 nights/4 days (I think - it’s been a while)

12 - 14 years old = 3 weeks of camp in August with progressively longer and more intense (further distances travelled, campsites off island, portages into neighbouring lakes, etc) “overnights”

15 years old = 4 week, ~350 mile canoe trip - basically a 4 week long overnight

16 years old = counsellor training year (which seems to boil down to a lot of sex and drugs and very little actual training)

17+ = counsellors and other staff positions

I was a very picky eater as a kid. Especially with certain consistencies of food. I still cannot deal with soup. I just can’t. It’s gross and slimy and chicken flavour isn’t supposed to be a liquid and just… no.

I was also an outsider from the beginning. 98% of campers at the camp went to the Jewish day school together and were all friends throughout the school year. I went to the local all-boys private school. I was one of two Jews in my grade there. And that was about average for any year at the school (granted the entire class was only 40 kids, but still). I had gone to the Jewish day school for Kindergarten (Year 1 for my British readers). They told my parents that I was mentally handicap (well, they used the r word, but that’s unnecessary) and to put me in a school to “suit my needs”.

Now that we’ve set the stage (>750 words in… yes I checked…) we get to my third year at camp. My counsellors were Evan & Josh (whose last names I’ve forgotten and I give zero fucks about them so I’m not going to bother changing their names). I think they were 18 and 19? Somewhere around there. The point is, I was 10, they were in charge.

I was a shy, reserved kid. I kept to myself and generally just avoided foods that I didn’t like. It’s not like I tended to eat 3 meals a day at the best of times so skipping foods I didn’t like wasn’t an issue. Or, at least, it wasn’t an issue to me.

I didn’t like oatmeal. It was mushy and goopy and just blech. But, oatmeal was the one and only breakfast food on the “overnight”. So what? I ate a bit more at lunch and maybe I was hungry for a bit of the morning. Non-issue.

Well, around comes the 3rd morning of the “overnight”. All we have to do that day is eat breakfast, pack up the camp site and canoe back to camp (about 20 minutes away). Everyone eats breakfast. I decline, as I have for the last two days, and Evan and Josh decide that’s unacceptable. They tell me that they were told if a camper won’t eat on the overnight, they had to force them.

So, they sent the rest of the kids down to the water by the canoes (yes, they sent a group of about 12 ten year old boys to hang out unsupervised by the water) and told me I had to eat some oatmeal or they would force me to.

I said no. I didn’t like oatmeal. Why would I eat it? I wasn’t hungry. We were on our way back to camp. End of story. But they pressed the issue.

I backed away from them and up a hill on the edge of the campsite that may have been the beginning of a trail that led back to camp. I’m honestly not sure. Evan & Josh told me it didn’t connect to the camp and that I would be in a lot of trouble if I ran away and got lost on the island. They told me I had to come back down the hill and it would be fine.

I went back down the hill. I didn’t want to get in trouble or get lost. They grabbed me and pinned me to the ground on my back. One full grown man kneeling on each of my arms as they tried to force a spoon full of oatmeal into my mouth.

I started to laugh. Keeping my mouth closed, but chuckling to myself. They pulled the spoon away and asked what was so funny.

“My jaw is stronger than both of you put together. You can’t get my mouth open.”

“We could if we tried hard enough.” One of them said.

This seemed a bit farfetched to me. Surely if the goal was to force me to eat then they’d be trying as hard as possible to do the thing. Not exactly the time to argue semantics, I closed my mouth again and on it went.

I honestly have no idea how long this went on. Campers weren’t allowed watches on overnights. Something about not worrying about time when you’re in the woods. It always felt arbitrary and controlling to me. I usually snuck one along in my bag. Even if I’d had a watch, it’s not like I was in a position to check the time.

Eventually I guess they decided that they were either going to have to hurt me to get my mouth open or give up. They offered me a deal - “We’ll let you up and stop this, all you have to do is eat one spoonful of oatmeal.” It had gone cold - I suppose, in hindsight, that tells us a general timeline. It was disgusting. But at least I wasn’t pinned on my back on the ground anymore?

The rest of my cabin thought this was all hilarious. I probably shouldn’t blame them too much. They were 10. I was already a quiet, reserved outsider. And, besides, hadn’t the adults just shown them that bullying me was perfectly fine?

Within a couple days, the story was all over camp. Everyone knew. Campers, counsellors, everyone. The other boys my age - in my cabin and the other ones - started calling me “jam boy”. Peanut butter wasn’t allowed at the camp because of allergies so whenever I didn’t like a meal that was offered, I would get some bread and jam and eat that instead.

A few days later, the Camp Director - Daniel - (an actual adult, I think… I’m honestly not sure how old he was, but he was definitely in charge of everything on the island) pulled me aside during evening snack and asked me if everything was ok.

“Um… yeah? Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Ok, well if you ever need anything, just talk to me.”

“…okay, sure.”

I think it was that same snack that we were given oatmeal raisin cookies.

I ate one. Who turns down cookies? My counsellors looked at me:

“I thought you didn’t like oatmeal?”

“This isn’t oatmeal, it’s an oatmeal cookie. It’s hard and dry. Oatmeal is mushy and gross.”

“Well, if you’d just told us that we could’ve avoided that whole thing!”

Right. Duh. Of course. Why didn’t I tell them it was the consistency of the oatmeal that I didn’t like? [I know this sounds sarcastic, but I was 10. This is actually what I thought. It was all just a big misunderstanding because I hadn’t mentioned that I would’ve been fine with dry oatmeal.]

Over the remaining few days of camp I kind of forgot about it. I was getting bullied pretty relentlessly so had other things to think about, you know?

My mum picked my little brother and I up from the Jewish day school’s parking lot where the bus back from camp dropped us. I sat in the front seat. My brother in the back. He was technically a year younger than he should’ve been to be at camp. But he was born in February and was friends with a bunch of the kids a year older than him (he was friends with everyone) so they made an exception. He was the outdoorsy “rah rah sports” kid in the family.

As we were driving home, my brother rattled on and on about all the awesome things he’d done at camp and all the cool stories. He was 7. Maybe 8. I don’t remember if I was already 10 (about to be 11) or about to be 10 when this happened. It’s not really relevant.

Eventually, in the course of his stories about camp, my brother said:

“…and Willow’s counsellors force fed him oatmeal on the overnight!”

I can still picture the mix of fury and concern that passed over my mum’s face. 

“WHAT?!? Willow, what’s he talking about?”

“Well, I mean, yeah, my counsellors held me down and forced me to eat oatmeal on the last morning of the overnight. They said it’s what they were supposed to do because I wasn’t eating breakfast.”

I think she slammed on the breaks. I don’t remember. I know she almost turned around and drove right back to the bus drop off. She didn’t though. I could show you the exact road we were on when this happened. It was only a few blocks from the school.

Later (probably the same day), my parents called the camp. They had a number of meetings with Evan, Josh, Daniel and I think someone from the board of directors for the camp. I think Evan and Josh’s parents were involved at some point too. I know my parents threatened to call the cops. In the end, the cops were never involved, Evan, Josh and Daniel were fired and that was that.

Except it wasn’t.

One of the other Jewish kids my age lived on my street.

“I hear you got Evan and Josh fired!”

“No, they were fired for what they did to me.”

“Yeah, but it was your fault.”

This was a few months after camp. Maybe even the next summer. I was playing on the tiled island in the middle of the cul de sac we lived on. There were only 8 houses on our street. It was a brand new development. Everyone living their had built their house. Both of my next door neighbours had girls a year older than me. The three of us were thick as thieves. We had three giant backyards - all connected - to run through and play in. We called the tiled island on the street the “turtle blimp”. It was the early ‘90s. The TMNT cartoon was a big deal. The turtle blimp was always “safe” if we were playing tag or hide and seek or whatever.

My parents still live on that street. I still think of that island as the turtle blimp.

For reasons I can’t explain other than general pro-camp sentiment and pressure from my dad, I went back to camp the next year. And the next. 7 years total, 4 of them after being assaulted.

I was bullied incessantly by the other boys. I had a lot of friends amongst the girls. That didn’t help when the overnight came around. Overnights are always each cabin on their own. Up to a week in the woods with 8-10 bullies who hated me.

After that year, my cabin was given special food for me to have for breakfast. One year it was evaporated milk and rice krispies. Another it was just a loaf of bread and some extra jam. Until we weren’t.

My last year at the camp, we were prepping for the overnight and I sheepishly went up to my counsellors:

“Um…, I… I don’t see anything for me to eat for breakfast…”

“Yeah, we’re not taking anything special. You can eat dry oatmeal.”

“Oh… o… okay…”

*laughs* “We’re going to be the first people to get you to eat oatmeal without breaking the law!”

“heh… right”

For obvious reasons, I didn’t go on the 28 day canoe trip. That summer I went to track & field camp and had the best time I’ve ever had at a camp. The summer after that I started going to band camp and made some of my closest life long friends there.

A year or two after I stopped going to camp, my mom came to my room.

“Josh applied for a job at the camp.”

“Who’s that?”

“You know… JOSH…”

“Oh… yeah. Right. Wait, what?”

“Yeah, the camp called. They wanted to know if we’re ok with them hiring him.”

“That’s… yeah, no. That’s super not ok. I never want him near children ever again.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. They’re not hiring him.”

“I can’t even believe they considered it!”

“I know. I was not impressed.”

Seven years after my last year at the camp (11 since the incident), I had just moved back to my hometown to take some time off school. I was working in a comic book store but the owner was a crook and was ripping me off. I was gearing up to quit.

The person I worked for teaching swimming and lifesaving courses was on the board of directors for the camp. They were being audited and only had one certified lifeguard on staff. And her certification was expired. They DESPERATELY needed a qualified lifeguard. Did I want the job?

“Yeah, sure, I’ve got nothing better to do this summer. Except I want to be in town for the Fringe theatre festival.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine with that, they really need someone. I’ll give them your number.”

So I got a call.

“You can take intersession off (the time between the July session and the August one. It coincided perfectly with Fringe).”

We negotiated a salary that I was willing to work for. And I went back to the camp. This time, as a staff member.

It had been long enough that only one person my age was still working at the camp and no one older. The one woman my age hadn’t gone to the camp as a kid. 

Good, I thought, clean slate. Only the director was actually around when I was here.

It was an alright summer over all. But that’s not why I bring it up. I became close friends with one of the counsellors who would’ve been… 5 years younger than me? Somewhere around there.

We were chatting one evening and I mentioned what had happened to me at camp.

“Wait. That actually happened?!?! I thought that was just a legend!”

“Heh, no, yeah, that was me…”

“Wow, I had no idea that story was true…”

I guess there’s worse things than becoming a mythic horror story…

Last year I had a similar run in with a woman I worked with at the law firm I articled with.

She’s 5 years older than me. I remembered her having been on staff at some point while I was a camper at the camp.

The camp was having a 60th anniversary celebration. Anyone who’d ever being camper or staff there was invited. We talked about it one day.

Me: “You worked at camp, right?”

Her: “Yeah, I hate that place.”

Me: “Me too! My counsellors abused me one year…”

Her: “THAT WAS YOU?!?!”

There are worse fates than being an urban legend.

[hacker-witch]

What’s in a name? Shakespeare would say “That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet;” Which is great. For plants. But when has a dead white man Been quoted to validate our existence Instead of repress us And deny us. Tell us we make others “uncomfortable” Simply for asking to be called by our name. To be addressed by our pronouns.

So, what’s in a name? My name is part of me. But it’s not me. My name has meaning Meaning for me, and beyond me. My name was given to me by my mum. In Hebrew and in English. My name has been shortened in love, elongated in frustration, abbreviated in familiarity. My name has a gender, Assigned by society. My name has a gender, Previously assigned to me. But what’s in a name? If only I could ask my mum To help me find a new name. To share in the joy Of my true identity. To join me on the path To a new reality. Except she’s gone. Never knowing this me. This me that I hide From the rest of my family. Did she have another name for me? Is there another name for me? What is my name? Does it define me? Or do I define it? What is my name? I’ll have to get back to you on that.

[hacker-witch]

Happy Birthday, Mum.

[originally posted on Facebook on 1 March, 2016]

Today would've been my mum's 63rd birthday. I'm really bad at being open about my feelings to anyone but, well, her and while I know what she would say in 99% of situations, it's not the same.

It's been 3 1/2 years since the night I arrived in Hong Kong excited to start a promising summer internship and gearing up for 2nd year law school. The night my parents & brother went to see Book of Mormon in NYC and had to leave early because my mum's back was hurting so much she couldn't sit up. The night we found out she had stage 4 breast cancer that'd metastasised to her bones including a tumour so large it had literally broken her back. The night my world fell apart.

It's been 3 1/4 years since my depression came back so hard that I couldn't even remember how to pretend to have emotions. Since I was so dead to the world I couldn't be there (even sitting beside her) to support someone I truly loved and cared about when, for various reasons to do mostly with travel and distance, we decided to split up. The next day I went back on medication and, over the last 3 years have slowly increased the dosages and number of meds so that I can continue to function (sometimes).

It's been 3 years to the day since my parents came to visit me in Nottingham and we went to Batman's house and then spent some time in London together including a beautiful afternoon tea at some crazy posh hotel for my mum's birthday. My mum and I went to Platform 9 3/4 too.

It's been 2 1/2 years since, as a birthday present, my mum paid for my flights and event ticket to Blues Baby Blues 2013 so I could come back to England and see all my friends again. (Which, incidentally, was the first time I got to hang out IRL with a certain someone who is very dear to my heart).

It's been 2 years since I moved back to my home town to be near my mum. I don't like my home town. It's too small. It's very old fashioned (ie sexist, transphobic, racist etc). But it was more important to be close to my mum.

It's been 1 3/4 years since I graduated Law School with my mum there to see it. I graduated exactly 30 years after she graduated Med School. 60 years after my Zaida (my mum's dad) graduated Med School. We both relished in the symmetry. It was, in all honesty, one of the reasons I went to Law School in the first place. Med School would've taken an extra year and not fit the pattern. Which I know is about as good a reason for spending $48k on a degree in a field I find immensely boring as watery tarts throwing swords is for a system of government. But oh well. My mum was disappointed I never became a doctor, but she was also proud that I had become a lawyer.

It's been 1 1/2 years since my mum went back into the hospital because the tumours had spread to her neck and destroyed some vertebrae there. Since we had a week to rewrite her will just in case something went wrong. Since, even with surgery, she probably only had about 3 months left. She asked me if surgery was the right call. I said yes. I still don't know if it was. She asked me if the new will was what she wanted. It was 160 pages long and she was in too much pain to read it carefully. I said yes. I'd supervised the process as closely as I could. I'd spent 6 hours on the phone to the firm that was drafting it - two nights in a row - making sure they wrote it correctly. She signed it. 2 days later she had the surgery. The surgeon nicked a nerve in her throat. The one that controls the epiglottis. She couldn't swallow anymore.

I can't deal with things that I can't fix. I know this about myself but, ironically I suppose, I can't fix it. When something is outside my ability to fix it I shut down. I avoid it. I pretend it's not happening. I spent a number of nights in the hospital with my mum just being there so that she felt safer. But I never used the opportunity to have the talks with her that I'll never get to have. I never talked to her about my gender identity. About picking a more gender neutral name. About how to go on without my best friend and confidante. Instead, she slept and I read comics. I read all 10 volumes of Transmetropolitan by Warren Ellis while sitting in my mum's hospital room.

It's been 1 1/4 years since my mum passed away while holding my hand. Since I had to say goodbye to the only person I'd consistently relied on and trusted my whole life. Since I lost the only person in my family who I could've talked to about being trans. Who could've done the impossible task of making my dad and brother understand. Who could've been the one to talk to them about it so I didn't have to. Because I can't. And I won't. And maybe in 5-10 years my sister will figure out that feminism isn't the enemy and that society is fucked up for non-cishet white dudes and maybe then I'll at least have her to talk to. But for now I'm alone. I moved across an ocean to avoid having to talk to my family in non-textual formats. I haven't spoken to any of them in the 2 months I've been here except via fb messenger.

It's been 9 months since I was called to the bar as a Barrister & Solicitor in and for the Province of Manitoba. My mum wasn't there to share it with me. My dad made inappropriate jokes at dinner about paying him back for my years of school. Despite the fact that, at the time, he owed me $25k that he'd stolen 10 years previously. It made a day I already didn't feel I had earned feel even worse.

If my dad and I are alone in a room together we start fighting within minutes. Almost always because he says something racist or sexist or transphobic or ignorant or just plain factually untrue. And I call him on it. And then he yells. Because he's a child and never learnt how to talk to people beyond screaming until he gets his way. Which is why his employees stole from him. And why he has a reputation in our hometown's business community of being impossible to deal with. And why every few years we had to stop talking to some friend or relative because "they'd screwed him over on a business deal".

When I was a kid, my dad's angry voice terrified me. It's loud and low and booming and even if it wasn't directed at me it made me cry instantly and leave the room. In high school, I realised I can make the same voice. Until 6 months ago, I hadn't used it in 9 years. Because I grew the fuck up and figured out that yelling at people to get your way is abusive and wrong and will never actually get someone to do what you want. 6 months ago, I asked my dad when he would pay me back the money he owed me. We were in the car on the way home from a Rosh Hashanah dinner. My cousin was in the backseat. I was scared to death of asking because I knew he had decided he'd already paid me back. I figured maybe having Zach there would mean he'd stay calm. I was wrong. He started yelling. His big deep booming yell. Well, 2 can play at that game and I yelled back in the same voice. He told me to go fuck myself (literally, in those words, my FATHER told me "well, then, go fuck yourself" for having the audacity to ask for my money back 10 years after he took it). I got out of the car. He squealed the tires driving away. My car was at my childhood home. I walked the 4 blocks back there and went inside to get my keys. He paid me back. But on the condition that as of January 2016 I was cut off from financial help from him because "that's what your mum wanted". He likes to do that now. Pretend my mum wanted something to be done a certain way so that we can't argue with him about it. Except I knew her better than he did. I think the same way as her. I know how she would react to situations and what she would want. He likes to be right and to not be questioned. So he invokes my dead mum to shut me up.

My mum never got to see me lindy hop or blues dance. She never got to see me play quidditch. I never got to talk to her directly about being trans. I'm 90% sure she knew though. Before I even knew for sure, she suspected from how passionate I was about trans rights and things like bathroom politics. I never got to ask her what she would've named me had I not been assigned male at birth. If I ever have children (and that's a big if) they'll never get to meet the most amazing woman I ever knew. The person who taught me how to be a person and a friend. An advocate and a confidante. Who taught me to read and write and knit and sew and countless other things.

Today should be my mum's birthday. Because if I had to lose a parent, I definitely lost the wrong one.