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    • The Stats on Gender Disparities at VUW
      •   Data released to Salient under the Official Information Act shows that the gender disparity in most majors at Victoria University has stayed constant over the last five years.    As reported earlier this year by Salient, the School of Engineering and Computer Science (ECS) is particularly targeted for under-representation of women. Over the past five years, the percentage of female students has stayed about the same, only rising from 14% in 2015 to 17% in 2019. These enrolment rates are similar to other engineering departments across the country, according to VUW.    Stuart Marshall, Head of ECS, told Salient that “[ECS] is committed to making Engineering and Computer Science more accessible for under-represented groups, and to help those students succeed once they are studying with us.”   ECS has implemented a number of policies, including outreach in high schools, working with VUW Women in Tech, and creating more tutor positions to nurture equity.    Other major programmes are female-dominated, particularly in the Humanities. Early Childhood had no males enrolled in 2015 and 2017. In terms of sheer numbers, Criminology had at least 400 more females taking the major than males for every year between 2015–2019.   Provost Professor Wendy Larner said in a statement that the university has an Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion Framework developed with student impact. This includes an ‘action plan’ for improving representation.    “This will allow us to track participation, retention, and completion (at undergraduate and postgraduate level) by target groups, and will give rise to new initiatives that allow us to address both gender disparities and issues of gender equity,” Larner said.    “One of our priority issues is to support students studying in disciplines where there are significant gender disparities or where there are issues of gender equity,” she added.  This year, the university also employed a Rainbow and Inclusion Adviser to assist gender-diverse students.    The university did not indicate whether there are programmes for inclusion and support of males in female-skewed majors.    Many major programmes, including Film; Architecture; and Business Administration are relatively balanced between genders.    Overall, the university has more females enrolled than males, with 1.3 times as many females enrolled than males in 2019, and fewer than 100 gender-diverse people.    Note: The data supplied by VUW in the OIA refers to “females” and “males”, rather than men and women. Gender minorities were included in that data. However, given the small number of these individuals at the university, we have not included that data in this article.  

    • Canta Wins Bid for Editorial Independence
      • Canta Editor Samantha Mythen said she is “super stoked” that her bid for editorial independence has been formally backed by the University of Canterbury Students’ Association (UCSA) Executive.   In last Monday’s meeting, the UCSA Exec instructed management to “prepare a paper incorporating student feedback for CANTA to become editorially independent and to report back to the Executive by the next committee meeting. Additionally, the Executive will seek independent advice from a third party on how this can be achieved.”   Sam was flanked by around 20 supporters when she presented her case at the meeting. “It was cool to see how much students support this,” she said.   She said the Exec finally realised how much students want independent student media. In the meeting, one Exec member asked if Canta being independent would negatively affect Canta’s reputation, to which she answered, “It would be UCSA bringing down its reputation if anything bad happened; Canta is just holding you to account.”   She is happy with the result but still wants to know what the proposal will look like.   UCSA President Sam Brosnahan told Critic, “It was important to us to be open to the student feedback, which was overwhelmingly in favour of editorial independence.” He would not comment on specific arrangements until he saw what management proposed.   In a Facebook post, he thanked students for voting in polls, signing the petition, emailing Canta, and coming along to the meeting.   There is only one issue of Canta left for the year so changes to editorial structure will take effect in 2020.   At this stage, Sam will still be Canta Editor in 2020. She said, “The best thing would be if the role was made full-time,” as she’s only on 20 hours a week. But that’s another battle to fight.   “I want to keep working next year to build a strong foundation for Canta and to give good feedback to all our contributors.”   “[Student feedback] was overwhelmingly in favour of editorial independence.”

    • RA Speaks Out About Victoria University Hall Death
      • CW: death, mention of suicide Salient has received comments from a Residential Advisor (RA) working at Education House when the body of the deceased student was discovered there in January 2018. That RA was the individual who tipped off Salient about the death this week, feeling that they needed to speak out following the recent death of a student in Christchurch. Speaking to Salient, they confirmed that the death of Australian student occurred in January 2018. The RA is unsure whether the student was an Australian or New Zealand citizen, but said they understood his entire family “were all in Australia, and I think his family came in from Australia.” This matches statements made by VUW to Salient. The RA told Salient that they had received a call from the student’s mother in Australia, the Saturday morning before the body was discovered. She was concerned for her son’s wellbeing, and reportedly hadn’t heard from the student in a while. Credit card details showed he’d been purchasing lots of alcohol, which concerned her. The RA says they checked on the student, who was alive at the point and seemed fine, but reported the concern to a hall manager to keep an eye on the situation while the RA was spending time away from the hall. The RA received a text the following Wednesday, from a resident reporting a smell coming from the student’s room. The RA told the hall manager the next day (Thursday), who handled it from there. The coroners informed Salient that the case was still open, and so a report was not available. However, the RA says they were told by the head of hall that “they had ruled out suicide. So maybe they put it down as accidental death.” The RA added that the head of hall had said “He just doesn’t seem like the person that would do that to himself.” However, the RA told Salient that the death wasn’t publicised, that no media reached out to them, and that they “don’t think it would have been escalated to university [communications].” Despite counselling provided to staff and students in the hall at the time, the RA told Salient how badly the death had affected them, saying “people don’t understand how disruptive it is to your life.” “I still probably think I have PTSD from that, to be honest.” “It really fucks you up.” They said the Head of Hall apologised to them for the lack of training. When asked whether they think there would have been significant changes to the halls since the death, the RA said that they “really really doubt it”. — If you would like to contact Salient about this, or similar stories, please email editor@salient.org.nz. All emails are anonymous on request. If you, or someone you know, is struggling with their mental health you can contact the numbers below: VUW Counselling – 04 463 5310 Depression Helpline – 0800 111 757 Outline (LGBTQIA+) – 0800 688 5463 Free call or text 1737 anytime for support from a trained counsellor Lifeline – 0800 543 354 (0800 LIFELINE) or free text 4357 (HELP) Youthline (for youth) – 0800 376 633 or free text 234 Suicide Crisis Helpline – 0508 828 865 (0508 TAUTOKO) If you, or someone you know, having a health problems you can contact the numbers below: Healthline – 0800 611 116 to talk to a registered nurse Mauri Ora Student Health – 04-463 5308 Campus Security Office – 0800 842 8888 Call 111 in an emergency

    • VUW Hall Death: What We Know So Far
      • Salient has been informed that a student living in one of Victoria University of Wellington’s (VUW) halls of residence died at the hall in January 2018. VUW confirmed to Salient in a statement that there was “a sudden death” of a student residing in the hall at that time. Coroners told Salient that the case was still open, so were unable to obtain a report on the death. As such, the official time and cause of death is unavailable at the moment. However, VUW informed Salient that “University records indicate around three days had passed between his death and the discovery of his death”. Salient was also told that the relevant Hall Manager was on leave at the time of the incident, and that the University’s Associate Director of Halls was acting as Hall Manager in their place. A Residential Advisor (RA) at the hall at the time told Salient that “people don’t understand how disruptive it is to your life.” “I still probably think I have PTSD from that, to be honest,” they added. They said the Head of Hall apologised to them for the lack of training. VUW informed Salient that “all University critical incident policies and procedures were followed and support was provided to staff, students and family impacted by the tragedy”. According to VUW, students in the hall were asked to be discreet, and not post on social media until next of kin had been informed of the death. VUW says police confirmed next of kin had been notified “within a matter of hours”. They say messaging around discretion ceased after this confirmation. The RA who spoke to Salient said the death wasn’t publicised, and that no media reached out to them. They indicated that they had personal reservations about talking about it, out of respect for the student’s family. The source that notified Salient of the death also expressed concern about changes undertaken to the structure of hall management and pastoral care in 2017, prior to the death. A document from May 2017 outlined proposals to restructure university services, including halls of residence, with a focus on growing the student population, with hall growth as part of that. The goals outlined in the proposals document aimed to double the student population at the university, and identified the university’s student accommodation portfolio as “a key enabler and supporter of recruitment and retention strategies for both the domestic and international markets”. Regarding halls of residence, the document stated that it was “vital” that VUW develop a model to “self-fund growth over the next 10+ years”. One of the “benefits” of the new model outlined in the documents was a “sustained period of growth moving from 5% net surplus (2018 budget) to a 20% net surplus by 2022”. When asked by Salient whether changes to residential pastoral care had occured before the death in 2018, VUW confirmed that there had been changes made effective from 1 December 2017. VUW says these were “the result of a full review of operations in Student and Campus Living during 2017”. In that statement, VUW outlined changes flowing from that review. These included the establishment of an Infrastructure Team, to “free up Heads of Hall to focus on internal operation and pastoral care”. Night managers were also introduced to halls to shift “responsibility for issue management away from Residential Advisors”. The intention behind these changes was to better equip RAs at triaging and escalating incidents to hall management. Student Support Counsellors (who are registered medical professionals) were moved to report to Student Health and Student Counselling at the university to “better align with counsellors and medical staff, University wellbeing initiatives and expert support”. VUW says their critical incident procedures also saw a comprehensive review. It is important to note that, while the changes outlined in that statement roughly match those outlined in the May 2017 proposal document, Salient currently has no other evidence that the affected changes were a product of those specific May 2017 proposals. When asked if the hall had made changes to pastoral care since the incident in January 2018, VUW informed Salient that the “event in January 2018 did not spark a review of our pastoral care processes”. However, VUW says changes were made after that date. These changes were, according to the university, “to ensure only the onsite person in charge enters the room of a missing resident”. VUW says this was done “to prevent more junior staff potentially being exposed to a distressing scene, adding that they “continuously review what we do in this area and respond to any recommendations from the Coroners Court.” “The wellbeing of residents in University accommodation is of the utmost importance to Victoria University of Wellington,” the University says. They added, “cases such as the sudden death which took place in January 2018 are always distressing and difficult for staff and students and the University has full confidence in the processes and procedures that were followed.” If you would like to contact Salient about this, or similar stories, please email news@salient.org.nz. All emails are anonymous on request. If you, or someone you know, is struggling with their mental health you can contact the numbers below: VUW Counselling – 04 463 5310 Depression Helpline – 0800 111 757 Outline (LGBTQIA+) – 0800 688 5463 Free call or text 1737 anytime for support from a trained counsellor Lifeline – 0800 543 354 (0800 LIFELINE) or free text 4357 (HELP) Youthline (for youth) – 0800 376 633 or free text 234 Suicide Crisis Helpline – 0508 828 865 (0508 TAUTOKO) If you, or someone you know, having a health problems you can contact the numbers below: Healthline – 0800 611 116 to talk to a registered nurse Mauri Ora Student Health – 04-463 5308 Campus Security Office – 0800 842 8888 Call 111 in an emergency

    • FANTA WITH NO ICE
      • CW: Mental Illness, Suicide   Before I get into anything, I would like to apologise. A few weeks ago, I published an article that depicted sex work in the wrong light. The language used wasn’t flattering, and on an overall level, it wasn’t a good article. It was rushed, and I’d like to personally apologise to anyone who read it.    Please read the last twelve years of articles that have depicted the occupation better.   It’s difficult to feel humility.   Most of the time in my life, I’m told to stand by my decisions as a boy. What I print as an editor. Unapologetically a black man, but know when you need to apologise.    This is ^Salient’s men’s issue. The topic came up in the office with the idea of an issue for men, focusing on signalling and mental health. Creating the spaces for men to read about other men’s issues. I scoffed, but Janne and Rachel thought it was a good idea. The fact I scoffed made me realise that it was necessary, even for me.    To you:   I know that when she tells you to “do better”, you hear it in your dad’s voice. It stings in your head and bounces around more than you know. Maybe you’ll turn to bad beer and cheap jugs. Maybe you’ll turn to high reps and low sets.   Knowing that our women have not had enough time to speak in the past, and understanding that while your confidence is beaming, your voice is not welcomed at this time. It’s hard to understand, but once you do, your mother will be proud. Your sisters will feel heard and your daughter will have fewer obstacles to her freedom.    Understand it’s not all men. Knowing who those men are, you let it be known they are outcasted. I know you risk drowning in the streams of friendship you’ve created, falling from social ladders you’ve climbed, through substance abuse and silent emotional moments. I know it’s a hard conversation to have—no matter how many of those who have never faced it claim how easy it is. I know it’s confusing. The subtle undertones of you leading the pack when the thunder hits. When someone knocks on the door. You’re supposed to have your shit together, provide for your brothers. Giving more than food on the table, but peace of mind when the darkest clouds arrive. The comments about you being trash, not being needed, and needing to do better didn’t age well.    They’re the reasons why you don’t reach out. Why you feel like you can’t. Why you don’t talk about mental health.Why your demographic is on top of suicides stats every year.   Even writing this makes me feel vulnerable—risking the idea that I’m creating some sort of barrier shielding those who don’t need it. Throwing shots behind the wall as if they’re perfect. Those who have the social skills of a tomato and have educated themselves online for the last decade. Twitter fights and “source?” arguments. I’m sorry we couldn’t show you the love we had before that hate consumed you.    This magazine means more to me than you’ll know and I hope it will shed some light on the problems that we are facing right now. Standing on a platform, without the fear of miscommunication or appearing overconfident. Unapologetically sharing. For some of us, for the first time ever.   RIP. Winston S. Kereta. Beau Henry. Rapata. Finn. Michael. Winston B.

    • New Normal
      • There is nothing ‘normal’ about normality. To quote the Addams family, “What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.” A seemingly normal life can be thrown out of order in a split second, as was the case for Edmund Huang in June of 2008.   After a brief outing at the Manukau Mall with his mother, Joanne Wang, Edmund noticed a man in a balaclava running towards their car. As they attempted to get in, the man reached in and grabbed Joanne’s handbag and ran, with Joanne giving chase. “I tried getting out but my seatbelt was jammed so I was completely stuck. I was able to turn around and see what was going on,” Edmund recounted.    The assailant then hijacked a four-wheel drive and proceeded to hit Joanne, who later died as a result of sustained wounds. “It wasn’t until afterward when the damage was done that the seatbelt just flung open,” recalled Edmund. “It was crazy, standing in a pool of blood.” It was later revealed that this was no random attack, but an organised assault orchestrated by South Auckland gang, The Killer Beez, who had targeted Joanne Wang specifically.    “The aftermath was horrible. It was sort of like losing a part of yourself. Growing up, I was closer to my mum more than my dad. I missed her a lot,” Edmund told me. “Things were a bit bleaker and monotonous, but at the same time, Dad taught me how to grow up and to develop something new from that.”   This was unfathomable for someone like me, who has taken growing up with both parents for granted. I asked Edmund how he thought this extremely painful experience had shaped him into who he is today. “I think it has made me more work-orientated,” said Edmund.   “It’s really interesting because, to fully integrate into society, you sort of need to learn things from both your mother and your father, and because I lost my mother at such an early age, I was kind of taught to just pull up my sleeves and get to work and it was hard—it took me a while to understand my emotions.”    This was dark subject matter for a conversation over coffee. As each word left his mouth, it felt as though the café grew more and more silent, so much so that it felt eerie. The warmth and welcome of the café changed into a chilling recount of gruesome murder. From an outside perspective, it seemed that Edmund had used this incredible hardship to focus himself, working harder and more efficiently than ever before.    He told me of how he played badminton and how “pulling up his sleeves”, so to speak, allowed him to push past the struggle of losing his mother and move forward with his life. The idea of putting all else from your mind in order to focus on the job at hand seems to be a skill that Edmund has relied on heavily, and continues to use in daily life.   Did he still harbour resentment for the gang that took his mother away from him—or for the man who had taken her handbag and driven the car? Edmund’s answer spoke volumes of his character: “No, no, I remember, at the start, I held a lot of hate for that person,” he remarked. “I’m not going to lie, I did have some dangerous thoughts, like ‘What would I do if I was in the same room as him? Would I want to do some violent things or say some violent things?’—but over time I forgave, and it’s sad because afterward, I felt bad for him.”   Edmund explained further—“I felt like maybe it wasn’t his fault, maybe it was built on something else? Maybe peer pressure or something, but in the end, I came to forgive him.” However, Edmund’s forgiveness was met with shocking news. “I wanted to meet him afterward,” Edmund commented, “but it was too late. I heard the news that he had committed suicide in prison.” I had to know more. However, there was another pressing question that needed answering.   While researching for this article, I discovered that the leader of the Killer Beez gang, a man named Josh Masters, was released from prison in late 2018, after serving a ten-year sentence for dealing P. I was unsure whether Edmund knew that the leader of the gang responsible for killing his mother was once again a free man.   I posed the question of how he thought the police could monitor Masters better, now that he was released, and further asked what he thought the police could do to prevent further instances like this. His response was refreshingly positive.     “In the end, I think these things are really hard to know. I do think that [his time in prison] may have shaped his perception and thoughts of what’s good and what’s bad, but obviously there’s still the chance that he’ll go back to his old ways.” He truly believed that Masters had the potential to reform. “In terms of changing that,” he continued, “I’d say [we need] the government increasing investment in policing, in the law and order sector. ”    He raises a good point. In 2017, there were 228 reported cases of violent offences involving a gang member in Wellington alone. That—if compared to 2014, when there were 285 gang-related offences—is indeed a very positive development; a 20% decrease over the past four years. It shows that the initiatives to decrease gang-related violent crimes are in fact working.   New Zealand has a prevalent gang presence throughout the country. Gangs like the Mongrel Mob, Headhunters, and the Killer Beez all have a large presence in various towns and cities throughout New Zealand, going so far as to publicly display their chapter houses and gang meetings.    But are we right to view gangs the way that we do? The image of a rough-and-tumble gang member is so ingrained in our minds by pop culture and the media that it can sometimes be hard to see the forest for the trees. Take, for example, Te Kai Po Ahuriri, a member of the Stormtroopers gang in Palmerston North. After serving jail time for drug-related offenses, Ahuriri reflected on his own upbringing in the foster care system and decided he wanted to make a difference.   He now delivers meals to the homeless population of Palmerston North, while still being an active member of the Stormtrooper gang. In cases such as this, are we right to maintain our prejudices towards gangs? Or does Ahuriri serve as a reminder to never judge a book by its cover, a gang by its patch?   In any case, the gang culture in New Zealand is by no means a clear-cut issue. Gangs have been responsible for instances of both violence and benefit, so judging them solely on any preconceived notions that we might have will do us no good. Whether personally you believe that all gang members are ruthless cutthroats, clad in leather—or that, when it comes to gangs, there’s more than meets the eye, it is important to keep in mind that there are people ike Edmund who have experienced just what gangs are capable of, yet can see the good in them—something the majority of us are unaccustomed to.   

    • Come In, The Door’s Open.
      •   Imagine having two front doors to your house.   The first front door operates like normal. You control when to leave it open or closed, and who or what comes in. The second door, well, not so much. The second door is a door which you don’t have any control over; it stays open perpetually. You’re not aware it even exists, meaning that what comes in and out of that door is blind to your consciousness—but not to your subconscious.   Bit of a rattling thought, isn’t it? I mean, anything could be jiggying its way through that second door, perusing its way through your living room, maybe spooning your pet, fiddling with your pick ‘n’ mix almonds, or even abusing your Netflix account.   Now, this weird analogy you very kindly dragged yourself through for me has a purpose. I’ve used it to illustrate how we consume information. Our brain is like the house: The first door represents our conscious attention. The second door represents our subconscious attention. We know what’s coming in the first door, because we’re aware of it. We don’t know what’s coming through the second door because, simply, we aren’t aware of it.    Thanks to the abundance of information surrounding us nowadays, there’s a constant breeze whistling through that second door. Many believe we’re in an ‘information era’. In the Western world in particular, we are inundated with information left, right, and centre. Whether you’re on the internet, doing your weekly shop at the supermarket, playing sport, or constructing that message you really can’t be arsed sending—we are constantly consuming and processing information.    The problem is that we’re making ourselves obese, and I don’t mean the kind we can measure on a set of scales. We’re eating too much information. We’re overloading our plates both with what we’re aware of, and what we aren’t. We’re not designed to have this much on our plate of ‘attentional capacity’. We just can’t digest it all properly.   Thousands of years ago, the most we had to be aware of at any one time was where to find food without being mugged by a sabre-toothed tiger. Now, many of us are not only trying to stay focused on the task at hand, but where we need to be in the next two or 24 hours, what’s left in the pantry, did I download that podcast for my walk to work tomorrow, and should I put up that gram of me on holiday in three days or five. I mean, just now, I stopped mid-paragraph for about 30 seconds wondering whether Kanye really will drop his new album on September 27. Focus, Jamie!   Thanks to psychologist Anne Treisman, we know that we still take on board new information subconsciously. Treisman’s ‘attenuation theory’ shows us that when we have multiple sources of information competing for our attention, we can effectively turn the volume down on any one source to focus more narrowly on the others. It’s like each has a volume button. Mute one, maybe turn another down, crank another up. This model supports the notion that—rather than not taking on board information that we aren’t giving our attention to—we simply attenuate the source, which can result in some subconscious consumption.   There’s a social narrative playing out in our culture at the moment that’s so broken. It tells us we must always be on—hustling, grinding, learning, listening to this podcast, reading that book, and taking in as much information as we can. I call bullshit—partly. By all means, do these things: Work your ass off, read some cool shit, and learn whatever you can. But in moderation. None of us are superhuman; we all need sleep, space, and down-time. Often, that’s when our most creative ideas wriggle to the surface.   The world out there is going to throw information at you any which way it wants, like Tyson in the late 80’s. But there are ways to keep your gloves up: Be a bit more aware of what’s worthwhile giving your attention to. Be conscious of who, and what, you surround yourself with. Take into account that every product, marketing campaign, and piece of content, trades in the currency of attention. They’re competing for it, and they know how to manipulate it to serve their purpose.   It wouldn’t be right if I didn’t finish with one of my favourite Kanye lyrics. I think Ye sums it all up quite nicely—“I just need time with my own thoughts / Got treasures in my mind but couldn’t open up my own vault.”  

    • Love in the Time of Face Tattoos
      • CW: Mental Illness, Suicide, Sexual and Physical Abuse, ECT   My girlfriend gets frustrated with me because I don’t open up.   There’s heaps to unpack here: One; I don’t want to put my baggage on someone else. Two; for so long I’ve known that I can’t change anything, so the best I can do is get over it, which is hard but I’ve been able to do that. Three; I think I can’t afford to show any weakness. This attitude is toxic, it is harmful, but it is 100% true and a tool I’ve always relied on. Not just me, but a multitude of Kiwi men.   Stoicism, bottling up, “boys don’t cry”, resorting to violence before talking—these pillars of masculinity, in all its maligned glory, that have come from a place of necessity. The way that a lot of us live makes opening up almost impossible. These harmful behaviours shouldn’t be condoned or encouraged, but they have been useful tools, and it’s unfair to suddenly expect men—and boys—to put things down that they rely on.    In 2018, Māori males were twice as likely as non-Māori males to report an anxiety or depressive disorder. But we’ve known for a long time that Māori mental health is much worse than that of Pākehā. What is more telling is that even if their disorder is serious, Pasifika adults are much less likely to access mental health services (25% compared to 58% of New Zealanders overall). In addition, Pacific people, particularly those aged 16–24 years, have the highest rates of suicide planning and attempts. This isn’t reflected in mortality rates, however, with rates for Pasifika being lower or equal to that of other ethnicities.    Which is what makes rhetoric around “toxic masculinity” somewhat hollow. How do you suddenly start talking openly and honestly about what troubles you, if you’ve never done it before? If it’s literally been counterintuitive to your survival, up until this point?    Letting go of these defence mechanisms might be one of the hardest things you have to do as a man. And they are defence mechanisms, because at the root of it all—buried under the rhetoric of the “she’ll be right” attitude of the Kiwi bloke, the calls for a return to the times of “when men were men”, or a stubbornness to talk about your problems (because talking about them is as good as admitting there’s a problem in the first place)—are vulnerable men who were once vulnerable boys influenced by vulnerable men.    What were we to do? What can we do? We were boys, we are men, living in an era when emotional openness isn’t encouraged—it is demanded—in the full knowledge that our society simply isn’t ready for a multitude of damaged men to open their hearts up.    We are collectively terrified of admitting that we’re scared.   There is something about full and frank emotional disclosure that doesn’t sit well with the innately understated nature of New Zealand. Maybe in another country, where dramatics are more suited to their national identity. But not New Zealand, where our muted horrors are just that—muted.  Nearly 90% of our adult gang population was birthed in state care. Taken from family, whānau, aiga, to return as monsters of men. Nightmarish places where sexual and physical abuse were common. Where boys as young as twelve would start to scream and cry when they saw the electroconvulsive therapist arrive.    These boys, now men, bear the psychological scars of a lifetime spent resisting our efforts to transfigure them. And yet in 2019, we have returned to the same “out of sight, out of mind attitude” in placing children in woefully inadequate state care. Day broke with the Puao-te-Ata-tu report, yet we’ve chosen to return to darkness.   The point is: Farming our children out, be it through borstals or state care, was and is our way of ignoring the issue. As a country, we are so busy hiding our vulnerabilities that we create them anew.    Maybe if we raised our boys—especially those who are already vulnerable due to socioeconomic factors—as boys, and not broken-men-in-waiting, we wouldn’t have to harangue them to abandon their toxic masculinity.   If your environment demands you make your emotions unavailable, why would you show vulnerability? Because what if your depression or anxiety comes from a very tangible threat?  You’re anxious, because of gang tensions; the opps certainly aren’t going to sit down and talk about how you’re feeling, and talking about that won’t solve anything. It will draw you into entirely more trouble, yes; it won’t make the problem go away.   No, they’re going to kill you, and cut your face tattoo out. That’s what they’ll do.    It’s a bit like riding a motorbike, really: You can wear all the safety gear, observe all the road rules and ride defensively, but it all means nothing if someone in a car doesn’t give a shit.    And that’s how it is: Lots of people in cars, not giving a shit. Expecting us to magically have a level of emotional openness that is literally counterintuitive to what we see everyday, and what some of us have to do to see another day.   For myself, I know that only I lose when I hold my emotions in check. And that I’m bitter about bottling up, dealing with it on my own, learning the hard way. But that is no one’s fault but my own. I don’t expect anyone to help me deal with it, and I don’t want to put it on someone else. What’s done is done.  Besides, many of our men literally can’t afford to open up: Changing harmful masculine behaviours often relies on women for emotional labour, or depends on access to socially progressive resources such as further education, stable and sufficient income—all the trappings of the middle class, and the exposure to the world that comes with it.   Attacking vulnerability never addresses the root cause of the hurt. It only makes defence mechanisms stronger, draws the guards higher. Let’s remember why we want our men to talk—because we love them. Let them know they deserve to be loved.  

    • Elephant in the Room
      • CW: Mental Illness, Sexual Abuse   There’s an elephant in the room, and we’re not sure how long he’s been there.   For most of our lives, we have associated the elephant with depression, alcoholism, addictions, and racist remarks. As a group of boys, we’ve progressed so far that we can actually say we need a mental health day. I can hit up the group chat and let them know it’s ‘sad boi hours’. There’s five of us, and we’re honestly completely average at realising each others’ signs for depression, but we’re on the way up. We were boys whose skin once crawled at periods. That’s not a laughing matter; that’s just factual. We are now in a space where we can openly talk about our sexual orientation, differing political opinions, and subtle/overt racism. It took a while, but we’ve mustered up enough strength to talk about this. I’m totally proud of us, as I reflect on how we used to deal with problems.   There are still some things we choose not to talk about, however, sometimes a topic will thrust itself onto us: This month, we found out that one of our best friends sexually abused one of our mutual friends. My coffee turned sour and my eyes began to water as I received news at my local café. My mornings watching Lil’ Bill had already been ruined by Bill Cosby; my obsessive, hip-hop influenced dream of cornrows by R Kelly. The greatest memories that remind me of the very worst of people. Now this.    There had been an elephant in the room for a year, and we only just realised.   My train ride back into the city was cold. Dark blue sky, and a racing mind. Head numb as it leaned against the cold glass of the rattling window. I don’t have all the details, but I can’t bring myself to imagine it all in my head. The scene itself, the aftermath, each of our locations at the time it would have happened; they’re burned into my mind. They may as well be branded onto my eyelids.   We will never understand what she has gone through; I could never articulate it on her behalf. I cower every day since, knowing that she suffered in this. I can’t even begin to apologise for his actions, but I hope this gives breath to the conversation we all needed to have.   We heard the full story and the facts from all parties, and it hurt us in many different ways. How do we respond as a group of ‘lads’ who have now outcasted one of our own, the elephant? The group chat is quiet; the one-on-one whisperings are happening in DMs. The staff at our go-to café banter that they don’t see us often enough now. We shrug them off with a gentle laugh; we have nothing to say about our absence.   Nobody has the appetite anymore.   It’s been more than a year since it occurred, but only a few weeks since we’ve become aware. I think about the elephant—we’ve shared drinks, prayers, and meals. We made you family and you allowed us into your world. We’d all shared our ideas and aspirations; there had always been healthy support and discourse. Now I think back to our handshakes and feel sticky.    Any recollection of the handshakes are now as visceral in my mind as if we had been covered in syrup. Sticky, uncomfortable—wanting to let go but not being able to. We can only imagine that is a snippet of how she felt when she saw us all in a herd. Some of the boys are worried, because they had been shaking hands with him in public. Sharing jugs and laughs. At parties, BYOs, university classes. As if we were in support of all he did, publicly so—the herd that supported each other through everything. Not this. If only we’d known sooner. Not this.   I was luckier than some of us, having been educated about boundaries and consent from a young age. I’m learning more and more every day, because there is still so much to learn, but it’s a journey that we are all openly doing together as a friend group. Whether it’s the conversations we have in our long-term relationships or with one-time flings, we are slowly getting better and having that discourse. But this—it made us angry.   We hate cancel culture and it’s something we’ve always debated about. Disgusting things happen in the past. I am not proud of some of the things I’ve done in the past, and neither are you. We can learn to accept them, apologise, feel humility, and move on—or not. (The latter is not recommended.)   However, we aren’t coping. I can see our mental health deteriorating as a group. I feel selfish for thinking about us, as brothers, and not her. Recommending that we don’t reach out to her, but allow ourselves to be contactable if she ever chooses to do so. But how do we deal with this?   I cried. We cried. The thought of what we had to overcome mentally was horrifying. Live with what he did, and understand that we were the dust beneath his feet. We were the fruit and twigs that he used to nourish himself. The river he used to quench his thirst. The first thing we did was blame ourselves for creating an environment where the elephant felt safe; a jungle in which it felt at home. The blame felt strong and emotions were high.   Had we created an environment where we let our best friend feel hidden? Never allowing jokes about abuse of any form, and openly dismissing any support of such. The feeling that all we had done was in vain—taken for granted—hurt. Had we done enough?   We sought support. Some of us individually, with professionals, and well-known counsellors in the area. Looking for role models who could offer a way out. A pathway that would offer a shining light at the end. Preferably male. Our mothers had no answer for us, because they’d never handled something like this from a male perspective. Some of us sought support at a bar through rum, coke, and lemon. Neither avenue was leading us to the pathway we wanted.   Most horror films have an ending with somebody getting away. The villain being held accountable and dissolving in their own evil, or disappearing into the night, banished into their own solitary confinement. The black guy dies first and love saves the day. The hero is left alive; spared at the expense of the others, most likely their loved ones. Lucky enough to see another bright sunny day.   This is incomparable. This horror film never ends, and I can’t shake the shivers it gives me. It feels like it rains every day and the sunlight feels unwelcoming. My pink and white feelings turn to grey and white. Water tastes like TV static. Advice is unwelcome, and I think of the victim more often than not. I can’t shake the images out of my head, the ones I never saw. The signs we missed are clear as day now. My fuse is shorter and my patience is miniscule. The world we built together is scorched.   We are told by our peers that we need to talk about our feelings. It’s taken us a while to realise that this hell isn’t going to get any better.    But that’s okay.   Not everything has a silver lining. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel, there’s no happy ending. The sequel will never come and the elephant’s footprints will fossilise in the carpet. There are some things we can never forgive, and that’s okay.   When I started primary school, my mother gave me a five-minute speech at the gate. I can’t remember most of what she said, but one sentence has stuck with me—“Remember, not everyone is nice.” My mother predicted that I would run into racism at some point. Unfairness, people with ulterior motives, thieves, and energy vampires. But I couldn’t tell you if she had the foresight for this.   This path is dark. It’s treacherous and filled with obstacles. Paying your respects to the victim from afar, understanding that they are combatting this their own way, in their own support circles. All I have is memories of a friend group that gave me life, support, and energy to pursue my dreams. These memories aren’t ruined, and I will be forever grateful to the boys I have around me. I know we don’t have the energy to keep going, and I know sometimes we call each other at 2 a.m. because we can’t get to sleep. This will haunt us for a while.    This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write, but I did for all of the group chats out there going through what we are—the boys who are finding it hard to hold each other accountable.   To my friend: There is nothing I can do. I refuse to allow us to be the leaves of your jungle. I refuse to let us be the river you drink out of, the plants you eat. The dust that rises above your shoulders when you dance for joy. We cannot make the elephant in the room feel at home.   To my boys: We go again. We rebuild each other and come out of this with the scars on our mentals. We don’t push each other to share, just ensure we are all creating spaces where that conversation can happen. I love each and every one of you.   And thanks Mum.

    • Hot Takes – What is the main issue you are voting for in the upcoming local body elections?”
      • Hot Takes is a section where, every two weeks, Rostra (PolSoc’s very own publication) sends out a question to the masses for their takes on them. Rostra gives us three to publish and keeps the rest for their own website. This week, the question was, “What is the main issue you are voting for in the upcoming local body elections?” Keep an eye out for Rostra’s fortnightly Hot Take question on the PolSoc Facebook page. If you’re interested in writing for Rostra, contact them through rostra@vuwpolsoc.com    Getting A’s-into-G Around Transport and Housing – Hugo Beale   I hate to cheat but there are actually two main issues that I’m looking at when I’m voting this year.   Transport – I want the regional and city councils to get their a-into-g and sort out the broken public transport system. If I live in an area where buses come infrequently, a cancelled service becomes the difference between class and no class. I also want to see both forward-thinking and investment into modern mass-transit that will attract people away from their cars and into more sustainable transportation.   Housing – I want to see a modern approach to housing, which means advocating for increased density where it has the least impact. A lot of people and/or councillors don’t like the idea of density, but Wellington is growing every day and is in desperate need of affordable housing for students, workers, and families alike.   A Seat on the Bus, a Seat at the Table – Lars Thompson (Rostra Editor)   As students, we are often told how important it is for us to vote and have our say. There is no shortage of candidates who desperately want to hear from us on issues ranging from mental health, to rental standards, to public transport etc. Every candidate will tell us they have our best interests at heart and will be taking our views into consideration.   They will aim for the best outcomes they can possibly get without jeopardising their other voter bases, and without having truly walked a day in our shoes. That’s the truth.     Tertiary discounts on public transport was a major win for us, but it took years and years of advocacy. Only once a majority of elected candidates had publicly committed to endorsing Fairer Fares was there even the possibility it would actually occur. Even then, there were no certainties, and debate over the issue continued well past the election. We were on the outside, beating on the windows of the regional council, hoping our concerns would be still taken seriously now the vote was in.   I don’t want young people on the outside looking in, forever hoping to gain the favour of powerful old men. I want us students at the table.     Hungry for Democracy – Nathan Holmes   I’m going to vote on the likelihood of the candidate doing a Macca’s run with me at 1 a.m. I’m going to vote based on who my parents would find most annoying and who my flatmate reckons will be the biggest meme. I will vote on whether their billboards show them in the city centre or lost in the hills somewhere pretending they don’t need to ask for directions. I’m going to use single transferable voting to rank the candidates on hotness. They will lose points if I find any of them were using an old pic in their profiles or clearly been out on a Macca’s run the night before.   Most of all, I’ll be voting on our screwed-up public transport system, how the council never picks up our recycling, and all the other issues that actually matter, DUH.     

    • “Uh Oh, Sweeties”: Tom Sainsbury Exposed as Every Wellington City Council Candidate
      •   Tom Sainsbury’s appearance in Auckland council voting papers was a shining light of hope buried in a campaign period marred by underwhelming frontrunners, outright racism, and bizzare policy proposals.   However, what may have been considered wholesome, has become a scandal.   In documents leaked to ^Salient last week, it was revealed that the comedian is, in fact, ^all of the candidates running for Wellington City Council.    Sainsbury has  been impersonating every council candidate in the city, with nobody the wiser.   Sainsbury’s impersonations were a staple of his online presence, with satirical videos of him posing as Simon Bridges, Judith Collins, and many more.   However, it appears those skills have been put to more sinister means.   The documents were also leaked to the Electoral Commission, which released a statement soon after, alongside a warrant for Sainsbury’s arrest. Police entered Sainsbury’s home last Thursday.    Initially, police thought prominent National Party MP Paula Bennett was the only person present, but Sainsbury was exposed and detained after police noticed the impersonator’s clip-on earrings were plastic, rather than Bennett’s standard solid gold ones.   However, Sainsbury spent only a short period detained, as a video depicting Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern called for his immediate release.   Ardern assured the public that her appearance in the back of a police car, with accompanying five o’clock shadow and ruffled hair, were just a consequence of “an absolute whirlwind of a time in New York”.    Opposition Leader Simon Bridges supported Ardern’s statement in a video from a police cell he “just happened to be visiting”.   ^Salient contacted Sainsbury to ask how he had managed to fool the Wellington public.   “Well it was pretty easy really,” he said.   “I just needed to rotate my wig a bit to change characters, and when it came to panel discussions, I just set up mannequins with smiley faces on them. Nobody could tell.”   “The most I ever had to do was close-ups as Justin Lester. I just had to suck my cheeks in a bit and stand on my tippy toes.”   “The easiest part was policies. I mostly just copied and pasted them from each other. People just expect that nowadays.”   Sainsbury declined to comment on how far the conspiracy ran, but said he “couldn’t wait to represent the people of Wellington”. Videos since released by every member of Parliament and all senior members of the public service have confirmed this.

    • Forbidden Fruit
      • “There is no such thing as free will,” a friend told me not too long ago. His words made me wonder whether or not Eve and Adam had any say in being brought into this world. I also ended up pondering questions like: Did Eve pick and eat that juicy fruit of her own volition? And is it fair to blame her for sending humanity down a path of sinful imperfection when she herself had no awareness of what sin was? We’ll see.   If you woke up this morning and decided to put on a red t-shirt instead of that yellow hoodie, not only did you (once again) underestimate the Wellington climate, but you probably also assumed that you made the choice voluntarily. Maybe you’re the kind of person who believes in free will. Maybe you’re not—maybe you’re aware of the fact that the reason you keep repeating that third-year paper stems more from your general disinterest in the subject than your inability to time-manage. I digress. Uncle G(oogle) defines the concept easily enough: the freedom of humans to make choices that are not determined by prior causes or by divine intervention. Seems pretty straightforward.   So what about the anti-free will camp? Well, they would argue that human behaviour can always be explained through the laws of cause and effect. Woman is hungry, woman eats. Man feels rumbles in stomach, man uses wharepaku. The idea is thus: all events are caused by something and our actions are predetermined. So when you end up disregarding this article as heresy (‘fUck yOu, I cHosE mY oWn oUtfiT ToDaY’), it will have been because firstly, you were browsing through this particular edition of Salient, and secondly, because you’re studing at Vic and/or have an interest in student literature. Think: cause and effect. You can dig back as far as you like. What led you to enroll at Vic? Why was it an option for you? What was your upbringing like? How did it mold you as a person? It’s wild shit.   Now back to the story. As per the Bible, Adam then Eve were created as the first humans, in the image of God, and tasked with birthing humankind and acting as stewards over everything God had created up until that point. They’re naked. They have no shame. They’re chillin’. They’re in a garden and God has said something like, “Hey guys. Please don’t eat that fruit over there.”   Do you really think Eve was just going to sit around and eat the same produce for the rest of her life while the most tempting of all (that which hung from the Tree of Knowledge) lay in the middle of the garden within arm’s reach? Of course Eve was gonna eat that shit—serpent or no serpent. And so, upon sharing the “Forbidden Fruit” (Cole & Kendrick, 2013), both Adam and Eve were granted the knowledge of good and evil and subsequently banished from the Garden of Eden.   So how does free will come into play? Was Eve’s picking of the fruit simply a voluntary decision or was it destined to happen? Maybe Eve is to blame… however, she was influenced… so maybe the snake (Satan) is to blame. Maybe it’s neither. Think about this: Adam and Eve didn’t choose to be brought into this world. It was God’s decision. So I suppose their will was God’s will. If Adam and Eve had no concept of morality (pre-fruit) then how were they to know that what they were about to do was wrong? If Adam and Eve were created in the image of God, does the fact that Eve fucked up prove that even God—in all their different forms—is flawed? And if God’s will is to be done, that must mean that ‘the original sin’ was all part of his master plan.   By taking a bite of that fruit, Adam and Eve were just exploring the options made available to them as living humans (which, admittedly, weren’t many). Keep in mind that God had created all their options. If he really didn’t want them eating the forbidden fruit, you’d think he would have put the tree in the corner or something, not smack-bang in the middle of the garden. But that’s a story for another day.   Just like Eve and Adam, you also didn’t choose to be brought into this world. It was the will of the universe (and maybe your parents) that sent you on a journey of discovery. Just think of all the opportunities and options you’ve had in life, especially since starting at university and assuming new responsibilities—meeting people, joining a club, trying a new sport, picking up a part-time job. And now, here you are… reading this particular article, in this particular magazine, from this particular university, in this particular city, at this particular moment in time. It’s surreal how life works…   It is said that each time a male ejaculates, up to a billion sperm cells are released. What’s more, the odds of you being that one sperm to fertilise your mother’s ovary are so unimaginable that even Marvel’s Avengers would have their doubts. You are you. You! The only you. Me is no you. Only you is you. But! You were only ever going to be you, there was never going to be another you.   I know the whole idea can sound a little depressing—the suggestion that you have no control over your own decisions, and that in actuality, all the choices you make are predetermined. But whether you believe in free will or not, it’s pretty cool to know that you’re playing an important part in the unfolding story of the universe.   “The roots of education are bitter, but the fruit is sweet.”    

    • Skeletons In Your Closet
      • CW: Sexual Assault, Spiked Substances   Dusk possesses an indiscernible allure. Wallflowers transform into live wires—like werewolves, except with more charm and less fur. It’s then that I see my firecracker of a friend let loose, hair down, volume up. She calls it liberation. Light means scrutiny. At night, no one can see how large your pores are or how dirty your hair is. No dance move is too cringe, no laugh is too loud. We’re free to be our most authentic selves. But what happens in the dark, stays in the dark. You can bury your skeletons in the satin black, tuck them away for safekeeping. There are some parts of us that aren’t meant for the light of day, a fact which fucks with me.   That’s my burden: the curse of the sober mum friend. I carry the light into the dark, like a torch that ruins other people’s night vision. And what I witness stays with me—the good, the bad, and the haunting. When you’re a critical observer with a formidable memory, it’s frustrating to be surrounded by peers who would rather talk about their inflating student loans than recall what they did when they were hammered.    On a superficial level, there’s the agony of hooking up with an acquaintance in town who is both too attractive and too out-of-it for their own good. Waking up the next day, remembering the crowd of mutual friends that gathered around you, spectators cheering for their favorite sport. Not knowing if your teammate themselves holds any recollection.    Post-hookup culture is a hypocritical phenomenon: Leading up to the main event, all manner of people will congregate to fill you up with liquid courage, and you’ll be egged on with a socially acceptable level of peer pressure. But once the deed is done, no one wants to talk about it. We tell people to live truthfully—but no, not like that. Knowing smiles are passed around the next morning like backhanded compliments. They know what you did, but are you brave enough to call them out on it? The pressure is on to be low-key, leaving you with a million afterthoughts and no audience.    Yet the reluctance to discuss the happenings of a night gone by pose more than just superficial threats. What we do in the shadows isn’t meant to carry over to the next morning, especially when those conversations don’t go down easily over a Sunday brunch. It’s like a switch is flicked on our morals and ethical responsibilities all but go out the window. This oath of silence we’ve all nonconsensually taken is what gives perpetrators a free pass.    On an afternoon bubble tea run with mates, the chit-chat starts fizzling out, so I dubiously offer up the question, “What’s the scariest thing that happens at night but isn’t talked about during the day?” It’s stark, out of the blue and potentially triggering. I hear a sharp inhale.    We get to the counter and one friend ponders my question and her order at the same time.  “Sexual assault,” she declares. Trading war stories, it’s clear the most dangerous perpetrators are the ones who appear harmless for the most part.   We talk about how we only felt safe with him in the presence of a crowd. How he knew I hadn’t realised that someone could look at us without really seeing us. How if a single person had interjected and told her to run for the hills, she would have. One person who risked overstepping their boundaries by speaking up, instead of risking our safety. Maybe then, he wouldn’t have got away with it. After the sun sets, no one knows what the bad guy looks like and the only thing worse than not knowing is knowing. What if it’s your best mate? How do you cut someone important out of your life for something they don’t even remember doing? The rhetorical questions are endless because no one wants to imagine themselves in a scenario where they would be forced to answer them.    Another friend shakes his taro milk tea in contemplation, speaking from experience at parties. “It’s hard to place your anger on a part of someone who only comes out in certain situations.” He confesses he had to rethink every memory he had of his friend, asking himself if he missed the warning signs.    “It’s easier to compartmentalise.” Wishing to end that line of discussion, he moves on. “Being drugged is probably the scariest. It’s as easy as dropping in a pill while you walk past your victim. Alarming success rates with no accountability.”   It hurts me that our young men are getting roofied and no one is talking about it. Spilled over a cup of coffee, overheard in the hallways, confessed on a bubble tea run, I’ve heard the stories so often they’re getting predictable: An unprotected drink, an assumption that he’s just wasted, a toilet bowl full of vomit, followed by all the other symptoms of being drugged. There’s shame involved—stereotypically, women are the ones to have their alcohol spiked. It’s this idea that a bolstering 20-something bloke could be reduced to nothing by someone half their size in a matter of seconds. Bro culture would rather have us rejoice to a wild night on the town than acknowledge that men aren’t exempt from violation.    We’re stuck in that canteen scene from High School Musical, the one where outcasts are chastised for daring to admit that when it comes to people, the truth is not all that meets the eye. The message is clear: stick to the status quo. Keep your mouth shut, or lose your seat at the cool kids’ table.    But our lives aren’t harmfully stereotypical, grossly American-ised movies. I’m not too cool for the truth, and neither are you. If you see me the morning after, have the decency to make eye contact. If we continue treating simple issues with shame, we’ll never be able to make room for difficult but necessary conversation.    It’s that much easier to get away with something when you know that silence is the norm. I used to dream of being able to lie in a park and watch the stars, comfortable in my loneliness. Now I’m terrified of the night, and being in the company of others invites danger and not comfort. If shit goes down, we need to talk about it.    If we can only find liberation when we are stumbling around in the dark, that raises a flag too red to ignore. Authenticity shouldn’t become synonymous with alcohol. Try challenging the toxic social norms which dictate when you are and are not free to be your feral, unfiltered self. In the meantime, go get lost in the Botans to find yourself. Switch off all the lights and have a rave in your living room. Keep your friends close and your enemies as far as possible.    The night is a gift. Use it well.   

    • Past Bones, Present Realities
      •   Once, dinosaurs walked the earth. They had claws and teeth, they dug burrows, nurtured their young, ate each other. For 80 million years, this was a planet of large and small, fast and slow reptilians; strange and dangerous to mammalian flesh. Then that world ended, and life kept changing to fill the spaces the dinosaurs had left.    When the dinosaurs died, as far as we know—and it must be said that sometimes it feels like we know very little, and sometimes it feels like we know a great deal, and both are true—they did not expect to ever live again in movies and museums and imaginations. Life returns. Night becomes day. Endings become beginnings.    Scientifically, ‘dinosaur’ refers to everything in the clade Dinosauria, a diverse group of ancient reptiles that all evolved from a common ancestor. Modern-day birds are descended from theropod dinosaurs, and in this sense could be considered dinosaurs. Culturally, other ancient reptiles including marine plesiosaurs and mosasaurs, as well as pterodactyls and other pterosaurs—basically any large reptile alive in the Cretaceous Period—are all often referred to as dinosaurs, although they are not members of Dinosauria.    Alan Tennyson, Te Papa’s vertebrate curator, says New Zealand “is not the place to study dinosaurs”, as the fossil record is “extremely pathetic”. Preservation conditions mean that fossils from the Cretaceous Period are either nonexistent, eroded, hard to access, or all of the above. From a site in Hawkes Bay—worked over by Joan Wiffen and her husband for decades—as well as other locations around the country, enough bone fragments have been found to identify a range of dinosaurs which once lived here, but there will probably never be New Zealand equivalents to the kind of magnificent dinosaur fossils found elsewhere.    Dinosaurs are real, but the idea of them was created. “You never see [a picture of] a dinosaur without teeth,” says Gus Mitchell, dinosaur enthusiast and former Salient science columnist. In movies, we see dinosaurs hunting and eating—not lying down for ten days to digest a big meal. Dinosaurs are shaped as prompters of awe and fear, rather than as living animals, because they are known through fossils rather than flesh.   According to Gus, the appeal of dinosaurs over, say, a Cambrian era sea slug, is partially that they are “terrifying and charismatic” but mostly that they had “a better ad campaign”. From toys to children’s books, then movies like Jurassic Park, there is a cultural idea of dinosaurs as much as a scientific one.    Gus walks me through the ‘creation’ of dinosaurs from the early fossil hunters of the eighteenth century to the present day. From sculptures at the Crystal Palace world exhibition in 1851, lumpy and lumbering, to the sleek and swift velociraptors of Jurassic Park in 1993, it was not the dinosaurs that changed, but the human interpretation of them. As research into dinosaurs continues, the shape of dinosaurs changes too, even though species are static, trapped in a reality which ended.    Zoë Stokes, like Gus, loves dinosaurs. When I talk to her, she’s wearing a jacket with dinosaur patches sewn on. Zoë, a drama student at Te Auaha, has written a thoroughly delightful feminist manifesto by altering a dinosaur colouring book, and is currently working on a piece of children’s theatre about dinosaurs. “[Dinosaurs] are considered kids’ things, but they’re from so far back that it puts your little life into perspective.”   Zoë started liking dinosaurs because her brother was given dinosaur toys, but preferred cars, and she sees the gendering of dinosaurs as one of the chief examples of how they are a cultural construction. “Dinosaurs didn’t have [gender] pressed on them, they were just dinosaurs, they ate every now and then and hung out, they lived with their instincts.”    The fact that science evolves, even as fossils stay the same, speaks to how science works. “The scientific reality and cultural consensus [about dinosaurs] move in lockstep,” Gus says—one following the other, always a gap. To him, this is part of the value of dinosaurs to science, especially those unfamiliar with the scientific method—like kids. “[Fossils] are such a good entry point for how science works in general. You piece things together to make an incomplete picture. Somebody proposes a hypothesis, and then they use evidence to back it up in the same way that a lawyer would.”    Dinosaurs are one reminder of extinction, but to start talking a species that has disappeared from the planet is impossible: millions, billions, trillions of organisms, enough -illions to choke on, to disappear under the mass of life, and life that has gone.    There is widespread scientific consensus that we are in the midst of a sixth great extinction, even if human demise is yet a way off. Scientists estimate that the current rate of species dying is a thousand times higher than the background rate of extinction. At some level, all of these previous extinctions have been due to the climate changing faster than life can keep up, although there are ferocious scientific debates about the actual means of this climatic change.    Some of the lost life get more attention than others. I ask Tennyson which qualities make extinct species appealing. “Your answer is as good as mine,” he says, but elaborates anyway. “They have to be big, iconic species like the moa—beautiful ones like the huia [also] get more attention than other extinct birds.” There are “lots of little birds that people haven’t really heard of,” and Te Papa’s collections are filled with small, neatly labelled bones which will probably never go on display.    Size, ultimately, is the point to which most people return when talking about compelling extinct animals. Ewan Fordyce, Professor of Geology at the University of Otago and paleobiology specialist, says “it was the large size [of dinosaurs] that astonished people”. It’s also about the fact that they’re vertebrates, that they walk easily into our imaginations. “[You] understand a bit about the animals when you see the skeleton,” he says, and apart from some trace fossils, the skeletons are often all we have to understand.   In the Otago Museum, I look at a plesiosaur which Fordyce excavated (the years-long process of preparing it for display was, he says, “an albatross around my neck”). The flippers reach into the stone, the spine curves, and yes—I can see it moving through bygone oceans, not the rock which holds it now.   There are ancient extinctions, caused by meteors (probably—this is subject to ferocious scientific debate) and climate shifts, complicated chains of events resurrected by reading the stories contained in rocks. But many of the extinct animals that Te Papa takes care of disappeared much more recently, with clearer causes. I talk to Tennyson in the collection centre at Te Papa: shelves of kākāpō skulls, pygmy whales, and crested penguins which will never move again.    As Tennyson walks me through the collection, I hear a litany of extinction. “It was like a sledgehammer, human arrival,” he says. “These extinctions occurred in a period of relatively stable climate, so we can divorce natural climate impacts from human impacts.” Ferrets, cats, stoats and rats, arrows, guns and spears, forests replaced by monoculture, and now warming unpredictable weather: loss, and loss, and loss.    “There are lessons here,” he tells me. “We learn from the past to make the future better, but humans don’t seem to be very good at that.” We are surrounded by knowledge about how to prevent the disappearances and deaths petrified here.     Ewan Fordyce asks me to close my eyes, and places a megalodon tooth in my hands. It is as large as my palm, shiny ivory, serrated. Just one tooth, of hundreds. “This shark could have eaten anything it wanted,” he says drily. “They were giants.” There are fossils carefully being excavated by postgrad students in his lab, the air dusty with discovery, forms slowly coming out of the rock and living again.   In the Te Papa collection, I hold the tiny mandible of a Lyall’s wren, about the same length as the first joint of my index finger. It is fragile, delicate, designed for eating insects; it was once alive, and now it is dead. Tennyson tells me the story of how this species went extinct, the last known living examples killed by feral cats at the ends of the nineteenth century, though further research found that the species was once widespread throughout Aotearoa, and was probably killed by the kiore, or Polynesian rat.    To make sense of the loss, we mount it, display it, pore over it, and draw pictures of the world that was when this life was in it. There are probably more extinct organisms that we don’t know about than those we do: micro-organisms, small plants, and worms. Yet when we think of extinct animals, it tends not to be slugs or random invertebrates, but dinosaurs or dodos.     “I think to be a palaeontologist, we are privileged, and we owe it to society to talk to people. [Paleontology] really is an important place to use our fossils to understand the history of the earth,” Fordyce tells me, in his fossil-filled office, in a corner of a stone building, in a university—all pieces of a system that is changing the earth.    Fossils and dinosaurs are valuable in fostering interest in science. “[Dinosaurs] bring the fun,” Zoë tells me, “the kids can have fun with it and adults can study them.” Dinosaurs were what led Fordyce into paleontology too. “As a little kid I was fascinated by dinosaurs… and suddenly I thought, oops, I’m a paleontologist.”    If we start caring about long dead creatures then it’s easier to notice and care for living ones. “We’ve lost a lot, and it’s only through those sorts of specimens that we know what we lost,” Tennyson says. To have a fossil is to have perspective—the fingerprints of life that didn’t last forever. Perspective can build a future of less loss; for instance, the fossil record is often used for conservationists to think about where to reintroduce species.    “If we look at the history of life, we can see that it’s a grim, hard race, and organisms are basically evolving as fast as they possibly can. So we as people should have a special role to not make it worse. So I read about a rhinoceros or pangolin or kākāpō, it was tough for them before there were humans, and now [we] make it extra extra hard, and we are all culpable,” says Fordyce.    This most recent spate of extinctions is happening before our eyes, not being pieced together post-mortem by bubbles of chemicals and changes in the consistency of rock. Death comes from the way that humans—some humans much more than others—live. We take old life that has become oil or coal, and ignite it for our movement and material. The grim, hard race becomes harder.    “People need hope,” Fordyce tells me. I feel compelled to mention that in the week this article is being published, there is a climate strike—a way to act on hope.   Consider a fossil. Consider a dinosaur. Find a timescale larger than your lifetime, and dream the bony future.

    • The Apples are not Flavoured by a Perfect Tree
      • Standing alone in the bathroom of an isolated Canterbury hotel, I am chanting an ode to hundreds of years of crying newborns with each dollop of conditioner I prise onto my hand. It’s dark outside and the window is iced over; the locals will only see my naked silhouette. Let them remain at that distance, I don’t want them to know my secret. This 10 p.m. is the summit, just like 11 p.m. will be too: the pinnacle of past. Each time I run my hands through my hair. Each time I drink the milk from the bottom of my cereal. Each time I just want to be alone. I am my tūpuna.   My secret is also kept quiet by the neighbours of the Darfield Motel and any so-called farming, surfing, dancing, town in the world. Everyone in the present is in the same boat. We carry within us the blood of our ancestors, our whakapapa. We are every regret Great-Great-Uncle Jim had, every sheep shorn, every korowai worn. I, for one, know that my hands work the blessings of those in the sky, in the sea—and because of that, they’ll reach for the history books anywhere. Maybe that’s why you don’t mind a bit of noise when you fall asleep; you are koro’s snores and Nan’s 3 a.m. TV shows.    Like row upon row of grapes waiting to be wine, lines of ancestry are plotted. They are envisioned symbols on pages, known as ‘family trees’. Lives, fashions and passions become spectacularly linear topographic maps for a seven-year-old to drive their Hot Wheels across. Each progression of a family tree is like discovering the Nile all over again, but finding there’s gold at the bottom. You’re born and there goes another straight line. A shift in the format, but a brand new name. We crave this discovery, validation for the quirks we each have. But most importantly, we want to see that we own our families and bodies. We want our existence to belong, to fit in the place we have no choice but to fit. Besides, sometimes it’s just so satisfying to see so many straight, clear-cut lines.    That being said, I want to strongly suggest a referendum on ‘family trees’. Can we change their name to ‘fucking confusing vines that are missing all their fruit’? Coming from a family with head-splittingly complicated generations, second marriages, and alienated children who form lines of their own, I struggled as a kid to see my family as anything but a pile of tangled leaves growing wild. Years ago, my Aunty produced a five-generation family tree for a whānau wānanga that seemed to want to burst from its linearity. I took my pencil around the marae, and with the help of my little cousins, we played fill-in-the-blanks, but with real lives. I wasn’t going to let it be that I was a blank. The plotting and searching fostered then is yet to end. I have to keep updating this tiny image at least twice a year now. When I’m the soil for my kids, there’ll be no space left on the page.   The impossibility of making a tree of mysterious tūpuna stared me in the face when, at the end of Year 13, one of my close classmates told me that my uncle was her biological grandfather. To me, he is like a grandfather I never had. To her, it’s the same. Except he is an unspoken: a broken line, a branch snapped from the tree. How do we make a straight line of this confusion?    What scares me is that in this tradition, almost everyone is an impossibility. What happened to every woman that was ever left off a tree structured to only regard the grandfathers, fathers, and sons? Maybe she was an existing non-existence. I think the straight line from father to son is her backbone, dug from the earth in which she rests.    Those that carry the surname, typically the males of every generation, must look at the sprawling piece of paper and watch its weight crash over them. Wherever there is a name, there is lineage and stories and people who come before with their own legacies. Someone in each generation of your family’s tree needs to do the digging to bring back the burnt-off, cast away family nomads.    The conundrum comes from the shape and form. Names on a page with a line connecting them seem incapable of describing the way my grandfather looked at my little brother. In his grandson, he would see part of the son nature refused him, with four girls instead. These lines cannot release the hunted whales of our pasts back into the ocean. They can’t account for those who made others’ lives a misery.    I remember a family tree one of my classmates drew up in primary school. It traced their blood all the way back to the vikings. This would’ve been an easy way to collect up and tie together everyone’s whānau lines when New Zealand had a population of 1 million. But in our vastly interlocking, intersecting, and—in some places—slightly incestuous world, it seems better to just accept that family is family, ohana is ohana, and whānau is certainly whānau—no matter how topsy turvy.    I don’t want to have to wrap lines around broken marriages and write in a new baby to the tree every month. I want my family to be my family, despite the lines and wrinkles. 

    • Buying a Prius and solar panels for my summer bach because climate change xo
      •   As I pondered my two-hour morning lecture on the history of genocidal violence in West Papua, I walked through the Hub, where the “Your Zero Carbon University” talk was taking place.    There were a few points of interest that caught my attention. One, there were more photographers than students in attendance. Two, hardly anyone knew about the talk. Three, mad props to Helena Fuluifaga, the only non-white speaker on the panel (also the only student). Four, the accompanying VUW advertising banner had a picture of some zoomed-up NZ bird feathers backing some “VUW FOR SUSTAINABILITY” signage. Yeah, this really hit home the theme of multicultural inclusivity. Oh, and five, Climate Minister and Green Party MP James Shaw pronounced “mana” like it had three As. “Maaaana.”   For those who didn’t attend this event, allow me to summarise what James Shaw and Vice-Chancellor Grant Guilford said about the future of the Zero Carbon Bill, and VUW’s equivalent Zero Carbon Plan. Yes, team, we can still use cars, we just need to buy hybrids. And yes! We can still have successful careers after we graduate from Vic! The economy will just switch to renewable energy and be more sustainable and live laugh love, etc. Essentially, with a flourishing of hands, our lives will be great and mostly the same—Zero Carbon means we just need to change how we charge and power our heaters. Also something about using Skype instead of airplanes?   What struck me most about these speeches was how different the “zero carbon future” that James and Grant talked about was, compared to the perspective of Helena, a representative from the Pacific Climate Warriors. Helena drew on her Sāmoan heritage, her family, her language, and memories of visiting Sāmoa. She talked about her future with ‘if’ hanging ever over it. In her narrative, the sustainability of the future in the face of climate change was more than sustainable energy sources. It literally determined whether or not the islands that formed the backdrop for her, her family, and her community would actually exist ^if the Bill didn’t succeed. None of what James or Grant said acknowledged this lived experience.   Whose future is the Zero Carbon Bill intending to preserve, then?    James, what about people whose car choices are being pushed aside with thoughts of their sinking homelands? Who don’t have baches to visit on the weekend, who are instead trying to keep the only households they do own warm and dry in the winter? That are too busy working overtime and taking care of their families to have time to sit in the backyard that they might not even have and listen to birds whose species we apparently saved by buying KeepCups?   Grant, you’re overflowing with excitement about the sheer number of economic prospects in the post-carbon future. Sounds like the Bill is an exciting career opportunity with a growing ‘sustainable economy’ promise, but what about students who can’t even afford to get here? How does the Zero Carbon Bill build “sustainable”, “new” career opportunities for our Pacific Island/Māori/Indigenous students who have so jump many hurdles to even attain a tertiary education?   Did either of you consider that maybe the Zero Carbon Bill shouldn’t just be about changing energy sources, but changing attitudes that cater to more than just preserving the upper middle-class lifestyles and career choices within Aotearoa? Were tangata whenua even consulted in any part of this conversation?   Whose future are you actually looking to preserve?          

    • VUWSA AGM: Election Results, A Cheeky Deficit, and Constitutional Stuff
      •   The 2019 VUWSA AGM was held last Wednesday in a well-filled Hub, more than can be said for the following GWRC forum.   The agenda covered the standard issues: half-yearly reports, an outline of the association’s recent financial position and 2020 budget, a swathe of constitutional changes, the awarding of a life membership—and, of course, the VUWSA election results.   Half-Yearly Reports 2019 President Tamatha Paul started off with her President’s Report, outlining the work of the 2019 exec on issues ranging from mental health to lecture recordings, to Toitū te Ao.    All of the executive were acknowledged, but special praise was made of Gerard Hoffman, who was granted a life membership. The membership was awarded by 2018 President Marlon Drake, who Hoffman had worked closely with the university’s Manager of Student Counselling, as he had with some 17 other presidents.   Reports were also adopted from other executive positions, again outlining the work that VUWSA took on this year.   Money and Stuff The AGM saw the 2018 audit, 2019 balance sheet, and 2020 budget presented and accepted. VUWSA itself, not including its subsidiaries, made a net loss of $112,457  in 2018, down from a $5,950 profit in 2017. CEO Matt Tucker informed ^Salient that the 2018 loss was from an unconditional $150,000 payment to the VUWSA Trust, which undertakes some investments and spending on students for VUWSA.  Additionally, VUWSA ended 2018 with $8,611,420 in net assets, down by ‭$72,241 ‬from 2017.    Salient made up only 5.8% of 2018’s expenses. We hope it didn’t show.   As of June 2019, VUWSA had $711,043.50 in net assets. CEO Matt Tucker put Tamatha to shame on the spending front, with a mighty $2,929.16 racked up on his VISA and Tam with only $1,137.09.   Going into 2020, the budget anticipates a $6,677.53 deficit. Although was careful to point out that this represents a smaller actual deficit than in 2018 ($112,457 for VUWSA, not including accounts from its subsidiaries). A number of changes to income and expenses were listed, which are worth checking out yourself.    For the benefit of one particular reader, ^Salient will be spending more on more environmentally sustainable ink, the cost of which will be offset by a possible reduction in page count.   Constitutional Changes VUWSA went hard on the constitution, largely to simplify language. More functional changes included allowing the exec to unanimously appoint one life member a year, as well as making all past presidents life members by default.   The presidential income was changed to be pegged to the living wage, rather than the previous inflation-adjusted salary they received.    Notably, the Ngāi Tauira President(s) are now to be ex officio members of the executive with normal voting rights, with one vote available to them.   ^Salient was also affected: As well as finally being acknowledged as “more than just a newspaper”, the appointment of the editor has been moved out of the constitution and into policy. However, appointments still must have regard to—amongst other things—the ^Salient Charter, which is still in the constitution.   A lot of other changes were made, but these are just the big ones. Check out the proposed amendments online for the rest.    Election Results Finally, returning officer Lars Thomson read out the results of the election for the 2020 VUWSA exec. Full results are available through VUWSA. In the meantime, the winners are:   Rinaldo Strydom as Academic Vice President (VP), Michael Turnbull as Welfare VP, Joanna Li as Engagement VP, Ralph Zambrano as Treasurer-Secretary, Grace Carr as Campaigns Officer, Tara O’Connor as Clubs and Activities Officer, Taylah Shuker as Education Officer, Parminder Kaur as Equity Officer, and Sophie Brooker as Wellbeing and Sustainability Officer.   The real winners, however, were Janne and Rachel who won ^Salient’s election sweepstakes.   Congratulations.  

    • School Strike for Climate Staying Hot in Fight Against Global Warming
      • Victoria University and VUWSA have endorsed the intergenerational School Strike for Climate planned from September 27. The strike follows two school strikes earlier this year.    Connie Brown, a member of the group organising the strike on campus, says that coordinating has required communication and negotiation with people in other parts of New Zealand and overseas, including communicating with the City Council, VUWSA, and university administration.   “The university have been really supportive of us,” Brown says. All classes for the duration of the strike will be recorded and tests during the time can be rescheduled.   “VUWSA encourages all students to come along and stand in solidarity with us. Let’s demand urgent action on the climate crisis from the New Zealand government and fight for our future,” said VUWSA president Tamatha Paul.    “There is a pressing need for universities like ours to lead change. We do this through our teaching and research, by reducing our own carbon footprint, and through positive, collective action like this.” said Vice Chancellor Grant Guildford in a statement.    A contingent of marchers from VUW will be meeting at the Tim Beaglehole courtyard at 10:30 a.m. on September 27, then walking down the Terrace and along Cuba Street to Civic Square, joining the main strike, which leaves Civic Square at noon to head towards Parliament.   On campus, SS4C members are co-hosting the strike with 350 Pacific, the Pacific Climate Warriors group.    Helena Fuluifaga Chan Fuong, a member of the group, said, “This partnership is super important because we’re all going to be affected by climate change and we are going to be affected in different ways.”   Internationally, the main action was on Sep 20. However, due to mock exams, the organisers of the New Zealand protest decided to reschedule for Sep 27, the last day of school term, so that it is easier for school students to attend.   NZUSA, the representative group for student associations in New Zealand, also endorses the strike.    “Twenty years down the track, if you weren’t there, you’re going to regret it,” said Abi O’Regan, another member of the climate strike organisational team.    “Universities are supposed to be the critical consciousness of society so it’s important that we engage.”  

    • Toitū te Ao: A Week of Celebrating a Better Future
      •   Te Wiki o Te Reo Māori was themed “Kia Kaha Te Reo Maori”, or “let’s make the Māori language strong”. VUWSA combined this with Sustainability Week to create Toitū te Ao.    Ngāi Tairua representatives said this “enabled the overall concept of kaitiakitanga to be shared, and that “it is these two kaupapa which indeed hold immense value to our Māori students, especially as tangata whenua.”   VUWSA also spoke about the importance of linking indigenous solutions to viable, local, innovative approaches to sustainability global issues.   The events ranged from panels to hīkoi to events. OpSoc held an event, with organiser Sophie Brooker emphasising the knowledge gained: “Mending and upcycling are vital skills to facilitate a transition away from fast fashion and achieve a circular economy.”   The hīkoi for Te Wiki o Te Reo Māori was attended by many, with Ngāi Tairua highlighting the university’s connection with schoolchildren “who depend on our continuation of Te Reo Māori as our indigenous language”.   VUWSA noted the strong levels of participation and engagement at the market stalls at Te Aro on Tuesday, and at Kelburn on Wednesday at the expo day. Stalls were occupied by local businesses, organisations, and advocacy groups.    The VUW Student Strike held banner-painting sessions at both marketplaces to raise awareness ahead of the march this week.    Organiser Raven Maeder said, “It was inspiring to see everyone come together to celebrate the many ways in which we care for people and Papatūānuku.”   She added that she was excited “to show our leaders that we are united in our call for climate justice”.    Generation Zero held a Climate Emergency Panel focusing on decolonising while sustaining a just transition, with speakers from Pacific Climate Warriors, NIWA, and Wellington City Council.    The UN’s Sustainable Development Goals were translated into Te Reo Māori, and displayed in the Hub to demonstrate the university’s commitment to a local approach to global challenges.   

    • Government Announces New Mental Health Policies
      •   The government announced a raft of mental health initiatives earlier this month, including details of its long-awaited Suicide Prevention Strategy.   Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern and Health Minister David Clark began a week-long series of announcements by revealing a boost in funding for more than 20 underfunded frontline services.    Victoria University’s Mauri Ora is one practice which will receive additional funding.    David Clark said the investment will make it easier for people in distress to access help earlier which will “prevent small issues becoming major problems”.   The government also released Every Life Matters, a strategy and action plan to reduce the rate of suicide in New Zealand.   New Zealand’s suicide rate is 11.3 per 100,000 people—a “national tragedy” according to the Prime Minister. This figure increases sharply to 28 per 100,000 for the Māori population.   The changes announced include free counselling for those bereaved by suicide, extra support services for high risk groups like Māori, Pasifika, and gender-diverse people, and better support for children and young people in schools.   However, the government has come under fire for not implementing a specific Māori suicide prevention strategy.   The Whakamanawa report, a summary of Māori submissions made to the government’s mental health and addiction inquiry, heavily supported a separate Māori strategy. The report recommended it be designed and run by Māori, for Māori.   A Suicide Prevention Office was also announced to lead efforts in the area.   The final announcement of the week included details of the government’s initial Mental Health and Wellbeing Commission.   The commission will provide independent scrutiny of the government’s progress in improving New Zealand’s mental health and wellbeing and promote collaboration between mental health groups.   It will also pave the way for a permanent commission which is to start work in February 2021 once a law is passed.   However, mental health advocates say there is a lack of people with lived experience on the commission.   Kelly Pope is the only member who has personally been through the mental health system.  

    • Are You There Youths? It’s me, people who want to be your mayor
      •   With the Wellington City Mayoral race in full swing, Salient sat down with both mayoral candidate Conor Hill and incumbent Justin Lester to talk about some of the main focuses of their campaigns. Keep an eye on ^Salient for our interviews with other mayoral candidates in the coming issues. Have there been any significant updates regarding the rental property Warrant of Fitness? Lester: “We had a change of government and they’ve introduced the healthy homes guarantee. The health care legislation that came through Parliament has now been approved, which has minimum standards for insulation and minimum requirements around heating for housing as well.” Hill: “I would like to adapt the current rental warrant fitness. Currently, only landlords can apply for that. I think tenants should be able to apply for the rental warrant of fitness and I think the council should pay for that.” We have a number of VUW students currently running for Wellington City Council, what would be your advice to them? Lester: “Be yourself. Be genuine. But most of all, work hard, because every election I’ve seen, those with the best knowledge and the best ideas and the best track record, they’re candidates that tend to win.” Hill: “Honestly, I’d be taking advice from them. This is my first time running a campaign, so I’m on a steep learning curve.” With carbon emissions being added to the Resource Management Act, what environmental areas of focus will you be narrowing in on? Lester: “I think we ought to focus on public transport because it is so important to the city’s function, and to the city’s focus on climate change and emission reduction as well—because 58% of our emissions come from transport. We want an organisation that’s really focused on public transport provision.” Hill: “As mayor, I would push to actually start implicating, start making moves based on that [declaration of] climate change emergency. A week after that climate change emergency was declared, Justin Lester opened a petrol station. To me, that’s just a cynical empty declaration of climate change emergency.  

    • VUW Launches Plan to be Carbon Neutral by 2030
      •   As part of Sustainability Week, Victoria University has launched a Zero Carbon Plan. The plan aims to make the university a net zero emissions organisation by 2030, with a 20% reduction in gross emissions, and offsetting schemes to make the activities to make up the rest.   The launch of the plan was held in the Hub on September 13. A panel, including Grant Guilford and James Shaw, spoke about the values of sustainability.    The panel answered questions on the impact of aviation for staff in the university, the business opportunities of sustainability, and the scholarships the university offers which are funded by petrochemical corporations.    Andrew Wilks said that Grant Guilford was the “chief cheerleader for the Zero Carbon Plan”  Although the launch coincided with Te Wiki o te Reo Māori, there was no mention of how the plan would incorporate mātauranga Māori beyond the Living Pā proposal.    There was no formal consultation with Māori or Pacific groups in the process of creating the plan, according to Wilks. However, there are opportunities for continued engagement with Māori in the future.   The university’s push for international students, who must fly to attend university is “an awkward element, there’s no way around it,” said Wilks.    Student flights are not incorporated into emissions accounting, as that is “not done anywhere else”.   Emissions will be reduced through low-emission development of buildings on campus, replacing natural gas boilers with low-emission alternatives, and generating renewable energy on campus, mainly through solar panels.    Offsetting will largely be done by tree planting and managed by the university. As part of the Zero Carbon Plan, the university has revised its emissions accounting to be more accurate.   

    • Canta Editor Calling For Editorial Independence
      • Samantha Mythen, the Editor of Canta (the University of Canterbury’s student magazine), is fighting for editorial independence. She is alleging that, since her time as Editor, UCSA have stopped her publishing stories that are critical of the students’ association or even of the University itself. Canta must be approved by the University of Canterbury Students’ Association (UCSA) communications manager before going to print.    This week she will take her Change.org petition that has 1500 signatures to the USCA Exec to prove that Canterbury students want independent student media.    UCSA CEO Dave Hawkey said he could not comment on the petition as it has not been presented to the UCSA, but “from discussions with OUSA it would appear that Canta operates in a similar fashion to Critic”.    “No it doesn’t,” said Critic Editor Charlie O’Mannin. “Critic is an editorially independent department of OUSA.”   As a law student who wants to be a journalist, Samantha said the lack of editorial independence “didn’t sit right” with her. “As time went by we started looking into issues with the University and UCSA and met increasing resistance,” she said.   Samantha alleges that an opinion piece comparing the new UCSA building, Haere-roa, and an old earthquake-damaged UCSA building was held back from being published. “If it was a thorough investigation with evidence I would have offered them right of reply,” she said, but “it was an opinion piece and I didn’t see why I needed to check it off”.   In response, UCSA CEO said the piece about Haere-roa “had a lot of incorrect information in it”. Dave said he “met with the student to correct some assumptions,” including that the student levy collected by the University came directly to the UCSA.   Although in Samantha’s time as Editor, only one story has been held back, she said former contributors have told her their stories were cut or they were pressured to edit them to be more UCSA-friendly.   Samantha feels the approval process was “clear censorship”.    She raised it with UCSA President Sam Brosnahan who said she needed to prove students actually want Canta to be more than “a mouthpiece of UCSA,” as Samantha calls it. So she started the petition, which has gained over 1500 signatures and media attention from The Press.   Sam Brosnahan said as a UCSA-administered product, UCSA has a “duty of care” to ensure “a professional, accurate, and well-presented publication,” but, “if a higher degree of editorial independence is what current UC-students want, we have to be open to hearing that”.   Samantha alleges she has experienced pushback from within UCSA. Samantha alleged, “the President is scared of Canta becoming independent” and “isn’t sure why so many students support it”. She said individual Exec members don’t outright support her, citing what she calls “buzzwords” like ‘budget’ and ‘structure’. She is unsure if the Canta budget is relevant to the question of media independence.   Samantha said UCSA needs to step up for students. “This is the city of the earthquakes and the shooting, UCSA should be at the frontline of student organisations,” she said.   “I’m not trying to hate on Canterbury Uni or the UCSA,” she said, “but being a student is hard,” and you need to know someone is in your corner.   Investigation into past UCSA minutes showed that Canta’s editorial independence was reined in after a 2015 issue was pulled from stands after publishing a story about rape in video games.   Independence was proposed again in 2015 and gained Exec approval in 2016. But, “staffing and performance issues” saw the role brought back “in-house” that year with the intention that Canta would go independent in 2016. However, Josh Brosnahan, a professional editor, was hired in 2017 and talk of an independent Canta stopped until Samantha replaced Josh in July 2019.   Josh Brosnahan said he felt the majority of Canta content was not sanitised or vetoed, but there “were some things removed […] that I would have left in”. He never spoke up as he didn’t think change was possible and thought independent student voice could still be expressed through letters to the Editor and opinion pieces.    Hannah Herchenbach was Canta editor 2011 to 2013, going part-time in 2014 while she attended journalism school. She never challenged Canta’s editorial independence as she said, “it’s a quick fire method of job suicide to bite the hand that pays you”. “Show me one magazine that attacks its revenue stream, and I’ll show you a magazine that is about to fold,” she said.     Tara Ross is a Senior Lecturer in Journalism at the University of Canterbury and said she thinks Samantha is “incredibly brave”. “It’s a difficult position to be in as an employee,” but said she’s “surprised no one’s pushed for it”.   Ross said Journalism School staff have offered Canta editors help to rethink the magazine’s structure. In 2015, UC Journalism students even submitted a research report on Canta’s structure to the UCSA, which “had material around independence in it,” but nothing was done by UCSA.   Ross said close collaboration between UC Journalism School and Canta has always faced “the key sticking point[s]” that Canta is not a digital product, and not editorially independent. While UC Journalism students do submit to Canta when their stories are a good fit, “until things are changed, we won’t [collaborate further]”.   The Aotearoa Student Press Association (ASPA) said, “Student media exists to fight for students and an essential part of that is the freedom to hold universities and students’ associations to account.”    “ASPA opposes UCSA’s undue interference with Canta,” said a statement signed by the editors of Craccum, Debate, Nexus, Massive, Salient, and Critic.    Samantha will meet with UCSA staff on Friday 20 September and present her petition to the Exec on Monday 23.

    • Dirty Money, Clean Woman
      • Sydney turns the light off in the bathroom and walks into her dimly lit bedroom. She grabs the knob and turns it anti-clockwise, making the room candle-lit, yet flameless. Draws the curtains to sundown; the yellow and baby blues of the framed childhood photographs on her wall become gold and navy blue; reminiscent yet haunting.   Jumps onto the bed and unlocks her iPhone 6S, plugged into the socket behind her headboard. She logs onto her ASB Money app and checks in on her chequing account balance. As the statement loads, night mode activates the screen to turn orange, letting Sydney’s eyes rest for the first time today. The payment has been made with the reference ‘snaps’ into her account, and she hastily switches apps to send off six photographs to a recent Snapchat friend. She sets her phone to airplane mode and promptly skips out of bed to turn off the light. It’s only 9:14 p.m., but an early night makes for a better day. After all, Sydney has her Level 3 English mock exam tomorrow.   Sydney has just sold six nudes to a man she has never met, and does not plan to meet, for $15.   Sydney is one of many young women in her city who are selling nudes over Snapchat. Creating new accounts similar to private Instagrams, with pseudonyms or dream aliases. Sharing faceless photos and fake posts that lead to the fraudulent yet fruitful pathway to making money.    Cash rules; who are we to disobey it? It was originally difficult to get in contact with her and convince her that I wasn’t a customer or snitch. Similar to meeting your ex’s boyfriend—even if you’re not uncomfortable with it, there is very little you can say to convince them otherwise. The only thing I had to go off for their contact was a screenshot of a Google Doc explaining their product packages, prices, and their bank account number—or email for the PayPal option. Sign up fee of $10, custom nude photos and videos, advertised the concise little menu. Her email address was her alias, along with ‘2000’ after it, which indicates she’s at least 18. We stopped that leg of the investigation immediately.   No one is coincidentally 18.   Linked accounts on Instagram showed that she wasn’t the only one advertising a private and premium Snapchat account. Private Instagrams have been used to share embarrassing photos, screenshots of the egregious, and anything you wouldn’t show your own grandparents. But what’s a Premium Snapchat?   Premium Snapchat is an industry frequented by those who seek easy money, and those with money who seek a bit of soft porn. Hosting 18+ material and coming off the vein of webcam modeling and sugar daddies/mamas, girls and guys set up accounts selling nudes or videos that are accessible to their customers after the swift completion of a bank transfer. One has the choice of recurring payment plans, or one-off payments—it all depends on the account and what they are selling. With the popularity of Premium Snapchats among girls and guys at uni, it’s fair to say that aspects of the sugar daddy complex are tied up within it. A relationship between a sugar daddy and a sugar baby can consist of an allowance, or a pay-per-visit, and for those who use it as a main source of income to supplement full-time study, it’s a power move in controlling your own financial future. Like with the consistency of sugar daddy availability, Premium Snapchat is always active. There are single or couples accounts; some niche, some for the kinks, and some for the masses. Some people start one just to get by, and others for a cheeky side hustle. As each snap has an expiration date, the lust for leaving no trace is as convenient for the owner as it is for the customer. Premium Snapchat is low-maintenance cash flow from the comfort of one’s bedroom, and with an absence of tax, the premium account owner gets to keep every cent. With Snapchat only advising users to not “distribute sexually explicit content” on public stories, it’s anyone’s business.    Eloura Wild, a well-known Australian Premium Snapchat account owner, is fairly open about her own account. Having recently released an eBook with a gender-neutral step-by-step guide on how to navigate the Premium Snapchat industry, she describes Premium Snapchat as a place to post nude or semi-nude photos and videos of yourself. “You have freedom of expression,” she says. She doesn’t personally post sex or sexual acts, nor does she have sexual conversations or allow reciprocation from her customers, but she knows of others who allow it. “Everyone is different and can make their own rules,” she says, “it depends what you post and how you use it”. For Eloura, her account contributes significantly to her self-care and the way she accepts her body. It was her own husband that encouraged her to start Premium, explaining that he “understands that it’s my body, my choice and he’s confident within our relationship”. She explains that she wanted to express herself fully, in her natural state, without censorship from platforms that prohibit nudity. Female empowerment? “Yes!” she replied. Eloura thinks that people judge what they don’t understand; women should be able to be themselves without censorship. For her, Premium Snapchat helped her family financially, and proved to herself that she doesn’t need to hide her body away like it’s a “bad thing”. At the end of it, “freedom of expression is a beautiful thing”.      After we spoke to Eloura and Sydney, we realised how simple it was for a young woman to demand value for her body. Low-maintenance, from the comfort of your own bedroom. I became conflicted.   Is this is easy as chips, being able to take photos of your naked body and sustain an income off that? Were there no privacy issues? Were young women their own producers and distributors when it came to pornography? Or were they exercising their freedom to express their sexual personalities?    Or was there something we were missing?    The correlation between people who watch porn and go into strip clubs is not high. Similar to the supermarket checkout versus the automatic checkout kiosk, these are vastly different demographics.    Pornography is the shameless, contactless, quick-and-easy path to arousal for many people. It’s not often that you need help from anybody going through your transaction—which is often free, anyways. Meanwhile, strip clubs cost money and are often shameful to enjoy. Socially taxing, as you see your old mate from three years ago in the halls and you make eye contact but there’s no way you’re going to bond over the fact that there are naked women around you, so you just stay on opposite sides of the room. Socially awkward and honestly confusing about the etiquette. Most strip clubs charge between $10 and $20 for entry; Sydney charges $10 as a sign-up fee.    Market prices for lap dances and other activities vary depending on where you are. Sydney sells six photographs for $20. Videos are double, and custom shoots are $5 extra. There doesn’t appear to be any rules or guidelines about whether you can redistribute it or who can buy. I’m not calling this an amateur set-up, but I’m worried she is underselling herself.    I think back to the nude photographs we talked about in secondary school. There was often a lot of shame given to the girls who distributed them, and trusted its unworthy recipients. Bullying and exclusion followed that act, and the only thing you could do without risking your own reputation was to watch from a distance. Reflecting on that, there was more we could do, but we were just kids.   So is Sydney. I’ll be honest, I can’t confirm her whereabouts or what her occupation is. Sadly, I can’t even confirm her age and wouldn’t trust it without seeing ID. I don’t know what she looks like, and frankly have no intention of doing so.   But I’m proud of Sydney. While it definitely isn’t the cleanest and most honest way of changing the stereotype, actions like this single-handedly flip how we see these exchanges. The times that saw our classmates mercilessly bullied, teased, and pushed to move schools for having their nudes get into the wrong hands? They’re gone. Young girls like Sydney are game-changers.  

    • Dear Nathaniel
      • Before the storm, the voice in his head owned him in quiet times. Weak. The same way D would fold when offers for “just a jug” were made. Or when D chose to skip class and fuck around at home instead. Temptation. Temptation, temptation. Alluring and flirtatious, like the snake who tricked Eve. “Come thru!” What he found in the first stages of failure was the comfort of his favourite hoodie. Warm, yes, but it was important that these early stages were easy to adapt, too. It was familiar. The ease of a light switch flicking off. The same convenience as ordering and receiving UberEats. Wake up, naturally, without the need for an alarm. No clothes picked out or lunch already packed. Preparation for tutorials were scrambled, readings were Googled for a brief Sparknotes summary, and all the while, his motivation tank sat on E while he told his dad, his brothers, his best mates the same thing: He knew what he was doing.  The truth was, he didn’t know shit. Nathaniel had folded and given into failure. The territory of bare minimum was new for a time, but soon settled and became habitual.  The pursuit of success and essentially being ‘the best’ began in Year 4, when he held the money bag for the Daffodil Day fundraiser. He felt so grown-up. That morning, he had seen the notes and coins collected by his teacher. He waited eagerly, his back straighter than a ruler, arms folded intensely tight, ready to take on responsibility as Money Bag Holder. He spent many years seeking approval and recognition from any and every authoritative figure. Growing up, he was cool and smart, unlike the other kids. PE monitor, Class Captain, Assembly MC—in every role, the example of a model student. He carried the title of—not teacher’s pet—but the People’s Favourite.                                        Being the People’s Favourite meant he had to remain composed—control like Dominic Toretto; the king, even when life was fast and furious. Nathaniel was perfection, because he only accepted the good stuff about himself, things people didn’t mind fuelling because he was what they were not—as close to perfection as one could get. Crashing? Failure? Foreign concepts that, for so long, had no place in his world.  With the first failure arrived shame.  The pair came as warnings before the storm hit. Opposites: Where failure was comfortable, shame threatened to expose. To reveal to the world the failure he truly was. A fraud. Shame saw Nathaniel measure his breathing, carefully, constantly; it was a requirement to at least appear to be in tune with his environment. His heart would beat, challenging the speed limits, and in response the room around him would close in. In moments like these, the air seemed to evaporate, the palms of his hands and the nape of his neck grew moisture. Shame brought self-torture. Daily analysis that involved highlighting everything that proved he was at fault. Questions always started with ‘why’. Comparison robbed him again and again. Far from control, far from Dominic Toretto, swerving and dodging the bad guys—far from the People’s Favourite. For a while, Nathaniel greeted failure every morning and walked beside it like a friend.  Now, when he doesn’t have to think about it, it’s a good day. He gets scared, the cloud comes and he thinks—fuck! No one cares. What’s the point? Nothing. Empty. For a while, the cloud does everything it shouldn’t. Like all those times the weatherman lies—rain, hail, or even snow. For a while, Nathaniel’s life is drenched in failure.    Empty.    Like his pathetic Android phone’s battery when he needs it most. What a loser. Cuffing season right? It wasn’t even 1 a.m. on Saturday before his phone died and he had to tell himself he wasn’t even trying for Mia’s number anyways. It was his first Saturday off in forever and he blew it. She was it. Her cheeky grin was the best thing he had seen all week. Chat was beyond average. She could dance, too. They talked for what seemed like the whole night and just as he was ready to offer her a ride home, he pulled out a dead device. No better than his dad’s brick. Pathetic.   Like his bank account. Never the one to shout the Ola. Or the third round of tequila shots. “Yeah nah oi I’m gonna have to skip tonight’s feed aye.” D drops an easy 50 and he drops them often. When he’s with D, he’s calculating his balance, the prices on the menu, the bus fare home, potentially the bus fare to work tomorrow if the weather’s shit, the 20 he owes Dad… smokes? His mind works faster and harder than it ever did in Level 3 Calculus. D and him came from different worlds: One where D’s mother had real, fresh-out-of-the-oven baking ready for when guests like him came over. Where the lights and TV were always on and where things like platters and candle holders had a purpose. In comparison, his own father thought Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane was the only type of decoration their unit needed. Stark and cold or simplistic and humble? It doesn’t matter how hard he tries, he knows ‘paycheck to paycheck’ is in his DNA. And it feels like shit.    Like the bins after 6 a.m. First shift starts at 4 p.m.—and if he’s lucky and that slow motherfucker Greg isn’t rostered on, too, he’s out by 5:30 a.m. Unfortunately, boss seems to think having Greg around appeals to the demographic of racist, six figure-earning men who come to the bar to play up on their wives. Too smiley for his own good. Lickass has been working with him for six months and he still doesn’t know how to do the dishes, how to mop, or how to transfer the kegs. It’s like every second week, he has to clean up the spilled kegs on top of everything else for closing. At least during closing he can blast whatever he wants, drowning out Greg’s pointless babble. At least the bar is empty.    Failing feels like being robbed of your dignity and everything you’ve worked hard to maintain. Nathaniel drifts between scrambling for cover and sinking into it. The worst times have been when the storm begins inside his head and somehow claims his soul.    The storm? Actually perfection in disguise.    With the storm comes peace. New territory. Clarity, and a kind state of mind. And then he remembers.    Each fact surfaces slowly, but it arrives nonetheless. His true nature refuses to settle. He has the capacity to be tough and tender. He doesn’t actually like being toxic or engaging in the same empty search for validation. For approval. He thinks about how he was the People’s Favourite, and thinks about what he likes about himself that isn’t shaped by the input of others. He thinks about the word ‘value’. The word ‘control’. He thinks about how long he thought he was drowning in his mistakes. Now they are natural, saying ‘no’ is natural, taking time out is all good, and… so is he.    For Nathaniel, a failure.  

    • The Social Lives of Group Chats
      • Three of my friends’ phones dinged in concert. They picked them up and stared at the screens. I looked at the nearest friend, askance. “It’s just the group chat,” he told me. Addled, I leaned over to look at his screen. “Depressing Memes for Suffering Single Teens,” it read. Memes about communism, mental health, faith. A meme every minute. I was drunk enough to ask outright. “I’m single. I’m suffering,” I said, although only one of these things was true. “Can I be in the group chat?” “Can I add Shanti to the group chat?” the nearest of the friends asked. Three glances; an assent, and my phone was chiming too. The next morning, I scrolled back in the group chat. There were about ten members.  I knew these people, but it was almost summer, and I hadn’t quite figured out their strands of connection’ how they wove around each other when I wasn’t there. It was the kind of relationship—the kind of close-knit group—where I felt privileged to be included, not remotely upset about not being added in the first place.  I saw which members sent which sorts of memes, when they were awake, who reacted, who was always online, who knew others well enough to change their nicknames. I started to figure out the lingo of the group chat; I started to send memes of my own. Summer began. We were hundreds of kilometres apart. The chat grew more fraught. It was distracting—the constant buzzing—when I was trying to catch up with other friends and see my family, so I muted it, only perusing it when I was free.  The group chat plays a largely unheralded role in my social life. It is useful for organising events, sharing photos, and telling my flatmates to please sort out the dishes, please, it has been three days of this. Yet it is host to its own species of conversations and peculiar social dynamics. I asked Kathleen Kuehn, a Media Studies senior lecturer specialising in social and digital media, about group chats, in the hopes that she could give me some language to articulate their nature. Kathleen studies the sociological aspects of media, in terms of interpersonal relationships and power dynamics. I told Kathleen about my experience with the meme group chat, the sense that an entire ecosystem of friends was crystallised in my screen. “There’s no archive of live conversation,” she pointed out, noting that this is one of the chief axes of differentiation between group chats and in-person conversation. “So, online, you can do your own mini textual analysis of what you’re seeing, and start making connections that you might miss in the moment.” Brianna Nichol, 20, is a University of Otago student who has developed a reputation among her friends for constant involvement in group chats. “I’m big on reacts,” she tells me. “As the reacts come in, I’ll check on them and I’ll see who’s seen it and what time they’ve seen it.” This is certainly voyeuristic, but is it any more so than observing body language in a group conversation?  In New Zealand, at least anecdotally, the biggest platform for group chats is Messenger, owned by Facebook. Internationally, WhatsApp is more popular (also owned by Facebook). By conducting our conversations on Facebook, we are giving one of the world’s most powerful corporations nuanced data about our social lives; Facebook has confirmed that it monitors content on Messenger. “Facebook is really good at capitalising on its network effect,” Kuehn says. The ‘network effect’ refers to business models where the product is more desirable when it has more users (as opposed to operating strictly on supply/demand). As I message someone I’m interviewing next week, send someone else my bank account details, and commiserate with my flatmates about the dishes problem—my attention and time are being directed into Facebook’s system—and I can’t help but agree. I need Messenger to make my life work, even if I’m uncomfortable with Facebook’s relentless appropriation of data. As Bri suggests, much of the meaning contained in group chats goes beyond the text, and is held in polls, nicknames, and reactions. Kuehn calls these features ‘affordances’. “[Non-text features] afford or enable [Facebook] users to not just talk, but to create social events to create a sense of community. It’s like an elevated form of socialising where you’re performing multiple roles.” I asked Bri how many active group chats she is in. She scrolled through her phone, counting: 14 active group chats and more that she has made for events or photos or meet-ups, and not kept up with. As we talked, her eyes sparkled with fervour. “I’m addicted to Messenger in general… I get very distracted by Messenger, which is fun, and I love it.” Her phone kept dinging with more messages, more distractions. She sent a message to a group chat earlier, an in-joke with her friends about a blind date, and I watch her analyse the response. “I’ve made everyone’s day and I can see the reactions, Tania [name changed] didn’t react, but she’s seen it, why did she not react? She called me like ten times last night…” It takes a moment for her attention to return to the interview. The nickname feature is also frequently used. “It’s easy to make fun of [people] using it. In one [group chat] I’m “edgy teen” because I listen to Billie Eilish,” says Éimhín O’Shea, 19, a barista. He doesn’t customise memes or group colours because he “doesn’t really care,” and tends not to create events as “you can just put it on Facebook” where it’s open to everyone. There are several layers to group chats: Firstly, the convenience for organising logistical things. For some people, it doesn’t go beyond this. “Group chats are just for organising shit [otherwise] it’s easier to one-on-one message,” says Caitlin, a BCom/LLB student. Zeina Ibrahim, an International Relations and Media Studies student, says that she mostly creates group chats because “I can’t be bothered to message people separately.” For others, it’s a manifestation of their relationships. “I’ve got my work friends, my flatmates, people from [last year’s hostel]. It’s a tangible way of seeing friendships in different groups,” says Éimhín. Bri notices that “there’s different levels of group chats as well, one group chat just has real close friends. Then there’s wider friends and then even wider.” Clearly, not all group chats are made equal. As Bri and Éimhín talk, group chats unfold as Venn diagrams, loops of friends and flatmates and sometimes total strangers, building something together. Kuehn calls this ‘context collapse’. “In what world would you have your parents, grandparents, your best friends, the random kid you met as a first-year then forgot about… right on the same space?” Kuehn is keen to emphasise that, at least for media studies scholars, “the digital world is part of the real world… it’s all still part of your embodied lived experience.” Group chats, for the most part, spill between reality and pale glass screens. Events organised on a group chat become real. Conversations begun in-person are supplemented by articles on the group chat. In some ways, group chats are fundamentally the same as talking face-to-face: words are exchanged and responded to. People are remarkable at adapting to new means of communication, from telegraphs to walkie-talkies, to the internet—but for the most part, people say the same things to each other. Letters, for instance, can contain archives of entire relationships, and it was not uncommon in the past to copy out pieces of other people’s letters into private correspondence to share news, just as we might forward or screenshot messages today. Tapped-out, abbreviated telegraph messages carried just as much potential for misunderstanding as tapped-out, abbreviated Facebook messages, both devoid of the context of vocal inflections and facial expressions. Group chats are just a more recent iteration of how people have always communicated in groups. In a group chat “you’re willing to say stuff you wouldn’t in real life,” Bri says, because there is less immediate feedback of how what you say is recieved. Sometimes this is good, because what Bri calls “strong” conversations need to be hashed out between friends.  “In a [face-to-face] conversation we try not to talk over one another [as] that’s considered impolite, and you need to hear what the person is saying,” Kuehn notes wryly. In a group chat, everyone can talk at once.  “In person, you can keep up with people… online, several people [can] message at the same time,” Zeina says. Tsunamis of notifications mean she keeps most of her group chats muted, as do Caitlin, Éimhín, and I. “[Group chats] are like trying to catch up with a race, trying to understand what everyone has to say and not answering questions,” Bri says. “Sometimes I do turn [notifications] off but not often at all, as usually I’m the one making all the notifications.” Group chats are different from private messages, just as one-on-one conversations are different to conversations with big groups of people. “Like being in big groups of people [in person], I feel less confident to speak out, compared to when I’m messaging a group of close friends,” Éimhín says.  As in all social groups, there are rules and norms in group chats, which are usually unspoken (compared to, say, Facebook groups, which often have guidelines). To ask about the rules is to risk exposure as an outsider. In one group chat I’m in, someone asked “What’s the nickname policy?” when several others had received new monikers. Swiftly—brutally—I christened him Nickname Policy. I could easily have asked the same question: I too, would like to be known well enough by the people in that group chat to have earned a nickname. Simply to acknowledge this, that I have noticed the rules of the group chat, feels intimate—like by acknowledging my role in a social order, I will cement it. In a group chat, you also have to discern what to say to everyone and what to say privately. In my flat group chat, for instance, I have to determine when to ask someone in private, to do the dishes (please! I love you! I hate plates!), and when to @ them in the group chat. As for my memes group chat, it met its demise. Slowly, as the new term started and people disappeared into different flats and classes and work, the memes petered out. I could see it happening and I mourned it. I sent one last effort at revival on March 19, more than ten days after the previous message. No one reacted to the message, and I am left forever with a line of profile picture bubbles telling me that I had been seen and ignored; a long ellipsis, a shelf added to the archive of my digital life.  I worry that the people from that group chat left to form another one without me, but I don’t want to ask. Group chats are hidden and private. I’m only actively friends with a few of those people now. In the group chat, everyone was my friend. Beyond the relationships I’ve kept up, my social orbit still intersects with the others, and out of my screen they look more like acquaintances. I wonder, in a moment of eye contact, what the emoji reaction to the presence of Shanti would be, if I were contained in smooth glass and not three messy dimensions. Press, hold down; do I merit a reaction any more interesting than a passive thumbs-up? But I’m trying to worry less about how other people respond to me, and group chats don’t help. So I smile—genuine, if wry—and walk on.  

    • We Don’t Do Vegetables
      • An issue on the status quo. We wanted to focus on the idea that the current state of things are to be maintained. What has been, will always be. Default is much the same. The grey, the emotionless smile, the pre-existing Player 1 logic.   Usually, these editorials throw shots at Massey or Critic, but this week, I’ll be real with you. When I started here, Salient’s status quo was a middle-to-upper class elitist liberal group that liked to scream into the pages at people who didn’t exist. It was cold in this office, and you could tell that through the pages. You had to be a part of the status quo to even get onto the cold pages. I hated every aspect of it, because I couldn’t change it.   Forget the regular narrative you’ve heard from this magazine. Before you challenge the status quo, understand it. Getting angry at something you don’t understand is as good as leaving a one-star Google review of Martinborough when all you did was stay in a motel and got goon drunk.   The VUWSA elections were two weeks ago. I’ll be honest, these editorials aren’t often on VUWSA, because they don’t need the extra space. Nothing they ever did throughout my time at university really affected my wellbeing, but maybe I didn’t try to get out enough. The candidates at the forum confused me. Some of them got on stage and lied about who they spoke to in confirming their policies. Some of them called out VUWSA for being inactive on issues they were, in fact, active on. Claiming they were going to start initiatives VUWSA had already been doing, albeit poorly. If they in fact wrote their own blurbs/speeches, I wouldn’t even let them write the obituaries next week.   I’d be worried if I cared about the future of VUWSA, but I don’t. I don’t carry a 26K deficit, so I don’t need to feel it. In true slavemaster fashion, Salient will feel every dollar of that deficit, as if it were our fault. I’m not angry at these candidates though, because this is a space I’ve never occupied and will never fully understand. I can’t be mad at the sustainability group at the fact they want a themed issue to guest-edit. You can let them know that if they’d had their shit together in Week 5, they could have worked on the Environment issue. Much like myself in second-year, and much like your VUWSA candidates for 2020, we encourage you to understand the status quo. Whatever it may be—don’t automatically get angry at it. Pay attention to the spaces you want to change, and study its inner workings.   And don’t DM me on Friday night scared I might write an editorial about you. My designer would never let me waste the paper.

    • Invisible Women: Exposing Data Bias in a World Designed for Men
      • Invisible Women: Exposing Data Bias in a World Designed for Men by Caroline Criado Perez is a book about, well, data bias in a world designed for men.   The main thesis of this book is that a lot of assumptions we make about people as a whole are only accurate when it comes to men, because men are seen as the default for all human beings. These assumptions are enforced by the “data gap”—a term Criado Perez uses to refer to a gap in our knowledge about women and their needs. The book discusses how this data gap affects women and society as a whole—in everything from bathroom queues, to city design, to medicine.    Criado Perez notes that these assumptions aren’t necessarily conscious ones—which makes highlighting the data gap even more important in challenging these assumptions.   The book is well-written, and easy to read. It covers many areas of expertise, from city planning, to software, to medicine, and explains how the data gap affects these fields. Criado Perez provides ample statistics and references, with good use of anecdotes to help the reader understand what the consequences of this data gap can look like.   One of the early examples in the book is how cities are often designed around car use and work commutes—failing to account for the different transport needs of women, who are more likely to use public transport, and more likely to make many small interconnected trips rather than twice-daily commutes to and from work.   Throughout the book, it’s discussed how “one size fits all” usually means “One-Size-Fits-Men”. Examples range from phone screens being too big for most women’s hands, to voice recognition software not working properly with women’s voices, to tools designed for male hands that reduce women’s ability to work.   I’ve had many conversations with female friends about them not being taken seriously by doctors, and about how useless some painkillers have been for them. Part IV: “Going to the Doctor” backs those conversations up with evidence—highlighting how many drug trials do not include women (meaning drugs may have differing effects on women, or none at all), and how assumptions based on how men’s bodies work contribute to doctors failing to correctly diagnose—or to outright dismiss—women’s health issues.   The book isn’t all doom and gloom, however. Criado Perez provides many examples of when the data gap is taken into consideration to positive effect—from getting pregnancy parking put in at Google, to developing cleaner-burning (and therefore safer) stoves for use in developing countries. She highlights initiatives like the UN-backed organisation Data2X, whose mission is to “improve the quality, availability, and use of gender data in order to make a practical difference in the lives of women and girls worldwide”.   I think getting this book into as many hands as possible would make a positive difference. While I already agreed with the author that gender inequality is an issue (wow what a hot take), reading Invisible Women gave me an insight into, and made me aware of, experiences I could never have myself. It got me thinking about solutions, and made me re-examine my own views with a more critical and better-informed eye.   Writing this review, I’m worried that I may not be doing the book and its themes justice, as I can’t possibly cover all its points in a 600-word review. Not only is it interesting—it’s important.    I’d recommend it to anyone, but especially to anyone who makes decisions that affect other people.

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