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    • The Vines of Nostalgia
      • It was a Thursday evening and I was an Oriental Kingdom virgin. The warm and familiar smell of a kitchen at work hung in the air. With its relatively cheap prices, and food that never fails to taste like home, Oriental Kingdom has since become one of my favourite food spots. This particular Thursday was my first time stepping into the welcoming, homely seating area. That was when it struck. I suddenly felt exactly like a naughty kid going to the principal’s office; I’ve been here before. It was the distinct fleeting wave of nostalgia that only two-thirds of the population will experience. As a person who hates surprises, I detest the way that déjà vu can just pull up on you out of nowhere. The term déjà vu is actually French and translates to “already seen”… you see, even the name exudes an air of smugness. In reality, déjà vu is merely nostalgia’s version of Vine. The now-archived video content app is now looked upon fondly by the Millenial and Gen Z kids who grew up with it. And just like the seven-second videos made on Vine, déjà vu is an encompassing but extremely short experience, with little to no context, that leaves you with way too many questions to answer: Have I been here before in a past life? Why now, and why here? Is déjà vu just a glitch in the simulation? I decided to make it my mission this week to answer at least one of these questions. I thought it would be intelligent to start with, ‘What is déjà vu?’… Boy, was I underprepared for the results of my Google search. I was bombarded with everything from scientific hypotheses to detailed accounts of paranormal experiences. Science provided a various array of explanations for déjà vu. One theory is that déjà vu is a mismatch in the brain’s neural pathways. This could be a result of the brain struggling to make whole perceptions of the world around us with only limited input, the same way the brain can create detailed recollections from a familiar smell. Déjà vu might be the result of sensory information “by-passing” the brain’s short-term memory and reaching the long-term memory. This may create that fuzzy, unnerving feeling that we’ve experienced a completely new event before. Alright, now forget science for the remainder of this article, because here comes a juicy conspiracy theory about déjà vu the government probably doesn’t want you to know about. The parallel universe theory is an idea straight out of a Jordan Peele movie, minus the sadistic murders. It’s not even a theory or a hypothesis, it’s more like someone’s attempt to explain déjà vu. The ‘theory states that déjà vu is the result of millions of parallel universes, in which millions of parallel versions of us exist (sounds a tiny bit far-fetched, if you ask me). According to this theory, all of us are inexplicably linked to the parallel version of us. So déjà vu can be explained by a parallel version of us doing the same exact thing at the same exact time as us, creating the unnerving feeling that we’ve done this before. There is only one minor problem with a parallel universe theory’s explanation of déjà vu: There is zero factual or scientific evidence for this theory, though I don’t think the people invested in this theory care about that at all. Still, it is kind of comforting to think that there might be someone in one of those millions of universes who had to live out the same cringe-worthy moments that I did. Once again, I am sat outside Oriental Kingdom. My head is spinning from a week reading a fuckload of scientific theories; my only solace being found down the rabbit-hole of internet conspiracies dedicated to psychology. What conclusion did I come to after the rigmarole of trying to find answers to the question; ‘What is déjà vu?’ I really only came to one conclusion: No one fucking knows. As much as the megalomaniac in me hates to admit it, we will probably never have an answer about any of the questions that déjà vu produces. Maybe it’s supercilious of us to want (or even need) an answer to the mystery of déjà vu. After all, the percentage of people who experience déjà vu is equal to the percentage of American Millennials who believe the earth is round. We should just be grateful that we are blessed with this rollercoaster ride of nostalgia. Just like shooting your shot at someone you think is out of your league, it’s probably best to not overthink it. Deja vu is probably just a glitch in the simulation anyway.

    • We’ll Meet Again
      • To everyone I lost to incarceration:   The worst thing about prison is the unknowns. I haven’t been to prison. I don’t have a criminal record—but you do. You’re not currently incarcerated, but will be soon. Or, you’re about to enter the system again. Or can’t afford to make any more mistakes… Or, are living out your life, ruined inside. As if predestined by a higher power, you, and everybody else, take your turn being institutionalised, to come out as a ward of the system, your lives no longer your own.   We all know that decisions have consequences. And you, too, knew that only ill would come from the decisions you made. “Do the crime, do the time.” Which is fine, I guess, for someone who’s never done either.   But my mates were taught to take, take everything they could, because nothing was given to them. So it makes sense. To make that decision, to take chances. And what’s a life without a risk anyway?   But that risk was different for you. Your margin for error was that much smaller, because who can make perfect decisions under immense pressure all of the time? Add in poor mental health and a drug habit, and suddenly that risk, well, it overwhelms the decision. Sucks you in, becomes the only option ‘till the idea of a conscious decision is moot.   A lot of the pain is in the waiting. Waiting to see where you will end up, waiting to see what you’ve been given. Waiting to find out when we will meet again, if we will meet again. What will become of you, another lab rat in a dark corner of the New Zealand-sponsored Serco incarceration experiment.   My memory of you and who we used to be will no longer be reality. This is something I have come to expect. Prison will change you, terraform you into a person you didn’t have to be—but became regardless, because you didn’t have a choice. Because the drugs forced you into action. I don’t condone that action. But you did what you had to do, and I respect your decision, and love you nonetheless. Because it was you or them, and so it had to be you to survive. If you tell me you didn’t mean to do it, you didn’t do it. I will believe you; you are right. You were never wrong. You made some decisions that had bad consequences, but I cannot see you as wrong. I love you too much for that.   Seven years is a long time. It seems longer, knowing you would be eligible for parole sooner, had you actually taken another person’s life. And even when you are eligible for parole, the likelihood of receiving it isn’t high. After all, institutionalisation doesn’t mean you’re safe.  You will do what you have to do, just as you’ve always done. And if that leads to more negative consequences, then so be it. I don’t blame you, it had to be done.   I believe you, because, like I said, I love you. And I will love you forever, which means I want more for you than you can want or see for yourself. Love is blindly patient, so what you do might hurt my heart, but I won’t close it off to you. And though I have to change my sender’s address when I write to you—letters to Rimutaka or Whanganui sent from a PO box, in case you make the decision to visit and your reality is too different to mine—do not be offended. If you are still awash in the miasma of drugs that drove you to do what you did, I will not reject you, nor look down on you. I will do my best to give you what you need, though I do not think I will be enough.   So until we meet again I’ll keep you close, Across my chest and under my shirt. And though my arms were too skinny to hold us all up, that grief is too heavy to bench-press, no matter how many reps you do.   And you can’t break bars to see them again, no matter how many times you leap in to sparring, as if through violence I could hurt someone enough to bring you back. My knuckles bear the reminders of every misguided attempt to explain why I am here and you are not. I can’t compromise myself anymore, join you in that dark place while trying to reconcile why I let you slip away.   After all, what good would it be if I ended up in the same position? You see, being convicted of a crime is like dying, and the prison term like the cemetery—except you get to see who comes and tends to your burial plot, who cleans the headstone, who lays flowers on your grave. If I too, sat in a 6 x 4 cell, six feet under, who would look after the graves? Who would visit, to love and lose anew each time? This is to all of my brothers locked up; for our 10,435 unknown warriors, lost in the system.   Te mamae nei a te pōuri nui Tēnei rā e te tau Auē hoki mai rā ki te kāinga tūturu E tatari atu nei ki a koutou Ngā tau roa I ngaro atu ai te aroha E ngau kino nei i ahau auē taukuri ē   The great pain we feel Is for you who were our future Come back return home We have waited for you                                                           Through the long years you were away Sorrow aches within me

    • Please tell me you are doing really well and are fantastically happy.
      • CW: Depression, Suicidality   “Please tell me you are doing really well and are fantastically happy.”   The message popped up on my phone with all the gravitas of an emoticon, but the content had my heart sinking. It had been a few days since I last heard from him, and I’d hoped in the interim that he’d been doing okay. But this message confirmed what I’d been trying to pretend I didn’t know: William’s depression was back, and I didn’t have a clue what to do about it.   Ignoring the elephant in the room and replying as if this was a normal message wasn’t an option. That would betray a friendship that had survived years apart, distance, family crises, and the latter years of a private school education which was the equivalent of hell, if the devil ranked souls on how physically attractive they are. Crucially, William and I had been here before: We’d both once been suicidal. But we’d faced the big black dog of depression together, and we’d won.   Now, I’d been depression-free for three years, and he was facing it alone.   Good mental health is something I’ll never take for granted. After years of feeling like I was suffocating my way through life, like I was numb to everything, like there was no longer any point in going on—I managed to break free. My mum took me to Malaysia to see an energy kinesiologist. I was incredibly skeptical at first, but they managed to voodoo the depression out of me, essentially. It’s a long story. My point is: recovering from depression was one of the biggest turning points of my life. It was like feeling the sun on my skin after a suffocatingly long time underwater. It was a life in black and white suddenly turning back to colour. It was waking up Tigger when I’d fallen asleep Eeyore. It. was. glorious.   The best part about suddenly realising I was depression-free was the hope. Hope came flooding back into my bones, pushing me to do something, to be someone. I can’t even explain to you the sheer joy of waking up in the morning and feeling nothing but sheer joy.   I wanted that for William so badly, but I didn’t know how to get him there. Short of sending him to Malaysia to see the Dragon Lady (energy kinesiologist), I couldn’t help him escape the way I had. Plus, we were currently living in two different cities, leading very different lifestyles. I felt powerless.   What can we do as friends, to help each other out of the depression hole? What can we do for a friend with anxiety? In an attempt to figure out the answers to these all-important questions, I invited my closest friends with mental illnesses to a roundtable talk (read: a night out on Courtenay Place). My plan was for all of us to get to grips with our issues (read: get tipsy), and open up with each other (read: go to karaoke) before coming to a collaborative conclusion about my problem: How can we all do better? Our epic night of depression and anxiety would kill two birds with one stone, I reasoned; it would bring about answers, but it would also get my friends out of the house. Isn’t that part of what you’re supposed to do, get depressed people up and moving?   It was a brilliant plan, but we fell at the first hurdle: no one actually showed up. The night rolled around, but no one rolled out. Instead, they all sent me their apologies and stayed home. And I couldn’t blame them. That’s exactly what I would have done, back when my depression was so bad I didn’t have the energy to leave the house.   So in the absence of anyone else to talk to, I went back to the darkest period of my life in search for answers. What had helped me when I was depressed? What made me feel like life was worth living?   These are difficult questions to answer, when you are no longer in that headspace. Depressed Preya is now a foreign entity to me, a stranger I hope to never meet again. She’d been hampered in part by a family that ignored the problem, hoping it would go away, and her own lack of motivation, because, well, depression.   But the reaction of her friends was the beginning of change for the better. They had accepted what she’d felt, let her talk and vent and cry as she needed to, and then ditched class to take her to the counsellor’s office.   Over that summer, William had been there every day with her, sitting around doing nothing. They’d curled up on the couch together with their friend Sam, watching movie after movie after movie because depressed Preya couldn’t garner the energy to do much else. They’d once managed a slow amble down the road, where they collapsed in the grass together and took photos in the dying light of the summer sun. Another time, she’d even fallen asleep on them, and they didn’t move her because “you needed to rest”. She’d almost cried at that.   “I have to thank you,” I’d once told William, many years and memories after the fact. “You were there for me when I needed someone the most.”   “Actually, you were there for me.”   Here we are now, years later, with the same uphill battle in front of us—only I’m not there with him for movie nights and grass stains and to be a human pillow. The kilometres between us seem insurmountable, and I feel so helpless in the face of all he’s feeling. All I can really do is offer him the same acceptance he once offered me. So I keep my phone on me at all times, and flick him a message whenever I can.   “Do you want to talk about it?”  

    • My Time in a Throuple and the Friends I Made Along the Way
      • Let’s go back to the not-so-distant past of 2018. The main character of this story, yours truly, was sitting in a bar with her good friend, lamenting the lack of suitable one-night companions. How did I get there? Well, my boyfriend of one-and-a-half years had broken up with me two months earlier and I was loving—and I mean ^loving—the single life and my newfound freedom. This involved me going out to the bar/pub/club on most weekends, and even some weeknights! My (also recently single) bar-buddy became friends with the various bartenders around the place, who enjoyed listening to our stories of hook-ups and bad Tinder dates. We didn’t always go out to get laid. We often just danced, talked, drank, and people-watched. But we did get lucky, and in my case, doubly so. B and I rocked up to our favourite cocktail bar and grabbed a table upstairs when a beautiful girl, J, came and sat across from us. I immediately got some vibes from her, so I struck up a conversation. We were both into tattoos, pottery, and were interested in the zero-waste movement—we hit it off. I was hopeful that I may have actually met someone I might be interested in dating. And if she wasn’t into ladies, she would be a pretty cool friend to have. However, these hopes were dashed when her boyfriend T showed up. I tried to hide my disappointment and continued to dazzle them both with my tipsy babbling, regaling them with my Tinder nightmares… when J mentioned that she and T had used Tinder to try to find a girl who would like to join them for a threesome. I couldn’t believe my luck! I had always fantasised about being the meat in a bisexual threesome sandwich, and now I had a chance to make it a reality. I turned to B to let her know my plan and ask if she would be okay getting home without me (girls gotta stick together). As it turned out, she had met a nice boy and gave me her blessing to go and live my vivacious truth. At this point, I had finished three gimlets and two shots of Chartreuse, which explained my boldness in telling J to grab T and follow me. Luckily, I lived just down the road from the bar, and both of my flatmates would be asleep by this point. The whole way home, I was running through how I was going to make this work. I had seen some threesome porn, but these were highly produced films with titles like “milf threesome double penetration gang bang extravaganza” and didn’t really appeal to me. Turns out, I didn’t need to worry. Once we got to my room, J and I laid T on the bed and told him to watch as we started making out and taking each other’s clothes off. Things seemed to flow really naturally, and soon we were all tumbling about and enjoying ourselves. Afterwards, we swapped numbers and promised to keep in touch. I woke up the next morning, unsure if the events of last night had actually transpired. When I rolled over to check my phone, I could confirm the events of last night were a reality, as J and T had both texted, thanking me for the previous night and asking me to go to dinner. And thus began my life as part of a polyamorous throuple. We would go out for dinner (they would pay, since I was a poor student at the time). We would laugh, drink, and bang. This whole arrangement worked perfectly for us. Both J and I were bisexual women, and T loved having two ladies giving him some TLC. They got to enjoy a functioning and loving couple dynamic, and I was free to stay uncommitted and focus all my mental and emotional energy into my third year of university, rather than a partner. But, as the old cliché goes, all good things must come to an end. I started noticing T giving me more attention, texting me more often, and focussing on me more than J during sex. It was clear he was starting to prefer spending time with me, since he tried to organise meetups where it was just us two. Once this started happening, I decided I had to end it. I wasn’t going to be the reason a loving couple broke up, and I wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship with T. So one weekend when T and J invited me out to dinner, I declined and told them that I was going to spend more time focussing on uni and finishing my degree. They took it well. I deleted their numbers, and they never texted me back afterwards. I like to think things are amicable between us, and, according to Instagram, the two of them are still together and loving it. I don’t regret a moment of being in a throuple. I loved the attention, the sex, and the time we all spent together just shooting the shit and being friends. If the opportunity presents itself, go for it. You never know what kind of friends you might make on the way.

    • Astral Rejection
      • “RUIN YOUR FUCKING SELF BEFORE THEY DO. OTHERWISE THEY’LL SCREW YOU BECAUSE YOU’RE A NOBODY. THEY’LL KEEP YOU ALIVE BUT YOU’LL HAVE TO CRAWL AND SAY “THANK-YOU” FOR EVERY BONE THEY THROW. YOU MIGHT AS WELL STAY DRUNK OR SHOOT JUNK AND BE A CRAZY FUCKER. IF THE RICH GUYS WANT TO PLAY WITH YOU, MAKE THEM GET THEIR HANDS DIRTY. SEND THEM AWAY GAGGING, OR SOBBING IF THEY’RE SOFT- HEARTED. YOU’LL BE LEFT ALONE IF YOU’RE FRIGHTENING, AND DEAD YOU’RE FREE!” YOU CAN CHANGE THE RADIANT CHILD IN YOU TO A REFLECTION OF THE SHIT YOU WERE MEANT TO SERVE -Jenny Holzer   “I used to rebel by destroying myself,but realized that’s awfully convenient to the world.for some of us our best revolt is self-preservation.” -mitski   “Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies.” 1 Corinthians 6:20   We occupy a strange place in the world today. Our bodies occupy a strange place in the world today.  We do and do not occupy the bodies that we were born into. When you look into the mirror—is that you looking back at you? Is it still the temple that you were born into? Or have you changed it—hung up posters and boiled the kettle to make it a home? Barbara Kruger tells you Your Body is a Battleground. John Mayer croons that Your Body is a Wonderland. Your! body! is! a! vehicle! screams every blaring gym billboard. But is your body yours?   To me, bad tattoos, radical haircuts, and unemployable piercings are the physical equivalent of having tea in the cupboard and fruit in the bowl. They bring belonging to a form. With the constant pressure put upon us to be thin, white, gender-conforming, and conventionally attractive, I find ugly to be a great escape. I always find myself feeling more comfortable in my body when I make decisions that go completely against social expectations set to us. “Ugly” decisions. “Regrettable” decisions. “Why-did-you-have-to-go-and-ruin-yourself-you-looked-so-good-before” decisions.   Sometimes when I leave for university, I’m aware that I’m dressing for everyone but myself. Wouldn’t want anyone to be attacked with the visual assault of a mismatching outfit—or, god forbid—a bad haircut and acne. But one day it hit me that not everyone worries about the state of their skin more than the questions they might need to answer when preparing for a job interview, and that realisation was huge. Despite being described often as a very confident person, it has always been ingrained in me that physical appearance is of utmost importance. It’s disorienting to imagine not having complete control of how people perceive me. For me, self-appreciation came in the form of self-destruction.   The one part of Coraline that didn’t scare me was this quote: “Being brave doesn’t mean you aren’t scared. Being brave means you are scared, really scared, badly scared, and you do the right thing anyway.” Shaving my head for the first time made me initially feel very uncomfortable. More so than before, because by traditional patriarchal, Eurocentric beauty standards, I was not attractive—and it was my own fault too! I began to worry. Would I be too ugly for my partner of the time to want to be seen with me? Would I be cramping my friends’ style with my alien exterior? Would I be seen as less intelligent due to the “Britney moment” associations of such a haircut? I worried so much that I stopped worrying. Life began to feel a whole lot easier when I didn’t have to think about trying to be attractive because I knew that I couldn’t be.   This all sounds self-pitying, but believe me, it is anything but. Being intentionally “ugly” is freeing. It’s a decision that is for yourself and no one else. Some might hate this aspect of you, but who cares! It’s not their body. Allowing my body to be overgrown and wild allowed me time to work on aspects of myself that were not physical. It allowed me to realise who approached me for my body, and who approached me for my mind. It taught me to be less judgemental—knowing that people were probably seeing me as falsely as I was seeing them.   Since then, I’ve been on a bodily rampage. Piercings? Fifteen of them. Eyebrows? Shaved off both of them. Stick-poke tattoos? Eight of them (or zero, if you’re my mum reading this). And here’s the thing: Maybe all of these are meaningless actions. Maybe they are nothing more than a toe warily dipped in the pool of self-destruction… but also, why the hell not. Applying meaning and the idea of growth to the decisions made in the lows of your life isn’t ever a bad thing.   There’s still a small hole going straight through the bridge of my nose where a piercing once sat. My eyebrows are still struggling to return to their former 70’s bush glory. The Georgia O’Keeffe ^Ladder to the Moon^ stick-poke on my ankle has been lovingly renamed “Ladder to the D(ick)”, due to the fact that I can’t draw a realistic half-moon. My head remains cold this winter. But I’m not worrying so much about whether I’m looking socially acceptable. Or conventionally attractive. Or white-passing enough to be cast in a yoghurt commercial.   Andy Warhol once said that if he sees someone who thinks they are a beauty, he thinks they’re a beauty, too. He accepts people on the basis of their self-images, because their self-images have more to do with the way they think than their objective-images do. If they don’t care, he doesn’t. So that’s that. Ruin yourself if you want to. Preserve yourself if you want to. Whether you’re feeling like Jenny or feeling like Mitski, remember that your body is a temple. But it’s not just a temple—it’s ^your temple. Go wild with it.

    • Hiding Hurt
      • “It felt like spaghetti and meatballs—as if my insides were spaghetti and meatballs, and someone was eating it up.” Cara Adler was experiencing this level of pain almost constantly throughout last year. She has endometriosis, a condition of the uterus which causes huge amounts of pain, amongst other symptoms. I barely knew what endometriosis was until last year at Cara’s flat (she’s one of my best friends), when she toppled off the couch mid-conversation. She had fainted. She pulled herself up, friends assisting and offering her water. Someone asked her what had happened. “My period started,” she said, almost blasé.   Endometriosis, often nicknamed ‘endo’ by its sufferers, is a condition experienced by millions of people with wombs around the world. It is caused by endometrial cells “seeding […] anywhere in the pelvis,” says Dr Cathy Stephenson, who works at Student Health. Endometrial tissue lines the womb, and is part of what gets shed during a period. These cells can accumulate on the fallopian tubes and the ovaries (where they can interfere with fertility), on the bowel, and on the bladder. During each menstrual cycle, they can cause pain, inflammation, and internal scarring. Stephenson has treated many patients with endometriosis. She “suspects” that it is underdiagnosed; there are no hard statistics on endo, because the condition is under-studied and cannot be definitively diagnosed without laparoscopic surgery—which in itself can make symptoms worse. The number of wayward cells doesn’t necessarily correlate with the severity of symptoms: Many people with severe endo symptoms will not have huge amounts of endometriosis growth in their pelvis if investigated surgically, while others may have few or no symptoms, but if investigated via a surgical laparoscopy, endometriosis would be found. In fact, many people only receive a diagnosis when trying to conceive, as endometriosis can cause significant issues with fertility. One of the many difficulties with diagnosing endometriosis is that the uterus is located close to the bowel and bladder. As the organs are close, pelvic pain is not always immediately linked to periods; so when endometrial cells accumulate on the bladder or bowels, the pain can be misattributed to irritable bowel syndrome or bladder problems. The level of pain endometriosis causes is staggering, though it is not obvious to the average observer. Phoebe Murphy, who also has the condition (although she has not been diagnosed officially with surgery), passes it off as a migraine when she doesn’t feel like explaining her pain and justifying the reality of her condition. “People know what [a migraine] is,” she told me. “Somehow we’ve managed to be all right about headaches.” She would like endometriosis to have the same level of recognition and acceptance as migraines. Indigo Niah, who has had endo since they were very young, thought that the level of period pain they were experiencing was normal. They only started to question the level of pain after a conversation with a PE teacher, who told them that it wasn’t normal to be experiencing period pain so intense that they couldn’t stand up.   Endo is wildly unpredictable, and treatment even more so. Cara, Phoebe, and Indigo all reference “luck”—Phoebe tells me that she was lucky to be diagnosed within five years of symptom onset (when the average is ten), lucky to have a GP who knew what the condition was, lucky to have a partner who is supportive. Indigo tells me that they were lucky to have a paediatrician who referred them to a gynaecologist quickly, after their pain had been brushed off with over-the-counter prescriptions by GPs. Cara tells me that she was lucky to have health insurance that could pay for a $20,000 surgery via private healthcare earlier this year, instead of an interminable wait on a public list. When I asked Cara, Indigo, and Phoebe to tell me how they had been diagnosed with endo, I heard three stories of the medical profession’s disbelief. Even though Indigo and Phoebe had doctors who treated them for endo relatively promptly, Indigo and their mother had to go to the GP five times, and were offered pills for period pain, rather than further examination of the causes of pain. Phoebe’s GP put her on birth control to control endometriosis, but didn’t say that she suspected Phoebe had endometriosis; Phoebe only discovered that this treatment was linked to endometriosis when she talked to someone else with endo at a party in high school.   Cara’s route to diagnosis, meanwhile, was a horror story: Her period pain got worse throughout 2017, to the point where she was regularly skipping four or five days of work a month. She looked on the internet “and it all said all women get different levels of pain and that was how it was, and I thought that maybe I was just fainting and vomiting from being burned out.” She went to a GP, who laughed at her. He said that it was bad luck, and she should try taking deeper breaths before she stood up. After this, she thought she “was just making it up,” and continued to live with the pain. Crippling pain meant she “had a heatpack all the time,” and was taking ibuprofen and paracetamol constantly, although “they weren’t doing anything.” Even though friends urged her to go to the doctor, she didn’t want to, after that first horrible experience. “I just generalised, they’re not going to take me seriously, there’s no point.” She got to the point where she was taking “Ponstan, ibuprofen, and Panadol” for months, even though you’re not supposed to take ibuprofen in combination with other anti-inflammatories. This litany of painkillers is common in any conversation about endometriosis; on “pain days”, Phoebe takes the “maximum dose of paracetamol, maximum dose of ibuprofen, maximum dose of codeine, every four hours” for at least two days, then reduces the dose to see if she still needs it. Indigo now takes a daily medication for treating chronic pain, but they still use codeine several times a week. Cara was also laughed at in the emergency room, where she had to go several times in 2018 because her period pain was so excruciating. In fact, the doctor told her to “just chill out. It’s not like you have endometriosis.” She went to a doctor at Student Health about once a fortnight for a few months, who put her on various hormonal treatments with “awful side effects”, and didn’t listen to her when she told them they weren’t working; that she was being treated for heavy periods, not the light but painful ones she was experiencing. When she got a new doctor, she was immediately taken seriously, and referred to a gynaecologist. When she arrived at the gynecologist appointment, Cara started on her passionate tirade—explaining the symptoms, the pain, how it was limiting her ability to go about her daily life. The gynaecologist laughed, and Cara was momentarily choked by dread—but when he said, “You’ve already convinced me [that this is serious]. I believe you,” it felt “amazing”. Six months later, she was able to have laparoscopic surgery, and although recovery has been slow, the pain is reduced for now. These experiences are hopefully not representative. Dr Stephenson is quick to assure me that “any doctor at Student Health would know how to diagnose and manage [endometriosis]; it doesn’t usually require specialist input.”   Even though endometriosis is a negative presence, Indigo, Cara, and Phoebe say it is still part of them, and has its upsides. Phoebe says that endo has taught her to advocate for herself, to make her pain real to other people. “I’m very good at articulating my pain… I can be specific,” she says; this is particularly useful when dealing with medical professionals when she has other health concerns. Endo forces her to pay attention to her body, to monitor her mood, and to know when she’s ovulating—she uses a tracking app to help with this.   Indigo says that even though endo can “make things harder,” it’s still “just part of me, it’s not a part that I like, it’s just there.” They talk about endo because endo is a piece of their lives, even if not everyone is used to talking openly about periods and wombs and the intricacies of the reproductive system.   ENDOMETRIOSIS ·        Caused by the cells from endometrium (the lining of the uterus) growing outside the womb ·        Can only be definitively diagnosed via laparoscopic or open surgery, as it doesn’t usually show up on ultrasounds or other scans. However, many people live with suspected endometriosis, and can receive treatment without surgery. ·        Not everyone with proven endometriosis will have symptoms, and if people do experience symptoms, these can range from very mild, to very severe and impacting ·        Symptoms can include pain during and before periods, nausea, fainting, painful sex, bowel and bladder symptoms, and infertility. Not all sufferers of endometriosis will have all these symptoms. ·        There is no cure to endometriosis; even after surgery, endo will come back after time. However, symptoms can usually be successfully managed with hormonal treatment (to ‘dampen down’ the endo), pain relief, and surgery (as a last resort). ·        There are no clear causes of endometriosis, although there are tenuous genetic links; much about it is yet to be researched and documented. Even if you don’t have a womb, or do but have very normal periods, you probably know someone with endometriosis—even if they haven’t told you about it. This may mean that they’ve haven’t been going to social events because of pain, that they have spent far too much time huddled in pain in a doctor’s office, that they know more about painkillers than the average person. Cara, Phoebe, and Indigo all told me that it would help if there were more education about what endometriosis was, and how to ask about it. “I talk about endo because it’s my life,” Phoebe says, and Indigo and Cara echo this. Through endo, and specifically conversations about endo, they have found other sufferers, and received support and understanding.   The moments when they are listened to and supported make endo bearable. Explaining can get exhausting, Phoebe says. “If I’m experiencing a lot of pain I feel quite emotional [explaining endo]—that because I am in pain, I feel, like vulnerable, quite tired and fatigued.” But if more people know about her endo, then they will usually be supportive. “I wish more people would start the conversation,” Indigo enunciates quietly. “I would love to be asked more questions about how weird my body is.”   Endometriosis is a reminder of the many peculiarities that nest within the human body. We pass people every day, and do not know what is within them. Cara, Indigo, and Phoebe want to be asked about their condition, to talk about this piece of their identity. Their stories are a reminder that words can open skin, and reveal the pain and hope inside.

    • In NZ.
      • When my mother gave me my name, it was a name she couldn’t pronounce. The harsh accents of the Arabic language eluded the Pākehā tongue. Growing up, I always felt more comfortable introducing myself as she knew me—Mah-dee or Ma-ha-dee—just about anything that made me feel like I belonged to this country more than my name would indicate.   My dad objected to me using my last name of Osman (عثمان) when sending job applications, out of fear that employers would have another reason to shun me in addition to the colour of my skin.   Despite my objections, I really felt I got where he was coming from. Fleeing our native Somali peninsula with six of my siblings on his back meant he knew all too well the consequences of man’s politics of division. The kind of power our names, beliefs, and appearances can have over our day-to-day lives.   And so from birth, I was caught between this sort of dual identity. Who I felt I truly was (Muslim, Somali), and who I felt I needed to be in order to feel secure: elusively ‘Kiwi’—at least just enough to pass.   That culture of fear shapes the lives of millions of Muslims growing up in White society. It decided where I’d spend my schooling, after a Lebanese sister who taught at my primary school warned of how her husband had suffered intense racial discrimination at Scots.   Tasks as simple as deciding how I want to get home became a question of life or death, after finding out my brothers and cousins had been chased and beaten by skinheads walking home through Berhampore.   That’s why when our brothers and sisters in Christchurch died during the Friday congregation, I didn’t feel so much surprised as I did sickly validated.   I never had to ask myself how this could happen “in my NZ”, as so many members of White New Zealand seem to be asking themselves right now. Because for me, my family, and my friends, this has always been an ever-looming threat.   Ever since my brothers got pulled from class after being racially abused after the 9/11 attacks, ever since my family home got “ISIS” tagged on our front door in 2015, we’ve known that racism and xenophobia aren’t simply American issues.   That’s why it’s so frustrating to hear again and again, “in NZ? Here of all places?” from friends, all the way to mayors and MPs. As if to softly insinuate that we’re above the sort of sickly discrimination that people of colour have endured ever since this young nation was raided in the name of empire.   There needs to be a clear distinction between being shocked by the violence of it all (which is justified) and being shocked by the traditions of white supremacy that underpinned this massacre— is, at best, naive.   People of colour have always been known to be weary of Christchurch; it’s the town the “Pakeha Party” and the skinheads call home. What’s a quaint home to some has been a bastion of hate to others.   That same veil of privilege that white New Zealand continues to hold drawn over their eyes helps them easily forget NZ First’s calls to ban Muslim men from flying Air New Zealand a mere five years ago.   “In NZ?” seems to suggest that this country’s success isn’t underpinned by a long history of violent white entitlement. As if those mass murders and displacements of our native people belong to an alternate history, as though the persecution of black and brown people is something alien to our nation, unheard of. Only now, in the blinding bright horror of mass murder are we forced to question these bull narratives of ‘racial harmony’.   If you continue to ask how could this happen “here of all places” then let me tell you: Your indifference to the plight of Muslims here and overseas meant this guy could freely express his hate and walk right onto our soil unquestioned. Your jihadi jokes and crap cosplays designed to demean the same people you’re eager to call mates only fanned the flames.   All this fosters an environment where violent acts of white supremacy can and will take place.   Going forward, I don’t want to hear “how could this happen to us”; it’s been happening. Empathise with your Muslim whānau, hear our stories, break bread with us this Ramadan; make a conscious effort to see us, and recognise our right to be seen.   Rather than offering sympathetic condolences, challenge the racial bias that promotes white supremacy. See us through the constant clutter of trauma porn and media hype. Read on the dawn raids and land wars. Immerse yourself in our country’s dark histories of oppression. Remember those that died; etch their legacy into your heart. This is the New Zealand that we know, but it doesn’t have to be.   ^“And never think of those who have been killed in the cause of Allah as dead. Rather, they are alive with their Lord, receiving provision” Quran (3:169)^    

    • Ka Tangi Te Tītī, Ka Tangi Te Kākā, Ka Tangi Hoki Ahau, Tīhei Maui Ora
      • One day, I asked my Te Reo tutor what the difference was between a mihimihi and a pepeha. Thus began the biggest existential crisis of my life. A mihimihi is a short speech given to introduce yourself at a hui, a meeting. Basically what your name is, where you’re from, what you do, that sort of thing. A pepeha can be incorporated into a mihimihi, and establishes your ties with your country and your genealogy. You recall your waka, your iwi, your maunga, your awa, your whakapapa—you stake your claim in Māoridom as tangata whenua and take your place among your peers. This immediately raised more questions—is a pepeha specifically a tangata whenua thing? Because I didn’t feel qualified to recite a pepeha, as someone who is non-Māori. I can definitely tell you who I am and where I’ve ^lived. I could tell you what the closest mountain to my home growing up was, but that’s not quite right. I swam in a lot of rivers and beaches, but that’s not the same as ^belonging to them. Even my spiritual connection to Piha up in Auckland, where I used to throw myself into the waves to wash my mental health issues away, doesn’t quite cut it. The idea of belonging to the land and the idea of spiritual roots aren’t concepts that appear in any of the various ethnicities that make up my patchwork background. To put it simply: I don’t belong to the land the same way tangata whenua do. To say otherwise would be to ignore the deep spiritual and cultural ties our native culture has to the land. My tutor stopped me after class. “I understood exactly what you were getting at with that question,” she said, almost excitedly. I didn’t tell her that I’d actually not known the cultural context, and just wanted a translation of the two terms. “I don’t think I can recite a pepeha,” I replied. “I don’t have a mountain, not in the same way. And for me to claim something that’s not mine…” “Exactly. People might get upset. But I don’t want to tell you that you can’t—who says what people can and can’t do?” Good question. Vini Olsen-Reeder, a lecturer at Te Kawa a Māui, was kind enough to kōrero with me about the issue. Essentially, he explained, the terms mihimihi and pepeha have come to mean similar things, and many people won’t differentiate them. “These days, they can often be treated as the same thing,” he assured me, “so in any situation you should feel comfortable saying whatever you’re comfortable owning as yours. That might mean that you don’t include a maunga or a waka, although you might often feel like you have to.” This solved the issue of what I should do on a marae. But on a deeper level, I was worried about crossing cultural lines that would be better left preserved. Besides, there is a debate raging nationwide about whether there should be any lines at all. “People asked me the same [question], like I can’t do a pepeha, I’m not Māori,” said a te reo-speaking student and tutor, “Well, did you have a mountain? ‘Yeah, there was a mountain by our home.’ And it’s like, well there you go. That’s our perspective of connecting us back to the land.” “But [connection] is just inherently part of the culture,” I pushed back, “in a way that it’s just not for other cultures.” “I think once you, like, really understand the connections that Māori have to our whenua, to our maunga, and our awa—I think that once you have that down, you start understanding pepeha more,” mused another student. “To teach te reo Māori is a privilege and a positive thing,” my te reo tutor put it. “Obviously, you become a kaitiaki of the language, and making sure there’s understanding and authentic connection is so important.” Which is why, when she began teaching us how to construct a mihimihi, she recited her own pepeha, and added a caution. “My priority is to keep you safe,” she said, “and to guide you through understanding the importance and significance.” There were nods of agreement from the class. It was something inherently understood, by this group of people who had volunteered to learn te reo, that culture and language are intrinsically tied, and to learn one meant to respect the other. If only the nation were as accepting as my te reo class. I came to this conversation from an extremely personal place. My background is a patchwork mess of ‘otherness’, of colonial mishaps and deep ironies: Going way back, I am ethnically Indian, but my ancestors moved to Malaysia with the British (goddamned British) to work on the rubber plantations. My Dad’s family have Sri Lankan ancestry, which means they were a bit snobby about him marrying my non-Sri Lankan Mum (because that’s a whole thing). My parents then had me in England, making me British by birth (goddamned British), before moving to New Zealand. There are two different stories of colonisation in my history, and I consider myself as belonging to both the colonisers and the colonised. I know my history because I’ve been asked “where I’m from” my whole life. As if I’m not from here. As if my ‘exotic’ features override the way I walk, talk, and dress; as if my past is an educational textbook for others to peruse, rather than just part of me. Forgive me if I sound bitter, but after being ‘othered’ for so long, being hesitant to answer well-meaning questions is part of my defence system. There’s only so much casual racism one person can take. So when I started searching for answers, I wasn’t being honest about my questions. I did genuinely want to know what the difference was between a mihimihi and a pepeha, but I was also desperate to find a term that fit me, a person who is neither Pākehā nor tangata whenua; that I could point to and claim as my ticket to ‘belonging’. I wanted to find the term that incorporates me into the story of New Zealand, with all the privilege and problems that this entails. I did find it in the end: tauiwi. It means foreigner, but more literally, it translates into “landing bones”. Tauiwi is a term used for people who are not indigenous, but have come to a country and made it their home. Any country, not just Aotearoa. While technically I could fall under the blanket term of ‘Pākehā’, which once referred to Europeans but now refers to anyone who is not tangata whenua, I don’t like the term because of its ties to colonists who are not my ancestors. There is too much colonial strife in my own background for that to ever feel right. So tauiwi it is. And it feels like home. As for my pepeha, well, I concluded at the end of the day that I can’t claim an affinity to anything much, no matter who says what. But I can tell you where I’ve been, what’s important to me, and who I am. I do not whakapapa back to Aotearoa, but I have swum in the harbours of Tāmaki-Makaurau, and grown up under the watchfulness of Maungarei. Nō Īnia ōku tīpuna. Nō Ingarangi ahau. I tipu ake ahau ki Aotearoa. E ako ana ahau ki te whare wnanga o te Ūpoko o te Ika a Māui. Ko Preyanka ahau. Nō reira, tēnā koutou, tēnā koutou, tēnā tātou katoa.  

    • I Lift My Eyes
      • There is only one dream which has ever truly frightened me. I cannot tell you how frequently I have this dream, only that it is often enough that if I think of it while I am trying to sleep, I feel sickened and unsettled. I am alone in a desert. The sand goes on, and on, and on. I am afraid, and the sand grows bigger—or perhaps I become smaller; the details are overwhelmed by the blurred delirium of recollection. I am afraid, and the world is empty and flat, and this place is all I have ever known, and there is no escape. There is an escape, of course: waking up. After I have this dream, I go running up, into the hills. This is almost a cleansing ritual, a release from that empty, empty world, from the aloneness of a flattened earth. *** I am one of many people who will struggle to tell you where they’re from. I possess a multitude of belongings, have loyalties divided between two countries. I have an easy answer: New Zealand and India. There are several optional extrapolations to this, the when and how and why of my birth and upbringing, and of my parents’ births and race, are pulled out depending on who I’m talking to and which follow-up questions they ask. I do not fault people for wanting to know where I’m from; it’s a crucial question, and one that is easy to ask upon any first acquaintance. I am more troubled by how being asked where I’m from reminds me that I do not have easy answers to even this most straightforward of questions. To be asked where I’m from is to be asked to interrogate myself. I can rattle off an answer, but I am troubled by the glibness of my developed response, and all that it does not reveal about me. This confusion of identity is perhaps an inherited one; both my parents were born in India, and have been navigating what it means to be from India and Aotearoa ever since, bequeathing that same question to their children.  Perhaps we ask as a family, but we find different answers.   I have never known my grandfather. He died in 1980 while climbing a mountain in Nepal. He fell and was severely injured, and told his friend to go back. His body has never been found. My grandmother wrote a book about my grandfather in the years after he died, and self-published it in 2015. It is for the people who knew and loved him, but it also for her grandchildren, who did not get to meet him. She seems almost sanguine about the loss, now. It has been almost 40 years. But mourning can look like a lot of things. Rereading the end, where my grandfather does not return, reading my mothers and aunt’s reflections on it, once left me slippery-faced and sobbing on a sunny Auckland afternoon. She held me, then; she held my sister through her own stormy tears at this least surprising of endings. My grandmother opened an old box, and we looked at it together. Documents and photos: the last photo ever taken of my grandfather, standing with a big pack, looking out on a valley, smiling. She showed us letters that had been written to her family in New Zealand in the weeks after her husband had died in the mountains. In one, she wrote about how it was the way that my grandfather would have wanted to go, that he always loved the mountains and found comfort in them. On that final climb, my grandfather and his friend spoke of their love for the wilderness, of their love for their families, and of their love for the world they lived in. The conversation was, the survivor reported, holy. The mountains are infallible.  They are cold and remote, spectacular and storied, but they are just rocks and water, held by the earth, ignorant of the human hopes and desires tangled around their flanks like clouds. They are not unfair, they are not cruel. They are. Even a few weeks later, the grief still raw, my grandmother did not blame the mountains or God for the death of her husband. When she returned to New Zealand, she took my mother and aunts on many tramping trips, until they belonged in the hills as easily as their father had. There are no words for what the mountains have taken from me; and the loss is larger for my mother and her sisters, larger still for my grandmother and great-grandmother. They are mountains of grief, rising.   In a scrapbook about my infancy, my mother says that I was conceived “in the Sierra Nevada de Cocuy at about 4000 m, a cold and misty evening, a tent, a double sleeping bag…”—and that is where the details mercifully stop. My parents were there to escape the thick heat and violence of the Colombian jungles where they worked at the time. They lifted their eyes to the mountains, and found help there.  They accepted the promise of the hills: there is an above, there is a beyond, there is something higher than the grime and despair. When I was six months old, my parents took my twin sister and me to do some real tramping in the Southern Alps. My mother remembers walking down from some high pass in the middle of winter, two daughters howling, the milk in her breasts almost frozen—and yet, we were in the mountains, the air sharp and freeing. I have inherited my parents’ tangled belongings, but they have also bequeathed me their mountains. I speak of mountains, mostly, in the generic sense. Mountains, any mountains, this word I am tired of typing. My Himalayan upbringing has made me snobby about what counts as a mountain. Mount Victoria, for the record, is a nice hill, but it’s no mountain. I am willing to concede, however, that standards for what a mountain is are decided by your belongings, and that my belongings sometimes require technical equipment—perhaps a rope—to reach. There is a long tradition of rhapsodising about mountains, about the beauty of them; the power of the erect ridge, firm under your boots, on and on, more and more breathless. White men write about their love of the mountains with a fervor, descriptions bordering on the phallic. These men came to the Himalayas and decided if they went high enough, condensed the minutes of a climb into numbers and facts, later maybe a book, they could call it discovery. The indigenous people who have known and loved those mountains are ignored. I, too, can follow in these footsteps, for mountains are exquisite, and they challenge and invite me, call me deeper and higher. But I will tell you this, instead of explaining all the things that mountains are and may yet be to me: I have never needed to ask myself if I belong in the mountains. I call to mind moments that were crucial to me, and I remember mountains: Explorations in Arthur’s Pass with my parents just before I started university. The valley where we returned each summer, camping by an alpine stream; landscape cleaved by fat, retreating glaciers. The pilgrimage when I was eleven, to the Annapurna Sanctuary, closer to my grandfather’s body, but not quite reaching the mystery of his final hours. Solace in icicles and sunsets, in lifting my eyes to the mountains and finding more. I went running most days in high school, and would look for the mountains. From the road along the ridge above our house, distant tips of 6000 m peaks sparkled, and seeing them rendered me whole. I do not love mountains for the feeling of success at reaching a summit. I prefer to stick to the valleys, to follow the rivers, to be held between peaks with the certainty that I can look up and remember that there is yet more to know. In the mountains, I feel at home in a way that I do not anywhere else. I walk up; carrying easy burdens or heavy ones; carrying dark and frightening dreams, or the buoyant promises of possibilities. *** I am still frightened by that dream, certain that I will dream it again. Perhaps what I am really afraid of is a world without mountains. Without something above me, I cannot orient myself. Without mountains, I cannot answer that inevitable question. Ask me where I’m from. I will listen, I will inhale, oxygen and ice all at once, I will lift my eyes to yours, and then I will reply.    

    • Where are you from?: A Loaded Question
      • “Where are you from?” has always been a loaded question for me. If the people who knew me in high school (yikes) are reading this, they’ll definitely think that I’m back on my bullshit. Truth is, I never got off my bullshit—at least not this specific strand. I just internalised it because of the fear of being seen as too loud, too divisive, too much of a killjoy; because somewhere along the way, I got tired of being The One Who Made Everything About Race. Internalised racism really does that to ya. But I wouldn’t still be talking about it if it wasn’t important, and always, always relevant. “Where are you from?” My answer has changed over the years. Once I moved down to Wellington, my default answer became “Auckland”. I get mixed responses to this answer, and that response very helpfully lets me place the other person on the Asshole Continuum. Here’s a handy chart to visualise: Of course, the chart didn’t always look like this. Here’s what it looked like when I still lived in Auckland, and my answer was “New Zealand”: And here’s what it looked like when I went to visit family in China over the summer: “Where’s home for you?” is an equally daunting question. Is it where you’re living? Where you grew up? Where you quote-unquote “found yourself”? Where you had your first kiss, in the alleyway between the dairy with the broken glass, and the tiny, dried-out field? Loads of people move to a different city for university because they want to get away from home: something new, something exciting, something different. For me, one of the defining experiences of moving down to Wellington has been being asked “where are you from?”, answering “Auckland”—and being able to leave it at that. Because everybody was from different places around New Zealand. So the follow-up, “where are you really from?” wasn’t necessary. It’s a weird kind of a relief to get ribbed about being from Auckland, rather than my place in NZ being questioned. People might be just curious, but there’s only so many times you can hear it before it starts to sound like something a lot different: Why don’t you look like you’re from here? Why don’t you fit my perception of someone who’s from here? You don’t seem like you belong here. I used to get angry: I would stare them straight in the eye and repeat my first answer, or I would get up and walk away. But never did I think of sitting down with that person and trying to explain why that question got under my skin so badly. And I would still never do it, even to this day. How do you begin to explain why something like this bothers you when it’s the tip of an iceberg you’re too exhausted to unpack? How do you unpack a history and a lifetime of otherness and be sure the other person cares enough to listen and your energy won’t be wasted? And here’s the thing: Wellington, for all its warmth and friendliness and colour, is White. In Auckland, people will ask “where are you really from?”, but there’s also thousands more of people who look like me, who grew up like me, who understand what it is to be a person of colour, and how it colours everything. In Wellington, people won’t question my place. But they also won’t ask about it. Do I feel grateful that I (mostly) no longer get racist microaggressions? Of course I do. But I also miss discussing shared experiences, making bilingual jokes, the abundance of milk tea shops, and dirt cheap karaoke lounges. Moving away from home means that you go back and you start to draw up a comparison chart between now and then. Home now has a lot more hills than home at 16. Home now has more independence. Home now means I can say I come from Auckland casually instead of challengingly. Home now means I’m losing my mother tongue because I don’t have anyone to speak it with anymore. I spent $263 on a single pair of earrings yesterday. They look like this: Source: https://www.potadachen.com/shop/text-message-earrings I guess we all deal with our dislocation in different ways.

    • How to Spot a Softboi and Other Shit Chat
      • It’s our time, kia ora! Talofa! It’s our time, a special time of day. It’s our time, just you and me together, it’s our time—time to delineate exactly how to spot a Softboi™. We’re all likely familiar with the Fuckboy archetype: a womanizer; a “Chad”; an often-times conventionally attractive bro-type who’s hornier than Hugh Hefner. He seems to hibernate during the week, only to leave a heart-eyes emoji on your IG thirst-trap or hit your DMs with a silky-smooth “wuu2” at 4:00am on a Saturday. He talks a big dick game, but is confident that relentless jackhammering is a one-way ticket to cum-town. He maintains a steady roster of girls, and will bail on plans at the last minute if something (read: someone) better pops up. He thinks unsolicited dick-pics are foreplay. Softbois, by comparison, make one yearn for the bygone era of the Fuckboy. Frankly, I love Fuckboys. At least Fuckboys are honest about being exclusively motivated by the urge to get their dicks wet. Softbois are a special breed of philanderer: they’re manipulators, they’re liars—or at best, half-truthers; pertinent-information-omitters—and they’re the magnum opus of Wellington City.   The Softboi is “emotionally arrogant”, to use the terminology of IG user @beam_me_up_softboi. He weaponizes vulnerability, exposing his “sensitive side” just enough to get into your pants, before ghosting you, or—my personal favourite—weaving a narrative that gaslights you into thinking you misinterpreted the situation; that you are the problem. Like with any archetype, The Softboi™ manifests on a sliding scale: from mostly-harmless time-waster to sinister master-manipulator. Having dated many a Softboi in my time across both ends of that spectrum, welcome to my masterclass in how to spot ‘em—in other words, a 1200 word sub-tweet directly referencing my exes. In terms of physical appearance, the Softboi is unlikely to be ‘classically’ attractive. Speaking from experience, this ranges from slightly odd but undeniably beautiful, to straight-up downright ugly. He probably has tattoos that he mistakenly thinks are an adequate substitute for a personality. He’s probably in desperate need of a haircut. He probably has some ostentatiously quirky dress feature like intentionally mismatched shoes, or broken glasses that he can afford to fix but doesn’t for the sake of the #aesthetic, or excessive amounts of big-ass rings that he won’t take off even as he fingers you leading to a week of light vaginal bleeding. He probably stares at his own reflection a lot. Like, a lot.   The hallmark of the Softboi is that he’ll find a way to let you know he’s a feminist within three minutes of meeting you. He’ll have stickers from the Freedom Shop all over his laptop. He’ll have “intersectional veganism” or some such other performative bullshit in his social media bios. He’ll click “attending” to various activist events on Facebook, but you’ll never see him there. He’ll be desperately vocal as to how w0ke he is, because he can’t rely on his actions to demonstrate this for him.   Your Softboi will probably tell you he’s a “writer”, and carry around notebooks that you’ll never see him write in. He will, however, probably try and read you original poetry from his notes app in the wee hours of the morning on the ass-end of an MDMA bender. He might even be a self-proclaimed ~artist~ with absolutely no background in art. He’ll send you song lyrics, and will allude to Garden State or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind with unnecessary regularity.   He’s probably constructed an impenetrable superiority complex around having read Infinite Jest. The Softboi probably also has an inflated sense of superiority regarding his taste in music. He’ll make you a 14-hour long playlist to educate you because what you listen to is “trash”, or consider himself an elevated being because he listens to field recordings of trains.   The Softboi will probably talk a lot about how much he ~lOoOves~ eating pussy. He’ll probably exclaim some shit like “FUCK I love sex” after he nuts, and fall into a coma approximately 0.02 seconds later. He’s probably really into butt stuff. The Softboi will probably tell you he’s polyamorous. Now non-monogamy is totally valid, don’t get me wrong, but the Softboi lacks the honesty and communication skills required to make it viable. Alternatively, your Softboi won’t tell you he’s non-monogamous in explicit terms—he’ll simply sidestep any conversation that might establish labels, constructing your not-quite-relationship within the steaming-horse-shit parameters of “chill”. Let’s be clear—no matter what your Softboi tells you, “chill” is not necessarily a state of being to aspire to; “chill” is a frame of reference implemented by your Softboi in an attempt at convincing you to make yourself convenient to him. Remember, dear ones, Alana Massey’s advice: “putting labels on things are how people find the exit during a fire and make sure they’re adding vanilla extract to the cake instead of arsenic”.   Despite the large amount of time you may spend together, the Softboi probably won’t tag you in any posts on his socials, so that other girls won’t be put off pursuing him by the fact that the two of you message each other almost constantly and spend at least three nights a week co-habitating.   Adding insult to injury, the Softboi will constantly be on his fucking phone. He might get a lot of calls from “work”, but has to leave the room to answer them. He might lie naked in your bed blatantly texting that really hot AND smart AND funny art-scene girl you met and hit it off with at New Years that one time. You might catch yourself getting little dopamine hits when, every now and then, he condescends to tear his eyes away from some other girl’s Instagram and treat you to a bit of eye-contact.   Your Softboi will probably exclusively call you by ostensibly endearing pet names—“my lovely”; “babe”; “darling”. Again, let’s be clear—it’s not endearment—it’s a safeguard against accidentally calling you by the name of one of the other girls he’s covertly fucking.   All of the Softboi’s exes will be “crazy”. Ask yourself this, my loves: is every single one of his exes crazy, or is he just a piece of shit? Alternatively, the Softboi will have a mysterious and ever-looming ex that he’s just not over yet—which totally and absolutely justifies him treating you like you’re disposable, of course.   Last but not least, if you’ve got a Softboi on your hands, your friends probably fucking hate him. Cue the Bojack quote that made every cunt on the internet lose their minds: “when you look at someone through rose-coloured glasses, all the red flags just look like flags”. You may be under the shady little fucker’s spell, but my dears, I almost guarantee that your friends are not. They’ll see right through his charismatic bullshit, through his faux-feminist drivel and his knack for constructing a sympathetic narrative wherein he is always the victim. They’ll see how he treats you, while you’re busy doing mental gymnastics trying to rationalise why and how he somehow makes you feel like you’re too much and not enough all at the same time.   If you’re experiencing any of these Softboi symptoms, dear friends, you probably need 30cc of reality injected straight into your frontal lobe, stat. The modus operandi of the Softboi is the “pick me” schema: he knows you’ve been treated badly in the past, and he wants to convince you he’s not like other guys; he’s different.   He’s not.   Heed the words of this battle-hardened Softboi-connoisseur and let me leave you with this, cherished readers: you know you’re past reason when you start thinking this one might be different.   Love you more than he ever, ever will, xoxo

    • My First Year at Uni: An African Perspective
      • I come from a tiny country called Ghana, situated along the west coast of Africa. Three years ago, I made the life-changing decision to immigrate to New Zealand with my partner. At the time, going back to university was the last thing on my mind. After all, I was armed with a Communications Degree, majoring in public relations and journalism, the latter of which I had practised for close to a decade. However, after a year without making any headway in the job market, my partner and I began to reassess our priorities, and it made sense to go back to school and upskill. I decided to study law, and after applying, was duly admitted to the law school here at Victoria last year. It was a bit of a culture shock. Almost everything was different, from the size of the lecture theatres to the different approaches to teaching and learning. For me, the first task was trying to even understand what the lecturers were saying. Not only were the accents different to what I was used to, the slang, jargon, and the context around which lectures were based were all alien to me. References were often made to New Zealand’s historical, political, and cultural contexts which I knew nothing about. I spent endless nights playing the recorded lectures over and over, making note after note. Sometimes, I ended up with five different notes on the same material. Blackboard was a lifesaver in first year. Without it, I probably would not have made the cut for second year law school. The recorded lectures and powerpoint slides, along with tutorials, made all the difference for me. However, not all the lectures were recorded, and it took me a couple of weeks, or even months to fully apprise myself with the university’s online interface. I grew up in a country where a lot of the teaching and learning is done the old-fashioned way; through books. I learnt about computers, but I didn’t even know how to use the damn thing till I hit my early twenties, and didn’t own a smartphone or laptop till my mid-twenties. Navigating the campuses for my lecture theatres and tutorial rooms in the first few weeks was a herculean task, and mastering public transport was essential to effectively juggling work and school. During the first half of the year, I was juggling two jobs and law school, and sometimes had to go back and forth between jobs, lectures, and tutorials up to three or four times a day. What would have been an inconvenience for most was a nightmare for me. I seriously began to question if it was all worth it; the time, the effort, the money. It was only on the advice of my tutors that I decided not to seek extra tuition because I was told they could be counterproductive. At the end of my first trimester, I passed my Media Communications and International Relations papers quite comfortably, but barely made the pass grade for second trimester law. Of all the challenges I faced in my first year, none so irked me as the need to constantly defend misconceptions about the African continent and its people. I wouldn’t exactly call it racism, but when in the twenty-first century, and with all the knowledge at our fingertips, people still have a warped perception of what everyday normal life is in most parts of the continent, it gets annoying. Beyond the odd jokes about living in huts, doing bone dances and travelling on boats, the commonest assumption many people make at a cursory glance is that you must be a refugee or come from a refugee background. There was a funny incident in a Wellington pub about a year and half ago when this lovely bloke came up to me to express his profound admiration for the work I was doing to “save my people” after he heard I was a political reporter from some African country. It was clear he’d conveniently assumed that I was from some war-ravaged country, risking my life to tell the story “suffering masses” at the hands of corrupt government officials and dangerous rebels. After a long thought I decided it was neither the time nor place to begin to explain to this nice fella that where I come from in Africa, I had never seen conflict. Ghana was the first African country south of the Sahara to gain independence, and the only major conflict I know of is the one my ancestors fought against British rule. We have a democratic system of governance and government changes hands, quite rapidly I might add, not through the bullet but the ballot. Sure, Ghana is no paradise. We have almost the same major challenges with our infrastructure, economy, and other areas of development like much of the developing world, but our cause is not helped by the constant negative assumptions that continue to fuel ignorance about the continent. In fact, sometimes I was at pains having to explain that Africa is not a country but a continent made up of over fifty countries, each with its own socio-economic, cultural, and political dynamics. I have had classmates ask me where I learnt to speak and write such good English, or if I grew up in some European country. I always have to remind them that English is my official language. Sure, not everybody in Ghana speaks fluent English, but over ninety per cent of New Zealanders can’t speak at least two of the three official languages of their country either; English, Māori, and Sign Language. My Kiwi friends and colleagues, bless them, and even friends back home are always pestering me with questions like: “Oh! How is the African Community on campus like?” And I know they are genuinely interested in the community, which is nice, but I am always at a loss to explain to them that I don’t fraternise with the African Community on campus, and don’t really see the need to. First of all, there are not that many Africans on campus. The last time I checked, there were only around thirty Ghanaians registered with the Ghanaian Community in Wellington. Of this, less than half are students, almost all of whom are PhD scholarship holders, who will leave after their studies. Most of the other “African students” are actually Kiwis, with African parentage. The issues that concern these two groups are different from the issues that concern me, and the numbers don’t exactly make for a sustainable peer group. But do I really need to go out there and find “my kind” to be friends with? I don’t think so. When I first moved to New Zealand three years ago, what first struck me was the nuclear nature of families and an almost individualistic approach to socio-economic and political life. Sure, the people are friendly, the friendliest bunch, second only to Ghanaians if you ask me! Yet, every soul seems cocooned in their little bodies. To understand my perspective on this, you need to understand that I come from a country with a relatively similar landmass to New Zealand and yet, a population exceeding thirty million. English is our official language, but there are thousands of other local dialects that people speak. Everybody grows up learning to speak three or four of these dialects to be able to interact with their friends and neighbours. There are numerous ethnicities and religions, yet, many marriages across ethnic and religious divides. We are taught from a young age not to exist in isolation, because the self cannot survive without the community. However, it is different here. There are all these little pockets of social groupings, and again I must maintain the students are generally friendly, but there is a lack of sense of camaraderie, the type that transcends religious, political, and quite possibly racial lines. So has it all been gloom and doom this past year? Not exactly. For each bad experience there are about ten good experiences that make my decision to go back to uni worthwhile. What I would say though is that moving forward, there needs to be more integration. Students exist in their own little pockets, and while there has been no cause for alarm yet, isolated social groups are the very seeds that have sown discord among student communities in many a university.

    • How Are You Spending Your Uni Break?
      • With the school year coming to a close, it’s time to start making some radikool holiday plans with your besties! To find out how you’ll be spending your sexy Summer, take this 100% certified personality quiz by Katie Meadows, who has a 100% certified personality disorder! That’s hot! What’s your perfect date? A. That’s a tough one. I’d have to say April 25th, because it’s not too hot, not too cold. All you need is a light jacket B. Hotel Bristol for a game of pool, accompanied by banter that consists entirely of Borat quotes C. Catch something French at the Film Festival, then a bike home through the botanical gardens while listening to SoundCloud rips through an iPhone speaker D. Mother does not allow me to date until I am 35 years of age What are you listening to during a late night study sesh? A. Whatever Taylor Swift album I have in my Bratz boombox! B. The Joe Rogan Experience while I snort research chemicals I bought online from Russia C. lofi hip hop beats to study/relax to 24/7 live stream, for ultimate efficiency D. Recordings I have made of myself crying, because it harmonises with my current crying What do you hope to get out of your degree? A. A nice job, a nice partner, and a nice baby, out of which I hopefully only hate two of three B. Cs get degrees lads, and I’m going into politics C. A good barista job that pays the living wage D. A reason to live, and the validation I’ve always wanted but never received What does your before-bed routine consist of? A. First I remove my makeup with Micellar water, then cleanse, tone, moisturize, and apply pimple cream — a hydrating mask if I’m feeling fancy B. Messaging every former hook-up on my phone with “u up?” and getting no response C. A benzodiazepine and a mug of rooibos D. I literally do not sleep and am so tired that I have come to see Christian Bale’s character in The Machinist as something to aspire to Be honest – what are your thoughts on the university name change? A. I hate it! That money should be used to clone Phoebe the tuatara B. It was a good choice, which I am willing to state publicly for a higher grade on my final paper C. I couldn’t care less, but only because this institution has made me so apathetic D. I am angry they did not accept my suggestion of “Mr Toad’s Wild Ride” Who is getting your vote for Bird of the Year 2018? A. Kiwi, because it’s a classic, like Marilyn Monroe, and Friends, and dads disappointing you B. Tūī, because that is a beer, and I like beer, but not so much birds, but if I had to pick one C. Kererū, so I can post online about how they get drunk all the time and caption it “#same” D. The rats in my ceiling, because they listen to me Where is your fave on-campus lunch spot between classes? A. Vic Books, because I have finally flirted enough with the barista to get a reasonable discount B. The library, talking loudly on my phone and eating three pies in a row while I disregard the people around me who are trying to study C. The women’s room, because it is always empty for some reason D. The graveyard, because I am dead inside If you’re indulging in a bit of retail therapy, where are you headed? A. Emporium: I was born in the wrong decade, y’know? Because back then this ironic t-shirt would definitely be at least half this price B. Good As Gold: trendy branded dad hats, $90 keyrings, and printed long-sleeves that are sure to impress my peers/several niche subreddits C. Kowtow: clean shapes combined with breezy linens makes for versatile looks for joining any number of religious sects D. I’ve actually been working on the most amazing suit made out of human skin What movie could you watch over and over again? A. To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before – Noah Centineo is looking like a snack! B. Fight Club – it’s cool when the men fight the other men. Haha, masculinity is such a prison C. Inception – it makes you like, really think and I also like that one noise that goes “BWAHHH” D. Flower of Flesh & Blood – the Japanese horror film that Charlie Sheen watched on heaps of cocaine and thought was a real snuff film and reported to the FBI in 1991 It’s Saturday night — where are you sure to hit up for a dance? A. 121, because I’m on pingers and I want to lose my phone, ID, and wallet tonight B. Estab, because I’m on pingers and I want to yell across the room at other heterosexuals C. Caroline, because I’m on pingers and I want to hook up with one of my Twitter mutuals D. I do not go outside and will be staying at home with my collection of skulls, also what is a pinger Mostly As: The Sex and the City character you are most like is Charlotte! The Marvel Cinematic Universe Chris of your dreams is Chris Pine! If you were a comfort food, you’d be lasagne! If Garfield were real, he’d eat that lasagne! He’d eat you alive! And you’d be like, stop, no, it’s me, I’m the lasagne! But Garfield can’t hear you! Don’t worry about that now; relax, have a glass of vino and enjoy your uni break. Garfield’s not real. But if he were, you’d be dead. Mostly Bs: God, I don’t know. You’ll break a bone. You’ll party ‘til you pass out. You’ll go to South East Asia and get a photo for your Tinder profile with a sedated tiger. You’ll probably get in a fight with me on Vic Deals about something stupid. Maybe you will meet someone new and fall in love, but it definitely won’t be because of that photo with the tiger. Seriously, please stop doing this, it is so fucking depressing. Mostly Cs: Now that you’re done with uni for the year, it’s time to drop out and move to Melbourne, then London, then Berlin. When you’ve spent all your money on drugs and cold brew coffee, it’s back home to New Zealand to live with your parents! Luckily, global warming is going to kill us within 20 years so that won’t last forever, and you won’t even have to worry about your student debt in the end. Always a silver lining. Mostly Ds: You have been reported to the authorities. Following your trial you are likely to be imprisoned, either in a literal prison or a psychological one of your own making, where you will begin to write the next Unabomber manifesto. After amassing a small but loyal cult following for your writings, you will sacrifice your physical body to be eaten by the Wellington Zoo dingoes, while your immortal spirit transcends this astral plane into the next realm. Far out. Disclaimer: This personality quiz, like all personality quizzes, including astrology which is basically a personality quiz, is not real or accurate, and I would even go so far as to say it is full of shit.

    • Hunting for Katango
      • Katango was one of thousands of bands in the 1980s. Their members were effeminate young men who wore make up. Their fashion was loud and garish. Their songs were vomit-inducing saccharine pop, shooting for a one-hit-wonder. But there is one thing that singles Katango out from this crowd of brazen auditory vomit: They ripped off my mum. It was a lunchtime concert at Westlake Girls High School. Word was buzzing around the morning tea tuckshop line that some dreamy boys were going to play a show. Mum hadn’t heard of Katango, but her friends were keen, so she went along. Mum said that at the show “girls were whipped up into a frenzy”. They were screaming, pulling at their hair, and throwing their training bras onto the stage. People were fighting tooth and nail to get a glimpse of the band. The feeling of frenzy is important, because after they finished playing, Mum saw flyers encouraging the fresh-faced fans to join “Club Katango,” a fan club which promised signed posters, photographs, and new singles, all for the low price of $5NZD. My mum was one of many innocent young girls who joined. She never received a damn thing. When I first heard this story, I leapt out of my seat in anger. “What do you mean you didn’t receive anything!?” Mum replied, “Oh, I don’t know, maybe it got lost in the mail.” Lost in the mail? God bless my sweet mother’s soul. She still can’t bear to face the ugliness of a 30-year-old truth: she got ripped off by some 80s pop freaks. After I heard the story, I decided to do a little digging on Katango. I poured every ounce of my research skills into chasing this thing. To say I had a personal investment was an understatement. I had a vendetta. A vendetta against the bastards who robbed my 13-year-old mother of five dollars. I decided that I wouldn’t rest without getting her money back. Adjusting for inflation, I was going after $12.35NZD. Like any researcher worth their salt, I started with Google. Google turned up an app called Katango which uses social algorithms to sort your friends list into people that share in your ideology. Google bought the technology in 2011 and utilised it along with leaked White House information sourced through Russian spies to secure Trump the US presidency. Unfortunately nothing to do the NZ pop band. Scrolling further I turned up an article on Audioculture, a website for jaded old musicians to relive their glory days by writing lengthy esoteric articles about bygone eras. The article contained several key pieces of information that both intrigued and incensed me. One was a magazine advertisement for “Club Katango”. The ad promised; posters, autographed photos, badges, and t-shirts to anyone with five dollars and a rudimentary understanding of the New Zealand postal system. Near this image was a quote from Katango’s lead singer Phil Eversden candidly mentioning that “doing a school show was a quick way to make some cash”. I bet it was, you slimy fucking rat. This new information changed the game. This was no accidental forgetting to send a fan package. This was an organised con job. I started trying to locate the members of the band. All I had to work with was their names. Luckily this cyber-centric information whirlpool we live in is a stalker’s paradise. I started with the drummer Nick Ferneyhough, as he had the weirdest name. Google turned up an article from 2006 NZ Herald’s lifestyle section, in which Nick waxes lyrical about the simple pleasures of having both a house in Remuera and a Chateau in France. Such luxury, possibly aided by savvy investment of my mother’s five dollars. I punched his name into Facebook, sourced his email, and sent him a message. Not wanting to let on that a 30-year cold case was coming back to bite him, I couched my questions in an unassuming discussion of the music scene of the 1980s. When I mentioned the fan club, he said, “I’d forgotten about that. I think one of the fans actually set it up”. This would not be the last I would hear of this mysterious fan. Nick went on, “We really didn’t interact with the fans much at all as far as I remember… I think there were just a few cheesy signed photos given away to club members”. I find it hard to believe that if Katango gave away anything, they would do so for free. After locating one member, it was relatively easy to find the rest. Facebook has the delightfully creepy feature of being able to search within other people’s friends lists. It was through this method that I found Katango’s bass player, Carl Robinson. Carl is currently a fine wine importer living in Japan. Even with the time difference, he kindly scheduled a Skype call so that I could ask him a few questions. I started off easy, knowing that with a click of a button he could leave both the call, and me in the dark, forevermore. Carl seemed to know a lot more about the fan club than Nick. He stated that the club grew quickly, a couple thousand members joining in the first few months. 2000 x $5 = $10,000 — adjusting for inflation that is $31,812.81. If Carl was the mastermind behind the scheme, then converting it into yen would make the amount ¥2,339,449.92 — enough for a house in central Auckland. As I began to ask direct questions about the fan club, I found the plot thickened more than I could have ever dreamed. Carl told me that Katango the band didn’t actually have anything to do with the fan club, and they certainly didn’t see any money from it. Carl didn’t even know that there was a fee to join. Upon learning this information, all my attention focused on this mysterious fan club president. Carl had mentioned her name was Kirsten. He couldn’t recall a last name. I doubt one was ever given. Apparently, this enterprising teeny bopper had contacted the band and asked if she could make a fan club for them. Carl said that she “wrote, published, and sent it out. She was in high school, sixteen at the time I suppose”. I suddenly realised that all my anger towards Katango had been misdirected. They themselves had been duped, by a conniving young lady with a penchant for financial misdemeanour. I made it my objective to find this Kirsten and confront her with her crime. I finished the Skype call with the request that Carl send a bunch of Katango fan paraphernalia to my mother. Carl promised that after 35 years, my mum would finally get her fan package. Securing the goods, I next sought vengeance. After googling the name Kirsten turned up over 100 million results, I decided a more direct approach would be needed. I went back to the basics. Scouring Katango’s Youtube videos for comments. Failing this I searched the name both on Carl and Nick’s Facebook accounts. No dice. Then I remembered my original source: The Audioculture article on Katango. That single article had more information on the band than anywhere else on the internet. I began to scrutinise every line. The article mentioned band managers, venue owners, and local scenesters all by name, but for fan club presidents I was coming up dry. I thought that perhaps the writer of the article, Jon Chapman, possessed the information but didn’t realise the weight of it. I would have to talk to him directly and find out what he knew. Finding him was not so easy. Like myself, Jon Chapman has been cursed by mediocre Anglo-Saxon nomenclature that makes him very hard to find. Linkedin turned up zilch. Facebook had far too many options to go sending out Katango-themed interrogations at random. When I returned to Audioculture, I realised that I had somehow missed the writers section. On it I found Jon Chapman, there was a bio but no links. However, the bio mentioned that he was currently playing in a Dunedin psychedelic rock band called Eye. I found the band on Facebook, chucked them a message, and within a week I was speaking to New Zealand’s foremost authority on 80s teen pop. I could feel the story going cold as I typed the words. Begging Jon Chapman to put me in contact with the people who ran the Katango fan club. His response; “I’m happy to send your email address to Carl (main band member and also fan club runner) … He’s a really nice guy.” I was confused to say the least. I had already spoken to Carl and he had denied all knowledge of the fan club, putting the blame on this mysterious Kirsten. To this, Jon said, “Ah, Paul Eversden told me that Carl ran it with his girlfriend of the time, so that must be Kirsten I suppose”. My jaw dropped. Had Carl lied to me? He certainly knew more about the fan club than anyone else. He certainly had access to the fan club paraphernalia. Did he know I was onto him? Was he trying to cover his tracks? Had I spoken directly to the man who thieved from my mother, and not known it? I pulled myself together for one last question to Jon. I knew that talking to New Zealand’s foremost Katango expert was a one-time opportunity, and I had questions that needed answers. I laid it all on the line, telling Jon about my mother’s five dollars, the adjustments in inflation, the conversation with Nick, my confrontation with Carl, the thousands of people in the fan club all paying 5 dollars, the yen conversion, the mysterious Kirsten who has never been seen or mentioned in the online records… I laid all my research out for Jon in one lengthy, paranoid, and extremely convoluted theory, begging him to attempt to bring the light of sense upon this madness. His response: “Ha! Maybe that’s how they paid for their insanely expensive gear!!” Maybe it is. I have tried on numerous occasions to get in contact with Carl for a final round of questioning, but he has been dodging my Facebook messages, emails, and Skype calls. In my opinion he is probably hurriedly checking New Zealand’s statute of limitations and extradition agreements with Japan. I called my mum. I was dejected that I hadn’t been able to get her what she was owed; A Katango fan pack, and Justice. Both of these things will remain out of reach as long as Carl Robinson stays hidden. My mum lost five dollars. She will never get that (inflation adjusted) $12.35NZD back. But what I hope this story has given her is a sense of closure. No longer will she spend sleepless nights tossing and turning, wondering if her package is at the bottom of a slosh pile of 1980s mail that never got delivered. She will at least know the truth. That her five dollars was thieved by some of the most heartless and conniving bastards to lay their hands upon a synthesiser.

    • Deep Space
      • The Grateful Dead began touring in the mid-1960s, and the fans who dedicatedly followed them around the United States included not only deadheads and groupies, but also volunteer medics. They provided care for music-lovers going through crises, sometimes induced by psychedelic drugs. At concerts and festivals in the US and around the world, groups of caregivers began to provide unique health care for young people on mind-altering substances. A twenty-something on acid who didn’t feel comfortable seeking help from Emergency Services or Security could instead go talk to a kind volunteer in a safe space, hydrate, and talk in private. Many of the organizations founded in the 1960s and 1970s, such as White Bird Clinic, still exist and continue to hold space at big international and American festivals. Psychedelic “harm reduction”, a term often used by such organizations, has been slower to reach New Zealand. Deepspace is a new organization working its way into the Kiwi festival scene. I met Olivia Montgomery, its founder, for lunch during my first full day in Auckland. Olivia is 23, with a practical aesthetic and lively personal energy – she talks fast and enthusiastically about the topics she cares about. Deepspace is a volunteer-run New Zealand initiative that attends festivals and provides a safe space for visitors going through challenging experiences. Olivia’s training manual calls it “a confidential, non-judgemental space where guests who are experiencing difficult emotional and overwhelming situations, often due to unregulated substances, can find respite”. The team was present at three Kiwi festivals in 2017 (Kiwiburn, Eyegum, and Aum) and has two lined up for 2018 so far. Olivia first got the idea to found a New Zealand festival care organization after she saw a similar model at an Australian festival. She visited the tent first as a sober festival-goer, and was impressed with their unbiased drug education, with information about dosage and how to identify substances correctly. “It was the first festival I’d ever been to where they had a space for people going through difficult things,” she said. Later that night she was out with her friends and a guy offered them MDMA, then came back a few minutes after they had taken it to say he had gotten it wrong. “He came back and said it was ketamine, but he said not to worry because if you eat ketamine, it doesn’t work, and then he gave us some real MDMA. So that was some bad harm reduction advice,” she laughed. “I was out on the dance floor feeling really good, then the next minute I was puking, and ended up going to the harm reduction place I had gone to check out sober.” Olivia treated this story as a case in point as to why festival care organizations are needed, along with higher quality drug education. Olivia is still friends with the first sitter who helped her out during that experience, a volunteer with psychedelically multicoloured hair. “So that really started my whole trip with all of this, being a person who needed the care and wanting to pay it forward. That really bad experience turned out to be a really rewarding and educational one.” When Olivia got back to New Zealand and looked for an organization to volunteer with, she couldn’t find any. “I’m not the kind of person that would say, well, the story ends there,” she commented, shrugging. She founded Deepspace not long after. Deepspace takes its inspiration from larger harm reduction organizations that not only insert themselves into festival infrastructure, but also support drug testing, education, and research on substance use and abuse. Olivia volunteered with some American organizations after her Australian experience, such as Zendo, the festival care arm of the Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies (MAPS), going to big American festivals like Burning Man in Nevada. Zendo provides a space for visitors to come sit with a volunteer and/or medic, and provides information on drug effects, dosage, and danger of addiction. When possible, it also provides drug testing services, so that guests can be sure of the real content of whatever substance they have bought or been given. A Kiwi organization called KnowYourStuffNZ has been providing drug tests at some festivals throughout the country over the last three years. During the summer of 2017/2018, approximately one in five of their drug tests (21%) revealed contents that weren’t what the buyer or user had been expecting. Of these, about half were something totally different than what festival-goers thought they had bought (often bath salts), a quarter were laced with a different substance, and the rest were unidentifiable. KnowYourStuffNZ has a growing volunteer force, and has often informally teamed up with Deepspace to cover all aspects of harm reduction at New Zealand festivals. In New Zealand, Deepspace’s mission is to “de-escalate all situations” and provide an alternative to physical medical care and security. Its volunteers “don’t give advice, they are just there to listen and hold space”. A visitor can go and spend time with a volunteer sitter if they are having a challenging experience linked to substance use. This does not usually include alcohol: while Deepspace will take care of anyone who needs it, Olivia took great pains to emphasize that their space is not a place for drunk people to congregate. Of the 67 visitors Deepspace helped over their first three events, the most common substances people reported being on were LSD (17) and MDMA (14), sometimes in combination with other drugs. Ages ranged from 17 to people in their 40s, but guests in their 20s were the most common visitors (about half of those who gave their age). Olivia described what a person can expect to see if they enter the Deepspace area. First, there is “an entrance tent with information and pamphlets about dosage, advice on different experiences, and there are two sitters out front, friendly faces so that people know where to find us. Then we have a courtyard kind of space: you come through our admin space, and then into the courtyard, and then there is a yurt and a beautiful bell tent where we have beds and pillows, spaces to lie down. If someone is really disruptive they can go into one of the more private spaces”. She mentioned that the design of having different areas – the darker yurt, the lofty bell tent, and the outdoor courtyard–was inspired by the uncomfortable layout she encountered during her first experience in a care space in Australia. “Everyone could see everyone which was really scary and intrusive, you could see someone next to you convulsing and someone else freaking out… so we have three main spaces, where people can sit or talk or sleep, with different moods.” Deepspace volunteers are often “health care workers, mental health nurses, and psychiatrists”, and there are usually 20-30 volunteers at a festival with 3-5 people on duty per shift, usually with one roaming the grounds with a radio to see if anyone needs to be brought in. Festival medical and security staff are invited to an introductory briefing so that they know what kinds of help Deepspace can provide, and who to direct there. Olivia has seen drug cultures vary across the different festivals she has attended and worked – in Australia and New Zealand, she sees a serious binge culture when compared with a few longstanding US festivals. In states like Oregon or California, she had friends whose “parents were Deadheads,” had “grown up going to festivals,” and usually knew how to handle themselves on drugs. At New Zealand and Australian festivals, she believes people “romanticise overconsumption”. She said people often “Snapchat their friends gurning (facial distortions often resulting from amphetamines or MDMA) and freaking out, instead of helping them get to medical”. Olivia added that better education was really her biggest mission: “Friends are laughing at their friends going through psychosis instead of helping them – no-one gets drug education in high school, no-one knows what to do. We need a cultural shift to make it cool to be safe and know how to look after your mates. If everyone had a little bit of Deepspace training then Deepspace wouldn’t need to exist, because everyone would be having a safe and supported time.”

    • Digital Militarization: The Rise of the Manosphere
      • The internet has given us communities like we’ve never seen before. But what are the consequences? Katie Meadows investigates. CW: the shit parts of the internet. Discussions of suicide, eating disorder, incels, and Donald Trump. When did you first get the internet? When was the first time you realized you could be whoever you wanted online? What was the first forum where you really felt like you were among like-minded people? Neopets? Bebo? Geocities? Or did you get a little darker? Vampire Freaks? Best Gore? The depths of Fanfiction.net? Being online in the early 2000s was a doozy, but it’s a fully-fledged second world in 2018. Quietly, all this time, corners of the internet were and are being radicalized by the least radical of all: a division of young white men who believe their rights face extinction in a liberal society gone wild. They are known as MRAs (Men’s Rights Activists) and the Alt-Right — and they’re not so quiet anymore, with huge thriving communities on massive platforms like Reddit (aka “the front page of the internet”), and 4chan. Unbeknownst to much of the general (older) population, these sites operate as meeting grounds to mobilize a generation of angry young men, where they plant seeds for infiltrating the wider culture with discord and bigotry. Basically, it’s like if Revenge of the Nerds was real, and they also had guns. It’s terrifying, and it’s spreading rapidly, like a fungus with a neckbeard and a My Little Pony dakimakura. I’ve had plenty of my own brushes with online toxicity. Growing up, I wasn’t allowed internet access in my home until I hit high school. My mother hoped keeping me offline would prevent me from becoming dependent on the World Wide Web; this backfired and it wasn’t long before she’d be charging down the hallway to the lounge at 4am, threatening to unplug the modem if I didn’t get off the computer immediately. I began my first online diary at age 13 on Livejournal. As of 2018 Livejournal is owned by Russia and kept afloat by large groups following K-pop and celebrity gossip. But in my prime years (2005-2009), it was also known for pro-anorexia networks that I fell right into during the throes of my eating disorder. In amongst the hundreds of posts a day of calorie counts, binge regrets, and “inspirational” quotes, I found another poster from New Zealand who lived in Hamilton. She came and stayed with me in Christchurch when I was 15. We ate twice the whole week (sorry mom). After highschool I moved my online diary keeping to Tumblr. My blog became an extension of myself, as it began to deliver more validation than my real life. It was a place to unload my most intrusive thoughts, and I quickly attracted a number of anonymous voyeurs drawn in by my vulnerability, who felt entitled to tell me things like, “I masturbate over your pictures every day,” and “Everyone is waiting for you to kill yourself”. Once, someone told me they talked about me so much that their mother consulted a psychic friend about me. But I had never felt more appreciated, more important, or simply more cool, than when I was posting 20 times a day on my stupid blog. I was in a bubble of people who thought like me and uplifted me for it — when they weren’t trying to crawl into my brain and lay worms inside. At the time I really couldn’t see any fault in this fun hobby that was literally destroying my self-esteem day by day, and misinforming the fuck out of me. These experiences all ended with pretty big wake up calls for me about my privacy, my internet usage, the sources of my information, and how easy it is to get caught up in something that makes you feel important when you didn’t before. But being Extremely Online doesn’t always end with optimistic personal growth. Elliot Rodger, who took 6 lives in a stabbing and shooting spree killing in California in 2014, has become an “incel hero” (incel meaning “involuntary celibate”) after his misogynistic YouTube rants were found after the incident. Alek Minassian, who drove down a busy Toronto street in his van earlier this year and killed 10 people, prefaced his attack with a Facebook post announcing his intent to begin “an incel rebellion”. MRA and Alt-Right communities are not dissimilar in operation to cults. They prey on vulnerabilities, and claim to provide not only a solution to life’s problems but control over those who cause them. Paradoxically, its members pride themselves on being too smart to be manipulated. As soon as these ideals began to leak into the public consciousness through Donald Trump’s campaign and current presidency, these communities became training grounds for the real-time weaponization of pure hatred and resentment. At the forefront of these communities is Reddit’s /r/TheRedPill, a reference to 1999 film The Matrix, where main character Neo is offered the choice of two pills; the blue pill, which will keep him within the blissful ignorance of the simulation that is the Matrix, or the red pill, which will wake him up and force him to exist in the harshness of the real world. In The Red Pill speak, the blue pill represents succumbing to the mainstream “delusion” that men, women, and gender minorities are equal (or that the latter even exist), and the red pill represents waking up to the true nature of women: abominable monsters set on the destruction of men. As an operation, it targets alienated young men who feel disconnected from the expectations of mainstream cis-heteronormative society. It emotionally manipulates them with rhetoric that takes the onus of their behavior and places it onto the unrequited object of their affections. Their emotions then manifest as a deep-seated hatred of women and the desire to wholly dominate them. It describes itself as a forum for “discussion of sexual strategy in a culture increasingly lacking a positive identity for men”, aiming to rescue men who have fallen victim to the women’s rights movement by way of lost job opportunities or sexual harassment allegations, or worse: become emasculated incels. Along with being a “safe space” for men to share tips and personal experiences in their desire to mentally and physically subordinate women, the subreddit also serves as a front page for the Men’s Rights movement online, with a plethora of links to related podcasts and other media for the Alpha male consumer. A browse of the subreddit’s top all-time posts includes: “The most important part of the game is not being emotionally invested”, “Three ways to consciously manipulate women before they subconsciously manipulate you”, and “Now I am become Chad, destroyer of pussy”. The latter is a lament on how the author has apparently implemented The Red Pill’s system for becoming attractive to such success that he now feels depressed instead of triumphant that he can see all women as “lying fucktoys”, a post that inexplicably opens with a Sylvia Plath quote and clocks in at over 4,000 words. You would think that when you end up creating an acronym for when women do not wish to consent to sexual relations with you — LMR, “Last Minute Resistance” — it’s time to seek help for your own behavior, but The Red Pill doubles down on this being the unfortunate — and in their eyes, hopefully reversible — result of a world turned upside-down by the advancement of women’s rights. When respecting those different to you is presented as a weakness and the source of all one’s loneliness, it pushes these men further away from being able to fix their behavior before it is too late, prevents them from finding real meaningful connections in life, and enables the cycle of violence against women and gender minorities out of spite. Along with The Red Pill, /r/TheDonald fall within the movement known as the Alt-Right, a relatively loosely defined group with extremely far-right aligned politics, as held by white nationalists and Holocaust deniers. The Alt-Right is associated with figureheads such as Richard Spencer, a prominent neo-Nazi who was infamously punched in the face after Donald Trump’s inauguration while wearing a Pepe the Frog pin, and Gavin McInnes, former editor of liberal zeitgeist tome Vice Magazine. He now heads a far-right men’s organization known as the Proud Boys. The Proud Boys believe that it is humiliating and emasculating for men to not consume meat or dairy, and disparagingly refer to those who do not consume either as “soy boys”. The Donald, and indeed Donald Trump’s fanbase in general, operates in a similar way to The Red Pill, weaponizing insecurities in those who have always been told they have no need to feel insecure. Reddit’s accessibility, combined with the relative anonymity of the internet, means it can serve as a mainstream forum for such open bigotry more so than the more “underground” 4chan, and has effectively mobilized a legion of young white men, who were otherwise isolated from social networks, to rail against their perceived oppressors. The users of The Donald aim to antagonize and troll the left into self-destruction, while chipping away at their credibility and attempting to infiltrate and build distrust within those communities. Their tactics, fostered within the internet’s original Hellmouth, 4chan, can seem so innocuous that it’s easy to miss their gravitas. An example is 4chan and the Alt-Right’s successful rebranding of illustrator Matt Furie’s friendly character Pepe the Frog to a mascot for white supremacy, akin to a modern day version of the re-appropriation of the swastika by the Nazis (Furie, after an admirable campaign to reclaim Pepe, announced the character’s death in 2017). First launched in 2003, 4chan is a forum modelled on Japanese image boards for discussing otaku and popular culture. It’s entirely anonymous, and its original focus on anime and manga has expanded over time to boards for broader and Western-based topics such as film, music, video games, and NSFW content. The site soon became known as a hub for the propagation of racist and misogynistic memes, encouragement of doxxing (posting personal information of someone online with the intent to direct abuse to them in real life), and uploads of revenge and child pornography. 4chan’s founder Christopher “moot” Poole stepped down from and ceased involvement with the site in 2015, after Gamergate, where several boards including /pol/ (politics), /v/ (video games), and /b/ (“random”), participated in the targeted harassment of women in the gaming industry. Their primary target was developer Zoë Quinn, who was forced to flee her home after being subjected to repeated hacking and doxxing. Many 4chan posters and members of online groups for male-coded hobbies like video games see women and gender minorities as threats to these tight-knit communities, which most of these men do not have in their IRL lives. /pol/ in particular received heavy traffic during the 2016 US Presidential Election, with a general board-wide support of Donald Trump, either for his politics or his role as “the ultimate troll” that embodied 4chan’s ideals of societal chaos. /pol/ planned several campaigns of their own during this time that revolved around the infiltration of pro-Clinton groups to disseminate disinformation and distrust; there are rumours that the infamous “Pee Tape” is a hoax of /pol/ origins, operating as a straw man to discredit liberal media and validate Trump’s “fake news” agenda. Along with The Donald, /pol/ was integral to the spread of the officially debunked Pizzagate conspiracy. “Pizzagate” alleged that officials in Hillary Clinton’s campaign were involved in the satanic ritual sexual abuse of children, operating out of a pizza restaurant, Comet Ping Pong, in Washington, DC. In 2016 a man was apprehended in Comet Ping Pong after firing a rifle, after he had travelled from North Carolina to investigate the conspiracy for himself. Since their inception, online MRA and Alt-Right communities have escalated in confidence of their bigotry and their threats of violence — and Donald Trump’s presidency and his propagation of such open hatred only fuels these young men in their behavior. But all is not lost. For every cry of “soy boy Beta cuck” on one subreddit, there will be a young person learning the grassroots of intersectional feminism on another. Like humanity itself, the internet is constantly growing and expanding, and we the user have the power to use this tool for the positive, and brave through the nuclear winter of viral misogyny. While even in New Zealand we suffer the consequences of President Donald Trump, it is important to remember the words of First Lady Michelle Obama: when they go low, we go high — with a little sprinkle of cathartic roasting of these nerds on the Twitter timeline, which I can’t directly quote Michelle Obama on. The internet is an incredibly valuable resource for humanity, in giving a voice and a platform to those who have historically not held those things, and should be providing multitudes of diverse, positive, and informative communities all over the world. We simply can’t let that space be used to unite literal fucking Nazis in 2018.

    • What’s the Tea?
      • My mother’s favourite saying is, “I’m gasping for a cuppa tea!” This usually means she’s had a very long and stressful day, and can’t wait for the warmth of a steaming mug of English Breakfast in her hands to mimic the feeling of human contact, without the annoyance of said human contact. However, I have also witnessed her wake up from a three hour nap and announce that she is, still, “gasping for a cuppa!” So there goes that theory. There are hundreds of teas available to consumers all around the world. It’s drunk on every continent (including Antarctica!). But nobody knows the exact origin of tea. The story goes that, 5000 years ago in 2737 BC, Emperor Shen Nung was travelling through China, and being a man far ahead of his time, was very into sanitation. He had stopped to rest and boil water to drink when a gust of wind blew leaves into his water, which changed colour. Shen Nung was a scientific kind of chap, so he experimented, and discovered something pretty tasty. In reality, this leaf-juice was probably far different to what we drink today, because our tea goes through a carefully timed process of cutting and drying before it arrives in our mugs. And the story probably isn’t true, anyway. Tea plants were not common in China until during the Tang dynasty around the year 600 AD, when a lot more plants were found. The Chinese government really encouraged the drinking of tea, as it had apparent health benefits and, of course, made China money. Tea spread to Japan via priests studying in China, who returned and created the Japanese tea ceremony, based on the idea that sitting down and sharing tea can bring peace between people. And honestly, I feel a lot less grumpy with my mother if she brings me a cuppa. Extra points if there’s a Gingernut. Tea slowly spread all over the world, and today is iconically British. In fact, tea only arrived in Britain in the 17th century, brought to England by the Dutch, who got it from the Portuguese during the Dutch-Portuguese War. The four main producers of tea today are China, India, Kenya, and Sri Lanka. Almost all tea is harvested by hand twice a year, first in early spring, and again in summer. The plants must be cared for and pruned all year round, but when it comes to picking, only the two top leaves and the bud from each plant are harvested. The tea you drink is probably from a plant that has been thriving for years. The picked leaves are taken to a factory on the plantation. It has to be close, as oxidation starts right away, which can affect the taste of the tea. Different teas often have differing levels of oxidation. Here’s a twist: black, green, oolong (actually pronounced “woo-long”), and the rare white tea are all from the same plant: Camellia Sinensis, otherwise known as the tea bush. Different varieties of tea are determined by how the tea is picked and processed. Some teas have things added, like Earl Grey, which is black tea mixed with the essential oil of bergamot orange. Black tea is the most popular, and counts for 75% of all tea production. It is picked, cut, and then dried, during which it turns from green to the familiar reddish-brown. Green tea uses much the same process, but is steamed instead of dried. This stops the oxidation process, which is the stage which turns the leaves brown, which is why green tea stays green. Oolong tea, which is more common in Asian countries than Western, falls between black and green, and is oxidised and then steamed, too. White tea, which has only been available outside of China for a few years, is only picked two days out of the year, before the buds are open. It’s then processed in a similar way to green tea. Despite the name, herbal teas are not tea, as they contain no tea leaves and are actually just steeped herbs or fruit. Surprisingly, chai is tea, and is made from spices mixed with black tea. The recent darling of the health food industry (apart from kale, and fuck kale) is matcha. This is simply green tea ground down, usually by hand, to a fine powder. The tea bushes are covered from sunlight in the 20 days before harvest, so the plants produce more chlorophyll (if you recall Year 12 biology), and thus more of the amino acid, L-Theanine, which is thought to promote relaxation. The health benefits of tea are general knowledge, but surprisingly lack evidence. Green tea especially is high in antioxidants, which we assume are super good for us. This is based on the idea of antioxidants fight free radicals in our bodies. Free radicals are little oxygen molecules floating around trying to rip other oxygen molecules away from our body’s existing atoms to become stable (Year 13 chem, anyone?). According to the free radical theory of aging, our body wears down due to this cellular destruction, and antioxidants were meant to provide spare oxygen molecules for the free radicals to steal. Free radicals are a real thing, but antioxidants have recently come under debate. Experiments on genetically modified mice have shown that mice who are altered to have less susceptibility to free radicals do not actually live longer than normal, and national regulatory agencies like the FDA are now taking a skeptical view of unsupported claims in their nutrition recommendations. Despite the current uncertainty around whether or not antioxidants are as good as they’re made out to be by companies trying to sell us things, it is scientifically agreed that, at least, they shouldn’t hurt you. We can’t explain it, but historically tea is correlated with benefits such as lower blood pressure and less risk of heart disease. But perhaps people who drink tea just generally live healthier lives? Hey, better safe than sorry. No matter the health benefits of tea, it is generally agreed, as my mother has clearly figured out, that tea works as a refresher, a relaxor, and a comforter. It’s my go-to in almost every situation. Studying? Cup of tea. Bad day? Cup of tea. Friend’s boyfriend cheated on her? Cup of tea. Hot or cold, milk or sugar, tea is there for us. And thanks Mum, I will take another Gingernut with that. • Coffee contains 80-120 mg of caffeine per mug. A mug of black tea has 20-60mg • New Zealand consumed 1.19kg of tea per capita in 2016, making us the 6th highest consuming country • Turkey was number 1 with 3.16kg • China, surprisingly, was only 19th

    • Daphne Commons
      • Meet Daphne Commons. She’s your typical student, bright and bubbly and excited to see the world. She’s studying abroad, trying to get her diploma in massage therapy, worrying about passing her exams and getting good grades, and which hot young doctor she could go out with. Oh, and also World War One’s going on. No, this isn’t some shitty blurb for a YA novel. Daphne actually existed. She lived through World War One, volunteering and studying while also taking care of sick and wounded soldiers at the No. 1 New Zealand General Hospital, Brockenhurst, England. We know all of this because she wrote it down. She sent letters to her family every week of the war, sometimes more than once a week. And National Libraries has every single letter. Now, unless you’re a major history nerd like me, you’re probably thinking “Oh, ok. So what?” which, like, fair. But it’s a pretty huge deal for us to have this wealth of archival goodness, especially from a period of time where losing a letter in the postal service was so common that people often repeated themselves in letters, just in case. So picture it. Here’s this woman, she’s just turned 32, and she’s just graduated from nursing school with grades so good she gets a fancy medal. She was officially working as an entry level nurse at Auckland Hospital. To progress further, she would have to study while working full time. And on top of all this, I remind you, the world is at war for the first time ever. So what’s an unmarried patriotic lady to do? Sign up, obviously. Daphne was sent to Cairo with a brigade of 50 other volunteer nurses, as part of the New Zealand Army Nursing Service (NZAS). This service was only open to unmarried women, by the way. The reason? They didn’t want any mothers to die and abandon their kids at home. Yeah, I know this is a bit gruesome to read while you’re pretending to pay attention to your lecture, but you chose to read Salient during class time, my dude. You signed up for this. The NZAS were deployed to Cairo in 1915, during which time Daphne was mentioned by name several times in newspapers in NZ. I like to think it’s because of her excellent gossiping skills, but likely it was due to her brilliant nursing abilities. It was also probably to encourage more single ladies to volunteer, because it wasn’t like they could do conscription for the nursing service. Between her daily tasks as a nurse and her (rather limited) social life, Daphne continued studying her specialisation in massage therapy. She was taught by her matron and senior medical staff at the hospital where she worked or at the nurses’ residence. Daphne was occasionally seconded to other hospitals while on deployment, to get experience with specialist cases such as infantile paralysis. Her hard work and busy life did not go unnoticed, and prior to her move in 1916 she was promoted from “nurse” to “sister”, an enviable rank for female medical staff. Daphne moved to England in 1916, which is where she remained until 1919, when she finally returned home. She made a life in the small village of Brockenhurst, often wondering where she’d end up after the war. She wanted to return to Auckland, but there was a rumour her class would end up in Rotorua, which she was super less than pleased with. Daphne wrote about the war, because, well, duh. She couldn’t escape from it. She also wrote about all the hot gossip. All of it. From the mildly interesting to the straight up Tea, Daphne knew it all, and wrote home about it. She even knew what was going on at home, thanks to her mum replying in kind. She wrote about news, and her friends, her classes, even her quick holiday she took with friends to “study” in peace at a spa resort. Which, same, Daphne. Same. She also wrote about worrying whether she passed the written part of her exam on musculature, but then mentioning that she did great on the practical so that probably pulled her grade up, right? Which honestly, have you ever been a student if you haven’t tried to work out the minimum grade you needed in the exam to pass the course? Reading Daphne’s letters is really intimate. You’re peeking in on the day to day life of someone you’ve never even met, sort of like reading their diary. She wrote about pleasant gossip a lot, probably because all around her she was seeing the worst side of humanity. But it’s really refreshing to get this take on the war that isn’t *blood death gore horror* non-stop. It’s her talking about things like what she’s going to do for Christmas, in October of 1918, and wondering if the war will be over by the following Christmas. She didn’t know what was going to happen, at all. Which makes finding her November 10th 1918 letter so excellent. “When I wrote last week I knew things were going well, but still I did not think they would be quite so near the end today. It seems almost certain that Germany will sign the armistice by tomorrow – even if not she will have to do so very soon… I can just imagine how grateful all of you at home are feeling, even though there is a difficult time ahead, and peace will bring with it any problems.” And truly, the time was full of many problems for Daphne, as two paragraphs later, we see this gem of a topic shift: “I am sorry I am trying for these two exams together, though of course if by any happy chance I get through I shall be very glad. I really have not time to work properly for both and when I am at my electricity feel I ought to be at the anatomy, and when I am at the anatomy, feel I am neglecting the electricity.” Mood. Daphne Commons went on to receive her massage therapy diploma in 1921 back in Auckland. She continued working as a nurse after the war until her retirement and eventual death in 1968. Daphne’s November 10 letter is on display at the Alexander Turnbull Gallery, Level One of National Library, in an exhibition entitled “Goodbye to All That: Armistice 1918” developed in conjunction with VUW postgraduate students from the Museum and Heritage Studies programme. Lenette Breytenbach is a postgraduate student pursuing a masters degree in Museum and Heritage Practice in the school of Art History.

    • Koridor
      • On the wall outside my sister’s room, there’s a painting that looks like a cross between a coffee table and a penis. It’s a flesh coloured shape on a black background, with little veiny oil paint wrinkles. I can remember Bill asking me what I thought the painting was of, though I can’t remember what I told him. All my memories of him from them are hazy. I don’t think I really saw him as a person yet. He was more of a hero; everything I knew about him was coated in mystery and awe. I knew that he spent most of his days painting. I knew that my parents valued his friendship so much that they’d pay him to garden, just to keep him round the house all weekend. I knew he was my godfather, or whatever the atheist equivalent was. This was all a long time ago, before his girlfriend got jealous of our family dynamic and stole him away to Auckland, leaving the penis painting as one of the many pieces of him for me to put together. The rest of those pieces were strewn across Wellington. Midnight Espresso, his old hangout. The various tiny apartments that doubled as studios. The American Embassy where he got arrested trying to take some photos for the National Library. Wellington was his city, but he wasn’t here to live in it, and that was all Debbie’s fault. Why else would he have stayed in Auckland if not for her seduction? Auckland was the city of traffic jams and rich people. It was single-handedly responsible for the continued influence of the ACT party. At the start of 2018 I went with a couple of friends to Auckland to see The National perform. I was also booked to see LCD Soundsystem, and my opinion of Auckland was further cemented when they cancelled due to “conflicts”. As my friends were boring “go up late and leave early” people, and I had an extra day to kill because of the Auckland Aura’s effect on James Murphy, so I sent Bill an email. I was shocked when I got a reply. My parents had always had an incredibly difficult time contacting him, and most of the times we’d seen him since he’d left had been when he’d pop in at 8am without warning. Supposedly Debbie was so evil that he had to sneak off to visit us without her knowing. I set a time to meet up at Real Groovy, remembering stories my parents had told me of how he used to spend what little money he had on CDs at the now dead Wellington store, burn them and then return them for half of what he paid. So, we met up. And he was everything I had hoped. I didn’t get an earth-shattering realisation about the nature of humanity. He lived up to every expectation I had, and I didn’t leave feeling that love was a lie or that dreams were fake. All that changed was that I understood why he was still in Auckland. I had spent a couple of hours wandering through Papatoetoe that weekend, and I saw a lot. I saw a missing persons sign. I visited the world’s most depressing New World. I saw a group of Jehovah’s Witnesses preying on people. It took me a while to realise that I’d ended up in the mythical “South Auckland”. I’d been raised my whole life alongside upper-middle class Khandallah kids saying “at least it’s not as a bad as South Auckland” about places like Porirua or the Hutt. While my older, hyper-liberal brain would never admit it, some part of my subconscious was shocked to find that “South Auckland” was a normal place, with normal people. Bill described Papatoetoe to me as one of Auckland’s “Eight Newtowns”. Bill’s Auckland is one of raw culture and wealth inequality. It’s the second most multicultural city in the world, where one suburb can be almost completely dominated by one race and the neighbouring one filled with another. It’s a city that could’ve just as easily birthed a penis coffee table as Wellington. We email a lot now, and he talks a lot about Auckland. He described to me the other day how he can see the estuary where “Obama and John Kee-Wee” played golf from his window. I thought about the missing persons poster, and I thought about how Midnight Espresso is kept afloat by upper middle class white Gen Xers buying scones — and I knew that Auckland was more Bill’s city then Wellington would ever be.

    • Where I Came From
      • Turn off that radio I can’t hear myself above the drums of flava 106 I want to tell you about where I came from Specifically: Karamea St, the “nice end of Spotswood” (We weren’t part of a suburb till 2008 when the new subdivision came in and we were officially Whaler’s Gate, before that Mum addressed everything with “Barrett’s Farm”, a place that only she knew existed Named after Dicky Barrett, a whaler who helped the Te Atiawa Hapu defeat a war party from the Waikato and Ngati Maniapoto led by the feared Te Wherowhero) But I’m getting distracted — Karamea St nonetheless Raised up between Mt Taranaki, where a dumbass church group saw fit to take a barbecue to the summit then complain when the local hapu pointed out the spot was tapu, And Maungaroa, where the Ahi Kaa still burns Follow the tyre tracks along the tarseal (I saw my first police chase aged 14 and the car crashed into the house on the corner and it was the third car the cop had written off in a month and I used to love dogs but gee whiz the police German Shepherd was a scary pooch) And when you get to the fence that was once so bedraggled with moss and mould my friends Mum thought it was green, you’ll reach my whare. There’s a bus stop directly opposite but I wouldn’t have a clue when it comes No one catches the bus in New Plymouth apart from the people who don’t have cars And everyone in New Plymouth has a car So be careful of the people on the bus They have the bum bags all the hipsters in Wellington wear to be cool Except they had them in 2003 and they bought them from the $2 shop. Hop off the bus at Spotswood College It’s got a basketball court; I can grab the rim, want to see? Come down the road with me, past the bros having a boxing match in the front yard with cricket helmets for headgear and step past the dirt bike parked on the berm We get our takeaways from Windy Point, it’s our local 5:00pm Dad calls, he says “hello, what kind of fish do you have tonight?” (As soon as he says this they know it’s him, who else opens up a phone call with this?) He’s from Southland, he knows his fish (hot tip, gurnard is best fresh but if you can only get frozen get snapper, it holds its flavour better) He’d like 4 pieces, crumbed please, and 2 scoops of chips And he’ll pick that up at 5 to 6, he says. We pick it up at 5 to 6 And when I got old enough to drive I would blast RnB all the way down the road, window down and pink sky dappled across the 1999 Nissan Maxima windscreen Brush through the ribbon curtains and there’s the NZ fish species poster on the wall If your fish and chip shop doesn’t have this poster you need to leave straight away I cannot stress this enough But with that being said stick to the tried and true favourites on the menu. My friend tried ordering a quarter chicken and it had been in the deep fryer so long it was blacker than the sand, which is very black Iron sand The rule of thumb for the egg foo young is: don’t order the egg foo young. Across the road from Windy Point someone got stabbed around 2008 Gang disputes Except he wasn’t even patched But it’s a blue sea over here so don’t bark or wear the bulldog. We read about it in Crimes 214 at Law School It’s a funny thing when your community is distilled into course materials for the countrys creme de la creme to read Mens rea, actus reus and all that The judges and lawyers didn’t talk about Blagdon, about Windy Point, Or the fish and chip shop, for that matter. But if you take a left at Windy Point you come to Ngamotu Beach, the port And if I say so myself an unbeatable view on a good day, but don’t go down the western end cause there’s a pipe there that smells like sin It’s a great place for a picnic, better spot to take your year 10 crush Even better to get in fights under the Norfolk Pines, black eyes with a seaview. West again of the Port is Back Beach, where I got the best waves of my life, honest where I nearly drowned surfing one summer cause I wanted to be skux and wear a t shirt which got stuck over my head under water and I got held down for three waves and I started to black out Where my car got broken into and my wallet and phone got raxxed $20 and a cracked iPhone 4s I still park there, that’s just Back Beach. And if you carry on the road and turn left through the cornfield Along the worn tar-seal, blackened thickly with skid tracks Back along Barrett’s Road where my sister and I used to deliver magazines But only to the flash streets with flash houses, per the instructions of the editor You are back home, where I never really leave and a part of me will always be in my single bed and the security light I broke playing basketball, layups half illuminated in the dying light Where I will always return to, like its 2010, walking home with wet feet in wet sandals, half the school field on my legs as Mum would say I’ll wake up to tui warbling and that bastard down the road mowing his lawns again, before 10am (the accepted time in the unspoken neighbourhood agreement) Spotswood ‘till 6 feet. And though the paddocks are subdivided, the pylon hiding behind flash houses and driveways neatly laden with gravel and smooth asphalt, Spotswood never changes; the weary characters weaving their bikes along Endeavour St as I drive to Windy Point Takeaways and the matte-finished V8s on the grass berm just waiting for a gearbox rebuild have been here forever So as I push through the ribbon curtains, dodge the barefoot children at the end of their mother’s tempers and see the red sky I know it’s going to be a good day tomorrow (red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning, red sky at night, shepherd’s delight) I’m back home.

    • A Survival Story
      • CW: Child abuse, sexual violence I don’t really remember the night I was sexually abused. Oh, I remember bits and pieces. I remember my dad sliding a glass of wine across the table, imploring me to drink it. I remember his drunken gaze, lewd smile, his body gently swaying back and forth in tipsy anticipation. I remember his words — key phrases that haunted me for years, through every sexual experience I’ve ever had: “Your mother was promiscuous before she met me. I’ve always wanted a virgin. If you give it to someone else I’ll understand but I’ll be disappointed. You’ll make an old man very happy.” It felt like someone stabbing me in my gut — the worst pain I’d ever felt in my life. I remember telling myself to be brave, and see the night through — things would be better the sooner we all forgot. What I didn’t realise was that there were things I would never forget. But so many more things that I would never quite remember. But this isn’t a story about sexual abuse — what I want to share is a story about stories. Introduction I’d always been a daddy’s girl, desperate to please him and earn his attention. But as a man from Southeast Asia, he was culturally difficult to please. Words of affection did not come easy to him, so whether he intended it or not, it felt like his love had to be earned. I topped my class academically, learned to play several instruments, and was happily trotted out as his show-pony on more than one occasion, all under the understanding that I was his world, and he would protect me. So when he did what he did, both our worlds shattered. He hurt the one person he loved most, and I subconsciously decided that if my father could destroy me as he did, I must have been unworthy of love and protection. So begins the story of the end of my family. We didn’t know it then, of course. We were too busy writing other stories, ones that would allow us to go back to the happy-family ideal we’d lived before. These stories would cloud the truth and create rifts between us for years and years. Conflict As soon as my mother found out, she kicked my father out of the house. But divorce was out of the question — you don’t do that in our culture. Nor are men allowed to ask for help. So he went to live at a relative’s place, licking his wounds and denying his actions, while mum tried to put things back together. Keep daughter away from father, keep sons in the dark, let space and time heal what’s been broken, and then we’ll be a family again. But that narrative conflicted with other stories that were being written at the same time — my dad’s, the rest of the family, and mine. Villains? Dad felt he’d been cast out unfairly — yes he’d transgressed, but was what he did so bad that we couldn’t work it out? He sent us angry emails, trying to manipulate his way back into his rightful place. The extended family were placed in the position of mediators and counselors. They tried to support my mum in her quest to keep things together, but this sometimes turned to putting the blame on me. Their story was that I was being unfair, even petty, in my desperation to keep myself away from him. “You’re tearing this family apart,” one aunt told me, crying. “Is it really that big of a deal?” another asked. “Can you not let him come home, and work it out?” a wise uncle posited. Meanwhile, I was desperately telling myself my own story, about resilience and duty. I told myself that I had to stay away from my father, but be strong, and I would be completely fine. All the tears, all the breakdowns, they were all overreactions — quash those, and I would save my family. The Climax Mum told me to tell myself every morning that the day would be a good day, and it would be. So I did, every single day, for three years. And I believed they were good days, until my friends pointed out that I was actually fucking miserable and sent me to counselling. To my surprise, I was diagnosed with PTSD, severe depression, and anxiety. I had tried to control the truth by pretending I was okay, and I had failed. My narrative of strength was shattered. But my family still refused to take my problems seriously. It was all in my head, my life was wonderful, why was I ruining everything with my complaining? That was their story, and they stuck to it for years and years. I use the word story, not perception, because it wasn’t that they couldn’t see the truth, it was just that it was easiest not to. My extended family often told me how wonderful my dad was, how he’d just made one mistake, and that I was lucky to be his daughter. Despite knowing and feeling the effects of that traumatic night, their narrative overwhelmed my truth, and I began to doubt myself. I thought I’d been reasonable in protecting myself from my abuser, but maybe I’d really been selfish. After all, I wasn’t the only one suffering — my brothers had suffered too, although they didn’t know what had happened. Their version of events was that Dad had yelled at me one night, and I had thrown a hissy fit and demanded that the family break up. They resented me, and I felt it. That added to my guilt. And oh dear lord, did I feel guilty. My parent’s marriage was ruined, my dad was contemplating suicide, and it was all my fault. If only I’d kept my mouth shut. If only I’d been stronger. Any self-confidence I’d had was decimated in the conviction that my dad had abused me because I deserved to be abused. I suffered from depression and anxiety because I deserved to. So a new story was cemented, and it was a doozy. I was useless, not worth loving, a waste of space. I sought out romantic relationship after romantic relationship, in a desperate attempt to prove my worth — and it all blew up in my face. University went downhill — I went from being a mostly A student, to flunking out. I punished myself mentally for failing, failing, failing. Where were the dreams I’d had as a little girl? My whole life I’d been told I was smart, and here I was being trash. I would curl up in bed day after day and dream about who I could have been had nothing ever happened, and then blame myself for not being her. I was isolated and lonely, with no confidence, no self-esteem, no prospects. The desperation I’d once felt to earn my dad’s approval turned towards other people — I would go out of my way to please everyone around me, and if they ever expressed ire for whatever reason, I would cower and cry. Like a puppy. It was exhausting. But. I. Deserved. It. Redemption Arc One day, I was in the car with my dad, and we were having an argument. I could feel my anxiety starting up, so I asked him to stop the car so I could get some fresh air. He refused. I asked again. He refused again. I raised my voice and demanded that he stop the car. He stopped the car, let me out, and drove off. In that moment, I realised that my dad would never be able to make up for what he’d done. I’d stuck around for years and prayed that if I proved my dedication, I’d be taken care of in return. But that wasn’t fair — it was expecting too much of a tired man with his own heavy burdens. It was time for me to stop blaming him and start supporting myself. I decided to make a fresh start. I changed my name, changed my phone number, and vowed to rebuild myself into a person I could be proud of. Every story has a redemption arc, and this would be mine — I would become a survivor, and like every other survivor I’ve ever read about, I would become famous and secure and finally feel worthy of my life. I put together a plan — work hard, ace uni, start a career that would catapult me quickly towards stardom, earn enough money that I would never have to live with my father ever again, and shine so brightly I could never be invisible. I filled page after page in my diary with inspirational rhetoric, plans and to-do lists. I joined a gym, fired up my CV, vowed to eat healthy and get the appropriate amount of sleep. My writing was my key to success — I was destined to become a big name in the literary world, and my debut novel was bound to be a smash hit. I was going to prove to everyone once and for all that I was worthy of everything I’d had to give up — my family, protection, respect, love, admiration. The Truth And now, here I sit, in mediocrity, a sixth year student of a four year degree. I’m overweight. I never wrote my novel — I never really started. An empty bottle of Pepsi next to me accuses me of not taking better care of myself. It’s getting dark outside quickly, and I realise that I have to go to a pub quiz in about an hour, which my team will most definitely lose despite our best efforts. But I am so fucking happy. I haven’t redeemed myself, but the potential gives me hope. Now, I live day by day, and look to the future, because the past is blurry, fragmented, and convoluted. Whatever I think of my father, I don’t know the truth — only he knows what drove him to do what he did, and maybe he’ll never be able to tell me why. How can I tell the story of us with only half the picture? And stories change, with time and distance. The same aunts and uncles, who once told me I was being selfish, began to tell me that I was strong. An aunt once told me she admired me for isolating myself, after she had to isolate herself, because the family’s narrative machine had bulldozed us both. Another said that had she been in my mother’s place, she would have called CYFS. After years of being told I wasn’t important, that I was overreacting, the acknowledgement of my struggle was a massive relief. To this day, my personal version of our story remains hazy and genre defying. Some days, I see it as a tragedy. On other days, it’s a Victorian-esque bildungsroman. Some days, it’s all my fault. On others, my father takes all the blame. Trying to shoehorn life into a single narrative is like trying to hold water in our hands — somewhat futile, but how else do we drink? Stories can help us, or hinder us. But our greatest hope lies in our ability to rewrite them.

    • Dirty Porn, Clean Morals
      • CW: discussion of pornography, underage sex, BDSM, assault As I lay in bed with the lights dimmed, my phone on incognito mode, a vibrator in my hand, and a video playing on my screen entitled “Bound teen in fishnets teased with vibrator, fingered, denied orgasm”, I can’t help but feel a strange mixture of arousal and shame. The age-old debate as to whether it is possible to be a feminist and watch porn is still very relevant today, especially in a world where porn is getting increasingly more accessible and more violent. We are finally moving away from the preconceived notion that watching porn is something that only men do, and the dichotomy between the merits or dangers of porn becomes even more pronounced. Growing up in a strict Christian household filled with sexual repression, I was always subconsciously afraid of the scary world of porn, but even as I grew away from that I couldn’t shake the feeling that what I was watching wasn’t aligning with my ethics and ideals. It almost feels hypocritical to advocate for liberation of women and then to go home and watch a video of women being gangbanged, gagged, and tied up for the pleasure of men. Is it possible to watch porn that aligns with feminist ideals and beliefs, even porn that is degrading to women? “Refuse To Date Men Who Watch Porn” is a Facebook page with a cult following that I was jokingly added to last year. This page is a breeding ground for the hivemind view that porn is inherently evil and detrimental to all and those who watch it are the spawn of Satan. Whenever posts from the page popped up on my feed my reaction was divided. Usually I was in awe of the radical nature of the page and how extreme most of the views were but at times, I did genuinely stop and think just how damaging porn could be, to those both consuming it and those taking part in it. The porn industry is dominated by men and made almost exclusively for men. It is a global $97 billion dollar industry, where profit is the main priority. In a way it seems as if the porn industry has been overlooked when it comes to exposing sexual misconduct in the workplace. It’s almost as if being a porn star means that you aren’t capable of being raped or sexually assaulted because it’s “what you signed up for”. The power imbalances acted out in scenes may spill over into the way women are treated once the cameras are turned off. Hot Girls Wanted is a 2015 Netflix documentary which follows the lives of young girls in the amateur porn industry. The “shelf life” for these girls range from a couple months to a year, if they are lucky. This is mainly due to the increasing demand for the “teen” genre of porn, where girls are expected to look virginal and preadolescent. Even though consensuality is usually made clear in many pornographic videos, there are malignant undercurrents that go unchallenged behind the scenes to create toxic environments for the performers. One girl is shown agreeing to film a scene that clearly makes her very uncomfortable — a forced blowjob scene that she wasn’t told about beforehand. Even though she is not explicitly made to do it, she does it in fear of being labelled as “difficult”, which could sabotage her chances of working. These girls are viewed as disposable — there are plenty of younger and more naïve girls wanting to make it big in the porn industry who wouldn’t question what they are told to do. Anti-porn advocates have voiced the fear that porn creates unrealistic expectations about sex, which can have countless detrimental effects. Journalist Chris Hedges comments on how porn does not promote intimacy or sex, it promotes masturbation, getting off at someone else’s expense. “Porn, which advertises itself as sex, is a bizarre, bleached pantomime of sex. The acts onscreen are beyond human endurance. The scenarios are absurd. The manicured and groomed bodies, the huge artificial breasts, the pouting oversized lips, the erections that never go down, and the sculpted bodies are unreal.” Now that new generations are being exposed to the internet practically from birth and given an iPad to keep them entertained for hours, the power of online porn seems even more pervasive. A 2010 survey of 14-16 year olds found that one third claimed that their first exposure to internet porn was at 10 years old or younger. There are many studies which examine the negative impacts of pornography, especially on teenagers, many asserting that porn can increase violent attitudes, unrealistic and unhealthy expectations, and maladaptive behaviours. These factors are certainly vital to the conversation around the effects of porn, especially from a feminist perspective. Feminist porn seeks to change the face of porn. It’s a growing genre where we see women not being victims of the industry, and not needing to be “saved” from the evils of porn. It also works to turn the dominant images of porn on its head by creating its own iconography. It seeks to challenge ideas around beauty, pleasure, and power. It argues that it is possible to empower those who make and watch porn. Just as we should make conscious and thoughtful decisions about the clothes on our backs and the food we consume, we can also do the same with the porn we watch. Navigating around the internet, you can find sites and genres of porn that could be considered “ethical” or “feminist” porn, without having to sacrifice your kinks, fetishes, or preferences. Erika Lust, a trailblazer for the feminist porn movement, is well known for producing short pornographic films that are based off of crowd-sourced stories. For her, “the sex can be dirty, but the values have to be clean”. XConfessions allows viewers to see their own fantasies being made into films where performers are being paid a fair salary, being treated with respect, and having their approval, well-being, and safety valued. Make Love Not Porn is a user-generated crowdsourced website where everyday people can share videos of themselves having sex. Users rent and stream the videos as opposed to download, which gives the performers freedom to decide when/if they want the videos to be taken down. Created as a response to the fear that mainstream porn is skewing the way people view their own sexuaility, the website helps to change the representations of how sex is portrayed in porn, and even in the media. The fact that Make Love Not Porn is not free may be a turn off for some, especially when there are other options that don’t make a dent in our bank account. If you are wanting something that is more readily available and accessible, there there are sites which could still be classified as feminist porn, including Sssh.com, CrashPadSeries and Tumblr pages like award-winning Lady Cheeky. Porn has been lumped into a huge homogenous category of being damaging, violent, and unrealistic, especially to women, but there are strides taken by female pornographers to change both the way people consume porn and also how people talk about it. Instead of feeling like you are contributing to the detrimental decline of society by going on Pornhub, you can feel assured that there are plenty of avenues to consume porn and still get off in a way that doesn’t create damaging attitudes and beliefs about sex, and in particular our view on women, femininity, and sexuality. Porn goes hand in hand with sexual exploration, which can ultimately lead to sexual liberation. You can get to know what turns you on and off in the safe and comforting environment of your own bedroom. Like many other women, I had my first orgasm by myself, with the help of porn. We live in a world where it is shameful, especially for women, to be completely candid and vulnerable about topics like sex, masturbation, and pornography. Porn is still largely unknown terrain for me. It was never something that was freely talked about growing up, with family or friends alike. My parents have always been conservatively tight-lipped about the less than holy aspects of the world. If sex was talked about, it was described in a non-confronting, non-committal, joking manner.Only in the past couple years have I gained enough sexual agency and courage — or maybe just curiosity — to explore the online world of porn, ranging from tumblr sites, erotic stories, to hardcore BDSM on Pornhub. With the encouragement of my sexually liberated friends, and Instagram accounts like UnboundBabes, I’ve bought myself a pink vibrator that always comes in handy when I am horny or bored (or both). I’d like to say that I am a saint when it comes to my porn choices and I am free of unhealthy habits. Some days I actively search for porn that comes from a source that I could deem as progressive or feminist or ethically clean, but other days I have my go to video that I know will satisfy my immediate needs but may not satisfy my need to maintain integrity or to make good decisions. I am probably not qualified to give anyone advice on how to navigate the complex world of porn, pleasure, feminism, and the potential consequences that arise from it, especially when I realise how much more there is to learn about myself and my place in the world. I still watch porn, even after wrestling with a strange mixture of unsettling emotions. I’m not sure if that’s because I have no self control, or I believe that it is possible to watch porn in a way that doesn’t fully go against what you believe is right and good and true. I’m still figuring that out.

    • Check On It
      • When it comes to sex, pretty much all of us have heard the word consent thrown around a lot in the last five years or so. But, due to inadequate and abstinence-focused NZ sex education (#eyeroll), all we may have picked up about it is that it’s a “thing” and that it’s probably important. But what actually is it? How does it work? And how do you practice it without totally ruining the mood? For a lot of people, especially those who are new to sex or who had upbringings where sex wasn’t freely discussed, questions surrounding consent can be scary to ask – especially if it’s something your friends all think you should “just know”. The problem here is that if no one feels comfortable to have these conversations, and we’re not being given mandatory education about it, the messages about consent and how to practice it can easily get lost. And so, despite the best of intentions, people can fail to engage in healthy consent practices in sex – often simply because we don’t understand, and it all seems too confusing. So, to help us all out, I’m going to run you through the basic ins and outs of consent. And to help make it easy to make sense of and remember (and also because I’m a lowkey organisational nerd), I’ve arranged it into a handy acrostic: C = Compulsory This is a pretty basic one, right? And while I’m pretty sure we all know it, let’s go over it for the sake of being thorough. ALL sex that you have with another person should be consensual. It’s not something you practice just because you don’t want to get accused of rape or you’re trying to impress some liberal hipster with how down you are to be PC. It’s just mandatory. Period. If you don’t practice it, it’s assault. Very simple. Or at the very least, you significantly risk it being assault. And you therefore risk causing all the destruction that comes with that – including potentially a huge amount of emotional pain to the person you should instead be trying to make feel oh so goooood. Which is thoroughly uncool. And definitely not sexy. Every person deserves respect and consideration. And a big part of that is respecting people’s right to have autonomy over their own bodies. They get to decide what they do with it and what’s done to it. So yeah, bit full on there – but that’s just to hammer home how truly vital it is. If you don’t have consent, don’t have sex. No ifs, ands… and certainly no butts. O = Ongoing This is one that people often forget about.Consent is not a one-step tick-box procedure. Consent is an ongoing process which is practiced from the moment you start getting freaky until you’re completely done. Every single stage should be checked up on. It’s not as simple as asking “are you okay with us having sex?” and getting a “yes” in response. It needs to be continuous, from initial questions like “are you okay with me touching you like this?” and “are you comfortable taking your clothes off?” to checking later on: “Is it okay if we have sex?” and “can we try this position I really like?”, all the way to more hardcore questions that might crop up later on down the line like: “Is it okay if I tie you up/scratch you/choke you/use a sex toy/blindfold…” you get the picture. Importantly, this doesn’t just refer to penetrative sex, but any kind of sexual activity: dry humping,fingering, hand jobs, blow jobs… again, you get the picture. In other words, any time you step it up a notch, want to try something out, or do something different, you need to make like Destiny’s Child and “Check On It”. N = Never Assumed Consent should never just be assumed. There is no such thing as “implied consent”. Consent needs to be explicit – either a “Yes” (to whatever sex-related question you are asking) or an explicit statement: “I want to/I want you to…[insert desired super sexy thing here]”. Just so we’re clear, here’s a quick run-down on what doesn’t count as consent: • Being unconscious (I would hope this one’s pretty fucking obvious – and if it’s not: they quite clearly can’t say “yes” if they’re not awake. Like, duh) • Being overly intoxicated (again, pretty fucking obvious – see previous point) • Not saying “No” (this is not the same as saying “Yes” people! It’s more like a “no comment” – you can’t be sure what the hell their answer would be!) • Being in a relationship with you (just because you’re together doesn’t mean they’re always DTF when you are) • Having had sex with you before (just because they said “yes” before doesn’t mean they’re always going to be keen) S = Sexy Shocking I know, but consent can actually be pretty damn sexy. It doesn’t have to be some awkward clinical procedure. You don’t have to shake hands or sign a waiver. It’s all about how you do it. Yeah, sure it’s going to be awkward if you’re getting all hot and heavy and then suddenly put the breaks on completely, step back, and formally ask “do you [insert name here] fully consent to me having sexual intercourse with you?” But that’s not the only way to go about it! You can keep doing what it is you’re doing at the time (kissing, touching etc.) and slip it in using a sexy voice or a bit of dirty talk – for example, you could say (putting on your sexy voice) “do you want me to go down on you?” (or whatever it is you want to do to your sexy hot person). And if all they do is nod or moan you can say things like (again, sexy voice here people) “I wanna hear you say yes” or “I wanna hear you ask for it” to make sure you get that clear, sexy, full-on “yes”. Another way to go about it is to start by telling them what you want to do and then asking if they want to do it too. Believe it or not, but it’s actually really hot to hear how much someone is enjoying the sexy stuff you’re doing together and to be told that they’re getting turned on enough to take things further. For example, “you’re getting me so turned on that I really wanna [again, insert desired sexy sex thing here]. Does that sound good to you?” It’s essentially telling them that they’re really attractive and that they’re doing the sexy stuff well! And who doesn’t want that when they’re starting to get it on?! E = Explained Consent needs to be “fully informed”. In other words, the person needs to know what they’re consenting to. Normally, that’s pretty obvious (i.e. most people don’t need the concept of “sex” or a “blow job” explained), but if you’re getting into anything kinky that they might not have heard of, or if they seem like they don’t understand, then you need to make sure they know what it is they’re letting themselves in for. It’s also really important that you’re honest about it. For example, if someone says “yes” to having protected sex with you, and you slip off the condom without telling them, that consent no longer applies. They need to be completely clear and okay with what you’re doing. Otherwise, it’s not consent. N = No is Okay If you ask someone to do something sexual with you and they say “no”, respect that. They have every right to refuse your requests to do things to their body. Don’t go getting angry with them or try to manipulate them into changing their mind. Just accept that they’re not into it, swallow your pride, and move on. You’d want them to do the same for you. On that note, at any point during a sexual encounter, you should always feel as though you are able to say no. Try not to worry about whether you’ll hurt the other person’s feelings or not give them what they want. Just do you. And if doing you means saying no, then do. If the other person isn’t cool with that or behaves disrespectfully about it, then fuck ‘em (figuratively, that is). They’re not worth your time, or your booty. T = Two-Sided Last of all, it’s important to remember that consent goes both ways. You should make sure that they’re okay and that you’re okay. It’s a conversation that should flow reciprocally back and forth. The rights and needs of both people should be respected, and the responsibility of consent should ideally be equally shared between both parties. Bearing that in mind, the only thing you have real control over is you – so start by making sure you’re practicing consent, and show your sexual partners how it’s done. They’ll probably find it hot – or at least they’ll learn a thing or two. Sex should be fun and enjoyable, right? But it should be fun and enjoyable for both parties. That is why consent is so important and so much more than just a formality. It actually makes sex better. You know they’re into it, they know you’re into it, you’re both having a good time, and you both feel respected. And while it may not seem very “chill”, it’ll make your sex hot as hell. So, check on it, people. Check on it goooood.

    • Herpes: You’ve Probably Got it. But That’s Okay
      • CW: gross descriptions *Names and identifying details have been changed for privacy. After ending an intense two-year relationship late last year, being on Tinder and drinking a bottle of wine a night became the usual. Not because I was looking for a rebound or trying to fill a void, but because I was FINALLY single. As time progressed, I spent a majority of any day and night either having sex or thinking about it. Both Tinder and Bumble fuelled my habit of working my daily routine to fit around my “sex schedule” — my number one and only hobby. Earlier this year Tinder seemed to slow down. I was seeing this guy Andreas*, who I met through Bumble, a little more regularly. He was the ultimate guy you’d come across on dating app, the one you’d see and assume the profile was a catfish. Danish, blonde, and obviously good looking; he lived by himself in a brand new studio apartment complex in Mt Vic. The inside looked like a catalogue display from Ikea. He was (almost) the best deal ever. So I began to lose interest in keeping up the hype of getting new dick. Yet, a new opportunity presented itself. Another guy, let’s call him Adam, from my history courses at uni, decided to hit me up after lab one day with a pretty sweet fuck buddy offer. He’s annoyingly vocal, always trying to break the ice with strangers in class (no fucking way I want to talk to strangers in lectures), so I tried to avoid him for as long as I could, but he managed to catch a conversation with me before class one day and from then onwards, my chatterbox side was released. Cue to ending up at my flat where that night was sorted. I always had the STI talk with prospective partners. I was in constant fear of STIs, and I was terrified of herpes in particular. I first learnt of herpes as a teenager — not about the symptoms, or how youcontracted it, just that it was disgusting and stayed with you forever. I was told that people who contracted herpes were dirty and “deserved it”. I woke up one Thursday with insane back pain, and a fever. Immediately, I called Student Health to talk to a nurse, who booked me in to see a doctor later that day. I was told by the doctor that my pain would clear up, and given a doctor’s certificate to excuse myself from work. As someone with multiple deadlines for assignments and tests, the doctor’s treatment of me was extremely disappointing. I had a couple of days off work, but I only got worse. My throat was sore and it was hard to swallow liquids. This may be TMI but when I opened my mouth and looked in the mirror, there was all this green pus on my tonsils and lining the back of my throat. I immediately thought “fuck, this is it, I have strep throat again. Would it be as bad as the last time?” Plus, a shitty ingrown hair down on my labia was really starting to fucking annoy me. I felt like crying, but the lack of energy from all the pain put the pin in that. I called up Student Health again and managed to get a last minute appointment for the following day. The morning leading up to the appointment I noticed that my ingrown hair seemed a little weird. The white on the sore I had assumed was pus looked like an ulcer, one you’d get on the inside of you lip when sick. My first thought was that I had herpes, because it terrifies me the most, but I didn’t want to admit to myself that it was possible. I had been really careful with my sexual partners and didn’t believe that either one could have lied about having an STI. Then again, I had no idea what herpes looks like. When I finally googled “vaginal ulcers” and the top result was “genital herpes”, I felt somewhat close to nothing, except thinking that I had to deal with it. It wasn’t until the doctor, after looking at them and verbally confirming to me I had herpes, that I felt something more. I was in tears. I was exhausted. I felt almost defeated by all the pain. I was frustrated: I now had to live with fucking herpes. I thought, “I’m so fucking low”. I was stupid enough to contract it, it was my fault, and now no one would want to go near me. Feelings of disappointment in myself quickly turned to anger towards Andreas and Adam. Why the absolute fuck would either one, not maybe let me know they got cold sores? I drafted two separate texts, each sensitive to the person, considering Andreas is a 28 year old full-time government worker, and Adam, a 21 year old first year student. Andreas’s response indicated he was very supportive for me and aware of how HSV-1 transmits but stated that no, he didn’t get cold sores. He stopped replying a few texts in and I haven’t heard from him since. I was a little disappointed at first, but took it as his European mentality to not face difficulties such as this. Adam on the other hand, well this was an interesting discussion. He was very understanding and actually a good sport about it, but apparently he is a daft as a doorknob. The lad expressed that he didn’t get cold sores but had immediate family members that do. I found this information a little shady, as if he was holding off just admitting that he gets cold sores. My head turned when Adam happily explained he has genital warts, but not cold sores. Not that genital warts was the topic of discussion, but he never told me when we first had sex. If Adam was so care free to leave that out while picking apart my sexual health, what else was he keeping from me? The upshot is, he ended up asking questions about what herpes looks like and what other symptoms present — turns out he contracted HSV-1 himself. He was as uneducated about herpes as I was. When the doctor explained that once I had taken the medication and the sores disappeared I shouldn’t have to really be concerned with it again, I was surprised. It’s funny because I wasn’t shocked that the doctor told me I had herpes, but because she said that the virus wasn’t a big deal. The New Zealand Herpes Foundation explains that statistically, 1 in 3 people in NZ have the herpes simplex virus. Isn’t that crazy? And you know what else? Herpes can be passed on when there are no symptoms present. Around 80% of people infected with genital herpes don’t know they have the virus, due to having very mild symptoms or none at all. There is an effective treatment that can not only calm symptoms, but prevent recurrences and reduce the transmission of infection. Luckily for me, I contracted type 1 (HSV-1) of the herpes simplex virus. That’s the cold sore virus, which can be transmitted to the genitals during oral sex. With HSV-1, I would most likely only have a breakout of sores once and then it’s not likely to return. In comparison, HSV-2, genital herpes, is a little more intense, repetitive, but still easily manageable. Herpes is shit; any disturbance to the body is shit. But it’s surprisingly not that big of a deal in the overall scheme of things. I wish sex education classes in high school had taught me this. All I remember was learning the anatomy of my vagina and putting a condom on a banana. Herpes gave me the perfect opportunity to make my Tinder a little more exciting. While healing, I changed my bio to “basic af… oh and I have herpes.” just to see what would happen. Surprisingly, it made for a shit ton of responses. Many guys thought I was joking, but most were quite positive when they learned that I wasn’t. In the first week I had one guy drive over to bring me snacks at 1am while I was unwell. I ended up sleeping with him once I was healthy again, so I assume he didn’t care about the infection after all. Others thought it was a turn on and a few even wanted to call me a slut. I stood my ground to ones that wanted to say “you’re now fucked”. I assume they meant my vagina but then again, only ill informed boys would talk to a woman that way when in regards to sexual health. Those men ain’t shit. If you by chance contract the herpes simplex virus or already have it, how you view yourself sexually is up to you, but don’t feel like you need to see yourself as anything less than you were before. The fact that this stigma around herpes exists doesn’t make logical sense to me. Why did I view a common as fuck STI so negatively in the first place? As the New Zealand Herpes Foundation expresses, “The emotional impact of being diagnosed with genital herpes is often much worse than the condition and it doesn’t deserve the upset it causes”. That was true for me at first, but once I took a moment to listen to my doctor and question my feelings, I didn’t give a shit anymore. I can’t express enough how easy it is to maintain sexual health when you stop thinking of it as a taboo. In the end, men ain’t shit and herpes is so overhyped. Fuck, when’s the hardcore STI gonna hit because fucking come at me (obviously a joke I would very much like to be healthy from now on).

    • He Taonga Tuku Iho, He Taonga E Huna Ana
      • Paiahahā, paiahahā! Ka tū ki runga, ka tū ki raro, ka tū ki hea, ki hea, ka tū kia puta ki te wheiao ki Te Ao Mārama, tīhei wā mauri ora! Tīhei wā uriuri, tīhei wā nakonako, ka tau ka tau hā ko Rangi e tū iho nei, ka tau ka tau hā ko Papa e hora ake nei, whanō, whanō, utaina mai te mauri ki runga ki a tātou, kua tau! Me mātua rere atu ngā mihi ki a rātou ngā whatiwhatikī kua whakahā atu i te tuamatangi. Kei aku mate, moea te moenga mokakore, haere atu rā ki te poho o te pō horo taniwha, ki te paepae purapura tuawhiti, hei reira, whakaoti atu rā. E kīia nei te kōrero, e kore a muri e hokia. Ana, haere! Hoki rawa mai ki a tātou ngā waihōtanga iho e takahi tonu nei i te mata o te whenua, e pīkau tonu nei i te mana o rātou otirā o tātou. E ao nei te kupu whakanui! Mai i te tai whakararo ki te kei o te waka a Māui, huri, huri noa i te motu whānui, tēnā rawa atu tātou. Nei rā te pūtātara a Take e tangi nei. Hei whakaarara, hei rāhiri i te tī me te tā, e tōia mai ai te taringa rahirahi ki ahau e. Kei taku iti, kei taku rahi, tēnā, pīkarikari mai nei! Me tōtika atu te tauihu o tō tāua waka ki te kaupapa, ki te tikanga a tātou a te Māori. He aha rā ia? Ki ōku ake nei, koia rā he mea tuku iho e ō tātou tūpuna, arā, i ahu mai i te ao o tuawhakarere. Hei aha? Hei tohutohu, hei tāwharau, hei whakamana i a tātou haere ake nei, haere ake nei. Ko ōna poupou ko te mana, ko te tapu, ko te noa, ko te utu, ko te manaaki, ko te whakapapa me te whanaungatanga. Arā noa ngā uaratanga o tā te Māori titiro, o tō te Māori whakaaro. Hākoa ia kua panonitia i te ao hurihuri nei, kei reira tonu tōna ngako, tōna taikara e koiora tonu ana. Engari, kāhore rawa ia e kaha kitea nei, e kaha rāngona nei. Engari mō te reo Māori, mō te kapa haka, mō te toi, mō te aha rānei, ko ērā ko ngā momo o te Māori kua matawhānui i tēnei ao. Na, me aropū ki te reo Māori hei whakataurite mā tāua. E mihi ana ki te nuipuku kua kaingākau ki te arero pounamu hei Pae Tawhiti mō rātou, ki te hunga e āta whakamākūkū nei i te kākano o reo Māori kei roto i a rātou anō, kia tipu matomato ai ia hei ngā rā ki tua. Mahi tika ana! Nā konā kua piki haere ake te ora o te reo. Koinā i kī ai ngā karāhe reo Māori i ngā whare wānanga i te tini me te mano. Kuuuuuuua roa ngā raina o ngā tāngata e kūwata ana ki te reo taketake o Aotearoa nei. Ka mutu te pai! Heoi anō rā, ko te reo ko tētahi kura anake o ngā kuratini o te ao Māori. Me mahara tātou ki tōna hoa piri tata, ki a Tikanga. Kei a ia hoki he kura, he taonga e huna mārika ana, kāhore anō kia tino whaiwāhi i tō tātou ao tūroa nei. Anō nei he manakore tōna, e mara mā, tēnā pōraruraru tēnā! Kei pōhēhē tātou he rerekē te tikanga a te Māori i te reo o te Māori. Ko rāua anō rāua, arā, he mahi takirua tā rāua. Ko tā rāua, he whakatinana, he whakakiko i te mana o te Māori o tuawhakarere, o ō tātou tūpuna. Mehemea ko te reo ko te kākahu o te whakaaro Māori, ko te tikanga ko tōna tokotoko hei taituarā mōna. Mehemea ko te reo Māori te huarahi ki Te Ao Tūroa, ko te tikanga tōna wakatere hei kawenga mōna ki hea ki hea ki hea rāini. Engari, kei tua o te pekerangi tēnei taonga tuku iho, kāore i te matawhānui nei i waengarahi i a tātou. Horekau noa ia kia whaikiko, kia whaimana rāini i ngā kokona katoa o te ao nei. Ki te whakarauora tātou i te reo Māori, ka taea te pēnā i te tikanga nōki! E kitea hoki nei e au te hunga kei te nanaiore, kei te manawanui ki te haka a te Māori. E mihi ana ki tērā kaha. Heoi anō, mā te haka noa iho ka aha? E kore rawa te mana Māori me tōna katoa e ora i tērā mahi noa. E haka ana, e waiata ana, e mōteatea ana, tēnā pai tēnā. Heoi anō, me uaua ka kite i te hunga e manawanui pērā ana kia ū ai ki ngā uaratanga o te whakaaro Māori hei tikanga mā rātou. Ka mutu, e whati tonu ana te tikanga i a tātou. Ērā ko ngā tāne Māori e tūkino nei i ngā wāhine, ko ngā kēnge kino rawa atu nei kua kī i te kirimangu, ko ngā pōrangirangi hoki o te tarukino. Rawa ērā e whai nei i ngā uaratanga, i ngā whakaaro, i ngā tikanga Māori.   E aro hoki ana ki te korenga o te tikanga Māori i te ture me ngā take tōrangapū o te wā. E Ngāi Te Rangi, e Ngāti Whātua ki Ōrākei, e ngā hapū o Whakatōhea, e ngā hapū o Ngāpuhi nui tonu, e tātou katoa, ka aroha ki a tātou. E hia kē nei ngā raru kua puta i ngā kerēme mō te Tiriti o Waitangi. Kua pakanga atu te Māori ki te Māori mō te mana whenua te take, anō nei e noho tonu nei ki te puku o te rautau 19. Ā, he aha i pēnei ai? Ki tāku e titiro nei, he korenga nō te tikanga Māori i te Taraipiunara o Te Tiriti o Waitangi me ngā whakataunga o ngā kerēme. Nā konā i raru ai. Pākeha ake nei, Pākehā ake nei! Nā whai anō e tutū ana te pūehu. Mā te pūnaha Pākehā nei te mana Māori e tārona ana. Ina hoki atu tātou ki ngā uaratanga o te tikanga Māori hei rauhī, hei pūnaha hoki i wēnei momo take, kua kore pea wēnei pōreareatanga. Kei wareware i a Ngāi Tātou, he toto, he werawera i heke ai, mō te ora o te mātauranga Māori te take. He kaha i pau ai i a rātou mā. Arā, he utu tō taua hekenga, hei kawe, hei whakatutuki hoki mā tātou, kia kore ai e moumou te ōkea ururoatia o te mātauranga Māori. Me ngana tātou ki tēra! Heoi, me pēhea tēnei utu e ea ai? E aku rangatira, me whakaaronui ngā momo katoa o te ao Māori. Me whānui, me whāroa te titiro ake ki tō ao. Whāia ko te reo, ko te mahi a te rēhia, ko te maramataka Māori, ko te aha rānei. Arā noa ngā mātauranga o te Māori, hei matapihi ki te ao o neherā. Ā, whāia hoki ko te tikanga! Koia tēnei e whakatuāpapa nei i aua momo katoa kua kōrerotia kētia. Ki te kore āia, kua kore te Māori!   Atu i ngā marae me ērā momo wāhi, mū rawa ana a Tikanga Māori. Ko tāku noa iho tēnei ki a tātou, hei hiki mā tātou. Ki te whakahokia mai te mana Māori, ā kāti, whakarauoratia ngā momo katoa o tō tātou ao. Whakahuratia tēnei taonga nō mua, tēnei kura e huna ana, e arorangi ai tā tātou haere ki anamata. Whakaarahia ake ngā pou o tō whare o Tikanga Māori. Tātou mā, kia kaua rawa e hurikōtua ki te mana o te tikanga, kei takahi i te mana o ō tātou tūpuna. Me kore ake rātou, ko kore rawa tātou. Nō reira, me whāngai e tātou te katoatoa o tēnei mea te ao Māori, te taha ki te reo, te taha ki te tikanga, me ērā momo katoa o tātou, kei huri katoa te tikanga hei kai mā te ahi! Whiua te tikanga ki te rangi, ki te whenua, ki ngā kōti me te ture, ki ngā kāinga, ki ngā kura, ki ngā tari, ahakoa te aha, kia rangiwhāwhā ai mō ake tonu atu. Kei aku tāngata, Māori mai, Pākehā mai, wai atu mai, nei te mānuka e takoto nei. Hīkina! Whakamaua kia tina! Haumi e, hui e, tāiki e!

    • The Values that Maketh the Man
      • This article aims to discuss the role of Māori male masculinity in contemporary New Zealand. I am writing this in hopes that this will recognise the influence colonisation has had on Māori male identity. Māori made up 50.7 per cent of New Zealand’s prison population, despite accounting for just 14.9 per cent of the population at the last census. Sixty-five per cent of male prisoners and 63 per cent of female prisoners under 20 are Māori. Ninety per cent of prisoners under 20 have had contact with Oranga Tamariki. These high rates of punishment for Maori seems to be a popular characterisation of contemporary Māori masculinity that needs to be challenged and the place of colonisation in New Zealand needs to be discussed with depth if we have any chance of healing our people from this hurt. The two questions I want to answer here is Firstly; did this culture of masculinity always exist among maori men? The easy answer is of course not. since the arrival of Maori in 1350 AD there has been several key ideals that have been solidified as part of the culture. These are: whanaungatanga for establishing meaningful and reciprocal relationships; manaakitanga for sharing and supporting each other; aroha for having respect for each other. Academics such as John Rangihau of Tuhoe has extended on these values, encasing Māoritanga (Maori culture) inside the concept of aroha (profound love) from this concept he depicts how all Maori cultural concepts are underpinned by aroha. Secondly; where did this culture of masculinity come from? It is important to point out that Māori masculinity cannot be analysed merely from a contemporary snapshot, as masculinity is a historical construction. So in order for us to pull apart the role of masculinity in New Zealand we have to understand the effects colonial attitudes have had on Māori men. Research out of the University of Sydney identifies the vital role institutions such as governments and schools have on the construction of gender. Gender orders are constructions subject to change throughout history. Therefore, it makes sense that gender is connected with the process of colonization arguably the most important historical change in modern world history which has been critical for the making of masculinities, for both the colonizing powers and those who have been colonized. The mentality that a white person is the exemplary human, and others are defined against their unmarked norm was inherent in the fabric of 19th century European society, Reverend Butterfield, the headmaster of a Gisborne Māori boys boarding school, told young Maori men that “999 out of 1000” Māori boys could not bear the strain of higher education. In commerce, Maori could not hope to compete with the Pakeha. This idea of white supremacy has influenced contemporary New Zealand via colonial expansion, ultimately discounting Māori people and tikanga Māori. Pākehā would use this idea to highlight the ways in which white men had been “burdened” with civilizing indigenous men as they were thought to be incapable. These early colonial representations of Māori men as unintelligent were later modified to Māori men being more “practical-minded” as the colonial government realized the benefits of having a manual workforce resulting in Māori boys receiving a limited form of education that funnelled them into non-academic industries and vocations. In the 1860s through the 1940s, New Zealand’s educational policies reflected “a narrow and limited view of Maori potential and the role of Maoris [sic] in New Zealand society”. However, the achievements of Māori students in math, science, and literature at Te Aute College were equal to any in New Zealand, with the school producing national leaders such as Sir Apirana Ngata and Te Rangi Hiroa. In 1866 the Inspector of Native Schools James Pope complained about this, suggesting Te Aute should instead be an institute where “Maori boys could be taught agriculture, market gardening, stock farming, poultry keeping and bacon curing.” As a result, school authorities dropped many of the academic subjects from the Te Aute curriculum having significant implications for Māori boys attending the school. In 1906, the inspector of Native Schools William Bird declared that Māori were unsuited to academic subjects and unable to compete with Europeans in trades and commerce — the natural genius of the Māori was limited to manual labour. This mixture of circumstances where Indigenous males create their identities from the intergenerational effects of residential school experiences that foster feelings of cultural loss; loss of identity; and discrimination based on lack of opportunities. The effects of the restriction of Māori boys in New Zealand’s education system has led many New Zealanders to view Māori as lazy, irresponsible, dole-bludging, dirty, socially and morally lax, ignorant, superstitious, and opportunist, living in over-crowded accommodation and failing to cultivate or care for their land. At least this is how they were portrayed in media. This then led disillusioned, indigenous youth to turn to gangs for a sense of identity and purpose. This can be seen through the rise of the Black Power, who in 1977 banned any of the chapters from wearing Nazi regalia in an attempt to better connect with their predominantly Māori roots. These efforts, were supported and influenced by people such as Denis O’Reilly, who saw the gang as a form of Māori resistance and tried to angle it toward positive endeavors, this proved to have lasting effects. Denis moved to Wellington in his early 20s becoming an activist and a member of Black Power. O’Reilly sympathised with the plight of urban Māori and was often shocked by police attitudes toward them. He saw Black Power as a modern urban tribe that could be a vehicle for positive social change in the lives of its members. Research done in Ontario with Indigenous Canadians who were involved in gangs show corresponding experiences where all of the participants identified assimilation and colonization as a detrimental influence on indigenous men’s identities. One of the participants described colonization as when “our whole culture took a nosedive.” Other men described that they felt inadequate as the fathers because they cannot protect their children. They feel completely powerless and referenced this powerlessness as losing their warrior spirit. Three of the eleven men disclosed that either they or their immediate family members had been sexually abused and they attributed their abuse to the cultural disruption that came from the violence of colonization and the subsequent transmission of intergenerational trauma. Some of the men also disclosed facing racist stereotypes throughout their lives and talked about how this had negatively impacted their identities as Indigenous men. One man stated how his feelings of self-esteem were negative “because I was told I was stupid, worthless, that I’d never amount to anything. A lot of things that our people are told, you know?” Another man shared how common stereotypes about Indigenous men that negatively influenced his identity also led to criminalization. Despite indigenous men being spread globally, their collective experiences are eerily similar. Where even pioneering Māori leaders such as Ngata and Hiroa from Te Aute were only further undermined by the New Zealand education system. This summarizes the similar experiences of colonization, where indigenous men have been subjected to aversion of themselves and their intellect.

    • Paedophilia: An Exploration Into a Hated Minority
      • Imagine being ostracized from society for a mental disorder. It’s a crazy thought, but it does exist for one minority that lives alongside us in our world: non-offending individuals suffering from paedophilia. Picture this: a basic white girl sitting in the library, sipping kombucha, and reading an article published by the “Virtuous Paedophiles movement”. A strange sight, I know. Due to being around soccer mums for the majority of my childhood, I had never been exposed to this argument, yet I found the subject compelling. I, like the majority of the people I surround myself with, viewed “paedophiles” as unfavourable individuals who are immoral and not deserving of the same rights as the rest of the population, but quickly after scanning the Virtuous Paedophile’s website, I quickly found that I didn’t know enough about this subject in order to form this opinion. Everything I had ever been told about these people was being completely contradicted on the “Virtuous Paedophiles” site. I set out on an interesting journey full of curious conversations in order to educate myself on this ongoing stigmatization of paedophiles, and why this may not be a good thing. The Virtuous Paedophiles movement is an online based support group and movement aimed at providing support for those who suffer from paedophilia and removing the stigma that surrounds it. They do not want any laws changed or ages of consent lowered, and they think any sexual interaction with a child is completely wrong. I reached out to co-founder of Virtuous Paedophiles, Ethan Edwards*. He stated that if a young male was to openly confess to having paedophilic sexual preferences and urges, “He could be kicked out of school, removed from his home, and forbidden from being anywhere children are. His parents might disown him”. And keep in mind this is only confessing that he feels this way. The imaginary individual we are talking about hasn’t even committed an unlawful act. Virtuous Paedophiles simply want acceptance from our community, and from themselves. Edwards said “we encourage celibate pedophiles to let go of feelings of shame and distress”. They view their paedophilic interests and urges almost as one would view a sexual orientation. But is it a sexual orientation? I sat down with Professor Tony Ward, a professor of clinical and forensic psychology at Victoria University. He said “I would describe it, broadly as a mental disorder”. He said there are two variations of this mental disorder that we associate with paedophilia. The first being people with paedophilic interests (described as more of a preference) and those who have paedophilia (an exclusive sexual attraction). The members of the Virtuous Paedophile movement fall into the second of these categories. This is shown though their online site; they identify themselves as “having paedophilia” and describing it as a “strong and persistent sexual attraction”. But I guess the real significant question underlying this is, is this a choice? And the answer is no. Professor Ward states, “Sexual preference is something that we do not choose to have. If they could choose then they wouldn’t have experienced the trouble they have over the years.” Edwards told me that they “did not choose pedophilia and they cannot make it go away”. Is it was possible for someone who suffers from pedophilia to refrain from committing unlawful acts for their whole life? Professor Ward said, “all I know is, over the course of my career I have worked with people who have paedophilic interests and have never been charged with an offense, and there’s no evidence to suggest that they have ever committed an offense. These people range in ages from 20 to 70 so I would have to say [non-offending paedophilia] is possible based on what I have seen”. Edwards said that very few past-offending paedophiles (people who have committed paedophilia, but have now stopped) have joined the site. “Our online peer support group has over 3,000 registered accounts. Of those who have posted to describe their situation, I would guess five percent (5%) are in [the situation of being a past-offender].” But how are we supposed to effectively test these claims? So all in all, we have no idea how many “virtuous” paedophiles exist. It is extremely rare to find a non-offending individual who is open about their sexual disorder. This means we cannot know how many non-offending paedophiles are in our population, and therefore cannot know the percentage of how many offend in their lifetime. There is an obvious link that the less stigma surrounding the condition, the more people will come forward confessing to this sexual preference, and therefore more people can get help. When discussing this with Professor Ward, he agreed with me. “I think [the stigma] is a serious problem, and related to that, a false representation of what paedophilia is and the condemnation around it makes it much harder for people to seek help.” There is reason to believe that we can actually somewhat effectively help paedophiles control these urges. Edwards said, “the help that is needed is help in avoiding harmful actions. That can involve staying out of tempting situations, building a life with strong social bonds and healthy pursuits, and perhaps someone to contact for support if things get very difficult”. Ward elaborates on the most effective (and most easily attainable) help for this disorder is in fact in professional treatment. “There are a number of sexual reconditioning techniques used in treatment programs that are helpful, but certainly we need to be creative and think about other possibilities. I think the use of sex robots or virtual technologies are worth exploring.” Professor Ward stated that paedophilia “doesn’t define the totality of the person”. He then said that many people with disorders and problems “can contribute enormously to society”. However because paedophiles have harmful urges, doesn’t that make them dangerous and therefore different to most of us? “The questions are what do they do with those inclinations and motivations, and how do they respond to them,” said Ward. “I think the sign of being a good person or a virtuous person is that you realise this is a harmful motivation, that you don’t act on it and you do everything you can to ameliorate its influence.” This lines up with the Virtuous Paedophile movement’s beliefs. They do not offend, nor do they encourage offending. They believe no sexual act with a child is ever acceptable. They simply want to create awareness of the individuals suffering from paedophilia so they can remove the stigma surrounding it, so these people can live full, happy, law-abiding lives. Edwards said “it will really help when many people know a non-offending pedophile, the reaction is not just ‘Eeeek!’ but ‘Has he molested anyone? Do people think he has done specific things with children that are worrisome? Has he done lots of things with kids in the past, and if so has anyone complained?’ And if the answers are ‘no’ then consider him just a person.” Professor Ward said our need and instinct to protect our children is spurring our hatred, and the weight that child sex abuse crime carries. “Children are more vulnerable, children can be easily physically harmed, and children cannot consent, they are not psychologically equipped to consent and they don’t know what they are consenting to. That is not going to change,” he said. The other reason we hate paedophiles is the harmful nature of the crime. “It has devastating effects on people. That’s really the issue,” said Ward. I have known and talked with people close to me who have dealt with child sexual abuse, and the trauma and the emotional damage from this offense is huge. Another huge factor is that the majority of these people who suffer from paedophilia are male. I believe due to the typical male body type being a lot larger and stronger than a child, this could be another factor to add to our stigmatisation of paedophiles. When reaching out to the Virtuous Paedophile movement, I was extremely nervous. I made a fake email address and made a conscious effort to not include my full name, my country, my age, or anything personal about me. Why did I do this? My little brain couldn’t fathom in that moment that I was strengthening the stigma that surround paedophilia though my apparent fear of these people, even though the are self proclaimed completely law-abiding citizens (probably more law abiding than me). I was, in that moment, prejudiced. I realised that these people feel this fear and misunderstanding of who they are every single day. Though this investigation into this issue I realised that the stigma was unavoidable. It was strengthened by the co-founder of the Virtuous Paedophiles going under a pseudonym as it showed that they were bowing to the stigma they are fighting against. I think I, myself, also had a hard time dealing with this stigma; I have tossed and turned over putting my name on this article due to its controversial nature. In these last few weeks my sheltered, basic, brain has been blown away by these issues that I’ve never thought about. But I don’t believe the issue of society ostracising paedophiles will ever really be solved. The issue of the stigma surrounding paedophilia (and this is referring to non-offending individuals) remains highly relevant, and we as a society need to stop ignoring it and address what is happening, but I don’t know if this fear surrounding paedophilia is wrong. We as a society have reason to fear. Due to the internet age, we are now more aware than ever of the crimes being committed in our communities. We see, first hand, the pain and damage that child sexual abuse crimes can cause and we, rightly so, fear this pain and damage. The stigma towards paedophiles is caused by our attempts to protect our children. I like to think that this small journey I took into the mindset of an extremely hated minority of non-offending individuals changed my views significantly, but I honestly still don’t know. My eyes have definitely been opened however to the different world that these individuals have to live in. Paedophiles are human beings like us and many of them haven’t done anything legally wrong and just want help. I feel sorry for these people as they will never be able to have a fulfilling romantic and sexual relationship with a consenting adult. It is not a choice or something anyone wants to suffer from, but I don’t believe our society will ever be able to completely look past the fact that these people are sexually attracted to our children, whether they have offended in the past or not. This stigma we have created looks like it is here to stay, at least for the foreseeable future. *Ethan Edwards is a pseudonym

    • New Zealand and Whales: A Deep Dive
      • In June, a lone southern right whale visited Wellington Harbour. We named him Matariki, and scores of people flocked to the waterfront, and later the South Wellington coast, to catch a glimpse. We even postponed the fireworks because we didn’t want to frighten him. But we haven’t always been so protective of whales. We used to commercially hunt them, right up until 1964. The commercial whaling industry in Aotearoa began in the 1790s. It was the first instance of Western trade, as American whaling ships flocked to exploit the abundant whale population. The industry employed both Europeans and Māori, although Māori had no existing custom of hunting whales. As the industry grew, permanent whaling stations were established on the coast around Otago, Marlborough, Kāpiti, and the Hauraki Gulf to exploit the migration routes of southern right, humpback, and sperm whales. Whalers would wait ashore to spot a whale, and chase after in their rowboats and harpoon their target. Whales were hunted for their oil, which was used to make soap and margarine, as well as lighting lamps and lubricating machinery. The meat was sold as dog food. Although the number of permanent coastal whaling stations declined into the 20th century, advances in technology meant it was still viable industry. The most successful whaling station was on Arapara Island in the Tory Channel of Marlborough Sounds. Established in 1924 by Joseph Perano, the station was the first to use a motor boat to chase after humpback whales. Around 50 families lived there during the whaling season in winter. Although Perano Station was the relative powerhouse of the industry, their catch was actually quite small. There were never more than 3 whales caught per day, because the processing plant on the island lacked the capability for greater numbers. Former whalers say they never caught mother and calves either, as their jobs depended on a sustainable population. Whaling was so important that men employed in the industry were exempt from serving in WWII. However, in the post-WWII era, the humpback whale population began to decline. Perano Station whalers began to hunt sperm whales instead, but this was difficult as the whales were in deeper waters further afield in Kaikoura and Cape Palliser. In addition to the dramatic decline in whale numbers, the demand for whale products also dropped. Kerosene could be used to light lamps, or even better, electricity. Whale oil made very smelly soap, so it was only used for industrial cleaning. Vegetable oil was developed to make a nicer, non-smelly margarine. On 21 December 1964 the last whale was caught in the Tory Channel. It was no longer a commercially feasible industry. But why had the whale population declined so dramatically? Was it all the whales we killed from New Zealand? It was only in the 1990s that marine biologists discovered that the whale population in the Southern Ocean had dropped dramatically in the ‘60s after rampant overfishing by vessels from the USSR. In the 1959-1960 season, the USSR killed approximately 13,000 humpback whales. Soviet catcher ships would sail in a line formation to efficiently trap and kill the greatest number of whales. The carcasses would be taken to factory ships for processing, although it is estimated that only 30% of the whale would be used. Strangely, this unprecedented slaughter was compelled by rapidly rising quotas imposed by the USSR State Planning Committee, rather than any real market demand for whales. During the 1970s, whales had become a focal point for global conservation. Organisations like Greenpeace and Sea Shepherd drew attention to the declining whale population. Popular TV shows like Flipper and The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau endeared marine life to the public on an unprecedented scale. In Australia — where a similar sized industry involving a handful a coastal whaling stations operated — commercial whaling was banned by the government in 1978 after public outcry. Similarly, in 1978 whaling was officially prohibited in New Zealand under the Marine Mammals Protection Act. By the 1980s, NZ had become a staunch anti-whaling advocate on the world stage. NZ was a founding member of the International Commission for Whaling, an organisation established in 1946 to regulate commercial whaling in response to the dwindling population. Over time, the focus of the anti-whaling nations shifted from sustainable regulation to an all-out ban, and in 1982 the IWC voted to establish a moratorium on commercial whaling of large and medium whales. There are exceptions in the ban for sustenance hunting for indigenous peoples (for example indigenous peoples in Alaska are allowed to kill a small number of whales a year to fulfill their cultural practises). Norway and Iceland have registered their objections to the moratorium and continue to hunt whales. In 1986, Japan began a lethal research programme conducted by the Institute of Cetacean Research, who argue the programme is justified under a provision in the Schedule. In practice, the meat from the whales killed is sold for human consumption. New Zealand has vociferously opposed the Japanese lethal research program as a matter of foreign policy. In 2010 New Zealand supported Australia’s action against Japan in the International Court of Justice for breaching the International Convention on Whaling Regulations. Former Attorney-General Chris Finlayson appeared as an advocate during the hearing, and in 2014 the Court released a judgment finding the lethal research breached Japan’s obligations as signatory to the Schedule. However, the Institute of Cetacean Research continues to pursue their whaling policies, and during the 2017 whaling season killed 333 Antarctic minke whales. New Zealand’s position on commercial whales has changed dramatically in the space of 50 years. A formerly thriving industry quietly languished in the 1960s due to a falling whale population, not the typical whale activism we are familiar with today. It’s arguable that we didn’t have enough facts to compel us into action. The IWC was founded with a sustainable management purpose, because the true extent of the whale population was unknown. It wasn’t until the early 1960s that the IWC commissioned more thorough studies to accurately measure whale populations. This task was somewhat thwarted by the USSR destroying accurate records of their catch. By the 1980s, a total ban was deemed the only option left to save the whales. Now New Zealand is a vocal anti-whaling advocate on the world stage, campaigning for strong protectionist policies. We’ve taken whaling nations to the International Court of Justice, and sent our legal and political heavyweights to advocate for the cause. And the whalers of Perano Station? They now assist the Department of Conservation in their annual whale population survey, putting their whale spotting skills to good use.

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