Permimenopausal Blak woman with severe, life-long, body dysmorphia posts photos of her in bathers on the socials, gets back love.

 This blog post is going to do what it says on the tin, with added context. I am writing it because, via an overwhelming positive reaction to some photos I took of myself enjoying the R&R at Wai Ariki Thermal Baths in Rotorua, I have actually had to stop and reflect, not just on why I was able to post such photos in the first place, but what the positive reaction to these shots has meant to me, and why that needs unpacking.

I have suffered from crippling body dysmorphia my entire life. It started when I was very young. In fact, I think if I were to go back over the photo albums, I would struggle to find any photos of me in bathers, or anything which shows any skin at all, from about 7 years old onwards. I have written this before on here, but to re-contextualise, as a very young child, I was continually body-shamed. I cannot remember the first time someone pointed out to me that I was "fat" or "solid", but I know that it happened before I turned ten. I was growing into a tall and broad-shouldered build with natural tone, and would be often compared to my younger sister who was smaller and slighter in build. She would be called "skinny and miserable" whereas I always was told I needed to lose a few kilos.

This criticism continued into my teen years. I am rehashing here so for those who have already read this before, apologies and skip ahead beyond the next two paragraphs. In year 8, I was told by two boys in my class that a vote had been held, and I had been voted the "ugliest girl" in the class. I was called fat many times until I was 16 when, in a weird sort of turn of events, I got my first boyfriend and via him, I had heard that another girl in my year who was dating his friend had said that the thought I was "pretty", but that there was just "something about me" that she didn't like or get. I don't think she knows just how much that comment meant to me. Even though she had judged my personality without cause, she had also been the first person to comment positively and without equivocation on my appearance.

This continued. I had been told I needed to lose weight in order to do gymnastics, so I eventually dropped it. I described myself as having "battleship hips" when I was 17 when, looking at pictures of myself right now, I know I am quite slim-hipped. Family feedback on my appearance was always negative, and when I gained weight due to developing severe depression in my late 20s while being in a toxic and abusive relationship, their feedback was utterly brutal. I remember one sibling having the hide to tell me that their criticism of my weight gain had "inspired" me to do something about it, and I think they were a little shocked to be informed that it sent me further down the well to the point where I even pondered self-harm. Getting out of that relationship meant that my mental health improved, and so my weight dropped to what I would call my "normal" - I am 172cm tall, and between a size 10 and 12. 

I maintained that size throughout my 30s with little effort. However, in a real turn up for the books, myself and Ruby Hamad ended up enduring a pile-on by "body positivity activists" who claimed that a remark by me (which was actually just an honest comment on online hate, and unpacking how it operates intersectionally for women of colour) threw fat women under the bus and as we were both "skinny", it was particularly harmful. Of course, these activists didn't unpack the actual comment, nor did they engage with either of our cultural backgrounds and journeys through body dysmorphia (which we both had stuggled with). It was a surface level outrage fest and though I acknowledge the right to feel pain in this world that is so unkind to women based on our appearances, I don't think nearly cancelling two women of colour without exploring actual context, or knowing their own journeys through dysmorphia, is the way to go about it.

There's an additional thing - I think this is why I enjoyed loads of sex in my late-teens and also in my 30s. Partly, it was because the act is simply fun. Partly though, it was because it gave me freedom from my dysmophia. Experiencing this continuously criticised (by myself, and by others) body in a pleasurable way was incredibly liberating. So too was going to day spas in Europe where everyone is naked. You get the freedom to experience your body as simply functional in this circumstance, with everyone having a different one, and that being OK.

ANYWAY, I am repeating. My second big battle with depression and therefore weight gain came during the lockdowns. As well as the many problems with the VicGov approach (policing a health crisis), I have never really properly acknowledged how triggering being forced to stay at home was for me. It was like I was back in that abusive relationship of my late-20s, but this time, it was with the government. Photo evidence proves my gain then - the photos of when I was a Greens candidate were taken when I was carrying 25kgs more than I am now, by a photographer who tried to spin it positively by telling me the weight gain had "taken years off (my) face". Like before, when the lockdowns ended, my mental health improved, and because my brain wasn't having to work so hard to just cope, my metabolism kicked back in and here I am again, at my "normal" size.

Of course, that has never stopped the dysmorphia. I have improved, and am much closer to self-acceptance than I have even been, but perimenopause has added a variable. Now, I'm size 10 to 12, but I ache more often, I pluck stray hairs more often, I bleed more often or not at all, etc. People keep regurgitating that this change tends to lead to weight gain for women, and therefore there's this cloud of ridiculous paranoia hanging around my head, telling me I am going to have to shift 25kgs again soon, and for the third time in my life. It's messing with me. And simply accepting myself if I do get bigger is a huge ask for someone with three bulging discs - as well as being not happy in my body, I also risk putting further strain on injuries I live with every day. Anyway...

I don't know what prompted me to post my photos at Wai Ariki. I think I wanted to show myself having a bit of R&R in what is one of the most incredible landscapes I have ever been to. I think I was also trying to liberate myself from my own dysmorphia. I see people post photos of themselves swimming in their bathers all the time, and in a way, I have been envious that they are so present in their own bodies. I was not expecting the positive reaction I did get.

I mean, as well as over 100 likes on Facebook, people were stating that I looked "hot", and one person even cheekily referred to one photo as a "thirst trap" 😂. That was definitely not the intention of my posting it, but it was bloody nice to see that it could be read as such. In particular though, folks commented on my looking relaxed. That, in itself, was a massive achievement. I mean, not only am I a 47yo Blak woman with body dysmorphia, but I also went bathing not giving a shit about my leg and armpit hair. So there you have it. One simple act of posting pics got read in positive ways I had never intended, and also that I had never experienced, and thus, I am so grateful to all who interacted with these photos (reposted below) positively.

Body dysmorphia is a bitch, and my solidarity with all who, like me, battle it. May we get to a day where we can simply "be".

We lost in Melbourne

 I am trying to think how I can process my personal grief and anger at what transpired during yesterday's White Nationalist parade. And I do feel both because I am an old war horse around the traps, I have seen a number of successful anti-fascist actions in my time, and yesterday wasn't one of them. It was devastating.

However we, as the Left, and as those who stand against racism and fascism, and for multiculturalism, justice and equality, need to start with being honest with ourselves. Stating that we were vastly outnumbered is inaccurate. The numbers were roughly equal. Indeed, they were perhaps slightly in our favour. Yet the white nationalists still somehow got to goose-step themselves up Swanston and Bourke Streets to then have a rousing bunch of speeches with NSN leader Tom Sewell welcomed to the stage with open arms. That shouldn't have happened. It really, bloody, shouldn't have happened.

What did I observe then? Well, for starters, I got to the Library as the end of the crowd was joining the march down Swanston. I was late and missed all the speeches. I then sought to move through the crowd to the front like the seasoned protest navigator I am. The front was at Little Collins Street, so that's a good three city blocks (or six, depending on your counting and cartography preferences). That's roughly 5000+. At the Collins St intersection, those who had made their way from the Federation Square counter action to the Palestine rally were waiting. Some of these people had already been brutalised and were shaken, so were so thankful to see the crowd. A wall of police, including mounties and fully suited PORT officers blocked us off from the white nationalists.

Aerial photography shows that the number of nationalists was roughly similar in size to us. Certainly, they did not "vastly outnumber us", as I have seen some claim. Given the size of our crowd, and what forms "direct action" can take, what I believe should have happened next was that we held Swanston Street by locking in, sitting down, and refusing to give them passage. A blockade as a form of counteraction can be incredibly effective, particularly if you have a big group of people making this collective statement, AND the tactic is well-communicated so those in attendance know and are pulling together. If they want confrontation, we are waiting for them, and it's on our terms on our streets.

What our side did instead was this:

1. Split off to counteract some fascist breakaway groups in side streets - this caused confusion with many in the larger group unaware of what was going on;

2. Gave conflicting messages - at one point, half the megaphones were yelling to go to Parliament, while the other half were yelling to go to the Library. Attendees had NFI which way to go. With friends, I opted for towards Parliament, and literally all this achieved was us all getting trapped by more police on Russell, watching the nationalists walk up Bourke;

3. Fragment the group - as mentioned above, with bits of the anti-racism group getting broken off every which way, we ended up with smaller groups of some very vulnerable people. They will always "vastly outnumber us" if we are fragmented enough to be pockets of action, rather than a cohesive collective. In at least one instance I know of, a young woman was assaulted by NSN thugs while alone and trying to find her way to the crowd;

4. Clear the path - with these little groups breaking off, any chance of mass "you shall not pass" statements captured by aerial media photography were dashed. Because everyone was off in small pockets everywhere, Swanston Street again became fair game, and the white nationalists then marched up there, and then up Bourke, to land at parliament and cheer their Nazi speeches.

I have been to many anti-fascist rallies over the decades, but never have I felt as individually unsafe as I did yesterday. Indeed, myself, a trans woman, and two lesbians ended up dashing down two laneways, and across Bourke between clumps of "proud Aussies" from Russell Street in an attempt to find a larger, and safer, collective. As a fellow old war horse pointed out to me, at previous antifa and anti-racism actions, because the collective held the line, communicated the tactics, and didn't budge until the outnumbered Nazis were on their way home, "you'll always lose in Melbourne" became a popular victory chant. Well, the Nazis didn't lose in Melbourne yesterday. The streets were theirs, and due to our own disorganisation, miscommunication, and failure to protect the collective, it was partly our fault.

To hear this all culminated in a savage attack on Camp Sovereignty has further infuriated me. Nazis were so emboldened, they went to a sacred site, and bashed Blak women. This should NEVER have happened.

We simply cannot allow such an avoidable mess to happen on our streets again. If those sitting comfy on their couches at home, watching this unfold, really do care, I suggest you get off your arses, join the action, and make "never again" truly happen. To leftist organisers, I say know your tactics, assess your situation and numbers, make a collective decision, communicate it to all other organisers, and then stick to it. Don't lead vulnerable people off into potentially dangerous situations because you don't know what you're doing, and DO NOT CEDE GROUND. To those who were there - try not to be too disheartened. It was a fucken awful day, but we can turn this around.

Finally, I am putting my money where my big mouth is. If people want me, and reckon I can help, I am available to do so. As an Arrernte woman, I never want to see us lose in Melbourne again.

UPDATE: I have been sent video footage of the white nationalist gathering which presents a different view to the aerial I had previously seen. This footage indicates that their crowd numbers were bigger than I had seen. Regardless of size though, my points stand with regards to what unfolded on our side.

Lorna - Family history update

 It's a good year and a half into this family history research, yet there is something that is still bothering me somewhat - my grandmother Lorna remains a bit of a mystery to me. 

I mean, I now know why she had an olive complexion - it came from her Burgher heritage. But I don't know what she herself knew of this heritage, if she knew anything at all. I know why it was that she also seemed to have some sort of financial independence - she inherited this from her mother and her grandparents. But I also find it odd that she always told me she was an only child when she wasn't - she had a half-brother and I never met him. I also haven't met his family, and I have no idea why such an estrangement happened between these two siblings. Perhaps it was a jealousy on nanna's behalf that her father went on to make another family following her parents' divorce. Either way, if Ray's descendants ever read this, I would love to meet you. I just haven't known where to start.

I know nanna was brought up mainly by her nanna, and her nanna was, in turn, brought up by her grandmother. But I cannot find any stories about this, and while I remember my nanna having a particular fondness for me, I don't really recall her as a nurturer.

I've thought maybe nanna rebelled against her parents by having a steady husband who was also her co-conspirator, as well as having four children. But apart from endless proof that my grandparents did love each other very much, I cannot find any evidence nanna was happy as a housewife. The opposite seems true, actually. Nanna was deeply restless, she did not stay home during the day keeping house, and preferred instead to head to the pubs for a few drinks and some socialising. Indeed, I feel pretty cruel about this nowadays but as kids, I, and all her other grandkids, used to make fun of nanna's drinking problem because we didn't know better. Both nanna's parents liked their "good times", but nanna seemed to always have a drinking problem and this problem went into destructive depths when my grandfather died. It did not help her deterioration in later life.

There are other mysteries though. I have previously mentioned her cousin, Edna Ogden, before, and how my mother, uncles and aunty were unaware that this woman was actually nanna's cousin. It turns out this has been a running theme. I have unearthed a variety of nanna's cousins, mentioned them to my maternal generational elders, and they consistently remember these people while being unaware that they were actually relations. 

I wonder if this was due to estrangement. Certainly a trait I loathe in my family that I have witnessed (and been the victim of) many times is the tendency to just cut people off without explanation. Sometimes I still cry about the times this has happened to me. Treating others as if they are disposable is a pattern, and one that I find both devastating and cowardly, yet it has apparently been happening for generations. Why? And can it stop?

I ask the last bit because looking into this trend has probably given me some answers as to why I have had to rebuild so much knowledge when looking into nanna's ancestry. As her ancestry grew more and more fascinating, it highlighted to me how many stories our family had lost. I had to wonder if relationships had been better nurtured in previous generations whether these stories would have stayed alive. And to be honest, I think they would have. So how do we change this for the next generations when people still seem pretty keen on this estrangement pattern?

Anyway, I am going to leave that there. I hope one day I do understand Lorna more, and everyone else while I am at it. 

Why I don't have public social media profiles anymore

 Perhaps this headline is inaccurate. I do have one public social media account - an instagram that I barely use. I had intended on populating it, but the longer it has existed, and the more Instagram pesters me via notifications regarding their features, the less likely I have become to actually use it. I don't see this changing.

It goes like this: I used to have public Facebook, and microblogging via Twitter. I don't now. This has led to many folks trying to access my personal Facebook and Instagram accounts with little luck. In a more innocent time, I may have accepted their friend requests, but nowadays, not so much. It's nothing against them, it's more the desire for peace and sanctuary.

For me, deleting my Twitter account came to a head nearly three years ago. I was on holiday, for the first time in ages, and following six lockdowns, and I found myself sitting in the Arctic Circle with the aurora going on over my head, stressing about something playing out on that platform. It was actually making me physically ill - because of my stress, I was being hit by waves of nausea and panic. So I signed out of the account then and there, deleted the app, and never signed in again. 

The person who caused this trigger event was not responsible for me leaving the platform. They were simply an aggrieved person acting out in what was a long list of Twitter events. Twitter lent itself to performative callout culture being mistaken as "taking action". I myself had contributed to that on many occasions. Yet the problem was, during the six lockdowns in Melbourne, it also became a bit of an outside lifeline for me. Isolated from the world, and feeling like I was in an abusive relationship with the state government, I (like many others) turned to the platforms to maintain connection. This connection was often superficial, and the longer it went on, the less it did to stop my descent into deep depression such as I had not experienced for fifteen years. I was not in a good spot at all, but it took for me to be somewhere else trying to enjoy life to finally realise this and take action. 

There's an additional part to this. At roughly the same time, I became a political candidate. What's more, despite my having little chance of winning in the safe seat I ran in as an actual local, I was targeted by a bunch of hacks who were seemingly unaware of their latent racism. As such, my public social media spaces became a place where my words were twisted for memes, and my mental health was of no great importance to those looking to score points in their peanut gallery. What started as an action to promote democracy in my local area turned into a time period where suicide ideation became a reality. What's more, I was completely unequipped to deal with my own mental health issues, so they consumed me, and those close to me. When the election was finally over, and I had the opportunity to resume a private life, I took it.

Social media was responsible for me having a side gig as a commentator in the first place, but it is not going to be a part of my future. The longer I was on it, and the more I saw those of us who are not white cis men being targeted for being uppity enough to take back some space, the more futile I felt it was. My words have the same right to be out there without personal harassment as the words of those white dudes, existing in the spaces to be considered by the readers. I, and any other commentator from a similarly marginalised perspective, should not have to put up with the shit we do for simply existing.

So yes, I will not be returning to public social media any time soon, though I continue to write, and commentate. I will leave that for those who still have the will for it and get something out of it. For those still interested in what I have to say, check out my Linktree for updated article listings. Also, keep an eye out - ideas are brewing and all this family history research I have been doing potentially serves another purpose. 

Peace, and for those still holding on in those toxic online spaces, I salute you. You are made from tougher stuff than I.

The Marigold - family history series

 Today, I believe I solved a mystery that was 150 years old. It's one that I have referred to before - my maternal grandmother's lines and how, while her paternal line just unfolded before me with ease and I watched as I became the descendant of a brown dude who was a revolutionary, her maternal line just brickwalled.

I am no closer when it comes to her maternal grandfather, John McVeigh. I still believe I am in the ballpark with my idea that we have some misspelt surnames there, and potentially a couple of convicts, but I cannot be sure.

Eliza Louisa Hibbert though, I am now reasonably certain I have solved. For fans of Downton Abbey, it's a "Marigold" story. And probably one that, if I wasn't so stubborn while also driven by accuracy, I may not have solved.

Eliza was my first clue that, when encountering relations on Ancestry, you need to question everything. If things don't fit, people will shoehorn stuff in, mainly in the hope they can construct their family trees. 

Eliza was very shoehorned, but I guess it was understandable why she was. According to her marriage and death certificates, her parents were Joseph Hibbert and Eliza Sarah Kipps. They had a number of children, including a daughter named "Louisa Elizabeth", and Eliza Sarah actually gave birth to her final child when she was 47 (terrifying thought to me at 47 right now!). People had misidentified Louisa as Eliza Louisa yet when it came to the records, it didn't fit. This woman was 9 years older than Eliza's husband John, yet marriage certificates and cemetery records showed her being seven years younger than him. Further digging showed that Louisa married a man named George Podesta, and that she died in 1912. 

Yet despite what Eliza Louisa's marriage and death certificates stated, no birth certificate existed for her. What's more, she does not appear on her named mother's death certificate. She does appear on her named father's death certificate, but as "Louisa Eliza" and with an illegible age. Had she been born to Eliza Sarah and Joseph, Eliza Sarah would have been 45 - not impossible, particularly considering the one younger brother, but certainly not usual.

                                {segment - Joseph Hibbert death cert}
 

When Eliza Louisa died, it was June 1947 and she was listed as being 74 years old. Her beloved husband John followed her to the grave a mere couple of weeks later. She was fondly remembered by my nanna Lorna as being a warm woman, who was like a mother rather than a grandmother to her because Avis was out making her boots. Nanna actually lived with her grandparents and her mother until she married at 18. Eliza Louisa was a steadying influence in a house of rather strong-willed individuals.

Therefore if she had a birth certificate, it would have indicated that she was born in 1872 or 73. Eliza Sarah did not give birth in that year. She did, however, have two daughters who would have been old enough then to have children - Sarah Avis (18yo), and Louisa Elizabeth (16yo).

Perhaps I should have taken closer notice of Joseph Hibbert's death certificate, because the first clue was there. But then again, I don't know that I would have got it from the listed "Louisa Eliza".

The answer appears to be this: according to the records, on the 10th of August, 1872, Sarah Avis Hibbert gave birth to a daughter named "Louisa Eliza Londriggan" in Panton Hill, Victoria. Her mother, Eliza Sarah, was listed as the witness. The father was a man listed as "Edmond Londriggan", who was a 28 year old brickmaker from Ireland. Allowing for misspellings and so forth, this man does not appear to exist - there are no records for him in Victoria beyond this birth certificate, and I haven't found him on passenger lists for migration, nor cemetery records. He doesn't seem to exist elsewhere in Australia either - I located an "Edmund Longrigan" in a NSW cemetery, but he was too young. Sarah Avis was listed as married to this man, and carrying his surname too, yet no marriage record exists. Victoria was the best record-keeping state in the country. 

When it comes to Sarah Avis' death certificate though (1890), no daughter named Louisa Eliza Londriggan is listed, and nor is a first husband named Edmond. She is, however, shown as having married firstly, a man named William Townsend to whom she had two children (both did not survive infancy), and then secondly, to a man named Robert Moyes to whom she had a son named Francis. On her marriage certificate to Townsend (who was more than twice her age), she was listed as a "spinster", rather than a widow or divorcee, thus making her stated marriage to Londriggan prior unlikely.

I can, therefore, only come to the conclusion that "Louisa Eliza Londriggan" is my second great-grandmother Eliza Louisa Hibbert. Louisa Eliza would have been exactly 74 years old in June 1947 when Eliza Louisa died. I believe Sarah's parents brought up Eliza Louisa as their own, thus hiding Sarah's "illegitimate" child in their already huge brood, and freeing her up to marry at the age of 21 without the stigma or shame society put on unwed mothers at the time. I also believe that in "adopting" Eliza Louisa, they switched her name order around as there was already a daughter named Louisa in the family. Finally, they gave her their surname, and that was the "maiden name" she carried to her grave.

Perhaps if there are living descendants of Francis Moye who test on Ancestry, I will be able to confirm all this. As it stands though, the dates are right, and this explains the absence from both Sarah and Eliza Sarah's death certificates, but the presence on Joseph's. It explains the unfindable "father". It also explains why I do match up genetically with other descendants of Eliza Sarah and Joseph - I am of that flock, but just a further generation along than what our family knew.

I will never know if Eliza Louisa knew any of this. I hope she did, but regardless, if she didn't, I am glad that she still grew up with her family. And she went on to create and nuture a family of her own, to which, I am proud to now know and be a part of.

Around the world with the Wallers

 Since I have returned from the Netherlands, I have been watching back-to-back episodes of Who Do You Think You Are? on SBS's On Demand. It's a rather peculiar thing to do, but has been spurred by watching other people go through their journeys and seeing what it is that I may have missed.

To recap, my holiday to the Netherlands was spurred not only from severe burnout and lingering background depression, but also my discovery that I am the 5th great-granddaughter of Dutch-Burgher revolutionary Pieter Quint Ondaatje. There was definite and defiant joy at finding out that I had such an incredible political figure in the mix there, but also that the "white side" of my family ended up not being terribly white at all. His grandson, James George Waller, who to me is 3rd great-grandfather, is the one who migrated here, and though his own migration trip remains a mystery, his line and parentage is not. Indeed, once I uncovered it, this was the most complete line I had, and it turns out that the one migrant-of-colour I have on my maternal side of the family was the only person who came here who had any money behind him at all. The rest were very working class, and two lines lost everything in the Sacramento shipwreck.

What has struck me watching all these episodes though is while I may have all the documents linking my descent from Quint and Christina Hoovenaar, and while I may have seen a great many places associated with him while in the Netherlands, I am missing two links. I don't know much about their daughter Hermina Wilhelmina, why she stayed in the colonies long enough to meet and marry British ship-builder James Waller, and what her life was link as an educated woman-of-colour sailing the world. I also don't know much about James George Waller, why it was that he chose Australia when he had sisters who went to Canada and Jamaica, and what his life was like. He was a man of colour with means in the early days of Melbourne, and he was clearly adored by his children. He showed progressive values and I am trying to ascertain if he, like four generations before him, was also a member of the Freemasons. Conversely, he also suffered hardship - his wife, Caroline Hodges from Bristol, appears to have died of alcohol-related illness. And I do wonder how his non-white heritage played out for him, particularly in the later part of his life where Australia was actively legislating for an end to non-white migration.

But watching these episodes of others has highlighted the mysteries I still need to solve. As well as the lives of Hermina, then James George, that is. I, for example, need to know what it is that my great-great-grandmother Eliza Louisa Hibbert does not have a birth certificate. I need to know whether I am right about her husband John McVeigh's parents in Sydney, and need to know whether they were convict descent (seems likely - they were Irish descent and not wealthy) or whether I have barked up the wrong tree here. I have, after all, had to run with the assumption that the surname has changed spelling (or was misspelt due to illiterate forbears) in order to find records that match dates and places. Staying with the Irish, I need to know John Henry Robinson's story beyond him being born in Dublin. I have names for parents, but being very common Irish names (John Robinson and Mary Farrell), that doesn't narrow it down. A man that adored by his family cannot have simply appeared from nowhere. The biggest mystery of all though remains on dad's side: did Frank Gillen know he fathered my great-grandmother Mary, and how did he come to do so (beyond the obvious)? How, also, did this influence his research with Baldwin Spencer on the Arrernte? 

Part of me sort of hopes SBS sees me here, and decides they want me on this show so they can unpack some of these stories. Truth is, I have spent a fortune on government records because sloppy research, and shoehorning records on Ancestry, had led to distant relations making mistakes that I had to correct. But I don't have the additional money to dig in the above any further. Particularly given Irish records can be precarious due to their history of colonisation by the English. I cannot help but feel that many co-descendants, due to their whiteness, have stopped at the ethnicity estimates. I don't understand their lack of curiosity with regards to the actual people involved, because the minute you drill down, you work out the ethnicity estimates mean little. But perhaps they were simply looking for validation of their identity, and as someone who has been "othered" my entire life, I did not need that validation. I know who I am.

If people do take on these journeys, my advice is to take everything on Ancestry with a grain of salt. The presence of names and records can be overwhelming, but they are only really as good as the people who have been on the system before you. You need the certificates, and you need the stories. The historical echoes lie in those stories, and not the faulty ethnicity estimates. 

Revisiting a major problem I have with the Buffyverse

 I think I have figured this blog out: it will live again, but it must live in ways that I can enjoy it. Whether it's me ruminating on my family research finds and the socio-political and historical significance of them, or it's me throwing down some random thing about pop culture, or it's a post bagging out the colony - I need to be able to enjoy writing again. And this is going to be a place where I do just this. Hope the two readers I have enjoy it too.

I have been rewatching Buffy and Angel again, and two things have brought this on. The first was the untimely death of Michelle Trachtenberg, who played Dawn Summers. The second was the announcement that a reboot series was on its way, and that it would include Sarah Michelle Gellar, while series originator Joss Whedon would not be included. Whedon being elsewhere is not surprising - in the intervening years, just how problematic the dude was with those he worked with has been documented in a number of places, and I will barely delve into that here. The extent of the complaints are easily findable. My curiousity though of how this show will grow what existed before it led me back to revisiting what actually did happen before. 

Here's a basic - both series have not aged well. I am not terribly surprised. For me, they were more of an enjoyable and female-centric romp rather than the cutting-edge feminism they were often touted as. They broke ground by taking a blonde-bimbo prototype character and instead placing her as the protector of the world, they featured the first prime time lesbian kiss, and at least in Buffy, men were in supporting roles. However, I had problems with certain things back then. For starters, why did almost every dude Buffy have sex with turn evil after the act (except for the boring one we all hated), if he wasn't already evil? What sort of purity self-flagellation was that? And the show is littered with ableist slurs, Buffy is kind of racist at times (assuming Robin Wood was from "the hood", for example), and for some bizarre reason, the only thing that could send Spike on a redemptive path was a rape attempt, even though the bloke had been redeeming somewhat for two seasons prior. Also, what the fuck was Xander, in general?

My biggest problem though always related to Cordelia. I was not surprised when, only a couple of years ago, Charisma Carpenter went public about her experiences being written out of the series, because way back then, her trajectory was just so incredibly problematic. They started with a vapid rich bitch, set about redeeming her over the years so she became a warrior in her own right, then just threw her out. And why? Well, essentially because the woman behind the character had the hide to be pregnant. 

It was truly fucked. Why? Because as a plot device, Cordelia had already managed to be impregnated twice (once in her head), via demons trying to spawn. Her body was up-for-grabs as far as pregnancy went, as long as they could control the narrative. The femaleness of it was exploitable as an incubator of life, provided that life was created in a non-consensual manner, and needed to be destroyed for the good of the world.

And so, when Charisma Carpenter fell pregnant, so it seemed the showrunner set about punishing her for doing so, by turning her own pregnancy into an evil thing, set in motion by a sordid act, that needed to be destroyed for the good of the world. What's more, it appeared to be greatly excused for what it was by the Buffyverse, for some "greater good" that was the maintenance of Whedon's legendary status. As I watched it unfold, it made my skin crawl, and as I found out over the years that my suspicions about Cordelia's arc then exit started to be confirmed via actors speaking out over the years, I was not surprised.

Why couldn't Cordelia have a positive and wanted pregnancy on the show? Why couldn't her pregnancy be written into the storylines in a good way? It wasn't like they didn't have the opportunities to do this. Gruselug, for example, was a half-demon from Pylea who Cordelia started a consensual relationship following his exile from his home dimension. Perhaps instead of exploring some sort of growing romantic connection with Angel, the two of them could have remained in an uncomplicated camraderie while she shacked up with a bloke who, himself, could have had an expanded role fighting the good fight permanently? Or maybe she could have pursued single motherhood, and brought her own child up in this alternate reality of demons and good-doing? Perhaps she could have decided to be a surrogate for the assumed pansexual Lorne? Who knows - they didn't explore a positive vision of pregnancy, then motherhood, for the character.

Instead, they had Cordelia boff a son-like figure in a pity-fuck scenario to fall pregnant. Then the minute she was pregnant, she became evil. Then her child essentially destroyed her as she birthed it, leaving her unable to function beyond that point. Finally, after being in a coma for a while, they brought her back to set Angel on the "right path", only to finally kill her off. It was, in a word, disgusting.

I actually cannot imagine what it must have been like for that actor to have her pregnancy so abused. Carpenter has stated that Whedon was mad with her, that he asked her if she was going to "get rid" of it, and that he called her fat. But I can imagine that as they then set about abusing her character in the storyline, the poor woman had to put on some serious game face just to continue fronting up on set. For a bloke so often celebrated for his "pro-feminist" work, it was all pretty misogynistic work by Whedon. Did Carpenter even get the opportunity to enjoy her pregnancy, and is it any wonder she has also indicated she suffered from post-natal depression?

Rewatching it now, it's making my skin crawl with added ick, cast into relief by both my own ageing process, but also the cast revelations over the years. I can't actually believe, with the power of retrospect, that this was ever considered OK. And I hope, with the reboot, these lessons have been learnt and truly, a new era of the show really does take it to new, actually feminist, places.