MUST READ GUEST BLOG: Vanessa Kururangi – Throwing my weight around

When I was born, just minutes old, the doctor came out of the delivery room and said to Dad “she’s just a featherweight. She’s a delicate one, this one”.
My Dad scoffed “not bloody likely, mate”.
See, he had no intention of raising daughters who grew up believing we should be “featherweight” in any aspect of our lives.

Dad always encouraged us to “weigh in”.

When I was in primary school I was asked by a teacher what I wanted to be when I grew up. Without hesitation I answered “oh I’m going to be a Mum”.
The teacher said “is that all”? as though I lacked aspiration, or that I’d be another “statistic” , or perhaps I was too thick to have understood the question. She was wrong on all three accounts.
I got stroppy and said I’d rather be a good Mum than a dumb teacher who didn’t know how important being a Mum is.
I got sat on “the spot” until I was ready to apologise …so I stubbornly remained there all afternoon. My silent protest was not featherweight. When the home bell rang, I told my Mum. She marched across the field to see the teacher and said exactly the same thing as me, only with more swear words and fire.
I was 9.
I weighed in.

When I went shopping at the mall with my Mum, an announcement came over the speaker. The voice boomed out “attention shoppers, would the owner of the blue car, registration number blah blah blah, please return to it, as there is a child inside who has woken and is most upset”.
We were in Hallensteins, and the male shop assistant grinned widely, nodded to some male customers and said “Blimmin Woman… someone’s silly wife will be red faced running back to the car”.

“Or someone’s stupid husband. Blimmin Men. ”  I replied curtly from behind the chortling bunch of fellows. They coughed awkwardly, and dispersed. My Mum stared hard at some tartan shirt trying not to snort laugh at my ability to “shut that shit down”.
I  was 11.
I weighed in.

When I attended a wānanga, a boy pinged my bra. He had done it to others throughout the weekend, catching them unawares. The girls would lamely swot at him and giggle awkwardly so as not to make too much of a fuss. I put myself on high alert. So, when he tried it on me I instinctively felt it coming. I punched him in the guts so hard it winded him. I spat “would you do that to your Mother”? Our kaiako screeched at me “we do NOT put up with violence here…”. My Uncle who witnessed the exchange gruffly replied “the violence was his… she has the right to defend herself “, then nodded in my direction with a proud twinkle in his eye. I didn’t punch like a featherweight.
I was 15.
I weighed in.

When I went to the club and politely declined the offer of a drink, he took it well. Or so I thought. He must have believed I owed him something for the brief interaction, and filled the cup of his hand with the left cheek of my buttock as I turned away. I glanced over my shoulder and was met with a casual gaze that said “don’t tell me you don’t like the attention”. As I reached between his crotch and ferociously clamped down on what little was there, his face turned a startling shade of pink. “You need to leave” I snarled. My vice like grip was anything but featherweight.
I was 22.
I weighed in.

On a trip to the Gold Coast with my son, my boy sat beside me looking out of the window, chatting and playing with the screen on the headrest in front of him until he fell asleep. An older man sat on the other side of me. It was economy class so I expected the seating to be a bit of a squeeze. But about an hour before we landed, just as I began to relax, he sprawled his legs apart as if to assert his presence. I crossed my feet at my ankles and tried my best to take up as little space as possible. Deciding that I’d be more comfortable without the buckles of my sandals digging into my skin, I leaned down to take them off.
“While you’re down there…” he quietly quipped. I sat up and glared hard at him. It didn’t take long for him to become uncomfortable. And annoyed. “you could at least crack a smile” he said.
Equally annoyed I fired back “You wait until my son is asleep, then you insinuate that I SHOULD GIVE YOU A BLOW JOB , and tell me I should smile about it? This is going to be a long fucking hour until we land isn’t it”?
Another male across the aisle heard my too loud voice and said “you alright, sis”? A woman in front peered over her seat to us and said “do I need to buzz for help”? The man squirmed.
“I’m okay thanks” I replied , “he won’t speak to me again. Right? “. He tried to mutter something about me not having a sense of humour. I enjoyed the safety of knowing my fellow passengers kept tabs on him for the duration of the trip. The man across from us fist bumped me as we shuffled off the plane and said ” staunch alright”. I didn’t feel staunch. My legs shook as we made our way through customs, and I felt as though I carried a little extra baggage off that flight. But still.
I was 36.
I weighed in.

I left late on a Friday evening to head out of town. Work kept me in the office longer than I’d anticipated. But I was used to night driving. It was after 11:30 pm and pouring with rain as I rolled into the township. I stopped at an intersection and indicated to turn. A car was heading towards me so I opted to wait. Not able to see clearly through my fogged up window, I wound it down and noticed it was a cop car. I made my turn, and also noticed the cop cars brake lights come on.
I carried on my way and saw that same car was coming up behind me. I paid it no mind, sure that if I was going to be pulled over I would have been by then. I turned again, now heading out of town towards my destination. THAT was when I saw the cops lights flash. Indicating, I pulled to the side of the road and waited. The police officer breath tested me, checked my warrant and rego, took a photo of my license. I let him do his work and didn’t utter a word. “Strange place for an out-of-towner to be” he said casually. My patience had worn thin as I spat “you followed me for 3 bloody kilometers before you pulled me over for no reason”. He retorted “I don’t need a reason. I can pull you over whenever I want. I’m just doing my job… what’s the problem”?
So. I. Told. Him.
“The problem is that you clearly saw me as you turned that corner in town and decided to follow me. You knew I was in my car alone. You knew I was a single female occupant of a vehicle. It’s raining and it’s damn near midnight. You COULD HAVE pulled me over in town – where there are street lights, and other people . But you CHOSE not to. Instead you waited until I was in the darkest part of this area, where there are no witnesses, no street lights, and no cellphone coverage. You didn’t, not even for a second, consider that your “right” to pull me over could have been done in a way that didn’t leave me feeling this threatened and vulnerable. THAT’S the problem “.
He stood in the rain and stared up the road, as if he only just realised how dark and deserted it was. He looked at me and said quietly “Sorry. You have a good evening”, and made his way back to his car.
That was three months ago.
I weighed in.

My whole life I have had to weigh in. I do it begrudgingly. I’ve had allies along the way. But ultimately, we all have had to find the courage within ourselves to weigh in. I consider myself a strong, resilient, feisty woman. But it still takes a toll on my wairua.

I think of the times when I failed to weigh in. When I was lost for words, or too scared to take action, or when things “happened too quickly”.
I feel mamae for other woman, who have suffered worse, and often for longer. Those with less confidence or gall or sass. I feel for those who didn’t have the role models, or friends or support systems that I’ve had. Those who had too much happen to them and often at an age too young. The woman and girls who have it too deeply ingrained into their psyche that it’s okay for men to make the rules. And break them too. And break us in the process.
I feel heartened by women who take life by the horns, who are carefree, who take risks and go on adventures. Those who want the career, the company car, the closing of a business deal. Those who want to travel to the last remaining rain forests, or spend months in meditation, or who sail aboard the Sea Shepherd, or live solo in a New York apartment, or a Convent for all I care. We should be able to do all of this.

“As long as we don’t hurt others, the way we live our lives and our right to walk this Earth unharmed, should not be up for debate. We should be able to fulfil our hearts desires, follow our destiny and discover our purpose;
And not pay for it with unwanted attention.
And not pay for it with judgement and snide remarks.

And not pay for it by having intimate parts of our lives published on the Internet.
And not pay for it with all manner of abuse and violence.
And not pay for it by having our children taken from us.
And not pay for it by being forcibly sterilised.
And not pay for it through female circumcision.
And not pay for it by being sold as a child bride.
And not pay for it by being kidnapped and forced into the sex trade industry.
AND NOT PAY FOR IT WITH OUR LIVES

You and I. Deserve to live unharmed”.

I will always weigh in.

My hope is that you will weigh in with me, for me, and for others.
Whoever it is that you value and love – do it for them.
Do it for yourself too.
If you want to see change, stand up.

Weigh in.

 

• Disclaimer: I am a poet/creative writer. I don’t claim to know facts or statistics. This piece is offered purely as a creative response to recent (and historic) events, speaking to how women and girls are forced to navigate the World throughout their lives.