Photographs Part III

So these are the pictures I was trying to find and post last night (before getting distracted by the sad things). I was going to just spam Twitter with them, but figured I'd link to here instead. So here are the photos in a chronological(ish) order with captions.

This is me aged seven on the day I was enrolled as a Brownie. The lady in the picture is NOT my Brown Owl, but my Godmother, who was ACC in Buckinghamshire (I think... though might be the wrong county or wrong dates) at the time. She caused quite the ruckus by wanting to come to and receive my Promise, as Brown Owl felt thoroughly undermined by it all (my Godmother used to Guide here, but the two of them never saw eye to eye!) but my Godmother ended up there, after all!

Tracy in sporting shocker! This was a Brownie sports day at a local school. And, unlike in Finland last year, I wasn't five miles behind everyone else!

I've made this one a little bit bigger so you can actually spot me! This was my first St. George's Day Parade in the area. We still do the same route now, many years later - except I'm the Tawny Owl at the front now! Back then, this was a brand new bit of road, and we were excited to be walking down it, as it meant it was a new route! If you haven't spotted me yet, I'm the one next to the girl in the red coat. No idea why she was in red - as you can see, we had pack cagoules!

Moving on a couple of years and my Godmother made it up for my Guide enrollment, with a slightly bigger Tracy! Same building, but new curtains. My sister made her Promise as a Brownie, the same night I renewed it as a Guide, so obligatory group shot with Leaders, sister and Godmother below.

This is my first Guide camp. We went to a place called Trent Lock, which isn't far from where we live (and I'm considering taking my Senior Section members there when I get round to doing my camp license). I wonder sometimes how they managed it - a coach seems like such a luxury for such a small distance. I also had to use a stuff sack, as my bedding rolls were notoriously awful!

Sometimes, I really hate my father for his ability to get ridiculous photos of me! He had four of my first St. George's Day Parade as a Guide, and my culottes seem to be riding up in ALL of them. I'm also suddenly aware that I'm the only one in this picture in knee high white socks! Awkward!

This was just as my sister started Guides, but she hadn't got her uniform yet. It was our first camp together and she was put in my tent! I could have KILLED our Leader!

 Gang Show! This is what I lived for in Guiding. My happiest moments as a child were amongst my Gang Show family, and I stayed in touch with the other three Guides in this picture for several years after. In fact, I recently met up with several people from this photograph and nothing much has changed - we still get on brilliantly!

My church ran a special uniformed music group for Guides, Scouts, Boys Brigade and Girls Brigade to play in at family services. I played both clarinet and saxophone in it. When my grandma came down one mothering Sunday, she wanted a photograph with both of us in Guide uniform with my instruments. My sister felt left out, so we gave her the clarinet. This is the version from the "family album", but I have the reject upstairs in my personal album where I'm laughing away. It's one of my favourite pictures.

This is me and Ruth at a Senior Section weekend at our local campsite. Not sure who the evil looking child behind us was!

This was my team at the Senior Section weekend. As you can see, Ruth and I all snuggly again. I'm surprised I wasn't instructed to put her down and leave her alone!

This is me, almost 18, at another weekend away at Elton. I had helped build the swing and was happily photographing everyone else playing on it, but was terrified myself! Another one of my favourite Guiding memories (although in AWFUL clothing!) and favourite photos.

This last picture I don't remember at all. I'm not sure where it was, what I was doing, how old I was (though I assume nearly 18 from clothing - I had just outgrown my Young Leader uniform when I got that top) or anything. All I know is that I looked rather evil with red eyes and face mask!

Photographs Part II

Yes, folks, I'm blogging on my phone at work. Because I'm so upset and tearful and raw that I need to get it out. I can't just sit on it and wait.

After sifting through various photographs and things last night, I came across another image. The most painful image of all. And I can't decide what to do about it.

Like I said, I thought I had destroyed almost everything that was associated with my rape and subsequent pregnancy. (Side note: why does a possessive pronoun seem so out of place? Claiming ownership of the event as "mine" feels wrong.) I destroyed the clothes, the shoes, photographs from that sort of time, notes for university, vocabulary books, everything.

But last night I found my ultrasound scan.

It shocked me. First of all, eight years doesn't feel like a long time, but looking at the age of the image really brought it home - it's a hell of a long time. But then all the other feelings, the sense of grief for the little girl I lost (it was early, but baby was lying right or something, so the lady was fairly certain) and everything else.

And then, inevitably, there's a decision to make. Do I keep the picture, hold onto it, or do I destroy the picture and let go?

My instinct is to destroy. That little girl didn't make it. She will always be a part of my life, in the same way that the rape itself will be, but it feels like it's time to let it go and put her to rest. Holding onto that picture or the associated feelings doesn't help me.

But I worry and question these instincts. Is it really that I want to let go or is it a need to bury things and hide them away? And what is the difference between "letting go", "moving on" and "avoidance"?

The problem with doubt is that it leads to a spiral of shame. It stops us talking and sharing our feelings, compounding the instinct to bury. Why is it that we make these subjects taboo and jeopardise each other's wellbeing in the process?

Photographs

I was looking through old photo albums tonight and was going to post lots of pictures of me as a Brownie, Guide and Young Leader. Of course, the album with all my Senior Section pictures seems to have disappeared, but it doesn't matter - I got distracted anyway.

As I flicked towards the end of the photo album (even though I knew there were no more Guiding pictures), I came across photographs my parents took when they visited me in Germany. Some made me smile, like the one of my house, but then I came to this photo, and the one after it.

This photo was taken in January 2005, just a few weeks before I was attacked. It's strange to see me smiling and so happy because I still associate the smell of bratwurst and gluhwein with everything that happened. Whilst this picture looks so happy and peaceful (and I was surprised by how young and pretty I look there - I didn't recognise myself for a moment), the one after it was taken in June, when my parents came to collect me.

In the second picture (which I can't bring myself to scan and post), I looked so different. My eyes were tired, pained. I know, looking back, that it was only a week or two after I miscarried. And the two, side by side, look like completely different people.

After that point in the album, there's not a single picture of me smiling. Every single one looks haunted and in pain, or resentful of the camera. And I was. Because whenever the camera was around, I knew that all my feelings were being captured and preserved forever. I hated seeing my pain reflected in others' eyes, I certainly didn't want it there in stone for all to see forever.

I forgot how much it hurt. It still hurts now, but not as much as it did then. And it's a different type of pain.

The truth is, I thought I had managed to destroy all pictures from that year. I thought that it was a black, blank space that I could forget about. But life's not that simple.

10 Hours 45 Minutes

Ten hours and forty five minutes.

That’s ten hours and forty five minutes without sitting down, without leaning on a desk, without going for a toilet break, without lunch, without taking questions.

These are the lengths that some women – that ONE woman – will go to in order to protect the rights and the safety of their sisters. And those are extraordinary lengths (take it from a teacher who would love to be able to achieve those things on a daily basis!).

For those that have missed the many articles surrounding this case, a senator in Texas, Wendy Davis, intended to speak for 13 hours. This was because the state authorities had a deadline of midnight to pass a bill that put extremely prohibitive laws on abortion. By speaking for 13 hours, Wendy Davis would have made them miss the deadline, ensuring that the predominantly right-wing house couldn't vote to enforce the new laws.

She fell a little short of this 13 hour goal, mainly because the republican opposition managed to file enough complaints against her, a few of which were upheld. But one woman (Senator Leticia Van de Putte) followed with the statement, “Did the President hear me or did the President hear me and refuse to recognise me? At what point must a female senator raise her hand or her voice to be recognised over her male colleagues in the room?” This, naturally, caused a reaction which ultimately led to the passing of the midnight deadline.

Whilst I’m not 100% in the “if you don’t like it, don’t get one” camp (I feel that issues such as abortion are far more complex than that), I don’t believe that blanket prohibitive laws are in the best interest of a nation or, in this case, state.

Legislation doesn’t prevent abortion. It forces women underground. If a woman is absolutely against having a baby, she will do whatever she can to get rid of the foetus, and that jeopardises her life in the process. Yes, it may “save” a few foetuses whose mothers are on the border, but at what cost to their emotional and mental wellbeing? And at what cost to the child? Are we so pro-birth that we abandon all morality when it comes to life? Can you really consider yourself pro-life if you are willing to sacrifice a child’s health and happiness? What sort of “life” is it that you are supporting?

My faith makes the topic of abortion a difficult ground to tread. I believe children are a blessing (despite my job – go figure!) and I believe that God has plans for each and every one of us. But I also think that preventative legislation and constant right-wing preaching will result in people resenting God rather than coming to Him through choice or love.

Back in 2005, I discovered that I was pregnant. I didn’t know (and I will never be 100% certain) whether that pregnancy was a result of my rape or my fiancé. The likelihood is that it was the former, considering precautions. When I discovered this, I had a huge decision to make. I was a student at the time, and in no real position to raise a child. How would I feed her (I later discovered she was a girl), how would I clothe her, and what support options did I have in terms of childcare?

That was just the practical side. How would I cope looking at that little girl every day of my life, knowing where she came from? This is regardless of who her father was – because ANY sort of physical intimacy or memory was incredibly painful. And that was if I even had a life with which to reflect on it. I was born with kidney scarring which leads to high blood pressure with potentially life-threatening consequences during pregnancy. I was advised as a teenager never to have children.

Despite my beliefs that I was pregnant for a reason, I had to think of the potential future for both myself and the girl. I went to the relevant specialist to try and make an appointment and my heart was heavy.

I didn't have an abortion in the end. I went and had to make my way through the waiting “respectful prayer group”. I felt ashamed and embarrassed. What right had this group to pass judgement on my situation and my decision? Had any of them experienced what was going through? Once I made it inside, I was told (though I think it must have been lost in translation somewhere) that there was an eleven month waiting list. After that, I didn't have the heart or the confidence to find somewhere else or through with it.

I don’t believe that abortion is as black and white as some would have us believe. Yes, some will regret the choice to abort, but what we need to ensure is the appropriate support services so that women can access the information they need. This may be available in the UK, but it was the German system that I encountered personally. It is essential that we consider both the physical and psychological well-being of all involved, at all points.

So how do I reconcile my belief in God with my belief in women’s choice? Very simply through prayer and compassion. God is love and we need to show that for our sisters. And that includes in not shaming them outside centres and surgeries. Even with the most well-intentioned prayer groups, we need to consider the emotional impact that it will have and where our actions lead. It is not a case of denying my God or of being “overly-PC” (as I have heard many faith issues described in the past weeks), but rather of understanding my calling as one of gentleness and respect, and ministry through example and kindness.

Whilst on the subject of God, faith and family planning, I just want to drop in a comment / story that both horrified and amused me this week. I heard Julie Bentley described as “not only anti-God, but an agent of Satan, as proven by her family planning work”. Far from it proving an allegiance to Satan, or even being anti-God, surely the compassion and dedication that Julie shows in her various causes and charities shows a commitment to a moral framework and the ideal of thinking outside the self, regardless of her religious beliefs!

But in the story of Wendy Davis and her colleagues, I feel it important to note that it wasn't necessarily the cause itself that grabbed my attention, nor the fact that (yet again) women had to fight against men about legislation that affects them. What really grabbed my attention was the fight, the commitment, what women can and will do for a cause they are passionate about.

I like to think that I am strong-willed and prepared to fight. But, realistically, how far am I willing to push any given issue? The reality is that I won’t push very far. My work always seems to come first, and I have to be careful not to do anything that risks me getting arrested or put in a position of shaming the school that I work for (leading to dismissal).

Would I speak for almost eleven hours to stop a bill going through? Only if I could realistically assure myself that I wouldn't be forcibly removed or arrested. Would I risk going onto a racecourse to hang a scarf like Emily Wilding Davison did? Probably not. I would be far too worried about injury to myself, to the horse and to the rider.

As time goes on, I feel that I am pushing further into territory in which I do feel uncomfortable. I’m starting to speak out using personal examples, I’m going to be speaking at an event in London this summer and I am working with the Nottingham Feminist Network on events in the city. Maybe one day, I will have the strength to show the sort of courage that these female senators in Texas showed today.

Passion transforms people. It gives them hope, strength, motivation. It fills them with emotions that can be harnessed to transform the lives of other people, to create a wave. In the face of a strong patriarchal resistance, these women didn’t let it wash over them, but inspired each other to fight and stand up for the rights of others. I only hope it inspires more women to do the same.

Change Listen Educate Transcript

I am Tracy.

I am a teacher.

I am a Guide Leader.

I am a sister, a daughter, a friend, a clutz and, most importantly, I am a human being.

I am exactly like you... Except eight years ago, I was raped.

I lived in Germany at the time, and I was abandoned by my friends, laughed at by the police and ridiculed by my own mother.

Why? Because I don't fit the idea of a rape victim. Or survivor. Or whatever word you want to use, I'm just not it. I'm not pretty, not innocent, not delicate, shy or retiring.

But that doesn't change the truth.

The list of myths surrounding rape is horrendous and never-ending. Every day, the media tells women that they can help themselves by wearing the right clothes, by not drinking too much. Every day, the media implies that only young, pretty girls get raped. Every day, we are told that rape is about sex. It's not. It's about power.

I have repeatedly been asked why I can't just let go of the past, why I hold onto it so tightly. The truth is that I can't let what happened to me become insignificant. because it wasn't. It changed my life forever. Yes, I'm continuing and I'm battling through, but that doesn't make my experience any less painful.

I can't let what happened to me become insignificant, but I'm going to use the pain to fight and to speak out for those who can't. Instead of letting it become insignificant, I'm going to let it become important. Incredibly important.

According to the AVA project, 25% of teenage girls experience physical violence in their relationships. 1 in 3 is abused sexually. In fact, 40% of girls between the ages of 16 and 18 have been pressured into sex against their will.

But teenagers say their voice is not being heard.

We need to change this.

We need to educate young people - not just girls - about the truth of gender-based violence. They need to know the truth about consent, about what rape actually is. They need to know that it happens to women of all ages, of all backgrounds and in all communities. They need to know the support that's available to them. The need to know that it is NEVER their fault.

We need to educate the general public. We need to show them that young people are empowered citizens with a voice, who care about their communities and their sisters. We need to smash stereotypes.

We need to educate the game changers. We need to prove to them that rape matters. That ALL violence matters and that we will not sit and take it anymore. That men care just as much as women.

And we need to listen. Listen to what the women are telling us. Listen to the whispers as well as the screams. We need to become a compassionate society that supports rather than blames, that is inspired to act for change.

This is my story. This is my passion. And this is my wish...

We need to change.
We need to listen.
We need to educate.


Again, if you would like to vote for me, please click here

Change Listen Educate

Here is my audio entry for the "Speak Out" campaign / competition. The transcript can be found here. It's the first time I have really vocalised this personal story, so go easy!

If you want to vote for my entry in the Speak Out competition, please click here and click next to my name (Tracy).


There are additional notes related to this entry here. These have been removed from this entry, as they are not part of the competition (it is solely the audio or transcript to be judged).

Who, What and Why: The truth about rape

As my personal journey continues, I find myself increasingly drawn to research and articles about rape and sexual assault. Sometimes I wonder if it’s genuine curiosity, an attempt to alleviate myself of some of the self-blame or whether it’s a third, slightly more grotesque option.

Regardless of the reason, a series of articles (and of views I've heard in my office) have led me to the conclusion that sexual assault is not only glamourised by the media, but seriously misunderstood by the general public, and not just the minority of them that I had originally thought. And until people understand the basic truth of rape - what it is, why it actually happens - then not only will it continue but so will this culture of “victim blaming”.

Often, it seems that rape on television involves knives, strangers accosting in the street, drugs or is the absolute furthest extreme of the definition. Yes, rape is horrific and traumatic and life-altering, but the reality of rape for many women is so far removed from this that they can even doubt the event entirely. It can be because the man is someone she knows, because she originally consented but changed her mind, because the paralysis of fear resulted in less of a struggle than she expected… sometimes the lines are just so blurred that the word rape somehow seems alien, that a woman will choose to dismiss it as “just bad sex” because her experience doesn't match common media perception.

I’m not saying that the media representation of rape doesn't happen. It does. A lady I used to know had three prominent scars from the base of her neck down to her collar bone. She told me of how she lived in Africa and that men came to her hut in the dead of night and repeatedly raped her, holding a knife to her throat, that it happened not just one night and not with just one group of men. It does happen, there is no denying it.

But for the majority of women who are sexually assaulted, the perpetrator is someone they know. Sometimes it is a family member, sometimes the current partner, sometimes it is just a friend of a friend. Norwich Rape Crisis reports that as many as four out of five women know their attacker.

Now imagine that you and your work colleague have had dinner, been flirting, things have got heated. You go back for “coffee” and one thing leads to another. But somehow it doesn't feel right and you say no. You tell him to stop. He doesn't listen, and the more you say no, the more he seems to enjoy it. You can’t move or push him away and you're not sure why, because he’s not overly rough or violent with it. You put it down to a bad experience, a date that went a bit wrong. It’s only the next time someone tries to touch you that you realise…

Is it rape?

The simple answer is yes. Sex becomes rape when the woman has not consented, or when she removes that consent. Whether it seems particularly violent or not at the time is irrelevant; rape is a serious violation of the body, mind and trust. It doesn't matter whether weapons have been used, whether you know him, whether it happened in his home or yours, what matters is you – your experiences, your feelings and your well-being.

It also doesn't matter how you dressed, or the signs that you gave out. It doesn't matter if you flirted with him earlier in the evening, it does't even matter if you were enjoying sex and then changed your mind. The moment you said no and he didn't stop, it became rape. In fact, the moment you stopped consenting, it became rape, whether you said the word no or not.

Too many people assume that the woman must have done something to deserve this assault. Or that the assault itself never existed, because they simply don’t understand that rape is not always a stranger in a dark alley. Rape is everywhere, it happens to everyone.

I was told by a lady that she would be the wrong person to run a project for Women’s Aid or Rape Crisis because she was “white, middle-class, in her thirties and married”. She told me that she would be completely unable to relate to the people she would be working with for those reasons.

Whilst statistics produced by the Crime Survey for England and Wales indicate that students (particularly women aged 16-24) and women living in urban areas experience serious sexual assault more often than older women or those living in suburbs, they also show that women of all ages and from all backgrounds have had this trauma.

We need to accept that gender-based violence happens everywhere, every day, to everyone. And we need to work together to change that, rather than set ourselves apart based on archaic stereotypes.

One of the many articles that shocked me over the last few weeks was one about anti-rape devices. I am not a particularly big supporter of these to begin with, as the underlying message seems to be that it’s the woman’s responsibility to protect herself and not the man’s responsibility to keep it in his pants. But many of these devices listed were focused on a woman’s appearance, such as “hairy tights” that make your legs look like you've never shaved / waxed them.

The idea that rape is linked to attractiveness and physical appearance infuriates me (and let's not start on the expectations about body hair!). I am not conventionally beautiful. I am not slim, I have frizzy hair, I have a double chin and my nose is far too big for my face (as my sister loves to point out on a regular basis). I have been told by many that I simply could NOT have been raped, because who could find me attractive? I have been told that I should be grateful for the attention and that someone showed interest by others, including my own mother and the German police.

Rape does not happen because a woman is attractive. Rape does not happen because a woman is wearing a short skirt, because she is wearing a low cut top, because she has a reputation for being promiscuous, because she is drunk or because she was “asking for it”. Rape doesn't even happen because a man was so turned on that he couldn't control it.

But it IS about control.

A rapist assaults in order to give himself a power-rush. For some men, it is an old lady, for others it is a beautiful woman who would be otherwise unattainable to him, and for some, it is a woman who is outspoken, powerful and represents the control that he wants. By taking away her most private, intimate experiences in a way that society deems taboo, he controls her.

And he doesn't just control her for those few minutes. He controls her in her sleep when she sees his face, in flashbacks when she hears or smells something similar, he controls her through the fear and through the confusion of her feelings which she is ashamed of and doesn't understand.

Rape isn't about sex, it’s about power. And power isn't always about beauty.

It’s imperative that we challenge these stereotypes, that we speak out and change people’s perception about rape and serious sexual assault. I don’t expect every woman who has experienced such an event to raise her hand, but I want the message to be spread. I want women to know that they are not alone, that their experience is not insignificant, that their feelings matter, that there are others out there. I want people to know that rape happens in your own home, with people you know, in ways that seem so “mundane” that it’s hard to comprehend why you feel so violated. I want people to see that rape is not about beauty, that it doesn't matter what you wear, whether you’re a size 8 or a size 28 because it’s about power, it’s about control.

Most of all, I want change. I want the blame to stop. This “victim-blaming”, the “self-blame”, the accusations of lying due to the perceived concept of rape. I want women to speak with conviction and confidence and for men to stand up in support, not belittle and dismiss. I want the word to spread.