On ‘The Hunting Ground’

We missed this documentary from two years ago. I’m not sure how, but given where I was emotionally two years ago, that may not be a bad thing.

Last year, in the wake of the outrageous ‘sentence’ handed down to Brock Turner and other college athletes who sexually assaulted women at various universities, I read Jon Krakauer’s Missoulaan incredibly chilling account of the lengths one university football town would go to to protect it’s star athletes. Sadly, Missoula, Montana and the University of Montana are but one of far, far too many college campuses plagued by an epidemic of sexual predation and violence against mostly young women. By no means are young men spared either, however.

The Hunting Ground, a 2015 documentary by the makers of The Invisible War, painfully and carefully tracks the criss-crossing of the United States by two brave young rape survivors from the University of North Carolina. Their objective is clear yet anything but simple: to call to account university administrators for their woeful and shameful inattention and at times contempt for those who dare report the assaults they not only endured but survived. In these brave individuals’ own words, ‘the responses by the universities were often worse than the actual assaults [they] experienced’.

In the wake of #metoo and what seems like daily revelations regarding sexual harassment and assaults by the rich, powerful and (in)famous, those of us ordinary individuals who have faced similar experiences and the inevitable doubt which follows from those in positions to hand out justice remain not only unsurprised but angered and feeling let down once again.

Indeed, based on the well-documented and researched figures provided throughout The Hunting Ground, I honesty felt a bit sick at various moments. Yet again.  

From the proportion of college-aged women who are likely to face an assault (11.2%), to the numbers of expulsions resulting from cheating  compared to on-campus assaults (the former vastly outpace the latter, which are negligible at best and quite often zero) to the proportion of all assaults remaining unreported (80%), its all a stark reminder that we collectively have a long way to go vis-á-vis believing women and men who are violated in the worst possible way.

At the very least, we should be able to ensure that those brave enough to step forward feel supported more than those who commit such heinous acts.

The Hunting Ground reminds us that we have a long, long way to go. And, given current events, now seems like as good a time as any to continue on that journey towards justice.

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For more information on creating an environment in which sexual assault is not tolerated or accepted and providing supportive environments for survivors, visit It’s on Us.

 

A dear John to coffee…

Dear Coffee:

I adore you.

Above all the beverages and vices I rely on, I have been most committed and faithful to you, scarcely missing our morning rendez-vous for going on 30 years now.

Why?

Why then have you forsaken me so?

In a single bump against you, you not only created the single largest cold coffee puddle across my desk, ruining countless to-do lists in an instant. But, you spread across and within every single crevice on and into my trusty keyboard, rendering her useless. I know you have occasionally suffered from neglect at the expense of my keyboard, at times growing cold. But, I’ve always returned to you, my darling dearest Coffee.
As I make an emergency trip to find a replacement keyboard, I’m thinking hard about our relationship. I wonder: Is it time to take a break from one another?

Let’s sleep on it. But,… this hurts, Coffee.

PS … I suspect we both know, come morning, I’ll come crawling back to you, you magical potion. But, still….

Photo courtesy of my friend Puck. 

Their success…

I am shattered.

In truth, I’m running out of ways to describe just how exhausted and spent I am at the moment — mentally and physically, but particularly mentally. This does not serve me well when my vocation depends upon the mental acuity to not only communicate well, but to help others communicate their own ideas, plans and findings more effectively.

As a consequence of the need for a mental break and at least a week (or more) of decent nights’ sleep, I confess: lately, I’ve felt less than successful at my job. In fact, I’ve felt like I’m letting my colleagues and my students in particular down.

Today, however, two things happened which reminded me that I’m still doing okay. First, I received an email from a former student, thanking me for helping her with grant writing. After multiple attempts and failures in the past, she received two years of funding for her PhD research. Reading this over my morning coffee made me smile. But, this evening, during an entirely different class on conference presentations, one of the participants shared that she actually won a prize for her presentation at a local conference last week. And, she believed that recognition resulted from her experiences in and feedback from that class particular over the preceding three weeks.

Today was a good day.

My success as an instructor and a member of the extended University of Helsinki community isn’t so much about cataloging accolades for my own resume. It’s much more about these seemingly small-scale successes for my students and colleagues. Their successes are my successes. Their awards reward me even if I am neither recipient or beneficiary. I don’t need to be.

If I am at all effective in my job, these individuals—who spend 12 to 24 hours sitting in a classroom with me or painstakingly address each of my seemingly infinite number of suggestions and revisions—gain one skill or another to help them along in their careers. Whilst I don’t often know what happens to them once they leave my classroom or inbox, I thrive on hearing their success stories and victories. And, it could not be more meaningful; it could not make me happier.

Several weeks ago, I noticed balloons randomly placed around the city centre campus. They seemed so celebratory, although at the time I did not feel at all festive. I honestly cared now why they were there; I just liked seeing them and snapped a picture.

This evening, they seem relevant. And, celebratory in an altogether different way. And, this evening, as with most, I am immensely proud and honoured to serve as a member of this community of brilliant scholars. Here’s to our collective success.

University of Helsinki

 

On ‘Strength to Love’

Strength To LoveStrength To Love by Martin Luther King Jr.

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

‘Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere’.

This quote more than any other moves me, and serves as a reminder that tolerating injustices of any kind, whether directed at me or at others, represents an incredibly slippery slope.

Nearly 50 years after his assassination, Martin Luther King, Jr remains a voice of strength and love and compassion aimed at shattering the hatred that justifies racial injustice. Sadly, nearly 50 years later, much of his writings and reflections related to his faith in a loving and just god and the reality of being black in the 1950s and 1960s America ring true today. As a diverse nation, we’ve come some way from the dark days of the civil rights era; but, if the last year has provided me with any sort of measuring stick on where we as a nation now stand, we still have much further to go.

I do not share MLK’s faith. Despite being raised in a Southern Baptist family, their god and the stories in The Bible never really made sense to me. Their god was one to fear, whose wrath was fierce. And, much of the rhetoric I heard justified the supremacy of those like us — white, middle class, privileged. In Strength to Love, MLK uses his faith and scripture to justify justice. To justify love rather than hatred. To justify compassion and inclusion.

So much of this collection of sermons and reflections remain relevant in these times. In a chapter entitled, ‘The man who was a fool’, he states, ‘The means by which we live have outdistanced the ends for which we live.’ I couldn’t help but wonder what he would think of our world today, where technology has boomed. I wondered if he would be demonised as a ‘fake news pundit’ or a antifada anarchist. But, I also wondered how powerful these tools could be when coupled with his various messages and teachings, particularly amongst those who share his faith. And, particularly when addressing the various unarmed shootings of young black men by police officers.

He closes this chapter with these words: ‘What shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world of externals—airplanes, electric lights, automobiles, and color television—and lose the internal—his own soul?’ I’m not sure where I lie on the existence of a soul, but whilst we in the United States possess so much stuff, I wonder if we haven’t lost which makes us truly rich beyond wealth. More than anything, I can only imagine how much more fortunate (and happier) we’d be if we would only view our fellow citizens as worthy rather than as ideological or racial enemies.

Strength to Love may represent a piece of our past and a long ago moment in our young nation’s history. But, to my mind, it serves as a powerful guide for what we still need to accomplish as individuals and as a nation.

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If this is how it affects me…

A little over five years ago, my husband and I endured what seemed like an impossible task at the time. It felt never-ending. Because of a set of circumstances we could not predict, we found ourselves applying for permanent residence in Finland on grounds then called ‘humanitarian reasons‘.

What strikes me as odd now is how that one event—an event stretching out to nearly a full year—continues to haunt me today.

Humanitarian reasons, or protections, as the Migration service refers to them now, are no longer accepted as justification for residence applicants. Thankfully, that classification no longer applies to us since we now hold permanent residence. I cannot imagine if we had not had that as a valid reason for submitting applications at the time. As an American with that all-important blue passport, I still find it weird that I personally fell into that category at all. Still, then, our only reason for meeting the conditions related to our mutual passports and an odd convergence of circumstances which meant we fit no other viable category.

Today, we will make our way to a Finnish Migration Service (or Migri) service point in Helsinki to renew our permanent residence cards, cards which arrived and filled us with the most immense relief I’ve ever known or am likely to ever feel. Months of waiting in a near-panic state, months of uncertainty and tidal waves of what-ifs should either or both of us be denied residence, months of simply putting everything in our life on hold until we knew what was possible. When those cards dropped to the floor as we ripped the envelope open, we didn’t merely cry, we sobbed and choked and laughed and hugged and cried some more. A period marred more as a form of psychological torture came to an abrupt and welcome end. That torment still awakens me in a cold sweat five-plus years later.

Today’s trip is already so vastly different to that hellish submission process in 2012. Then, we were armed with a bundle of paperwork (which were supplemented by three more bundles in the months that followed). Today, we need only bring our passports, our residence permit cards, and new passport photos. Then we waited hours to be seen in a numbered queue system. Today, we have an appointment.

Yet, the anxiety and worry persists despite the vastly different circumstances. Last night, I awoke in a cold sweat after having a nightmare about my handbag being nicked. What was I most concerned with? My precious residence card being amongst the items stolen and our appointment at Migri. This is not the first anxiety dream; I expect it won’t be the last.

Despite the lingering memory of that time, I know how fortunate we are, particularly compared to others who have endured far worse journeys to Finland and infinitely more stressful circumstances surrounding their own applications and long waits. If this is how this process affects me—the privileged, middle-class, white girl from the suburbs of Middle America—how does it affect those fleeing real humanitarian crises? How long do their nightmares last? And, how deep is the despair for those denied a peaceful life in this at times overly quiet country after surviving the most hellish conditions?

You who are so-called illegal aliens must know that no human being is ‘illegal’. That is a contradiction in terms. Human beings can be beautiful or more beautiful, they can be fat or skinny, they can be right or wrong, but illegal? How can a human being be illegal? — Elie Wiesel

NoHumanIsIllegal_Logo_Klein.

 

 

Days like these

November in southern Finland is not child’s play, particularly once we set the clocks back that one precious hour and live on ‘winter time’. The nights become unending and the sun — if it appears at all — shines less than brightly. Couple the darkness with a heavy dose of stress and finding any joy at all becomes excessively difficult if not impossible.

But joy can be found even in the darkest of places. At least, that’s the hope we hold on to even on those darkest of days. This week featured an array of stressors and frustrations. Don’t get me wrong: bright spots shone. Yet both of us acutely feel the effects of an entirely overly optimistic and far from restful year as we near our long-awaited and overdue holiday and annual escape to the sun.

Before our escape, we must take whatever opportunities arise to break free from the daily grind. It may be a fully working weekend for us both, but we work just as hard to find time to get out and break free for our peripatetic bonding session before night falls and the darker darkness of winter characteristic of these nights descends. We made our break sometime around 16.00.  And, here’s what we found on this wintry Caturday afternoon/early evening:

  • The street lights were on well before we made it halfway through our walk. We appreciated the light on our return journey home. But, it’s weird and eery to see them turn on well before 16.30 in the afternoon. A month from now, it will be fully dark at this time of day. And, that darkness is intensely black, standing in stark contrast to the dusk that pervades throughout what counts for summer nights. (Need I say, we prefer the darkness of summer.)
  • Despite needing multiple layers on our walk, as we approached the beach nearest our neighbourhood, a lone, brave swimmer made her way from the changing rooms to the pier and finally down into the icy waters. She wore a wool cap, gloves of some sort, slippers of some sort, a bathing suit and was wrapped in a towel. We shivered simply watching her as she submerged into the waters and swam from the pier. As she emerged after her swim, she confessed that the water ‘wasn’t so bad once you got used to it’. We both thought, ‘Better you than us, girlfriend!’ We prefer the warm bath water of the Caribbean, thank you very much.
  • Despite living in Finland for 10 years now, we still don’t understand the weather here. We left under relatively cloudless skies. At least, it looked as though the clouds had moved on to elsewhere. As we stood watching the less-than-sane swimmer [our classification of her mental state, naturally], rather large and cold drops of rain plopped on our heads. Once again, we were stuck far from home without an umbrella.
  • Mosquitoes still survive even now. Surprisingly. As I typed this post, one lone little bugger landed on my hand.

Days like these, I’m happy to be alive.

The first snow

As soon as I learned that snow was set to arrive in southern Finland this week, that little-kid excitement took over. Anticipation. Wonder. More anticipation. Awaiting snow’s arrival takes me back to those moments as a kid, waiting to see if we’d have snow, how much would eventually fall and if school would be cancelled. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t want to go to school; but, rather, I wanted to run around in the freshly fallen fluff until my outdoor gear was soaking wet and I was exhausted.

Today’s snow isn’t all that fluffy. It’s weighty and wet and quickly melting rather than piling high. School won’t be cancelled for me today (because I didn’t have any classes scheduled) nor is snow ever likely to cancel classes in Finland. But, I’m still excited.

Unlike most days when I’m not in class, I needed to be somewhere this morning. After bundling up and donning the boots which I’ll likely wear through April, I found myself bracing against the icy grains of snow and smiling. I really do love snow, particularly as it falls and particularly as it changes everything it piles upon into something other worldly. No two snowfalls are alike, just as no two snowflakes are identical.

Today, the sound that accompanies snowfall struck me once again. Everything is muffled, and somehow more gentle. More muted. More peaceful. A few birds tweeted either their delight or disdain, breaking my own snow-induced trance. Perhaps those tweets were more distinct because all other sounds were muffled by the snow.

As I walked to and fro, I continued smiling as I walked in the first snow.

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