Queen of Sheba.
"Lawman" Hit With Civil Lawsuit
[Trigger warning.]
A few people have emailed me about "Lawman" Steven Seagal being accused in a civil lawsuit of "sexual harassment in violation of federal labor laws; illegal sex trafficking; retaliation; wrongful termination; and false representations about employment."
I won't recount the details; they are at the link if you are so inclined, and I direct you with a trigger warning, though MSNBC's coverage is less graphic than other coverage I've read, some of which repeats the specifics of the sexual assaults alleged in the suit.
I don't want to say a lot about this case, because, to be perfectly frank, I think Seagal is a racist dirtbag, and my visceral dislike of him makes me uninclined to be fair.
But I will note that MSNBC reports: "It was not clear why Kayden Nguyen chose to file a civil lawsuit instead of a criminal complaint. Messages left with her lawyers were not immediately returned Monday." As if it's some kind of mystery.
As the alleged assaults took place in New Orleans, where Seagal is shooting "Lawman," the A&E series which follows his stint as part of the New Orleans police force, and Nguyen made a criminal complaint, the same force of which Seagal's a member would have jurisdiction over the case. Aside from the inherent conflict of interest, literally having to report a cop to his coworkers is daunting.
It sounds to me like Nguyen got the hell out of there, flew home (she's from Los Angeles), and then contacted an attorney. Which is the same thing I'd do in the reported circumstances.
Today's Edition of "Conniving and Sinister"
[Trigger warning. Background.]
See Deeky's archive of all previous Conniving & Sinister strips here.
[In which Liss reimagines the long-running comic "Frank & Ernest," about two old straight white guys "telling it like it is," as a fat feminist white woman and a biracial queerbait telling it like it actually is from their perspectives. Hilarity ensues.]
Have I Ever Mentioned That I Love Bob Herbert?
Yes, I know. I've mentioned it like 97,000 times. Once again, let me say, I love Bob Herbert:
We need to pay less attention to the Tea Party yahoos and more attention to the very real suffering of individuals and families trapped in an employment crisis that is unprecedented in the post-Depression era. I've been in inner-city neighborhoods where residents will tell you that hardly anyone at all is working at a regular job.Read the whole thing here.
The recession only worsened an employment picture that was already bleak. In a speech at the Harvard Kennedy School last week, the A.F.L.-C.I.O. President Richard Trumka spoke movingly about Americans "trying to hold on to a good job in a grim game of musical chairs where every time the music stopped, there were fewer good jobs and more people trying to get and keep one."
More than eight million jobs vanished during the recession, a period during which three million new jobs would have been needed to keep up with the growth of the population. "That's 11 million missing jobs," said Mr. Trumka.
Right now there is no plan that can even remotely be expected to result in job creation strong enough to rescue the hard-core groups being left behind. These include: long-term unemployed workers who are older; blue-collar workers of all ages; and younger people in the big cities, in the rust belt and in rural areas who are jobless and not well educated.
It is not possible to put together a thriving, self-sustaining economy while so many are being left out.
Quote of the Day
"I, and many other white journalists, now don't do nearly as many reports on African-Americans or their problems, because we don't want to be put in a situation where our opinion is taken out of context, rammed down our throat as Media Matters and all these other sleazeoids do. So unless it's a big thing, if it's an optional thing where I used to do it, I'm not doing it anymore."—Professional Fucko Bill O'Reilly, whose trenchant as hell reporting on "African-Americans and their problems" will surely be missed.
Today in Rape Culture
[Trigger warning.]
A few times recently, I've seen adverts, usually in print media, using one of my most loathed turns of phrase: "Your mouth says no, but your eyes say yes." There are a few variations, e.g. "Your lips say no, but your eyes say yes" or "Your mind says no, but your body says yes."
Often this yes/no concept is used in advertising to women, to sell something decadent, frequently a food, often chocolate or some rich dessert.
You're saying you don't want it, but you know you really want it.
If that sounds suspiciously like rape apologia, it's no coincidence. "She said no, but she obviously wanted it" has been used in rape defenses as long as there have been trials for rape. What is victim-blaming based on an accuser's appearance or behavior if not a variation on this very concept? "Her mouth said no, but her short skirt said yes."
I could probably write an entire book about the inherent problems in using rape apologia to sell luxury items to women, and the nefariousness of that strategy given what it sells by proxy, but at the moment, I'll just observe, simply: That shit is fucked up.
Actual Headline
In the New York Times: Unshaven Women: Free Spirits or Unkempt?
LOL! Those are the only two options? You have to be making a statement about how free spirited you are, or you're just nasty? Please, Times. Women are way more diverse than that. Some of us are just apathetic!
I'm sure you will not be surprised that the accompanying article is no better.
How we depilate is a function of time and place. Lee Friedlander's 1979 photograph of Madonna spread-eagle, which appeared in Playboy in 1985 — with no sign that she had recently used a razor anywhere — drew cheers and not jeers from readers. Lest we think that hairiness doesn't sell these days, a print of that nude went for $37,500 last year.I don't know about you, but I always base my shaving habits on how much nude portraits of hairy naked pop stars are selling for.
Sometimes a lover finds it attractive; Mo'Nique has said that her husband likes her legs. That raises the question: Is the fear that no man will want you and your hairy legs valid?Valid? Forget valid. That question doesn't even exist in my world.
My shaving habits are not contingent on getting or retaining a partner. It's not much of a stretch to say, however, that who my partner is is contingent on my shaving habits—specifically, his utter lack of investment in them.
[H/T to Shaker MJ.]
I Write Letters
[Trigger warning.]
Dear Susannah Breslin:
I'm guessing that any one of the ladies at Feministing would have happily explained to you what a trigger warning actually is, since—shockingly!—it turns out that "Yahoo! Answers" isn't always the best source on the internetz. But since you didn't bother to ask them, or any of the other feminist/womanist writers in the blogosphere who use trigger warnings, let me offer my services, so that you might base your opinion of trigger warnings on Actual Facts.
It's accurate that a trigger warning is "A warning placed in the title of an e-mail or post to let possible readers know that the content might trigger (or upset) them," but that's not much use as far as explanations go when the word trigger itself hasn't been defined. (Although I note the random answerer you quoted actually did provide a bit of information in a separate response, which you chose to ignore.)
A trigger is something that evokes survived trauma or ongoing disorder. For example, a person who was raped may be "triggered," i.e. reminded of hir rape, by a graphic description of sexual assault, and that reminder may, especially if the survivor has post-traumatic stress disorder, be accompanied by anxiety, manifesting as anything ranging from mild agitation to self-mutilation to a serious panic attack.
Those of us who write about triggering topics (sexual assault, violence, detainee torture, war crimes, disordered eating, suicide, etc.) provide trigger warnings with such content because we don't want to inadvertently cause someone who's, say, sitting at her desk at work, a full-blown panic attack because she happened to read a triggering post the content of which she was unprepared for.
We provide trigger warnings because they give survivors of various stripes the option to assess whether they're in a state of mind to deal with triggering material before they stumble across it. Just like someone who isn't easily triggered can nonetheless have, say, a shorter temper when stressed or tired or hungry, a person whose history of trauma makes some material triggering for them can often navigate triggering material without a problem, except when stressed or tired or hungry. Trigger warnings give them a moment to consider whether they want to deal with potentially triggering material right now.
We provide trigger warnings because it's polite, because we don't want to be the asshole who triggered a survivor of sexual assault because of carelessness or laziness or ignorance.
We provide trigger warnings because we know that 1 out of every 6 women and 1 out of every 10 men is a survivor of sexual assault or attempted sexual assault, many of them having survived multiple sexual assaults, and just because the larger culture doesn't acknowledge the existence of this vast population of people doesn't mean we don't have to.
We provide trigger warnings because we understand what they actually are.
And now, so do you! Yay!
One hopes you will take this information on board and reconsider whether it's not that the ladies of Feministing and their readership are, in fact, too sensitive, but perhaps it's that you were simply not sensitive enough.
Because, I gotta be honest, I'm pretty sure I could make a decent case that ridiculing a feminist site for being thoughtful to survivors is evidence of not being sensitive enough with two hands tied behind my back.
Sincerely,
Liss
I Cleaned My Desk
Following up on Deeky's post yesterday...
I actually had to tidy up a bit because we're getting a site visit from people outside of the office and I want everything to look just so.
Question of the Day
Suggested by Shaker CayceP: After the Today In Rape Culture post about the music video, I was wondering: What are your favorite characters from music, literature, movies, etc. who express a healthy (i.e. consensual) sexuality with which you identify?
(Note from Liss: Or lack thereof. That is, if you're asexual, are there characters with whose asexuality you identify?)
CNN Headline Nooz
Um...WHUT?!
I'm hard-pressed to decide what the worst part of this article is, although I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to cast my vote for: "But when you dumped him, he wept openly in front of you, and that's when you realized, you weren't going out with a man, you were going out with a woman."
Woof.
Today's Edition of "Conniving and Sinister"
See Deeky's archive of all previous Conniving & Sinister strips here.
[In which Liss reimagines the long-running comic "Frank & Ernest," about two old straight white guys "telling it like it is," as a fat feminist white woman and a biracial queerbait telling it like it actually is from their perspectives. Hilarity ensues.]
Quote of the Day
[Trigger warning for clergy abuse.]
"The [Connecticut State] General Assembly is considering passage of House Bill 5473, which will remove the 30-year statute of limitation for the filing of sexual abuse claims concerning minors. The passage of this legislation could potentially have a devastating financial effect on the Catholic dioceses of Connecticut, including parish assets and those of other Catholic service organizations."— Reverend Henry J. Mansell, Archbishop of Hartford, in a letter (pdf) to pastors across the state, urging them to oppose HB 5473.
This letter was not secretly obtained by some news organization. I found it via a link right on the front page of the Connecticut Catholic Public Affairs Conference website, after reading this story at CNN.
There's also a "pulpit announcement" (pdf) which explicitly states the following is to be read at mass: "This Bill threatens the property of our parish and other Catholic parishes, schools, charities, hospitals, and dioceses. It is critically important that you contact your state senator and state representative as soon as possible to express your opposition to this legislation." Parishioners are directed to seek further information on a bulletin insert.
Um. Yeah. Okay, so how is this organization still being allowed the tax exemption that is contingent on not engaging in direct political activity with regard to either a specific political candidate or in an attempt to directly influence the passage of specific legislation…? Are you paying attention, IRS?
Meanwhile, the honesty that lifting the statute of limitations "could potentially have a devastating financial effect" is refreshing, if heartbreakingly lamentable.
A Brief Courteous Note to my Back Pain
Dear Pain-Above-My-Arse,
It's just not working out for me. You're always around, always on my back, never leave me alone for long enough. I'm an introvert. I need my space. You won't even let me sleep for more than six hours!
Seriously. I know we've been together for 22 years, and I can't lie to say there haven't been some good times in there. But for the most part, those good times have been despite your best efforts: you've basically been a pain-above-my-arse, and I think I've reached a point in my life where I need to be with those who will treat me lovingly and well, and you've proven over the decades that you're just not interested in being that for me.
I think we should see other people. Actually, I think I should see other people, and you should go back whence you came and ne'er darken my doorstep - nor anyone else's - ever again. I can't even recommend you to one of my friends. Hell, I wouldn't recommend you to one of my enemies, at this point.
I wish I could close with a cheery "Love, Caitie", but we both know I'd be lying. Just gather up your things and go, okay? Don't make this any harder on both of us than it needs to be.
No longer yours,
CaitieCat
Monday Blogaround
This blogaround brought to you by Shaxco, makers of Liss' Healing Elixir for a Raging Case of the Mondays. Active Ingredient: Vodka.
Recommended Reading:
Rachel: Dear United Airlines
Dorothy: RIP Dixie Carter
Rebecca: RIP Wilma Mankiller
The Lizard Queen: Words Matter
Andy: McCain Says 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' Not a Civil Rights Issue; Won't Ask Gay Service Members How They're Affected
Resistance: The Unfortunate Factual Circumstances
Echidne: Sex = Sex for Men
Leave your links in comments...
Welcome Home
by Shaker bekitty, a New Zealand citizen who, until recently, was living with her partner in Knoxville, Tennessee. And she's found that she's not all that fond of riding around LA at night while handcuffed.
[Trigger warning – possible sexual assault and inmate abuse]
I, like Catiecat, have recently had a brush with the US Customs and Border Patrol, and been shown the benefits of privilege. Only my experience was a bit more, well, intense.
A bit of background: In August of 2007, I moved with my partner David to Knoxville in Tennessee. He'd been headhunted by the folks at Oak Ridge National Laborotory, and he'd refused to go unless I went with him. We weren't (and still aren't) married - mostly for political reasons; why should we get married when not everyone else could? - but that wouldn't pose a problem, right? Right?
Wrong.
I applied for a US visa in early July of 2007, and was told that I had to submit myself for an interview with an officer of the American Consulate in Auckland, since they didn't have an office in Wellington, my home town. No problem - I flew up to Auckland, stayed the night in a youth hostel a block away from the consulate, and turned up for my interview the following morning.
I went in to the consulate and waited my turn to see an official. Ten minutes later, my name was called.
"How long are you planning to stay in the United States?"
"Two years."
"You won't be able to do that. The best we can give you is a B1/B2 visa, that will allow you to stay for six months at a time, but you will have to leave United States soil in between those times. And it will get progressively harder for you to gain re-entry into the US each time you re-apply. Who would you be staying with?"
"My partner. He's a dual citizen."
"Your husband?"
"No, we're domestic partners."
"Domestic partnerships aren't recognised in the US. You would be classified as 'single' and you won't have access to any of his benefits. You also won't be allowed to work."
"I am aware of that, yes."
"Where would you be staying?"
"Knoxville, Tennessee. He's got a job there, and is perfectly willing to support me fully."
"Hmm. Alright. You can go home now. Leave your passport. It will be posted back to you in a few days with our decision."
"Thank you."
So I flew back down to Wellington, got my passport (and visa!) a few days later as promised, and less than a month later, we flew to Knoxville.
We were interviewd and searched on our first visit. And over the next two-and-a-half years, I was called into more interviews each time I re-entered the US. In fact, there was only one time that I remember not being interviewed, which was a pleasant surprise.
Anyway, all went reasonably well, and I was allowed back in, a little more grudgingly each time. Until last week.
My plan was to fly from Wellington to Knoxville, with connections in Brisbane (Australia), LAX, and Dallas-Fort Worth. I got as far as LAX.
I got sent for an interview. I'd expected it. No big problem. I'd put aside five hours in LA just in case.
The interview did not go well. I was interviewed by an officer who was grumpy and just wanted her lunch. She accused me straightaway of living in the US, and didn't believe me when I said that (a) I was a New Zealand citizen, and had absolutely no plans to become a US citizen, (b) that I wasn't working, but was being fully supported by my partner, who was also my sponsor, and (c) that we were both planning to return to NZ for good in September when his work contract expired.
"Are you living in the United States?"
"I suppose so. But - "
And before I could explain about the New Zealand tradition of the OE (overseas experience), where young NZers went overseas to live and learn about different countries and cultures for a short time, then returned home to share and apply what they'd learned, she said, "This interview is over. Go and sit over there."
My heart sank. Ohshitohshitohshit.
I sat down, and pulled out my cellphone. David would be waiting for me in Knoxville. I had to let him know what had happened.
"David? I've just had my interview. I don't think they're going to let me back in."
"WHAAAT?!?"
Then one of the Customs officials saw me and yelled "Put down the phone!"
"I've got to go." And I hung up.
A few minutes later, I was told to go inside a small room. Two customs officials, both women, went with me. One of them told me to stand facing the wall, with my hands at head level, palms flat on the wall. Then she patted me down. She paid particular emphasis to my genital area, going over it twice. I remember thinking that if I had been a trans* woman and/or a rape survivor, I'd have been terrified. As it was, I gritted my teeth and simply endured.
Then they took me to a table and searched my bag. They kept holding up various items and asking me what they were. For example, one of them held up some Panadeine tablets, still in their blisterpack. "What are these?"
"Painkillers. Paracetamol - you call it acetominaphen - and codeine. I use them for chronic back pain."
"Do you hold a prescription for them?"
"No. They're an over-the-counter drug in New Zealand."
After my bag was searched, they told me to put it over next to the Customs counter. Then they took me to another room, where I was photographed, fingerprinted, and asked some more questions. Then they took me to another cubicle, where I was interrogated as to my intentions in the US and why I should be permitted to stay. In fact, it was more the case that they were looking for reasons to kick me out.
At the end of the interrogation, I was told that from my answers and my previous behaviour (coming in and out of the US legally? WTF?) had rendered me inadmissible to the United States, but that his boss would make the final decision. I was then taken to yet another room - this one with a TV, a few rows of seats, and two camp stretcher beds - and locked in.
An hour later, I was called back out by the officer who had interrogated me. He asked me a few more questions, then told me that I had been deemed inadmissible to the United States, because I was a prospective immigrant coming in on a non-immigrant visa. He gave me two options: first, I could formally withdraw my application to apply for re-entry, in which case my visa would be revoked and I would be sent home; or second, that I could contest the charge, my case would be heard before a judge, and the possible outcome for me would be forcible deportation, cancellation of my visa, and no chance of being allowed back into the US for at least five years.
I chose the first option.
Then he said "You have the right to have us call your country's consulate if you wish."
Thinking that the consulate couldn't really do anything much in my case, I said no. In hindsight, though, that was a stupid thing to do, and I should have taken that offer. Because at least then the consulate would have been aware of what had happened to me, and would be in a position to make others aware of my situation should the need arise.
I was told that I would be taken to the Immigration and Customs Enforcement holding facility in downtown LA in a few hours. Then they locked me back in the lounge again.
I took the opportunity to get some sleep.
Two hours later, some more officers came to take me to the ICE facility. They gave me the option of being handcuffed or not. "Are you going to come quietly?"
"Of course I'll come quietly."
I found out later that if I had been Latina, I would not have been given that option. But because I didn't speak Spanish and didn't have brown skin, I didn't have to have the handcuffs. Privilege, right? Because I was an "alien", but not an "illegal".
"Can I take my medication with me? I have chronic pain issues that might flare up if I'm not careful."
"No, the nurse has meds at the facility. You'll be fine."
While we were waiting outside the ICE facility, one of the officers let me use his phone to call David, who was frantic with worry. I told him the bare bones of the situation: how I was refused entry, I'd be spending the night in a holding facility in Los Angeles, they'd be putting me on a plane tomorrow night, and how (up til then) I'd been treated fairly.
Then we entered the facility, and the dehumanizing process began.
(I would like to emphasise at this point that apart from the pat-down search, the US Customs and Border Patrol staff at LAX had been courteous, professional, and sympathetic. And in some cases, almost friendly. This was not the case with the officers of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, however.)
The moment I walked in the door, I was no longer considered a woman. I was a "female". I was not human; I was a detainee.
I was taken to another room and given another search. This one (thankfully) did not put her hands anywhere near my groin, just my legs, arms and torso. And my shoes.
I was then taken back out to the main reception area, given a paper bag, and told to put all my valuables into it. Including my $2 mood ring, my $3 watch, and... my bootlaces. And anything else I was carrying of value - my wallet, my MP3 player, and the water and food that I had been given by the officers at LAX.
I didn't know why I had to put the bootlaces in the bag. I think that if I had asked, I would have been told that it was "for my safety". However, since I was only able to shuffle slowly around, I believe that it was a ploy to dehumanise the detainees further.
Then I got taken along with two other women to get food, and then we were all taken to Tank 6, where we would be staying for the next 24 hours.
During this time, my partner David was getting more and more frantic. After I'd hung up on him so abruptly, he'd immediately posted to his Facebook account about my plight. My second phone call - the one I'd made outside the facility - only alleviated some of his worries. He'd tried calling the USCBP people at the airport, and they hadn't told him anything. Even though they knew he was my partner, and I'd asked them especially to call him and let him know what was happening to me.
As far as anyone who knew me was concerned, I was missing in custody.
In Tank 6 with me were 16 other women, 15 of whom were Latina. The remaining woman was Russian, and was going to be deported after she'd been caught while driving under the influence of alcohol for the third time. She'd just spent six months in Santa Ana Prison, and was still wearing her bright orange uniform.
I was the only woman who didn't speak Spanish.
One of the women came over and talked to me for a bit. She told me that she'd been living (legally - she'd had a green card) in the US for 31 years. Her children were American, her grandchildren were American. She was a mechanic. She'd been fixing her car, and needed water for her radiator. So she walked across somebody's front lawn to get to a tap. And the people who owned the lawn had charged her with trespassing. So the authorities had canceled her green card and were deporting her back to Mexico City.
Another woman had recently arrived from Guatemala, and had applied for refugee status because she feared for her own and her family's safety. Where she had lived was overrun with gang violence - they had tortured her brother, who was a police officer, and had threatened that they would do the same to her if she stayed in Guatemala. The US judge threw her case out - in his opinion, gangs weren't a valid reason for claiming refugee status; only governmental violence was covered. Never mind that in Guatemala, the gangs were tied up with the government and operated with their authority. So they were sending her back.
Most of the women in the prison appeared to have been reported and arrested for the terrible crime of "Existing While Latina". They hadn't really done much, apart from have brown skin and Latina features, and the ability to speak Spanish a little too fluently.
The guards at the detention centre weren't very friendly towards any of us. For example, at one point a guard came to the door and called out "Diaz! You here, Diaz?"
There was a brief pause, then one woman stepped forward.
"Do you mean me? My surname is Paiz."
"Yeah, whatever. Diaz, Paiz, same thing."
(Cos, like, she's an illegal! Illegals don't have their own names, they're just supposed to answer when you call. Like animals, amirite?)
After a few hours of waiting, we were divided into groups of four, handcuffed to each other, and taken off to find beds for the night in local jails. The problem was, none of the jails would take anybody with health problems, since they didn't have medical staff on site. So they refused me because I'd had an asthma attack five years ago. Never mind that I hadn't had one since; the mere fact that I had had one at all was enough for them to refuse me.
So I went back to Tank 6.
There were five other women there. We talked for a bit, then we were called out again. By this time, it was one o'clock in the morning. We were taken to another jail, where we were all refused entry on medical grounds. All of us. I was refused because of my cataract. I'd had it for 36 years; it didn't cause me any pain; it affected my sight but that was it; it WASN'T A PROBLEM FOR ME. But that was it - no dice.
Another woman was refused because she'd had broken ribs, which had healed two months ago. Another had asthma - she had her inhaler with her, and would have been fine, but "we don't like it when people self-medicate".
So we all went back to Tank 6, where we had to stay for the night. We asked for blankets. We asked for anything to keep us warm. We were refused.
I asked for pain meds, as my back was extremely painful by that time. They said that all they could give me was Tylenol; they weren't able to give me anything stronger.
"Tylenol is an analgesic. What I need is an anti-inflammatory."
"Well, you can't have one. All we have is Tylenol."
So I took Tylenol. It was better than nothing, but not by much.
Now, let me tell you a little bit about Tank 6. It was a largeish room, designed to hold up to 47 inmates at a time. It had off-white concrete walls, metal seating three quarters of the way around it, lights that stayed on at all times, and two toilet cubicles with no doors. It was airconditioned and temperature-controlled... to ~15ºC (59ºF). In other words, it was freezing.
So there we were. Six women, all with various health problems, most of whom had no jerseys or anything with long sleeves, no blankets, no pillows, no pain meds.
Two of us had jackets. All six of us ended up huddled together under them for warmth. Otherwise, it was far too cold to sleep.
The next morning, I decided to call the New Zealand Consulate. I talked to a woman there who said that since it was a matter of US immigration law, there was nothing they could really do. I asked her to ring David and let him know what was going on. I also let her know about how we had been treated the previous night.
We were given breakfast, and then I was called to be taken back to LAX. My plane was to leave that evening.
Again, I was informed that I wasn't going to be handcuffed as long as I promised to behave. While the officer was telling me this, another officer was handcuffing an older Mexican woman to her son. She wasn't given the same choice I was.
Privilege, again.
I went back to LAX, where I took my meds, and then was put back into the same TV lounge. I made a beeline for the bed, took my boots off, and was soon asleep.
A few hours later, I was informed that my plane ticket was only going to take me as far as Auckland, and I would have to arrange transport myself from Auckland to Wellington.
I said "Fine. When does my plane leave tonight?"
"It leaves at 8.50. Someone will be here to take you up at around six o'clock."
"Thank you."
At 6.15, I got my luggage and was taken up to Terminal 3 to check my luggage in and receive my boarding pass. There, I was told that in fact, my plane would leave at 10.20pm instead of 8.50. The officers radioed back to the CBP office, and then said that it was okay, they'd stay with me until it was time for me to get on the plane.
So they queue-jumped me through security, and we sat in the lounge for a while. I took the opportunity to charge my cellphone and PDA - I had a feeling that it would be a while before I could do that again.
The officers escorted me onto the plane when it was time to board, and gave the head stewardess an envelope with my travel documents in it. I was to get them back shortly before we landed in Sydney.
On arrival in Sydney, I was met off the plane by two securty guards. They checked my travel documents, then one of them walked me to the international transit lounge.
He said "I'll walk you to your gate."
"It's five hours until my plane leaves. The gate won't be assigned for another three hours."
"Oh. Really? Okay then, I'll leave you here."
So I sat in the transit lounge and went onto the internet for the first time in three days. I knew I had to let people know I was okay, and on my way home.
My first stop was Twitter. "Am sitting in Sydney Airport after a three-day ordeal. Details to come. On my way to WLG via AKL."
Then I found out what gate I had to go to, and went and sat there for a bit. After a while, there was an announcement that there would be a slight delay, as there was an engineering fault that needed to be rectified.
Half an hour later, it was announced that the flight had been cancelled, and another flight would be leaving at 7pm. This would get into Auckland at shortly before midnight. The domestic terminal at Auckland Airport closed at 11pm.
Two hours before, I had booked a non-transferable ticket from Auckland to Wellington, which was to get me to Wellington at 10pm. Friends of mine had organised a welcoming committee. I had to tell them that it wasn't going to happen.
I flew to Auckland at the appointed time, slept in the international terminal for the night (they have comfy couches), and then made my way over to the domestic terminal to buy another ticket.
Ticket bought, friends alerted to my arrival time, I went to get something to eat and then went to check in my luggage. All done, boarding pass printed, and up to the gate.
Security was easy compared to the US. Although the walk-through metal detector was calibrated way too high, in my opinion - it beeped loudly at my boots, because they had buckles. No other walk-through metal detector had ever done that.
I sat down in the lounge. There was a door to one side of the seats that had a big sign on it: THIS DOOR IS ALARMED.
I looked down at my jeans, which had a small hole in the knee, and thought "My jeans are distressed. Maybe the door and the jeans could comfort each other..."
There was an announcement. The flight was delayed for half an hour. I thought "Oh no, not again..."
Then we were able to board. The flight was uneventful.
As we touched down in Wellington, I had Dave Dobbyn's song "Welcome Home" going through my head.
tonight I am feeling for you
under the state of a strange land
you have sacrificed much to be here
'there but for grace…' as I offer my hand
welcome home, I bid you welcome, I bid you welcome
welcome home from the bottom of my heart
I was met by a group of my friends. "Welcome home."
I'm home, and safe. Thank you to everyone who helped, and who offered support. I'm staying with David's parents. My tasks over the next few days include sorting out travel insurance claims and writing a polite letter to the United States Ambassador to New Zealand, just to let him know of the situation at the ICE facility in Los Angeles.
Nobody should be dehumanised that way, no matter what they've done or who they are. No people with disabilities should be neglected in the way that we were. Nobody should disappear in custody the way I did. But these things happened.
And it's our job to make sure they never happen again.
Film Corner!
Jennifer Aniston is really starting to piss me off.
In the last year, she's been in Management, in which Steve Zahn courts her via stalking, The Bounty Hunter, in which Gerard Buttfor courts her via kidnapping (but it totes doesn't count because he's "bringin' her in!"), has played a stalker herself on 30 Rock, and will star this summer in The Switch, where she plays a woman deceived into having her best friend's baby:
[Transcript below. With some additional commentary that I could not resist including.]
I am familiar with the "it's just art!" and "art happens in a void!" and "if she didn't make it, someone else would!" arguments, but no, no, and that doesn't absolve her of responsibility. I am also familiar with the more compelling "there aren't a shitload of great roles for women" argument, except that Jennifer Aniston is the EXECUTIVE PRODUCER of this hunk of garbage (as she was on Management), which means she's actually helping create these shitty vehicles for herself to star in.
Anyway, this particular shitty vehicle is categorized as a romantic comedy. In fact, its tagline is: "The most unexpected comedy ever conceived." Har har.
You may recall that I first wrote about this film when it was announced, back when it was called The Baster, and again when the production was explicitly seeking a fat female extra (among others) to be targets of ridicule in the film.
I said in my original post on the film, after reading the very dark and distressing Jeffrey Eugenides short story on which it is based, that I could not "begin to imagine how it could be made into a romantic comedy, or any kind of comedy at all," and despite the main character, Wally, being evidently rewritten as more of a doofus (in the short story, he switches the sperm sheerly out of spite), I stand by that contention, as I fail utterly to find humor in the deceit that is, in this trailer, called "hijacking Cassie's pregnancy," but is more rightly identified as "hijacking Cassie's body."
What I find most troubling, frankly, is the fact that the makers of this film realized that the story, as originally written, was too disturbing to be used as romantic comedy fodder, so they tried to "lighten it up" by making Bateman's disposal of the donor sperm "accidental" (though he was in the midst of contemplating dumping it out, anyway) and making his replacement of the donor sperm the desperate act of a silly drunkard rather than the nefarious act of a spiteful asshole. As if it really matters: The fact is, he knowingly conceals the information from the woman who is ostensibly his "best friend."
And apart from all the many, many contemptible aspects of the plot of this film (all of which I'm sure will be teased out in comments), the idea that STANDING THE SAME WAY or COVERING YOUR EARS AT A LOUD NOISE is some kind of UNCANNY SIMILARITY THAT CANNOT BE DENIED AS EVIDENCE OF GENETIC RELATION is so thoroughly stupid that I really hope there's a twist ending where it is revealed that one of Patrick Wilson's sperm must have been clinging to the lip of that sample cup and the kid is actually his after all and Jason Bateman is sentenced to serve a life sentence at a Reeducation Camp for the Criminally Asinine.
[H/T to Shaker mschicklet.]
[Scene of New York City, cutting to scene of Jennifer Aniston sitting in a restaurant with Jason Bateman. The music playing behind the conversation indicates that this a Zany Romp and you should be laughing at all these wacky comedic circumstances.]
Aniston: I would like you to be the first to know: I'm having a baby.
Bateman: You're pregnant?
Aniston: Not yet, but I'm working on it.
[Cut to Bateman opening an envelope containing an invitation reading "I'm Getting Pregnant Party! You're invited!" with a pink bottle of champagne. Little pink and blue sperm-shaped bits of confetti fall out around his feet.]
Bateman [in voiceover]: A party for insemination? Only Cassie would do it like this!
[Cut to Jason Bateman speaking to Patrick Wilson.]
Wilson: I'm Roland. The, uh, donor.
Bateman: Wally. I'm Cassie's best friend.
Wilson: Ah. [clinks his glass against Bateman's and grins] That's okay.
Text Onscreen: From the people who brought you Juno.
[Cut to Bateman and Aniston riding on the subway.]
Bateman: What's wrong with my sperm, by the way?
Aniston: You're…a little neurotic.
[Cut to Bateman in an office, talking to Jeff Goldblum, who appears to be his coworker, then to an image of Aniston hugging Bateman.]
Goldblum: You had your window with Cassie and you doomed it. She put you in the friend zone.
Text Onscreen: And Little Miss Sunshine.
[Cut to images of the aforementioned Insemination Party. Bateman is talking to Juliette Lewis.]
Bateman: So who does this?
Lewis: Will you relax? [holds up baster] This is how everybody's doing it these days.
Bateman [looking suspiciously at baster]: Shouldn't that be cleaned or something?
Lewis: I'm messing with you! [rubs baster on Bateman's face]
Bateman: Debbie, knock that off.
[Cut to Bateman drinking, spilling food on himself, acting drunk and making Aniston irritated as the party goes on.]
Anison [in voiceover]: Wally, I hate it when you drink! You lose total control.
[Cut to Bateman in bathroom, splashing water on his face; he notices cup of sperm sitting on the counter with Roland's name on it; he runs the water in the sink and acts as though he's going to dump out the sperm, but in a TOTES FUNNY way, making airplane noises; there is a knock at the door, which startles him, and he drops the cup into the sink; he picks up the now-empty cup and looks horrified at what he's done; he looks down at his own crotch and then the proverbial lightbulb metaphorically goes on over his head; fade to white… Cut to Bateman at work the next day, looking hungover.]
Goldblum [in voiceover]: You were so drunk last night!
Bateman: I don't remember any of that.
Text Onscreen: Seven years later.
[Bateman is walking outside in the rain, to show how miserable his life is. Cut to image of Grand Central Station in high-speed, to show how busy and repetitive his life is. Cut to image of Bateman looking out a window, to show how empty his life is. Cut to image of Bateman on cell phone, his face breaking into a smile.]
Aniston [in voicemail message]: Hey, Wally—guess what? We are moving back to New York!
[Cut to image of Aniston hugging Bateman in a restaurant.]
Aniston [in voiceover]: Sweetie, this is Uncle Wally.
Kid: Hi.
Bateman: Hi, Sebastian.
Kid: I think I have psychothymic (?) disorder.
Aniston: Okay, was I not clear about WebMD?
[Bateman looks at the kid and is all ZOMG. Cut to Bateman and kid at aquarium together, standing the same way. Cut to Bateman and kid walking down the street together, both covering their ears when a horn honks in traffic.]
Bateman [in voiceover]: There's all these similarities and coincidences.
[Cut to Bateman and kid on bus together. A female passenger observes, "He looks just like you." (Note: He does not look just like Jason Bateman.) Bateman has another ZOMG moment. Cut to Bateman talking to Goldblum in a kitchen.]
Bateman: You don't think that I could have switched Roland's…ingredient…for my… [makes some gesture that I guess we're meant to assume indicates sperm going in a vagina?]
Goldblum: Aye!
Bateman: I hijacked Cassie's pregnancy?!
Goldblum [laughing]: Ohhhh! That's ill advised!
Text Onscreen: This summer…
[Cut to Bateman and Goldblum in a clothing store; cut to Bateman and Aniston walking down the street together, with the kid, who's looking at them and obviously understands THEY ARE IN LOVE AND SHOULD BE TOGETHER.]
Goldblum [in voiceover]: I think the first order of business is telling Cassie.
[Cut to Bateman talking to Aniston in a gym.]
Bateman: I need to talk to you.
Aniston [ignoring Bateman and looking at kid, who's up on a rock wall]: What is he doing?
Kid: I'm scared!
Wilson: I got this!
Bateman [looking like he just smelled shit]: Roland's here.
Aniston: Come on. Be nice.
Text Onscreen: …comes the most unexpected comedy…
[Cut to high-speed scene of New York City traffic at night WHICH IS NOT AT ALL TRITE. Cut to Bateman and Goldblum in the clothing store again. Cut to Wilson cupping Bateman's neck in a bar, in a friendly way and Bateman looking unhappy about it.]
Bateman [in voiceover]: It's like a nightmare. He wants me to give him advice on how to be a better father to my son!
Text Onscreen: …ever conceived.
[Cut to scene of Aniston and Wilson at a coffee shop. Wilson is saying something and Aniston takes a drink of her coffee/tea/wev while hiding part of her face with the big cup and making "WTF" eyes.]
Bateman [in voiceover]: I think that this guy is a mistake.
[Cut to Bateman on the phone in his office, late at night; cut to Aniston standing at a pay phone.]
Aniston [on other end of phone]: Would you please not Wally this into a situation—
Bateman: Hang on. Did you just use my name as a verb?
Aniston: Yeah! I did.
[Cut to Bateman hanging out with kid in Central Park. Cut to Bateman and kid having a conversation on a couch.]
Bateman: We're going to be in each other's lives for a very long time.
Kid: Why, Uncle Wally?
Bateman: Because, um, you know, I, I'm, uh—
[Cut to Goldblum in a totally different scene.]
Goldblum: Crazies.
[Cut to Bateman and Wilson sitting at a bar, evidently observing Aniston from a distance.]
Wilson: She's the light of my life. She's my soul mate.
[Cut to Aniston on street in daytime hugging kid; Bateman watches and smiles. Cut to Bateman and Goldblum in clothing store again, which at this point I believe is probably called "Exposition for Men."]
Bateman [in voiceover]: I think that I have feelings for her.
Goldblum [sarcastically]: Really? You think so? It's only been, uh, thirteen years.
[Cut to Bateman looking meaningfully at Aniston. And Aniston looking meaningfully back at Bateman.]
Text Onscreen: Jennifer Aniston.
[Cut to scene of Aniston crawling on wrought-iron fence, looking in apartment window, where kid is watching TV. He turns away and ignores her.]
Aniston: Open the door. Right now. [to Bateman] Remind you of anybody?!
Text Onscreen: Jason Bateman.
[Cut to scene of Bateman and kid at aquarium.]
Bateman: I've had my bouts with hypochondria.
Kid: What's that?
Bateman: Thinking that you have diseases that you don't really have.
Kid: Oh my god. I have that.
[Cut to scene of Goldblum.]
Goldblum: Congratulations. You're—you're a father!
[Cut to scene of Bateman looking all "Zuh?" Cut to scene of Aniston looking all "Zuh?"]
Text Onscreen: THE SWITCH.
