barrierstobridges

“Jeremy Corbyn himself has said nothing about doing a reshuffle, but the media seem unable to talk about anything else.”

When David Cameron is seen to be surrounding himself or favouring cronies within his party, at the very best we might see disgruntled murmurings from social media or select papers, yet nothing to the degree of the speculating mainstream press on a Corbyn reshuffling.

When Jeremy was first elected leader of the Labour party, before he even selected his cabinet, there was paranoia and hostility among seniors of the party that Mr. Corbyn would select left-leaning like-minds in key positions.

Yet, he didn’t. During and after his cabinet was chosen, he stressed the need to diversify within the party – acknowledging differences by giving centrists some surprise positions.

The possibility of course may be, a punishment reshuffle, as key players voted in favour of military action in Syria and as Shadow Foreign Minister, Pat McFadden pointed out: “He has talked of an open, pluralist kind of politics but a reshuffle for that reason could end looking more petty and divisive than open and pluralist politics. I think that is a risk for him if he proceeds for that reason.”

I have to agree with McFadden, because Corbyn could be reshuffling out of anger/betrayal, but let’s hope he won’t commit political suicide.

Having speculated this, it must be acknowledged, the necessity of commonality within a party, is crucial in such defining issues as whether or not to walk into a complex and dangerous war.

Corbyn may be having regrets in not having an ally in Hilary Benn – whatever his motives for the reshuffle, he’s damned either way.

Given that Corbyn is scrutinized at every turn by a biased press who take little care to hide any dislike of the Labour leader, should be recognized.

When an ITV journalist announces (with a slight flex of disdain in his voice): “Jeremy Corbyn started the day in a comfortable place, at a protest…”

One has to wonder, how does a journalist get away with such blatant lack of objectivity?

In examining journalism and how journalists perform in the glare of the public eye, I realize more all the time – what kind of journalist I ‘don’t want to be’.

Social media comments were mixed, yet several such as Tom in London simply said:

“Jeremy Corbyn himself has said nothing about doing a reshuffle, but the media seem unable to talk about anything else.”

Getting back to the matter of discussion, Shadow Minister, Michael Dugher pointed out: “In my experience having worked closely with previous leaders, there’s a reason why they tend to be a bit reluctant to go down the path of big reshuffles and that’s because they do try and hold the party together, they do recognize that the Labour Party is a broad church not a religious cult, that you need people of different backgrounds and try and get the best possible talents.”

He also mentioned, if Corbyn surrounded himself with strictly left-wing allies, he would have a slim minority cabinet. Let’s just hope Corbyn uses his better judgement and doesn’t pander to the media hawks – ready to swoop and sing ‘I told you so’ as the Tories chuckle with mocking taunts at any disquiet within the Labour house.

http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2016/01/04/jeremy-corbyn-reshuffle-punishment-purge-mcfadden_n_8909700.html?ir=UK&ncid=newsletter-uk

An Unwelcoming Facade

OPEN LETTER TO EXETER: Pushed Out and Punished for Being Poor

By Dawn M. Sanders

I, named above, describe myself as a post-graduate and job seeker. As a newly qualified journalist and after several visits to Exeter last year and this – I am looking for journalism jobs in the area.

From the outset, I was shown many positive attributes to the city, such as: its size – not too big or small; the many promising opportunities for my adult son to further work experience and provision for his special needs – not to mention better job prospects for myself.

So, with many pressing personal pressures, I arrived in Exeter to live on 13^th August.

On a fixed income and in receipt of housing benefits, I immediately went to the housing office for help. However, upon presenting a letter of support for myself to be in a more manageable, less big sprawling city with a further deteriorating severe visual impairment, the housing office insisted I made myself homeless and refused to recognise my need to relocate or unique set of circumstances.

As I attempted to explain both my son’s and my own situations, the first housing officer, seemingly helpful was replaced with a different housing officer on my second visit to the Civic Centre.

With hatred in her voice, the second officer said, ‘you will not get into any of our temporary accommodations’!

In the meantime, as I had started to attempt the private sector with limited resources and funds, I was consistently met with adds saying: “Would suit young professional or student” or “No DSS.”

Further to this narrow market mentality, when ringing letting agents, I was faced with unfriendly, unimpressed: “You’ll need a guarantor who makes up to…” and so on.

Coupled with my financial constraints, when I resolved to look for starting with renting a room in a house, I was predictably faced with the prejudiced reaction to my visual impairment, despite demonstrations of my independence or previous single mother status.

Being denied the right to relocate and improve an unworkable life in my previous city within public housing and being ‘pushed out for being poor’ on the private front, how can I possibly feel welcome in Exeter?

The government pledge and campaign manifesto to crack down on letting agents simply does not go far enough in preventing those of us on benefits from being treated like lepers or placing impossible obsticles in the path to a home.

While the council is not obliged to rehouse someone they consider not a priority, they are required to provide their decision in writing and offer viable options – neither of which were provided to me.

While I am not in the business of playing victim or milking the system, I will always stand up for what I am entitled to and right to respect.

For comments or offers of help please visit:

Fieryred.dawn@gmail.com

@fiery_red

https://www.facebook.com/dawn.sanders.129357

website: https://dawnsanders.co.uk

STOP DISSING AND START EMPOWERING

By Dawn M. Sanders

Last week witnessed the unleashing of, not only a budget and economic pledges or predictions we all feared, it was laced with the all-too-familiar ideologies embraced by the Tories.

We have a complex housing bill not yet understood by many, the rush to make every school (primary or secondary) an academy and most noteworthy, the further cuts to welfare benefits – adding to the despair of austerity.

So, focusing on the ‘dis-ability cuts as they are inevitably coined, I’m taking this opportunity to turn it all on its head by trumpeting my passions for equality, empowerment and true dignity…

Take note: I won’t be placing that all-prevailing, crippling label the main stay in this country insist on preceding before us as ‘people first’!

I have argued this point of contention time and again – mostly with ‘people’ with additional needs themselves and, I’m sticking to my guns!

My visual impairment is of course an integral part of my identity, but certainly not the first among equals in being a woman, mother or journalist…

A ‘dis-abled computer mouse is one that doesn’t work, ditto for toilets, cars etc.

Is it overly PC nit-picking? I think not…

As a journalist and writer, words, the connotations behind them and what they represent are hugely meaningful – especially when you’re on the receiving end of those negative connotations, such as lesser than, subordinate, weak – I could go on, but you get the gist.

The point is, just because I and others are visually impaired (or otherwise) doesn’t mean I can’t raise my son single-handedly as I’ve done; I still cook clean and maintain my home; I still have relationships with people in the human way most would expect and, I even enjoy some of life’s more clandestine pleasures…

This all isn’t to say for a second, that I and others don’t get blatant discrimination, especially in looking for work, social environments or on an equal playing field in the game of meeting a possible partner – in fact, being visually impaired, hearing impaired, wheelchair user, with learning/cognitive difficulties, is often an extremely isolating place to be.

However, the argument of the so-called “social model” which dictates all of these social/practical constraints should dub us as ‘dis-abled to the tune of how society sees myself and others is simply backwards.

It all hinges on, what one cannot do, rather than, what one can do…

Enough said, so when people go out in force – protesting their benefits are being taken away against a backdrop of: “Is This Any Way to Treat ‘dis-abled People” as the banner read, I’m insulted at being considered inherently vulnerable or fragile.

These people who, insist on milking an entrenched victim culture, one I have to fight against every day to “prove myself” a capable parent, employable or dare I say it, a sexual being, are ‘not doing me any favours’!

I’m forever infuriated at being lumped in a category of the “sick and ‘dis-abled” as people with long term illnesses have their own specific circumstances and anyone with severe/complex needs, is an individual – there’s never a one-size-fits-all…

Ultimately, do we not have the right ‘not to be impoverished’?

Why aren’t the likes of Dis-abled People Against the Cuts crying out for more equality in the workplace, employment or closing the loopholes within the so-called anti-discrimination act.

Yes, this government and its ideologies have handed us a double-edged cross to bear: on one hand, because we are rarely taken for our hard earned merits and qualifications when job hunting. For example, when employers take one look at me I get: “’Uh, how would you manage the stairs, finding the toilets – all delivered with an uncomfortable demeanour…

On the other hand, we’re told we’re scroungers if we’re not working in an environment which doesn’t give us half a chance and, supposedly the government is trying to get us into work?

So, what are they, the ideologists, doing to close the gap of discrimination for those of us who want to use our skills?

Nothing!

The DPAC (‘Dis-abled People Against the Cuts) movement is a short-sighted reactionary group – not offering solutions to the poverty trap most people with additional needs find themselves in – clinging onto the benefits system like a life raft.

In milking the victim culture, they don’t place us on an equal footing when the perfectionist bandits – standing outside nightclubs refusing to let us in under the guise of, health & safety or, we just couldn’t cope with a rough & ready mosh crowd.

By insisting to maintain the lowered status within society’s pecking order, those protesting against benefit cuts really should be protesting on why we are sentenced to a life absent of the same opportunities, most people simply take for granted.

Yes, the benefits we rely on help with added expenses: such as increased taxi fares, holistic therapies managing specific conditions or mobility equipment; (all of which should be secured) but being on state benefits is not an independent or dignified path and one which leaves us wide open to the shenanigans of the state.

Granted, there are those who cannot work due to their conditions, be it mental or physical, yet that should never be the thrust of what is perceived to be living “dignified lives?”

No, in my book of cross-cultural experience, dignity hinges on what I ‘can do’ and making it possible!

I want an empowering campaign which says: yes, I have limitations and additional employment/educational/support needs, but can still contribute to society in a meaningful way.

I want a campaign which says, I have to work harder, so deserve EQUAL PAY, OPPORTUNITIES promoting me as a social/sexual being. Not a campaign/culture of downtrodden, institutionalised oppression…

GET IT?

http://www.theguardian.com/society/2016/mar/23/disability-campaigners-occupy-parliament-over-benefit-cuts

THE APOCALYPS AT MY BACK DOOR

The more sound I sleep the more wild and disturbing my dreams.

Last night I had:

THE APOCALYPS AT MY BACK DOOR

By Dawn M. Sanders

I probably think too damn much, which is reflected in my dreams, but tortured soul that I am – I rarely have a sound night’s sleep and when I do – what my subconscious mirrors are my worst fears and darkest inner demons…

But they’re not just demons, they’re the lifelong emotions I’ve carried around like a part of my physical person all my life.

I’m talking of mainly the rejection, the loneliness – the things I live with like my living room furniture and the dreams always come back to these two entities…

So, onto the dream… I was just dwelling in my little sanctuary of a home – my home within the city that will ‘never’ be home.

It had become really dark outside in the middle of the day as I stood in the middle of the kitchen.

The rain started to poor outside, but it was mainly the wind.

It quickly took on hurricane strength, as if it had come from right off the sea – rocking my solid little brick house and completely spooking me out, as it howled like an on-coming freight train.

The back door kept flying open as the wind pushed from behind my house and I naively put my all-medal braille machine in front of the back door – thinking it would stop it from flying open.

It was all in vein. I tried locking the door, but then the force of the wind ripped off the entire back wall of my house.

I screamed a long curdling psycho-in-the-shower scream, which resonated through the doorway of my subconscious echoing into the empty chamber of my conscious head, as the menacing black/grey was revealed from the volatile elements attacking. My whole world and sanctuary crashed all around me.

Then it was over, with my scream fading and thankfully, I woke up, in my bed – empty of only the soft purring cat curled next to me under the duvet – I’m still here.

CELEBRATE THE SEASONS: WHILE WE STILL HAVE THEM

By Dawn M. Sanders

It’s another stoney gray December day, but it hardly feels like December…

We’ve just got through yet another X-mas to the tune of: must have, must have, I need, I’d like: “well, I don’t like it, but I’ve got kids.”; My partner needs a tablet because…” “The kids, everyone at their school has an I-pad – I’m doing them a disservice if they don’t get one too…”

After which, most of the western world still consumes and consumes in fistfuls of more and more – and boxing day – THE SALES, more more more…!

It really never stops.

In the mean time, parts of our fair island are drowning in the rath of the elements, yet what struck me on a TV report is when someone said:

“Everything, gone – a brand new three piece sweet.”

The ones suffering the most blame the government, because of the cuts in emergency measures, such as flud protection and of course they have a lot to answer for.

But, everyone seems to have quickly forgotten, apart from those of us who analyse and question it all ; ‘uh, there’s just been an environmental summit?

You know, where a lot of leaders from rich nations such as ours came together to talk a lot of rhetoric in putting measures in place to stem global warming?

As the Guardian’s James Randerson points out, the government may have agreed to not cut the solor industry by 87%, due to environmental pressure groups, but they are still cutting the industry by 65%, with 18,700 jobs it risk.

So, as parts of the UK are drowning and will drown again, no one but no one, is saying anything about the bigger picture or the cause of all the super storms and if they are, any I-told-you-so sentiment is falling on deaf ears of denial.

A friend of mine got me thinking to write this piece when she said: “I don’t like this.” In talking about how warm it is for December.

It just doesn’t feel like winter, she said, as we sat in a café catching up on life.

Of course, I agree with her.

When you talk to a lot of people now, they often say, Christmas is about getting together, about family – and why not? Or, it’s for the kids.

Yet, most in the mainstream of short-sighted mediocrity, forget the pagan origins of the season.

I don’t want to go into it all in depth, but the seasons, while we still have them, are the earth taking us through the life cycle; the wheel of life we all must travel until our time on earth is finished, new life springs upon the world, thrives and grows with the light of summer and, is our earth retreats into autumn, we slow, settle and naturally need to hibernate, rejuvenate and start again.

The seasons naturally reflect life’s stages. Yet, humanity has been consumed by consuming and convenience.

It’s not ‘convenient’ to have snow, cuz you can’t drive, get to where you need to go…

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/uk-flooding-storm-frank-to-bring-more-heavy-rain-to-northern-and-western-england-a6789021.html

MY ANGEL SPREADS HIS WINGS

By Dawn M. Sanders

I’m in two minds about whether or not I believe in angels. On one hand, they could be considered some Christian ideal of escorting the lucky up to the gates of heaven – on the other, they might be the deities who fly throughout the outer realms of the cosmos or maybe there’s really no such thing at all…

Despite my son’s teenaged angst, frustration with communication barriers and how the frustration comes out – underneath it all he’s my angel – the one who came and saved me, when I was begging for beer money in London’s Camden Town, when I had nothing and nowhere to go and when I was around a lot of people who were just out to get what they could from wherever.

An illustration of a pair of beautiful white spread wings. — Angel Wings

He came to me among the craziest chaos…

At birth he was so tiny, but strong and full of Sagittarian fire and calm contented earth energy.

He was my gift from the goddess and gods.

He had such a shaky start: the feeding trouble, the fact his eyes were opaque when he opened them – trying to see what was around him, the fact I had no money and no legal status – it was all pretty scary.

As a new mum with a severe visual impairment, I was sure the vulture authorities would try to take him from me, but they didn’t and we both weathered the storm in determined resilience.

As he grew, our journey together, especially in the early, happy days of Brighton, was fulfilling, hard and soft and one big learning curve, since I had the extra worries of: how to teach him about the world around him, how he would communicate, the diagnosis of his hearing loss, the hospital stays at Great Ormand Street; I don’t know where my strength came from.

There were several moves: to Wales, then the specialist/residential school, another move.

The separation from my little boy was pain-staking and I always felt I was abandoning him.

It was an emotional yet momentous occasion when he finally came back to start college closer to home.

Yet, the move to Sheffield has been fraught with harassment from the vultures – he has no idea of how much I’ve had to fight fight fight for him and he never will, because he’s always deserved anything I fought for.

When he came of age last year, crossing that all important threshold into adulthood, he took the natural turn that any lad his age would take.

His special needs aside, he became a man, having his first crush on a girl who is deaf at college – my heart went out to him.

The run up to him becoming desperate to spread his wings and fly, was gradual but obvious.

Then the destruction in the house got unbearable. He would often take out his anger, frustrations or just sensory urges out on tearing apart something, flooding the house, ripping up mattresses with his bare steel hands.

I knew what he wanted and what I needed, but he wouldn’t/couldn’t communicate it.

But then he finally did; when I asked/signed ‘why did you do it’ as he was determine to get the entire carpet up from his bedroom floor – I cried as I had spent hundreds of pounds on making the house nice when we moved in.

He finally signed: ‘move out’ ‘move out’.

So there it was and, I could take no more.

Predictably, there have been meetings upon meetings, the usual pushing pushing to be heard and advocating his perspective.

Fucking exhausting – all in the throes of my course assignments at uni etc.

I’ve been sad, edgy and angry all at once.

Yet, when it was settled upon, the flat that was coming up for grabs and even the date he could move in was set, I already started to miss my lad.

In the week before the move, tears were never far from the surface in wading through the everyday mud of life.

Now it’s been two days in his new home and he was ‘so excited’ to go.

He even reassured me when I was signing to him about the increase in responsibilities, hard work – he pointed to himself and then signed ‘fine.

He was telling me he would be fine.

When I signed to him: you’re still gonna be my baby?

A voice inside my head said: “always” as he signed it and turned to sleep on his cushions on the hard wooden bedroom floor.

In his secure new flat with all the support he needs and his new found freedom – well, as free as his life design will allow.

I was tearful yet with an underlying since of relief.

He turns 19 on Saturday and will have a low key but special celebration in his own new home.

My angel, with his baby smooth skin, thick chestnut brown hair, big brown eyes and brightly burning fiery spirit, has unfurled his wings and flown…

A mother loses so much of herself and identity when any child, especially the first, comes along.

They grow, you make sacrifice after sacrifice – always placing them first.

Then, before you know it, they fly…

He’s just on the other side of this big city, and, with his network of support and protection – where do ‘I go’ from here?

He’s hearing impaired/partially sighted. I never in a thousand years imagined life would ever be this complex surrounding my lad.

The compromising isn’t finished. Who will be there to speak on his behalf, make sure he is understood and heard?

I feel like I’m grieving, not only that he’s not here anymore, but because he has chosen to take root in a backward-thinking place, where single mums with visual impairments have no credibility or respect…

The worries haven’t ended, but my lad has started a new journey and so will I…

SHUT UP AND LISTEN

By Dawn M. Sanders

Right! This rant is long overdue and fully justified!
So here I fucking go…

Yesterday was blighted with stress – not that modern life isn’t, but the sheer amount of stress and agonising irritation I get from people that: just can’t ‘listen’ is incalculable.

I could see it was gonna be hard work strait away.
On the way to the university library, I told the taxi driver at least ten times, the name of the building I was going to.
He hadn’t heard of it and it wasn’t an obvious one that stood out, so I even spelt it for him and he wrote it down.
Yet, it still didn’t matter; the guy drove up and down, back and bloody forth while I was later and later for my meeting with a research assistant.
I was losing patience, because he got onto his control, which I demanded he did, and, unbelievably said something like: “She don’t know where she going.”
UUUUUUUGGGGG!
Now I’m shouting: ADSETTS ADSETTS ADSETTS – HOW MANY TIMES TO I HAVE TO TELL YOU???!!!”
By this time I’m half an hour late and my blood is boiling.
I rang the damn taxi company myself and the operator reassured me he was in fact finally going to the right building.
Right, so he was, but only after a stressed out ordeal.

At the shop to get groceries, when looking for the bottle of wine I wanted, I told the shop assistant: “Just a light red, a shiraz/cab sab around £5.”
His response was: “So would you like a rosé?”
FUCK! I had just said, ‘red! – which was now probably the colour of my face.

Again, I had to repeat the right variation of soya milk about 5 to 6 times, and I get exactly the same kind as I regularly go into this same Co-op…
So, by the time I left the shop I’m thinking, ya know what, forget going ‘anywhere’ this week end, I’m hiding from the world – what’s the point.

People just really don’t listen. And, I won’t even go into trying to get anything sorted over the phone – it’s exhausting!

Podcast 2: Sexability and the Invisible Veil: Green Gathering festival, 2015

Download the mp3

Podcast 1: Introduction

Download the mp3

COLOUR IS LIFE

By Dawn M. Sanders

I’ve always felt like, I don’t care if I can only see a foot in front of me, as long as I can still see colour that’s all that matters…

Yet, what precious little I can see, seems to be slipping away.

It’s almost impossible to make out colours anymore, unless the sunlight is just right on whatever the object is, if it’s bright enough or if something is translucent and I can look through it.

I feel like I’m fucking drowning with no way to be rescued.

Light has become really distorted, contrasts are more blurred all the time and outlines like buildings I could make out okay before, seem to be fading into white/grey.

As my already limited world seems to be disappearing in front of my bad eyes, my confidence in walking around out in the big outside, even in places I know, is getting shaky.

My unempathetic eye doctor jus says it’s the glaucoma taking over and of course: nothing can be done.

So, for someone who is a tetrachromat – seeing the world through a kaleidoscope of colour, just boggles my mind.

A tetrachromat is someone with an extra colour receptor to their vision.

While most people have three colour receptors, 12% of females are born with a fourth.

I read this amazing article – based on an interview with Concetta Antico, a tetrachromat and artist from San Diego.

She described how, she could see other colours within one colour, such as black. As I read I couldn’t help but think: wow! Don’t you feel some times overwhelmed?

Funny thing is, her husband is colour blind and she described how they both looked for a piece of apple core that fell on the floor and how it both appeared completely different to each of their visual perspectives.

I would do anything, just to have three functioning colour receptors.

I’ve never been able to see well enough to look at the colours of autumn, the colour of someone’s hair and eyes, but as a kid I would sit close enough to the TV even though I couldn’t make out the picture, I could see the various colours on the screen. I loved it when the Wizard of Oz went from black and white into colour – all those years ago.

My mum taught me what colours were when she took me for walks and, if I got close enough to a parked car, green grass or someone leading me, I could see the colour of the car or the colour of the top they were wearing.

I vaguely remember looking at the hand of a black man and saying something like: “your hands are dirty” but that’s how I found out people often have different shades of skin.

The corneal transplant I had three years ago, just seems like light years away and I’m worse off than I was before the operation.

I’m glad Concetta can use her extra special colour vision to celebrate the gift through her art and whatta beautiful gift to be blessed with.

In losing my colours, I feel like a part of me is dying. If I look at my son’s beautiful chessnut brown hair in the sunlight, I could probably still see it and, I’ve always dreamed in vivid colours.

http://nymag.com/scienceofus/2015/02/what-like-see-a-hundred-million-colors.html