#I think this also confirms that her dancers have insurance too

[iwatcheditbegin]

Whyley just shared that post about Taylor providing insurance for her crew

[princerook]

RC Valentine Gift

Dear @kylorendered - I am your secret valentine! I do hope you like the gift I wrote you. I’m a bit of a sap. ;D

Title: Prism Word Count: 1,984 Summary: Ballet dancer/pianist AU. Cassian is a composer, primarily writing and playing piano music. Jyn is a ballet dancer, taking up after her parents. Then one day, the unthinkable happened - her mother was murdered. With her father returned to the army, Jyn’s life became one of despair and monotony. Until the day that the music came back, and the dancing followed.

You can also read this on AO3!

The Erso family loved to dance. Jyn’s mother, Lyra, once told her that she had inherited the love of dance as early as the womb, when her feet would pitter-patter against her mother’s belly to the beat of the orchestra. From there her love for it only grew. She practically grew up in the Performing Arts Centre, mimicking her favorite dancers - including her very own parents. She savored every experience, from the crescendo of an orchestra performance to the most beautiful pirouette of a ballet dancer. Ballet was her favorite. She took after her parents in that regard.

For seventeen years she learned and honed and improved her ballet dancing, until she, too, was performing on stage as principal dancer. The happiest she felt was when she was a part of something as big as a ballet performance, moving to the music in the company of dear friends, listening to the audience applauding at the end. For a time, Jyn felt invincible.

The dancing stopped the day her mother was murdered.

Her life turned upside down. Dancing turned to office work, the orchestra turned into pop music on the radio. Anything that reminded Jyn of her mother hurt her too much, so she let it all go. So, too, did her father let everything to do with his life prior to Lyra’s death go. He re-joined the military, leaving even his own daughter behind. Jyn understood. She wished she could run away, too.

What once was a vibrant life turned to dust. Spotlights and theatre lighting became fluorescents and bright computer screens. Diversity and improvisation became monotony and routine. And slowly, Jyn forgot what it felt like to dance.

Until the day the music came back.

It was sudden. It was the most lovely piano music Jyn had heard in years. She was caught off guard, unprepared to hear the insurance company’s grand piano being played in the lobby. In her three years with the company, Jyn had heard the piano played perhaps four or five times, and always during events. This day was not special. In fact, it was an ordinary Wednesday. She had just left her cubicle and made her way to the elevator to take a lunch break when the soft tinkling of the music drifted towards her on the seventh floor. The elevator pinged, indicating it had arrived, and two middle-aged women exited the elevator, commenting on how splendid it was to hear the piano in use.

She didn’t know what to make of it, or how to react. When the doors finally opened on the first floor, Jyn drifted towards the truly stunning piano music as if in a daze. The man was beautiful, the brown skin of his hands standing out against the ivory of the keys. The most beautiful thing about him was the true love of the music that permeated the room. Every expression, every motion of his body, amplified the beauty of the music. She’d never seen someone play the piano so masterfully.

For the first time in nearly five years, Jyn felt her heart open to the music. She couldn’t help but think about how she would have called her mother and held up the phone to allow her to hear the piece. She could picture her mother, eyes closed, cheeks rosy, the blissful smile on her face as she took in the music. She could see her father wrapping his arms around Lyra’s front, kissing her cheek as they soaked in the raw beauty of the music.

She didn’t realize she was crying until an office coworker offered her a tissue. She took it, somewhat embarrassed, and wiped at the tears that had left tracks down her face. Then she realized something else.

She wanted to dance.

She could picture the movements her body would make to the music. Improv ballet used to be one of her favorite dance activities. Letting the music flow through her limbs was one of the most freeing feelings in the world.

So she danced.

She toed off her flats, dropping her purse beside them, and let every emotion, every musical note, wash through her, tugging her this way and that like a puppet on strings. Her dress twirled, her stocking-covered feet slid across the floor, and she felt small bits of once-dormant color bloom into her life.

Much too soon, the music ended, leaving her breathless and staring at the pianist, who returned her gaze. He was smiling from ear to ear. Jyn was vaguely aware of a smattering of applause in the background, but her focus was still on the pianist. With a start, she realized that she recognized his face - he had been a young novice pianist interning at the Theatre many years ago. She couldn’t remember his name, but it was clear that he remembered hers.

“Jyn Erso,” he said, eyes bright. “It has been so long.” She got the feeling that he was talking about more than just seeing each other again. She didn’t know what to say in response. Sensing her hesitation, the pianist stood and said, “My name is Cassian. You may not remember me-”

She cut him off, “Oh, I do remember you! You played the most beautiful rendition of Für Elise when you auditioned. What are you doing here?” Her tone was more surprised than anything, so she hoped he didn’t think that she was upset to see him.

His eyes seemed to brighten further, both pleased that she remembered him and, perhaps, by her question. “How about we go grab some coffee?” he suggested, rather than answering her question. Her dancing high began to diminish; hesitancy and suspicion began to fill her gut. Nonetheless, she agreed, if for nothing else than to keep speaking to Cassian.

6 months later.

It wasn’t just coffee that Cassian had wanted that day. Of course it wasn’t.

Jyn huffed, fighting the childish urge to stomp her foot. She couldn’t believe that Cassian and their friends had talked her into this. “Are you sure this is going to work?”

She could tell Cassian was trying not to roll his eyes. “Jyn. As you have already discussed in extreme detail, yes, everything is going to work out. Now, for once, do as I say!” Cassian demanded with a smile on his smug face.

Jyn pursed her lips and snatched her resignation letter from his hands (he had taken it away from her hands the moment it printed, not trusting her not to send it through the shredder). Steeling herself, she walked as confidently as she could manage to her boss’s office. She handed the letter to him, and he read over it. Much to her surprise, he smiled.

“Mr. Rook?” she asked hesitantly, puzzled about his surprisingly happy reaction.

“I was wondering if you would ever return,” Bodhi said. She blinked. He continued, “Jyn, you are a brilliant dancer. It’s a shame for your talent to be locked away in an office. Now get going. I’ll see you at the Theatre.” He winked, and with a smile and a thank-you, she hurried back down to Cassian.

“I did it!” she said, smiling from ear to ear. Suddenly, she was enveloped in a hug. Hugs with Cassian were one of Jyn’s favorite things. They were full of comfort, reassurances, and soothed every nerve in her body. They were the comfort she had been seeking for longer than she wanted to admit.

Finally, after several long seconds, they pulled apart. She smirked, somewhat in self-deprecation, and said, “You were right. This job wasn’t worth it. I’m ready.”

Cassian’s eyes were brighter than she had ever seen them. “Then let’s get going,” he said, linking his arm with hers. “We’ve no time to waste.”

She patted his arm with her free hand. “Sounds like a plan, partner.”

She was going to do this. She was doing this. This was going to happen.

The flutter in her chest, the twisting of her stomach, were achingly familiar. Only these pre-show jitters were worse than before. She had quit her job for this. She had given up her black-and-white, cookie cutter life for this.

She let the color back into her life.

She did not regret it.

Especially at the look on Cassian’s face. His delight perhaps even surpassed hers. He took her hands in his. His beautiful, elegant hands, that would play the soul of the songs she would dance to. “Are you ready?”

She nodded. It was perhaps more of a jerk than a true nod, but her nerves felt as taut as a violin’s strings. “I’m ready,” she confirmed.

He seemed to believe her, so he placed a lingering kiss to her forehead. “You are going to be amazing. Make everyone proud. I’ll see you soon.”

He disappeared, and she waved to Baze, who leaned over to inform Chirrut of her action. They both waved in return. Baze mouthed, “Good luck.” She nodded again. They disappeared into the orchestra pit.

She got into position behind the curtain and proscenium.

The music began.

The curtains parted.

The golds and reds of the full auditorium suddenly eased her nerves. She could do this. She did it every day until her mother…

She could do this.

She danced.

It was cathartic; she danced for Cassian, who had encouraged her and believed in her when nobody else seemed to. She danced for her Theatre friends, who had welcomed her back as though she had never left. She danced for Bodhi, for showing up in the first row. She danced for her father, since he could not do it for himself. She danced for her mother, who she knew was watching from above and cheering her on.

But mostly, she danced for herself.

Her thirty minutes of dancing were over before she knew it. She could feel the tears streaking down her face as she bowed and the curtain closed. She wiped away her tears in the dressing room - they wouldn’t stop - and grinned when she saw Cassian looking at her in the mirror. She turned, and before she could even second guess herself, she asked: “Would it be okay if I kissed you?”

Cassian smiled softly and replied: “I was going to ask you the same question.”

The kiss was its own dance, one she had been aching to try for the past six months. It was as satisfying and beautiful as she had dreamed.

A knock on the door broke them apart. Cassian wiped a last stray tear from her cheek, smiling slightly, and they turned to see who was there.

“Mr. Rook!” she said, smiling.

“You don’t work for me anymore, Jyn. I insist that you call me Bodhi,” he said, and handed her a bouquet of long stem red roses.

“Thank you, Bodhi,” she said, taking the flowers from him. “They are beautiful!”

They chatted for a few more minutes, before Cassian alerted Jyn that there was one last surprise waiting for her in the lobby outside of the auditorium. Puzzled, she followed him, and they walked hand-in-hand to the lobby.

She froze.

Blinked.

“Daddy?” she gasped, and tears sprung anew. She ran to his waiting arms, and he picked her up, holding her to him. She couldn’t stop the sobs that choked from her chest. “You came home. You’re home. You came to my first dance.”

They stood apart, and he gripped her shoulder. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Stardust.”

For the first time since before the loss of her mother, Jyn felt whole. Not only had color returned to her life, it blossomed and multiplied and surpassed any shade prior. She wasn’t just primaries and secondaries, she was a prism. She had let love back in. She didn’t regret it. Not a single moment.

All thanks to a pianist who believed that she wasn’t done dancing. Now, more than ever, she believed it, too.

For the record, this is how I imagined the theater. And I listened to a lot of Ludovico Einaudi while writing this (particularly his album Divenire). I hope you enjoyed it!!! Happy Valentine’s Day! :)

[drsilverwoman]

The Practice of Recognizing Privilege

Published June 18, 2019 on Elephant Journal

Recognizing one’s privilege, like yoga, takes practice. Also, like yoga, recognizing our privilege is challenging and at times uncomfortable and frustrating. Ultimately, both are rewarding and for the betterment the world around us and ourselves.

Each time we step onto our mats and into the world, we are confronted with choices. Choices such as: Will I be present and aware? Will I notice and respect the differences between my body and the bodies of others? Will I push myself out of my comfort zone and challenge my mind and body to a new experience?

How we respond to these choices determines our practice and our response to privilege.

***

           Last week, like many weeks before, I taught a yoga class as part of the Young Yogi Program for Peace and Positivity in Orlando, Florida. I rotate among other yoga teachers who offer an hour-long session on Wednesday evenings for Orlando’s Youth Advocate Program (YAP). The teenagers who come to YAP are children of low-income families and almost exclusively non-white. Like most non-profit, volunteer based organizations, there is a level of amicable disorganization happening at all times. At five o’clock, when class is supposed to start, Heidi, the woman in charge, gives me a knowing glance and asks if I’m able to stay past six and wait another fifteen minutes for class to begin.

Two girls nearby me are engaged in a lively conversation and I inadvertently begin to eavesdrop. An upcoming dance competition is the topic, and the one’s plans for twerking is being debated. To prove her point, she jumps up and shows off her moves. Laughter emanates from the other teens and I notice the dancer checks to see if I too am paying attention.

           I smile, giving her the approval she seeks and then look away. On the other side of a room, a tall boy sits alone picking imaginary dirt off his white sneakers. More kids trickle in. None look familiar. I have no understanding of who comes when or why, and there is never much chance for Heidi and I to talk about what’s going on. My contact to the program is Erica – a number in my phone and a face I have never seen. Erica lets me know what dates are available and we coordinate schedules every few months. I feel disconnected from the program and the teens, yet at the same time, there isn’t much space for growth given my limited involvement. I am happy to volunteer because I believe in the benefits of yoga and because volunteering makes me feel good.

***

           “Ready to start?” Heidi asks. I nod and stand.

The room is now full. There are the original two girls and the young man in the white sneakers, another boy, three more girls, and two advocates, also male and female. I’ve seen and chatted with the male advocate multiple times before. He is a stocky and muscular man with a gold chain and cross hanging from his neck. He exudes warmth and I find that I often look to him for support when it seems none of the kids want to be doing yoga. He is always encouraging and very committed to his own practice.

As the music comes alive, I look around the room and the kid with the sneakers is standing at the top of his mat with his shoes still on. I gently suggest everyone takes off their shoes and socks. He doesn’t move. A few people look down at their feet covered in socks and seem to consider the idea. The dancer’s friend insists her feet are nasty and doesn’t want anyone to see them. The dancer agrees about her friend’s feet and then admires her own red plush socks and how they allow her to slide on the mat.

I know the socks are a losing battle. But still, I try “there is nothing nasty about your feet. Your feet are beautiful and strong and carry you through this world.” The female advocate shakes her head and insists she needs a pedicure. I try again. “Yoga is about balance, and we need our toes to balance.” I inadvertently lift my toes off my mat, spread them wide and place them back down. “Also, if you remember, there are poses where we can take our peace fingers and grab onto our toes to deepen the stretch.” At this, the dancer elbows her friend and says, “no one wants to touch your feet!” The two erupt in laughter and I give up on the socks.

Towards the end of our practice I move the class into tree pose and try one more time. “I promise you, it’ll be easier to balance if you’re not wearing socks.” No takers. I look to my friend in the Hawaiian shirt, whose socks are still on and whose foot is pressed firmly against his knee. I let go of the socks and cue the importance of eliminating pressure from our joints.

After class, as I am packing up to go, Heidi thanks me and offers me a sandwich. I know dinner is waiting for me at home. The tray in front of me contains ham and American cheese on white bread. My friend with the gold chain stands near Heidi holding two large containers of off-brand soda and some plastic cups. I smile appreciatively and decline. Teens from the other program begin to fill the room and everyone lines up as plates are passed among them. Heidi is already busy handing out sandwiches as I call out goodbye.

Later, on the couch, with a belly full of organic meat and fresh vegetables, I think about those sandwiches, about the students, about their socks. Why won’t they take of their socks? They’re not the first group I’ve taught who refuse to take off their socks, but why? Google offers no help. I turn to my wife and ask what she thinks.

“Germs maybe? A fear of dirty floors and disease, of getting sick and a lack of health insurance or access to medical facilities. Plus a mistrust in the medical industry.” Her Masters in Public Health is showing.

While I do think she’s onto something, I still want more. And so I do what we’re not supposed to admit we do, I do what I know better than to do, I do what I hope will answer my question, I text my friend Alisha, because Alisha is black. Alisha and her boyfriend Jasen confirm what Abby said.

Sitting in my home, a place that is safe and clean, with a belly full of nutritious food, I feel guilty for not knowing why the YAP teens and adults insist on wearing socks. I am embarrassed because I have never feared germs or lack of access to adequate health care. I feel ashamed of my privilege.

***

Writing these words makes me feel uncomfortable. How do I tell this story without sounding like a pretentious asshole? Will the tongue-and-cheekiness of referencing my black friend come off as funny or do I sound like someone needing to defend their lack of racism by having a black friend? I know that intentionally or not, I am racist because I am privileged, because I am white. I also know the important differences between racism and discrimination, I know my whiteness and the power that comes with it is integral to my perception of the world and my privilege within the world. Writing is hard not only because it makes me feel uncomfortable but also because I can’t find the words to describe my experience. I want to stop writing but Audre Lorde tells me that my silence will not protect me, and asks us all to find, “the words you do not yet have.”

The poet, Thich Nhat Hanh tells us: “No mud, no lotus.” He claims suffering is a necessary step towards happiness. He reminds me why I need to write. I need to acknowledge my privilege and feel the discomfort it causes me. We all need to feel this discomfort, we all need to practice recognizing our privilege or none of us will be happy.

[gaiatheorist]

Universal Credit.

“I don’t want to be here.” I remember very clearly saying that to the admin-lady who took copies of my ID almost two years ago. I didn’t say it very clearly at the time, I was crying, in the middle of a mental health crisis. I did have the presence of mind to add “Here, in the Job Centre, not ‘here’ at all, I’m not suicidal.”, which is possibly the sort of thing a suicidal person might say. Then, when I’d been verified as a human resident of the UK, with a full working life to date of National Insurance contributions, I said it again, to my new ‘Work Coach’ “I’m not suicidal, you don’t have to risk-assess me, I’m ASIST trained.” “Oh, I’ve done that course, too, horrible, isn’t it?” (Job Centre frontline staff are trained to recognise and respond to suicidal ideation or intent. ‘Let that sink in.’, as the young people say.) She didn’t risk-assess me, she did say “Oh, don’t cry, you’ll set me off!”, which was possibly her way of showing me she was a human being, or possibly a tactic to divert-minimise the obvious distress I was experiencing.

Distress which may or may not have invalidated my capacity to consent to the Claimant Commitment she had me sign. It wasn’t an informed consent, in any case “You need to sign this, or your claim will be delayed.” isn’t actually threatening, but it felt that way at the time. I tried to object to the generic pre-formatted wording on the Commitment. I have disabilities, I’m not ‘fit for’ ‘Any suitable work, paying over £7.50 per hour, up to 48 hours per week, within 90 minutes of home’, but I wasn’t ‘officially recognised’ as disabled at that point. The concession she agreed to make was to alter “I am in good health” to “I am in reasonable health.” Pat on the head for signing a commitment I didn’t agree with, 48 hours plus 90 minutes each way would place me, or others at risk of harm, I have brain injuries, I’m not lucid for a ‘full’ working day, my cognitive capacity slides away during the afternoon and evening. “Here, one of my other customers made this form you can use to log your work-search, it’s really good, he’s been to university.” (It wasn’t ‘really good’, I think she just likes pretending to be a teacher, and ticking forms, I made alterations to improve the form, controlling a tiny little thing like that helped, because I had precious little control over anything else.) 

I’d signed the commitment to spend 35 hours per week actively seeking suitable employment, and I did a lot of seeking, but the majority of my additional ‘outcome’ and ‘follow-up’ columns on my modified form read ‘nothing suitable’. My second appointment was ten days after the first, and my ‘time-sheet’ logged 67 hours. Date/action/outcome/follow-up/hours, meticulous, accountable, cross-check-able, I’d registered on all the websites the Job Centre suggested, and quite a few that they didn’t seem to know about, I’m a resourceful type. I also have (more than one) ‘fluctuating’ medical conditions, so have a tendency to try to run ahead of myself ‘banking hours’ in case I have an ‘off’ day. The Work Coach panicked. “Don’t do that, you’ll make yourself ill!”, in an attempt to de-universal the Claimant Commitment, and possibly avoid more paperwork for herself, she reduced my hours-actively-seeking from 35 a week to 35 per fortnight. I’ll blow my own trumpet here, when I’m functional, I’m hyper-functional, I’m just not functional all day any more. I wasn’t just looking at the unfit-for-purpose ‘Universal Jobmatch’ website, which was full of expired vacancies, and vacancies that weren’t actually vacancies but “The position advertised has now been filled, you may be interested in this £500 training course.” scams. For every vacancy I clicked on, I linked out to the actual website of the employers, cross-checked expiry, hours, essential and desirable qualifications and skills, and ran the postcode through the public transport journey planner. I wasn’t just looking at the ‘situations vacant’ in the local papers, I was reading every single page for news articles about new initiatives I could make speculative applications to. I wasn’t sitting in my pyjamas watching Jeremy Kyle.  

“You need to attend this course.” Right, OK, fine, I know where that place is, and how to get there on the bus, and it’s a morning appointment, so there’s less risk of me turning up during an episode of brain fog, I can do it. I did it, and, to my shame, I realised how different I was to the other claimants. In my postcode, Universal Credit was being introduced to ‘Single adults, no dependent children’ making new unemployment claims. “Have you all done a CV?” “You need to do a CV.” “Have you all registered on UJ?” “You need to register on UJ.” Ten new claimants, two bouncy-enthusiastic Work Coaches, who kept looking at the clock, and the door, the course was supposed to last an hour, but there was a scheduled bomb evacuation drill half way through. (The Coaches hadn’t checked if anyone would need assistance during an evacuation, or advised us that we should take all bags and belongings out with us- that’s a bit of my superiority complex leaking out, one of my old roles was writing risk assessments.) One of the men didn’t have ‘a computer’, one of the women had tried to phone ‘the helpline’ and spent so long on hold that she’d used up all of her mobile credit. “Oh, you can pop into the Job Centre to do that!” We were hopeless/dejected/terrified, nobody wants to exist in that state, and that’s what Universal Credit relies on, that the most-functional will adopt an attitude of “Sod this for a game of soldiers.”, and find work, any work, just to get out of the system. “If you find work, your UC claim will be held open for 6 months.” They know that some people will drift into insecure temporary employment, zero-hours, dubious jobs, because anything at all is better than the absolute anxiety and pervasive paranoia of UC. 

The ‘waiting period’, the assumption that every new claimant will have their last month’s wage from work still to come. My contract ended in March, I’d tried finding a job myself all the way through April, and then realised that what I had left in the bank was all I had in the world, swallowed my pride, and ‘signed on’ for the first time in my life. Electronic application, phone-call with an appointment time-and-date, and the list of ID to produce, then the face-to-face at the Job Centre. If you don’t have the ‘right’ ID, your claim won’t be processed. I’ve never held a passport, and I only had the ‘short’ birth certificate, when they specify the ‘full’ one, I think I only slipped through because the admin-lady didn’t want me snot-crying all over her desk. I started the application process at the beginning of May, and wasn’t ‘paid’ until half way through July. The ‘five week’ period, if you read the forms properly, is actually seven, there’s the ID-check appointment required to activate your claim, the first week of your claim doesn’t count, and then there’s vague waffle about ‘allow an extra week for payment’. I allowed the seven weeks, and then another one, just to make sure, then I phoned the helpline. “Oh, did you claim Housing Element?” “I don’t know, I don’t know how any of this works.” (As it turns out, nobody knows how it works, because it doesn’t work.) “Right, well I can see on here that you did, and there’s a problem.” (If you can see that I did, why did you ask if I had?) I’d had to provide a copy of my tenancy agreement, I didn’t have it at the first appointment, so had brought it to the second one. My Work Coach had posted it off, someone in ‘Housing’ had noted that my ex was named on it, and put it in a drawer. Really. “I can authorise your Standard Element today, but your Housing Element will need to go to a manager, it’s a two-day task, don’t phone back before the two days are up.” “Right, OK, can you tell me how much it is?” “Your Standard Element is £317.” (A month, I used to earn that a week.) “Can you tell me how much the Housing Element is, so I know how short I’m going to be for my rent?” “No, I don’t do Housing. If it is short, you can apply for Discretionary Housing Payments, but I think you have to pay them back” (Discretionary Housing Payments, if allowed, are made by the local authority, not DWP, and you don’t have to pay them back.) Splendid. She did authorise the £317, but she didn’t forward the message to the Housing department. I phoned back after the 2 days, and a very apologetic young man confirmed that the task had been noted but not actioned. Another two days, and I spoke to a Housing manager. “Can you give me your ex’s contact details, so we can verify that you’re at separate addresses?” Hell, no. I’m not escaping DV, or in any situation where him being contacted would place me at risk of harm, some people will be, I just didn’t want the shame-factor of him knowing I was unemployed. I gave her his NI number, 20 seconds later she’d cross-referenced with HMRC, and rubber-stamped the Housing Element. (Which was £150 a month short of my actual rent.) 10 weeks, not ‘five’ or ‘six’ for the first payment, and it was only activated because I chased it, some people won’t be able to do that. 

For almost a year, I kept-on-clicking, my Work Coach steadily reduced the number of hours per week I was expected to use for work search, because I was also in the process of applying for PIP disability benefit, and that’s  job in itself. ‘Rolling six existing benefits into one’ looks great on paper, but there’s still fragmentation in the system. There is no ESA, ‘employment support allowance’ component in the UC system, it’s now termed ‘Limited Capacity for Work’, and, from my experience, the Job Centre just sort of cut you loose. (And wait for you to start moonlighting as a pole-dancer or something, probably.)  However genuine and human the Work Coaches are, they’re not supposed to show you how to get around the system much more than is required to tick boxes. I’d told my Work Coach repeatedly that I had disabilities, and she’d seen the deterioration in my mental health over the months, I was disintegrating in front of her, which can’t have been comfortable to watch. Still, she watched, because she wasn’t allowed to ‘give’ me the get-out-of-jail card. When my PIP application was declined, I appealed as-per-protocol, through the Mandatory Reconsideration process, pointing out to the Coach that any system with a ‘mandatory’ reconsideration written into it knows that it’s flawed. 

My Mandatory Reconsideration request was processed, and the PIP was still not-awarded, that’s a deliberate tactic within these policies, people who ‘could’ manage without assistance drop out of the system. I know that, because the first time I applied, after the life-altering brain haemorrhage, I thought I could manage, as it turned out, I couldn’t. The next stage of the process is a Tribunal, people with disabilities have to go to court, and justify themselves to a Judge, a Doctor, and a Lay-person specialising in disabilities. (That’s where ‘Daniel Blake’ would have ended up, if he hadn’t died.) I requested a Tribunal, and provided additional evidence, as well as completely eviscerating the cut-and-paste mess that ATOS had made of my ‘reports.’ That was difficult, not just the process of reading through 300+ pages of my evidence, and their evidence, but the continual repetition of what I can’t do any more. I had the Job Centre on one side, encouraging the ‘positive, can-do attitude’, and PIP/ATOS on the other side, asking for profoundly embarrassing details on washing/dressing/toileting difficulties. It was a waiting game, I’d applied for PIP in March 2017, I didn’t have my Tribunal until July 2018, the same week as my re-scheduled ‘Work Capability Assessment’. (They cancelled the first one with less than 24 hours notice, they hadn’t sent the ‘reminder’ text, they had no intention of holding it, these systems have made me paranoid.)

The Work Coach could have triggered the Work Capability Assessment at my first appointment. She didn’t, she waited for me to ask for a process that I wasn’t aware of. She watched me fall apart, and try to keep fighting through systems that just don’t work. It’s only my inherent resilience that have saved her some paperwork, or possibly just closing the file, and marking it ‘deceased’. She offered food bank vouchers, and suggested I ‘do something’, but couldn’t tell me what the ‘something’ should be, so I joked about falling over in Tesco and making a claim for compensation. I cancelled my utilities direct debits, and made claims to hardship funds, keeping in regular contact with the suppliers, to update them on the lack-of-progress on the PIP front. For a fair while, I was surviving on one can of value-range soup a day, split into three ‘meals’. Some days I didn’t eat at all, because once my rent and phone/broadband were paid for, I had £18 per month for everything else. In the spring of 2018, I had five hospital visits in one month, the bus-fare is £5, I cried my eyes out filling in the refund form in the hospital. After pulling up dandelions from my garden to eat, because I couldn’t afford fresh vegetables, I dug up big patches of the garden to plant veg, and a beautiful soul from Twitter sent me a packet of seeds in the post. (I also ‘allowed’ the ex to buy me a plastic greenhouse, which kept blowing over, it was more garden canes and gaffa-tape by the end, thank you to another kind soul, for sending me repair materials, and also the kind soul who sent me the money to cover my Microsoft Office payment, so I could still make my rent.) I was completely insane, hanging on by my fingernails, and that’s what Universal Credit does to people. It isn’t enough to live on, no matter how much you pare back on unnecessary expenses, every single day is Just-Survive-Somehow.

The media demonisation of benefit claimants hasn’t helped. I’m not sitting at home ordering take-away and watching a massive telly, like those people in the programmes ‘normal’ people watch on their, erm, massive telly. I have complex long-term medical conditions that I haven’t been able to address while I’ve been treading water through the PIP and UC systems, imagine that, the welfare system has exacerbated my medical issues. I have guilt issues, I know I’m not the most-disabled person in the UK, and I know that some people quite simply do not make it through these systems. Is it 10 people a week that die after being found fit-for-work? There was a woman a week or so ago on the HealthUnlocked forum, who had been declined disability benefits, and, instead of appealing, had taken the ‘balls to you, DWP, I can do this!’ stance. Very, very dangerous, because the work capability and PIP assessments are very much focused on the physical, rather than cognitive capacity. If you can complete an arbitrary range of physical activities, and a very small and skewed range of ‘mental capacity’ tests, you’re good-to-go. People are being declared fit-for-work when they really aren’t, that’s not just conscious cruelty, it’s placing people at risk of significant harm. Mental Health conditions fall straight through the system, and individuals ARE being fined for ticking the wrong box on prescriptions. Imagine needing medication to manage a mental health condition to keep yourself functional, and then being slapped with a £100 fine? That’s next month’s medication not happening, followed by the inevitable sanction from the Job Centre when you miss an appointment, or fail to engage appropriately? 

Amber Rudd has stated that the roll-out of UC is to be paused, acknowledging that there are faults in the system that need to be addressed. How utterly hypocritical. My initial reaction to that was “Maybe they’ve achieved their kill-quota.” Fit-for-work people will work, but people who are not fit for work will fall foul of these vile systems BECAUSE they’re unfit. I’ve managed not to miss any appointments, and to maintain my contractual obligations regarding work-preparation. I’ve wrecked my credit rating and mental health in the process. Pausing the roll-out will prevent new claimants being pulled into the vortex, but Job Centres are already removing the legacy systems from their work-stations, there’s no real intention of stopping this thing.

I don’t want to be unemployed, and I have no intention of thinking “Right, that’s it, I’m disabled, I can just sit back and live on benefits.”, that’s not in my nature. What I’m doing is waiting for medical interventions that I should have had years ago, to make me as safe and functional as I can be, before I slip back into the real world. What UC systems wanted me to do was throw myself headfirst into the first halfway suitable job I found, to remove me from unemployment statistics. Not on my watch, DWP, ‘up to 48 hours’ at minimum wage virtually guarantees a cognitive lapse, which would be a risk of significant harm. I won’t place other people at risk due to my own known deficits, the government aren’t showing UC claimants the same consideration.    

[tolove-tohate]

Michael Jackson trial timeline and flaws

I needed to post this somewhere. I am a firm believer that he did nothing and would never do that to anyone. I did not write this.

He was sued once in 2003 (I think) and was acquitted on all counts. The prosecutor, seeing that his case was going down the drain added lesser charges, to secure some kind of conviction to justify the multi-million dollar prosecution of Jackson. But no such luck. The evidence just wasn’t there to support the claims. The claims of the main witnesses were, in part, totally insane. The “accuser” smiled when talking about how Jackson supposedly kissed him or put his hands down the boy’s pants and so on. The mother claimed, that Jackson had planned to kidnap them and fly them to Argentina. In a hot air balloon.

The prosecution’s timeline was something like this:

The Arvizo family is introduced to Jackson by a friend. Can’t recall his name. The mother had been trying to get celebs to give her money, autographs, etc. because of her son Gavin who was sick with cancer. Side note: prior to the Jackson case she had twice fabricated false accusations. Once against her ex husband for beating her - she was later found out. Then she got kicked out of a JC Penney store for shop lifting and then alleged the guards had sexually assaulted her on the parking lot after having kicked her out. JC Penney settled the case, as is common practice in such cases.

Anyway, the timeline. The family gets to meet Jackson. Jackson invites them to stay at Neverland and offers to pay for all of the boy’s cancer treatment, because they are poor. They move in. Shortly afterward the cancer goes into remission. The family stays on in Neverland, although Jackson is kind of trying to give them the hint that they should be leaving. Not sure anymore, but I think he gave them money to rent an apartment or buy a car or something. As that is going on, Jackson agrees to have journalist Martin Bashir follow him around with a camera crew.

That is when the scandelous interview was taped. The one where Jackson sits on a sofa with the Arvizo boy, saying that it wasn’t a crime to share his bed with someone. Jackson later added, that when he said “sharing a bed” he meant to give up his bed to allow someone else to sleep on it and himself sleeping on the floor or in another bed.

So then, after the interview is aired and there is public backlash because of what Jackson says in the interview, the prosecution says, THAT is when Jackson starts making sexual advances towards the boy and starts molesting him.

So much for the timeline.

Two other interesting points: the boy’s sister claims to have seen an act of molestation from another room. The defense later proved that she could not have even looked into the room to see anything from where she claimed to have been standing.

The prosecution, having searched Neverland with about 80 officers found some porn magazines in Jackson’s bedroom. They gave them to the boy while he was testifying. He took them, looked at them and confirmed, that Jackson had shown them to him, before molesting him. AFTERWARDS the prosecution had them examined for finger prints. To prove that Jackson had indeed shown the porn mags to the boy. Again, they had the mags finger printed AFTER the boy had publicly handled them in court. (thanks to Esmeralda for reminding me:) in addition, that magazine, which the boy claimed Jackson had shown him, was published AFTER the family had left Neverland.

And so on and so forth.

There was at least one other case where Jackson was blackmailed with allegations of child abuse by a former employee. She claimed that Jackson had molested her son when he was at work with her. She demanded a couple million dollars and settled it.

Another, more famous case, was the Chandler accusation. A boy who had become friends with Jackson traveled the world with him during is Dangerous World Tour in the early nineties. Then the boy’s step father, a dentist who had dreams of becoming a Hollywood film maker, hit Jackson up for a loan of a few million dollars for a film project. Jackson declined. Then the step-father accused Jackson of having molested the boy. The district attorney at the time, Tom Sneddon, started a case against Jackson. Either Jackson upon advice by his management paid him off or his insurance did, I’m not 100% sure. But a payment was made.

Having received the money, the step father had his son refuse to testify, collapsing the prosecution’s case. The district attorney, Sneddon, was also the same one that failed to prosecute Jackson in 2003–2005. During the second case (2003–2005) the prosecution (DA Sneddon) tried to get this boy Chandler to testify against Jackson. He refused. Sneddon also tried to get Macauley Culkin to testify against Jackson. He showed up in court but testified FOR Jackson, not against him. The same goes for Australian dancer Wade Robson.

After Jackson’s death Robson sued the Jackson estate. He claimed that Jackson had sexually molested him as a kid. The fact that he had previously, under oath, claimed the exact opposite? Suppressed memory. He just suddenly remembered. The case got dismissed.

Before that case had been dismissed, another man (now 39) filed a similar claim against the estate of Michael Jackson. That case also was dismissed.

That is about all of the info I can think of and/or remember.

For what it’s worth, here are my thoughts on this in closing:

Michael Jackson was a great musician. He was also a very bad judge of character and as much as he was a genius in many things musical, he was a fool in many other things. He spent large even when he wasn’t earning in the end. He trusted absolutely insanely obviously bad characters. The last (roughly) 30 years of his life he was surrounded by enablers and yes-men.

He made extremely bad choices. He had absolutely lost touch with the way of life of the normal people and had no idea that his friendships with young people (by the way, it wasn’t only boys, there were lots of girls too - but none of their parents ever sued or blackmailed him) may be seen as sinister. I believe that he really didn’t get it.

And I also believe that if he had been a pedophile, he would have molested MANY kids. I mean he was Michael Jackson. For most of his life was richer than god and almost as famous. I am almost sure that if that were the case, people would have come forward. Not the kind of people who sued for money or got paid off. I mean people, who would have gone to the cops and would not have taken a dime of his. I mean just imagine: Michael Jackson molests your child, destroys their life basically. Then Jackson goes: here’s a couple million. It won’t hurt me financially at all, but whatever, now you’re kinda rich, so shut up about it forever. Would you take the money? I know I wouldn’t. And I don’t know anyone that would.