2016// a year in moments

January // I write a letter to Sarah. I don’t send it for another ten months.

Dear Sarah,

Otis Redding sung me down into London with a voice like tears. I found him on the aeroplane’s playlist called ‘Western Pop: The Latest Pop from the World’s Biggest Stars.’ Also on the list were Bette Midler, Duran Duran and a group called ‘Purity Ring’. London appeared like a ring of candles encircling the horizon. Otis purred to Old Man Trouble.

In the town I’m staying in, there is a statue with its head and half its chest lopped off. My sister guesses casually that it may be the work of Cromwell’s men. Now it stands guard outside the Pizza Express. History is so visible here. Even the violent, ugly parts.

Love, Fleur.


England. With family.

February // I wander into a museum, tucked inside a university in London.

It is one of those working museums, with desks pushed up against glass cabinets and the notes of students and researches covering every surface not already covered with Eygtian relics. I find the coffin of a woman named Nairytisitnefer. Written on a piece of paper beside it is a translation of the hieroglyphics craved into it.  The paper says that these were words spoken by Nairytisitnefer, who was true of voice. She said this: that she got her heart from the house of hearts and her soul from the house of souls but that “the mind of Nairytisitnefer belongs to her, and she is content with it.” I loved that.

Back in Australia, my mother walks up on stage to collect the Jill Blewett award on my behalf from the Premier of South Australia.

March // I give up counting.

Usually I count how many times I sleep without medication, times I see a doctor, shows I see, times I cry, people I kiss, books I read, scripts I read, productions I worked on. By March I was already too tired to count.

This month I call 65 passionate young people and tell them they will not be a part of Slaughterhouse Five. I call 10 and tell them they will be.


Lonely Company, brand new in 2016.

April // I’m walking down an empty corridor and then it is no longer empty.

Three meters away, a young woman turns a corner and we see each other. Our eyes meet for a millisecond, we avert our gazes, both say ‘sorry’ and walk on. After, it occurs to me that this is perhaps the most female interaction ever: None of this myth about women competitively judging each other with a glance. This is women: We share a space for a moment, make no physical or emotional contact, mutually apologies for our presence in this corridor/world and walk on.

May // We are working on the final scene of Slaughterhouse Five.

It’s the first time we’ve looked at it so I’ve asked the actors to bring in something it made them think of. We go out onto the lawn, sitting in a slightly lopsided circle to make space for Liam’s wheelchair, and this beautiful group of young people respond to a massacre, 71 years old. We pass around print outs of paintings, people read poems from their iphones and I play Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams and from The Singing Tree, by Kate Seredy. Then we read the final scene of Slaughterhouse Five. 

And somewhere in there was springtime. The corpse mines were closed down. The soldiers all left to fight the Russians. In the suburbs, the women and children dug rifle pits. We were locked up in the stable in the suburbs. They left us there. We ate the hay. And then, one morning, we got up to discover that the door was unlocked. The Second World War in Europe was over.

We wandered out onto the shady street. The trees were leafing out. There was nothing going on out there, no traffic of any kind. There was only one vehicle, an abandoned wagon drawn by two horses.

Birds were talking. One bird said, ‘Poo-tee-weet?’


Slaughterhouse Five. Photo: Sarah Walker

Things I learnt this year //

How to sew scrunchies.

That my bosses support me, even when a crazy man emails them saying that I’m the worst thing ever.

That my boyfriend loves me.

How to edit audio.

Every word of Not Throwing Away My Shot from Hamilton.

That The Macarena was a 1993 pop hit and not, as I had previously thought, a folk dance.

June // I blocked someone.

Facebook opened a new page and showed me a list: the three people I have blocked, including the newest addition. There, in the midst of my frustration, I saw a beautiful thing: those other two names, both of which I’d given barely a thought to in eight years. ‘Oh yeah,’ I murmured, ‘I guess that was a shitty, sad moment eight years ago.’ I love time and how it passes. I love knowing that one day I’ll probably come back to this list again, look at the third name and think ‘oh yeah, I guess I remember when that happened’ before getting on with the rest of my day.

This month my niece and I build a museum. We careful position toy dinosaurs on Duplo blocks, make a tiny doll’s house into a café and she writes a sign: Welcome to Museum. Like the Adelaide museum, we need a giant squid, so make one from ribbon and a blue wooden block. We suspend it in an empty glass, using a chopstick and a rubber band. I don’t know which of us is more proud.


July //  My mother and I, on a couch in Adelaide.

We are studying four photos of the Beirut convent where my great-great grandmother, Thekla, was raised. Thekla was just three when her mum froze to death in a vineyard and now, here we sat, my mum and I, studying the four photos in the book for signs of what her life was: the Germanic dorm rooms, with their straight lines of identical beds, the orphan’s embroidery, the nun with her tight press lips and tighter habit.

“I hope they were kind to her, that little girl,” said mum, and we both cried a bit.

2016 resolutions //

To find what it is that I need in each project or job to do it joyously. Follow my joy. Work with joy. Articulate that joy. This actually worked wonderfully. While there were still projects I struggled to find the joy with, I did seek it out. This resolution also played a big part in how we made Contact Mic: we begun by asking what we all needed from the project in order to do it joyously and used the answers to create a work flow.

Glorify balance rather than overwork. I think I did quite well at this. I was still very busy but there were also mediation and picnics.

Love courageously. Nailed it.

Go to yoga 180 times. Did not nail it.


Favourite man. Photo by Sarah Walker.

August // A man screams at me over the phone.

‘Who even are you anyway?’ I tell him he knows who I am. I am Fleur, we’ve met and I’m the artistic coordinator for the Academy. ‘Well that’s just a title!’ He retorts. Then, a moment later ‘so you’re the one who would be making this decision?’ Yep. So I guess it isn’t just a title. He yells some more and eventually I tell him that I will not continue the conversation and will email him with my decision. He yells ‘don’t you dare hang up on me’ as I hang up. I’m surprised by how unshaken I am.

September // A message from Liam pops up on my Facebook screen.

It tells me this isn’t Liam. That Liam is dead. Could I let people know? I write back some words – love, sympathy, thoughts – and facebook tells me that Liam sees them. But I don’t think that is true.

I write to students. I tell them Liam is dead. That he is no longer in pain. That it happened yesterday. I ask them not to post about it publicly until the family do because that’s the kind of thing you need to remind people these days. I tell them I’ll keep them posted about the funeral.

I cry a bit, a couple of short, confused sobs. I walk down the street with an empty shopping bag. I return with an empty shopping bag.

I go back and read Liam’s last message to me. Back when he really was Liam.

I’m out of hospital and the surgery went well. Unfortunately there is no good news on the cancer front, but such is life. My breathing is still a bit dodgy but slowly getting better.

Sorry I’m just really distracted by this election. I think safe schools is so important. If I had had safe schools in my school I would have been more comfortable being my authentic self earlier. I would have understood that I wasn’t alone and isolated and that there were so many people like me all around. I also don’t want to die without the right to marry. Sigh. I don’t know.

Anyway, just had to vent. Thank you so much for checking in! Very kind. I think of you often and slaughterhouse! This actually reminds me, I was going to message but forgot but wanted to say thank you for havjng me on the production. You took me as an AD despite havjng little practical experience, and I really appreciate that opportunity. I really hope I was of some help and I just felt so happy being involved with such a talented and kind creative. It was truly a beautiful and intelligent piece.

I cry a lot then. I go back to the students. I write ‘This is shit. I’m so sorry. I’ll organise flowers.’ And I do.

I drive across the city. I am hugged by beautiful, teary women and then they do their vocal warm ups and I warm up the lights and we do a show. I am drinking at the op desk, shutting my eyes between cues and taking deep breaths. I thought he had more time.


My favourite moment of theatre I made this year. Photo: Sarah Walker

October // I go for a drive.

It is dark and the streets are almost empty. I’m actually very calm. I pull into a side street next to a Synagogue because it looks at good a street as any to sit in and be quiet. To listen to Dan Savage on the last of my phone battery, take deep breaths and try not think about the yelling and crying I left behind. My mum calls. I say it’s fine but I need to go because my battery is low. I say I’ll go home soon. Then I sit some more. Dan Savage chats on, talking sex and politics until the screen goes dark. I drive home. The next day I make an appointment to see a counsellor.

November // We cook dinner.

I shell the broad beans, he blends the hummus, I roll out the flat bread, he mixes the salad dressing. We smile a lot. We clink glasses. We eat. We finish and we drive to the opening night of a show I’ve worked on for three years. In the car I say thank you for the lovely, distracting dinner. I say let’s make this a pre-show tradition. I say really though, making art is weird. I say, but in a way I’ve already done my job and peers have already said I’ve done it pretty darn well. I say I just hope I like it. I say hold my hand, please.


Contact Mic. Kieran, Sarah and I.

2017 resolutions //

See friends on purpose and for no reason. If I have a nice conversation with someone, tell them I enjoyed it and organise to make it happen again.

Budget. Save money and then spend it going to England.

Create less waste.


My niece wrote her first sentence in 2016.

December // We enter the room.

My face tries to cram thirteen different emotions on it at once. I tear up. The room is full of light, sound and finches. Perhaps fifty finches fly about, landing on beautiful, coathanger structures hung from piano wire. Each tiny landing adds to the soundscape. We sit on the blond wood floor. We watch the birds. We hold hands. We watch new people enter the room and try to cram multiple emotions onto their faces. And I feel so, so lucky for a year of sights, adventures and experiences with this man.


Ending and beginning.

I end the year with $4500 debt and a persistent Internet stalker. I also end it with a development of a new play for the State Theatre Company of South Australia locked in. I end it with 12 episodes of a podcast I have made with two of my dearest friends under my belt and 12 applications from playwrights wanting to work with Lonely Company in my inbox. I end it running Lonely Company with two of my other dearest friends. I feel very lucky in my collaborators.

I start 2017 hopeful and pretty calm. In an hour I’ll ride a bike to a New Years party and I’ll smile a lot, kiss a lot and supervise the barbecuing of haloumi and mushrooms. I’ll probably be asleep by midnight or at least 12.30. I’ll wake in the morning to a new year with old friends and maybe some new ones. And I’ll do my best.


December 30th, 2016

My own plays, personal, The Red Book Series, Theatre, thoughts, Uncategorized

on learning, listening and leaving the dead behind

So I’ve been doing this since 2009. When a journal is finished, I go through and take moments from it – things I’m working on or notes from a class or scribbles in the margin. It helps me remember where I’ve been and what meant something to me as the years fly by. I am currently about five journals behind. This has been a deliberate choice. You see, the last one I collated was from December 2012. It was a document of deaths, both fictional as I wrote Unicorn and real as I sat beside my beloved Grandmother and watched her die. So I’ve been holding off.

No one in history has ever been more dead than my grandmother. I listened to the changing textures of her breath. I studied the minutiae of her final moments. I dressed her for her funeral. My hands were on her and she felt like ice. She is the most dead being to have ever existed for me. And yet… and yet I still feel that I could jump on the Traralgon train and, in an hour, be sitting at her kitchen table, chatting with her and cutting her finger nails.

I try not to think about how much time has passed but it has been months and months and journal after journal has been filled and it still hurts such a lot that she isn’t here.

Yesterday, I decided to acknowledge that time and to collate the next journal. I’m glad I did. As painful as it felt to start with, it did make me remember what a beautiful, beautiful year it has been and how many amazing artists I have around me. This picks up just a month after Granny died, January 23rd and finishes March 27th. It contains the words of Raimondo Cortese, Robert Reid, Paul Cox, Patricia Cornelius, Stephen Cleary, Richard Murphet, Sarah Cane and a whole lot of me working things out. Thank you to all these incredible artists. Enjoy.

The Red Book Series, Part Six


Unicorn, Oxford, England 27th January 2013:

KIT                    This – this moment right now – is the furthest I have ever been from you. Silence. Now this is.

A note to myself, Oxford, England 23rd January 2013 (I was hanging out with a lot of neuro-scientists)

There is nothing intangible left about humanity. Even memory is now just a cluster of proteins. Nothing more romantic or infinite than that. We are changing. I am not the same person I was five years ago. Not a cell of that person remains.

Unicorn, Oxford, England 25th January 2013

ALBA               I’m going, Kit. I am going tonight and it’s not a touristy, greyhound round trip there and back again. I am going There and I’m staying There.

KIT                  Where’s There?

ALBA               I don’t give a damn. Somewhere near the seas. I think I’d like that. I’ve never seen the sea before.  A beat.

KIT                  I saw it once.

ALBA               I know.

KIT                  The week dad –

ALBA               I know.

KIT                  I know you know!  A beat It was beautiful, Alba. It was totally – We stopped and mum brought us ice-creams and we ate them just staring at it. Then we got back in the car and we kept driving and the ocean…. It kept pace with us. Like it was just there – just filling the left window of the car hour after hour until it wasn’t special anymore and all it was big. And blue. And it made me feel very small. And pink. And a long, long way from home.

Considering Monet, Musee de l’Orangerie, Paris 1st February 2013

Individually, no brush stroke is genius. Just as no single words written by Shakespeare is truly profound. If you stand close to the painting, each individual brushstroke is apparent: the thickness of the paint, the separate hairs, the flick of the hand. It is a bit like reading a play that was written to be lived aloud: you see the bones – the structure – of the thing and each individual syllable that went into its creation. Then you step back. You step back or you read it aloud and the riot of paint, the mechanics of the art, becomes one picture. One immense image.

Notes for yours the face, Paris, France, 5th February 2013:

It is about temporary things – moments, beauty, passion – all of which will be outlasted by the image they create. It is about being alone even when you are holding someone’s hand in a city of millions.

Notes from class, Raimondo Cortese, 5th March 2013 (If the phrase is in quotation marks, it means I got the exact phrasing and am quoting Raimondo Cortese. Everything else is paraphrased or a tangent my brain took.)

–       “Suspension of disbelief is just an excuse for ‘stuff doesn’t work.’”

–       Beckett is a poet of words but today we must be poets of actions. We and our forebears have different relationships with what is pertinent to now.

–       “If you want to write, you must be abnormal. Find your aberration. It’s weird. It is very, very odd.”

Notes from dramaturgy class, Robert Reid, 6th March, 2013:

–       “Dramaturgy is the art of being professionally interested in stuff.”

My adaptation of Slaughterhouse Five, 8th March 2013:

A beginning. There is no part for John Wayne in this story. No. No John Wayne or Frank Sinatra. No tans. No flashing teeth. Barely any words even. A long silence. I mean, what’s there to say after a massacre? Another silence. Everybody is supposed to be dead. Everything is supposed to be very quiet. And it always is. Except for the birds. Silence.  The actors consider the silence. One shrugs. So it goes.

Notes from a lecture by Paul Cox, 7th March 2013

–       This is the danger of researching today: you used to research by looking at the yellow pages, dialling a number and speaking to a Society. Today, the Internet can take you to the other side of the world without human interaction. Have we lost the ability to concentrate on a face? To make a connection? To ask ‘who is that person’? This is not progress. This is the dark ages.

–       “You must caress the eyeballs. The eyeballs don’t matter any more… Cinema is an abstract medium. ‘That’s entertainment’ is such a damaging slogan.”

–       “We are all travelling to die. But we are also travelling to live.”

Notes from class, Richard Murphet, 18th March 2013

–       Theatre’s strength as an art form is not dialogue so much as image… it is about creating memorable moments and interactions between people. The story is only eh vehicle for this… the Ancient Greeks told the same story again and again. The newness of the story isn’t important. The depth is what matters.

–       Sarah Cane: “I keep coming back to the theatre in the hope that someone in a darkened room will burn an image into my mind.”

–       Peter Hatton: “The image is a possibility rendered present. Images are at best a clarification, not only of what is there but what is more than there.”

–       “Stories walk, like animals or men”. There are gaps between elements. The story is the stride over something not said… choosing deliberately one word or another, knowing that the gap between them is unique.

–       Every word we ever say has a history stretching out behind and in front of it.

Notes from a film class by Stephen Cleary, 19th March 2013

–       Narrative point of view: how you manipulate the audience into seeing the story from a particular perspective. A story is just that. It is how the writer conveys the story, when they reveal what, when they let the audience know more or less or as much as the characters. Groups of characters work because through them we experience their different points of view. Sherlock is far ahead of us intellectually but emotionally behind while Watson is intellectually behind but emotionally ahead. Hermione is ahead intellectually, Ron, ahead emotionally.

–       The shower scene in Psycho: The long shot on her eyes to show that yes, the star of the film, Lee, really is dead. A new protagonist is needed and all we have is this strange boy. He takes the money, which has been the entire plot up to this point, and throws it away along with our former protagonist. Hitchcock is adept at this fast transition that, by the time the car gets stuck in the swamp, we are on the strange boy’s side. We want the car and the evidence gone.


Fragmentary texts, 20th March 2013

Two women.

– It doesn’t feel like me talking. It’s not me talking.

– Your mouth is moving.

– So it is. Touch it. My mouth.

– I… can feel your teeth through your lips.

– Teeth are just bone. Put your fingers in.

– Sometimes mine hurt. My teeth hurt. Smiling all day.  Do they have (what you call them?) pain thingies? Your teeth are wet. Your mouth is wet. Your tongue. … Ouch.

A love letter in the form of a multiple choice questionnaire.

Question 1:

What colour are my eyes?

  1. Blue as the ocean. Blue as the sky.
  2. Green as a forest. As a leaf. As a leaf in a forest.
  3. Black as sin. As lust. As wanting.
  4. I don’t give a fuck. They are yours. They are yours and that’s all that fucking matters. Be blue, be green, be black, be blind but let me gaze into them.  Let me study their depths. Let me –

Two women.

– I don’t want to use words. I want to use some other… some old, old long dead form of…

– You’re scaring me.

– Am I? I’m sorry. I am. Have you ever heard a horse scream? A pig? A goat? The most ageless sound. Like – it’s like –

I can’t do it. Sorry.


Interview with Patricia Cornelius in PWA magazine, undated

If I wasn’t a writer I’d be a farmer. I’d wear gumboots and dungarees. My hair would be worn in a no nonsense basin cut and my gender would be indefinable. Actually I’d look like a bloke. My life would be a constant drama – a race to harvest before the rains, up to my elbows in a pregnant sheep’s twat, beating wet bags against encroaching fires. My hands would be thrown up in despair, cursing God. My hands would be thrown up in the air, dancing joyously at the birth of a dozen piglets. I would be dog tired at the end of the day and I’d sit back and smoke, yes, smoke a big fat cigarette and think ‘I really should get out and go to the theatre one day.’

Extract from a play I started writing and then abandoned, The Architects of Warsaw, 25th March 2013

Three architects are drafting plans for the buildings of their city as bombs fall around them.

–       I’ve never noticed the gutters on the post office before. Shame to spot them now as it burns. Beautiful craftsmanship. A nice feature.

–       My chest hurts.

–       Deep breathes. Embrace plain. That’s what your generation does. One day you will draw a square – an empty cube – and hold it up for all to see. A tribute to your faith in humans to inhabit any space. To fill even the starkest room with their humanity and make it breathe. But remember the gutters. You won’t want to but try. Think of how the tiniest feature will illuminate your restraint. Otherwise it will just be a square. Four brick walls. How’s the chest?


An exercise, Isolation is, 27th March 2013

Like the sensation of hollowness in the centre of your chest, like there is a cavity inside your ribs and your lungs and your heart and your organs are not large enough to fill it.

Like not quite knowing how to move your arms. Like looking down at your hands and thinking them alien. Like holding another person’s hand in a crowded city and feeling a chasm open up between you. ‘There’s a hole in my neighbourhood down which of late I can’t help but fall.’ Like sitting on a tiny desert island – one cartoonish palm tree – and watching the ships sail past and having nothing to flag them down with. Like cooking for one. Like not bothering to eat it. Like tumbleweed. Like not getting the joke. Like the Iron Curtain. Like distance. Like the Australian landscape. Like naming a town Nhill. Or Wail. And placing it in the middle of flat nothing. Like masturbating without a climax.

Like taking valium. Like procrastination. Like not screaming. Like deliberately not screaming. Like trying to merge on a freeway. Like no one letting you in. Like blindness.  Like deafness. Like puberty. Like forgetting how to read. Forgetting a face. Like reaching. Like striving. Like grasping. Like failing.

Politics, Sex

Many of you are not Australian so perhaps you are unaware of the murder of Gillian Meagher last year in my home city but if you are Australian or Irish (Jill’s country of origin) you will know every detail of the case. Jill Meagher’s murder touched my city deeply.  She was walking home after a few drinks with workmates in Brunswick.  The distance was very small (barely a few hundred meters) but after leaving her friends she was brutally raped and murdered by Adrian Bayley and her body was dumped in a shallow grave.  A week after her disappearance 30 000 people walked down the main street in Brunswick in her memory and to speak out against violence towards women.  To reclaim the streets.

Her murderer turned out to be a man with significant history of sexual violence who was on parole at the time after raping several sex workers.  This week he was sentenced to life with a 35-year minimum non-parole period.   This is far from the maximum sentence for such crimes.

Her incredible husband, speaking to ABC said this of the sentencing:  “I don’t know what the maximum penalty is for if it’s not for that man. I don’t know who else could fit the bill of a maximum sentence for rape than Adrian Ernest Bayley…. This man is unrepentantly evil. He’s been let off too many times by our justice system…  It sends out a really dangerous message to society, I think, if you do this. I mean, I’m aware that his previous victims in the previous case before Jill were sex workers and I’ll never be convinced that that had nothing to do with the leniency of his sentence, which as I said, send as very disturbing message. What it says to women is “Be careful what you do, ’cause if we don’t like what you do, you won’t get justice.” And then what it says to people like Bayley is not, “Don’t rape”, but, “Be careful who you rape.””

Tom Meagher. What an amazing man.

In a recent interview, an unnamed stripper whom Bayley used to visit and simulate strangulation on said tearfully that she thinks about “how if it had been me, the publicity wouldn’t have been the same. There wouldn’t have been 30,000 people walking down Sydney Road because of it. There wouldn’t have been this massive uproar about it and trying to find out who it was and trying to find her body and things because there is that attitude that she’s just a stripper, she’s just a sex worker, she’s a slut it doesn’t matter.  I’ve thought about that a lot of times.”

I can’t help but think back to Slaughterhouse Five (Kurt Vonnegut, 1969 one of my favourite books in existence) in which a trashy sci-fi writer writes of an alien race who come down to earth and see that the New Testament is full of loops. They can see, with their outsider’s wisdom that the intent of the Gospels is to teach people to be merciful, even to the lowest of the low but, what they really teach is that before you kill somebody, you’d better make sure he isn’t well connected. Christ didn’t look like much but he was the son of the most powerful being in the universe.

So they write us a new gospel. One where Jesus is a total bum with no connections but he says all the lovely, puzzling things he said in the other Gospels. And one day the people amuse themselves by nailing him to a cross and planting the cross in the ground because, well there couldn’t be any repercussions, could there? Jesus was a nobody. The Gospel of the Plumber’s Friends-shaped aliens told us so. But just before Bum Jesus died the heavens opened and there was thunder and there was lightening and the voice of God came crashing down and he said ‘Hey’ and he said he was adopting Bum Jesus as his son and giving him full powers and privileges of The Son of Creator of the Universe. He said ‘Bum Jesus will punish horribly anybody who torments Bum Anybody from now until all eternity.’

It is heartbreaking how little consideration is given to the rape of sex workers. My heart goes out to Tom and Jill’s family but it also goes out to the sex workers, the homeless and the addicts who are seeing this as further proof that nobody cares what happens to them.

We are living in horrifically misogynistic times.  Hatred of women is rife.  Victim-blaming is still a big part of our culture.  In Australia, our female Prime Minister (our first ever) is regularly objectified and sexualised.  (If you are not up to date on Australian politics, try googling ‘Julia Gillard menugate’ but, be warned: if you have a moral bone in your body, it will enrage and sicken you.) One in four women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime.   In America, someone is sexually assaulted every two minutes.  A couple of months ago we were visited by a peeping tom.  He watched me through my bedroom window until my housemate coming home surprised him and he ran off.  That he was getting off on seeing me completely unguarded terrifies me and his sense of entitlement, to invade my home and privacy sickens me to this day.   We now have a big padlock on our gate.

Last night, friend of mine told me that she had been having panic attacks all week.  She went to her therapist who told her that women all around Melbourne have been exhibiting similar PTSD-like symptoms recently and that she and her fellow therapists have been inundated.  The combination of the sexual vilification of our Prime Minister and the sentencing of Bayley filling our papers and news outlets has just reminded women all over the city/country how unsafe we feel.  Even the most powerful woman in the country is abused in sexually explicate terms.  Whether you disagree with her policies or not, this should be unacceptable.  It is shameful.  It shames me.

I want to draw your attention to an incredibly important project going on right now on the Internet.  It is so timely and so important.  These are students from beautiful Oxford University holding up signs explaining why they personally need feminism.   Read it and speak up.