Behind the Zoom

Photo by Alex Dukhanov on Unsplash

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‘Are you telling me that you expect an artist fee or even a mentee fee while sitting at home, online, on their computer during a Zoom workshop?’ The person on the other side of the online meeting asks, their voice and face show shock about my suggestion. I am equally surprised as I did not expect this reaction from someone who leads a national disability organisation.

My autistic self is rapidly asking in my head, ‘Why don’t they get it? Why? Surely, in this Year Three of the global pandemic – just before the new COVID19 variant explodes during the summer holidays – where was the shift in paradigm, a change in systems and structures?’

And does this mean I received the triple whammy of whitesplained, mansplained and able-splained?

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There’s an ongoing social media hashtag #PayTheArtist and #PayTheWriter. Is this ongoing online advocacy meant only for the employed? For those with privilege and power? I was reminded of Sara Ahmed’s book, ‘Complaint’ (Duke University Press, 2021), in which she wrote that the pandemic ‘has brought home the abject cruelty and harshness of inequalities.’

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I should have asked:

Do you even know what happens behind the screen during an online conference for a non-mainstream Black, Indigenous, Person of Colour (BIPOC) writer or/and artist  (‘minoritized’ might be a better word than ‘non-mainstream’ here? Or ‘racialised’ Or just leave out ‘non-mainstream’?) while the global pandemic continues to rage? More so for the Disabled, Queer BIPOC?

Have you ever thought that the writer-artist on Zoom could be hungry, that in a pandemic lockdown or even during a self-imposed isolation, they have no access to food? How about their lack of access to drive to the nearest grocery because they ran out of money? And did you even think that they could be hiding in a room, escaping domestic abuse and violence?

What people don’t see on the computer screen during a Zoom meeting, or any online conference could even include other situations like disability, dealing with mental health issues, chronic illness, underlying or pre-existing medical conditions.

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Ideas percolate in my head while three stove top burners roar into life. With gas flames aglow, it is almost dinner time. Hurrying, I drain the egg noodles with a colander in one hand while holding a boiling pot on the other hand.

Steam fogs my bifocal eyeglasses, and yet I continue to concentrate to finish this singular and seemingly dangerous kitchen task while completely ignoring The Essential Worker - an angry male household member. He is standing in the narrow outdoor space of the backyard, just outside his very own man shed. He keeps on hitting the windowpane in front of me with multiple plastic bottle caps. On my periphery, I see quick, incessant, and angry pelting of plastic bottle caps onto the kitchen windowpane. I deliberately ignore the Essential Worker – in the middle of the arsenic hours, no less – so that I won’t burn myself by accident again.

I am prone to accidents. My underdeveloped kinaesthetic ability shows in the form of oil splatters on my forearms, accidental cuts on my calloused fingertips. And while fleeing from domestic abuse and violence during one of Melbourne’s pandemic lockdowns, I fell off my e-bicycle, dislocating my shoulder. Such intense pain took months of physiotherapy, acupuncture, and a whole lot of painkillers, to have my writing arm back in order.

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In hindsight, did the person with privilege and power remember the Australian of the Year, Dylan Alcott’s speech:

My advice is to you, non-disabled people. It’s time for you to challenge your unconscious biases, leave your negative perceptions at the door and lift your expectation of what you think people with disability can do. Because it’s always more than you think.

Surely, they would listen to Mr Alcott – after all, he may be disabled, but at least he is a white man.

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Did the person with privilege and power of a national organisation have an unconscious bias, like the Australian Disability Enterprises (ADE), where Disabled people working in ADEs get paid as little as $2.37 per hour?

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My brain searches the literary community’s version of ADEs in the state I currently reside. And as several states go to ‘meh’ mode as the pandemic rages during the summer, we are left behind.

We are considered annoying and the hashtag reminders of #COVIDIsNotOver and #LeaveNoOneBehind. Is this what the able-bodied, mainstream narrative call ‘microaggressions’?

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Earlier in the year, an announcement about a mentorship competition came up on my Twitter feed. As I read the competition rules, they encourage diverse applicants to enter. But as I read further, there is no access costs nor stipend allotment to winning mentees. Does this mean only the mentors receive payment? And yet, the organisers proudly announce that they are fully funded by a prestigious arts funding organisation. Further, to enter the competition, the writer must be a member of the literary organisation or should sign up for a membership first. This seems to be the default in entering writing competitions. There are even two different fees, a competition fee and subscription fee to qualify to simply submit an entry. The fees are quite expensive for me, as a diverse writer.

Therefore, more questions arise:

Why is this still the status quo for many writing competitions despite the pandemic already on its third year?

Were the organisers not affected by the global pandemic?

Isn’t the global pandemic already a game-changer across industries, processes, and supply chains?

*

As the days move closer to the deadline, another coronavirus variant ravage throughout the state during school summer. Meanwhile, government officials announce that the state is opening up and remove almost all of their pandemic mandates and isolation rules.

I email the prestigious writing organisation about access costs, asking if there would be a stipend for the chosen mentees while many of the population was in self-imposed isolation. The email reply I receive is lengthy and when read aloud, sounds terse.

Did the white woman in power chastising me for raising a concern on behalf of potential ‘diverse’ applicants during an ongoing global pandemic? The organisation for the mentorship prize is from another state. Their borders are still closed, and their COVID-19 active case numbers are enviably low.

Clearly, there was a level of privilege from this interstate writing organisation. If I apply, I will be in the group which they consider as ‘marginalised’ – those who are scrambling for food, grocery, and pantry staples; asking for #MutualAid on social media; asking the community to please send food. All this while also looking for P2 / N95 facemasks for the new COVID-19 variant. And these facemasks - approved by the Therapeutic Goods Administration (TGA) - are not only expensive compared to the earlier versions of facemasks during the beginning of the global pandemic in 2020 but searching for a single P2 / N95 facemask is also akin to a treasure hunt or the proverbial finding a needle in a haystack.

As a marginalised artist, I am also trying to procure rapid antigen tests, in time for the new school year.

And as a marginalised writer, our household has been already in financial hardship since the multiple pandemic Melbourne lockdowns began in March 2020.

And as a marginalised parent, I find it difficult to feed my remote-learning school students while working from home. At the same time, I need to assist them with their remote-learning device, which is a loan from their school.

So, whether Zoom meeting or a lengthy email reply, the concept of #PayTheArtist and #PayTheWriter while participating in an online workshop or even a mentorship seems to be a foreign concept to those who have privilege and power among the various arts organisations. Even if the arts organisations are located in the heart of a UNESCO City of Literature.

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On 8th of March - International Women’s Day with hashtag #IWD; the one and only day I feel I could voice out my thoughts without repercussions from The Essential Worker in our household.

The theme was promoted on social media with images of women with arms crossed on their chests under the hashtag #BreakTheBias – a slogan created by the UK-based marketing company Aurora Ventures. This corporate-friendly hashtag succeeded in swamping the official International Women’s Day theme - “Changing Climates: Equality Today for a Sustainable Tomorrow”.

Not surprisingly, the day after International Women’s Day, the verbal abuse of the coercive controller in my household continues. He is angry I did not serve enough food for dinner. Didn’t the Essential Worker know about the massive increase in petrol prices and the inflated costs of food and grocery caused by broken supply chains brought about by the recent flooding and the ongoing global pandemic?

Once again, I try to find work in the arts sector, a gig work while in self-imposed isolation as COVID-19 active cases increase, people who caught the new variant, straining an already-exhausted health system.

And once again, I find the courage to ask the next arts organisation if there are any access costs while meeting on Zoom.

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Eventually, I receive a reply – an invitation via email.

Because the invitation comes from a renowned writer, I say yes quickly, especially when the committee consists of fellow Disabled arts workers and Disabled artists. Finally, I could feel some relief. There is an organisation consciously includes accessibility in its planning phase. They are offering grants to artists who would like to include Auslan Sign Language, audio description, and captions into their arts performance.

Excited, I login and meet everyone online. There is an Auslan interpreter on the Zoom meeting.

However, I realise everyone knows everyone.

Except me.

Am I the newest member of this small group of Disabled artists? Surely, I’m not their token person of colour? Besides, the other members were also in a previous online workshop. A workshop which paid disabled artists for their time while online.

For three months, we met online each week. Disabled artists were paid while participating for the pilot Justice-Centred Design project by Creatives of Colour. Comprising of Bla(c)k and POC facilitators, they were understanding and empathic when I and other participants were late logging online. We are still in the middle of the global pandemic, after all.

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However, I realise not all Zoom or online meetings are the same.

Despite the access, despite meeting among disabled artists, why do I feel I’m their token disabled person of colour?

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The Zoom meeting happens during the rainiest and coldest May morning in more than 70 years. Coincidentally, it is also my Disabled child’s first face-to-face oncology check-up since the pandemic began.

With my child in tow, I burst into the front door of our rented house, still drenched from the cold, icy rain, after our Shebah rideshare crawled in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Dropping everything, shouting (in hangry mode) a series of instructions to other household members to cook their own dinner and my child’s dinner. All this while I simultaneously plug in and turn on my laptop, camera, microphone, and headphones, and eventually click the Zoom link. I didn’t realise that I was more than ten minutes late already.

I did apologise in advance while waiting for our ride share at the lobby of the Royal Children’s Hospital. I even attached a photo of my Disabled child sitting, waiting at the hospital’s iconic lobby. However, they have strict rules for Zoom meetings I am unaware of. I’m not in synchrony within the online committee. Am I the only one with a disabled child? Is everyone child-free in the committee of disabled artists? I send an email, this time to the organiser, apologising and explaining the series of events prior to the Zoom meeting.

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Later, as I inhale my late dinner of hot soup and bread, I forgot to take my SSRI medication. My tongue is now loose and sharp, flippant even. I spew a sentence, one of the words triggers the Essential Worker.

Too late.

I zip my mouth shut.

Expediently, I proceed to the medicine drawer. Panic moves me to swallow three 5mg of diazepam.

Because I am also Hard-of-Hearing – who already took off the all-day-wear hearing aids – I did not hear the deadly, heavy footsteps. Like a stealthy ninja ready to strike, the coercive controller is right behind me. He pulls opens the top drawer directly beside my head as I crouch to place my prescription medication in the bottom drawer.

My eldest offspring sees the interchange and walks out of the dinner table, carrying their own plate into their bedroom.

‘See? Look what you made me do!’ His voice is whiplash, reminding me of a leather belt hitting my own brown skin. He literally attacked me with the title of Jess Hill’s book about power, control and domestic violence.

I lean onto the kitchen cabinet. Waiting for the medicines to work, my mobile chimes, notifying me a new email in my inbox. I receive a group email, informing everyone to be on time during Zoom meetings. Is this another form of able-splaining and mansplaining?

Truly, those who have privilege, power, and position would never know what happens behind a Zoom meeting.