Alive and free, up among the goats

Janice Turner prefers brave goats to placid sheep.

How must it feel to have your name airbrushed from the $8 billion film franchise born of your scribbling in a coffee shop, penniless, while your baby napped? Or to watch the trio of child actors you chose and nurtured 20 years ago recall the stories which made them many times richer and more celebrated than their ho-hum talents deserve, yet not once uttering your name? Or have fools who run around with broomsticks up their backsides in college leagues change the name of quidditch, the sport you invented for wizards?

That’s putting aside the threats. Just search for JK Rowling on Twitter and see the stream of invective, the gun memes, the intent to rape and kill, the address of her family home handily displayed for passing stalkers online. For what? I’d bet few of those denouncing her even know and have certainly never read her long, thoughtful, compassionate essay.

But it turns out an author told to publish under gender-neutral initials, since boys won’t read books by girls, was a woman all along. One of the bothersome, old-fashioned types, who won’t jettison all they’ve learnt from motherhood or sexual trauma to assuage bullies or cultural fads.

Or men who claim to be women but still feel utterly entitled to stomp all over actual women.

Just as Galileo refused to bow to the Inquisition and affirm the Earth is the centre of the universe, many women just don’t, won’t, can’t believe gender is real but sex is not.

Or that men are women just as we are, that men know just as much about being women as we do, that men are subject to bullying and abuse just as we are, that men get to take everything we have while we are obliged to shut up and take it.

Only the goats stand their ground. And this has been the year of the goat. A succession of women have upended their lives, been cast out and despised just to uphold a fundamental belief. Keira Bell, who took a judicial review against the Tavistock gender service which irreversibly medicated her teenage body rather than healed her troubled mind; Sonia Appleby, who exposed safeguarding failures at that clinic; Jess de Wahls, an embroidery artist, whose work was summarily removed from the Royal Academy shop; Professor Kathleen Stock, hounded out of academia by masked protesters while her colleagues and union stood by; choreographer Rosie Kay who lost her eponymous company because she refused to disavow the intricacies of the female body she inhabits in dance.

I’ve interviewed most of these women and prior to speaking out, all experienced long nights of the soul. Fear (of losing political allies, friends and peers) battled against a burning urge for truth. But in the end, they couldn’t not speak out. It didn’t matter what happened next. They were not prepared to deny material reality, even if they never worked again. They were happy to ascend that rock face, cold and alone. But instead they found themselves alive and free, up among the goats.

Goats forever!

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