Carly Findlay's Blog, page 22

The shame of disability residue

Image. Image: a collage of two photos, side by side. On the left is a full length photo of a woman with a red face and short dark curly hair wearing a yellow, teal and purple check dress, a lilac jacket with a purple penguin brooch on it, teal stockings, purple and teal paisley velvet boots, a pale blue Care Bear necklace – the bear is in a cloud blowing heart shaped bubbles surrounded by stars, and a blue and pink floral scrunchie headband. She’s standing near a red brick wall and a bronze umbrella sculpture on a concrete block. One leg is firmly on the floor, the other is bent back behind her.’On the right is a close up of her two legs standing on the floor, and the bottom of her dress. Two blood spots are on one of her legs.

This is my internalised ableism showing.

The first pic I’m standing with one leg up and resting behind me, to avoid having blood spots on my stockings in frame.

Even though Sunday was great, my friends are the best and my outfit was fucking fabulous.

The second photo is an up close photo of my legs – a yellow, teal and purple check dress and teal stockings, plus  purple boots. Two small blood spots are on my leg.

Probably hurt my leg on a bag of shopping. My skin is that fragile

Disabled and chronically ill people sometimes get embarrassed about the visibility of symptoms.

For me, it’s the skin and ointment I leave behind – on seats, surfaces, my clothes, other people…

I grew up with shame about my residue. Was discouraged from hugging people and touching things. I’d get them oily, leave skin behind.

It still happens, sometimes. Just like the being told not to have children thing I was tweeting about earlier in the week. 

I worried about the ointment imprint I left on my friend’s couch today.

Today those spots of blood on my legs weren’t a problem to anyone but me. Nor was my bum print.

But because of shame, because of the low expectations of disabled people, the gross-out and ridicule factor of shedding skin, smeared ointment, the expectation that presenting neatly and put together  suggests you’re not a failure in life and other elements of disability left behind, I wanted to hide those spots of blood.

This is a topic I want to explore more. Especially the time I got asked if I could use a separate toilet to my colleagues due to my skin flakes on the toilet floor.

And about the time I was discouraged from riding in extended family’s car. One day I will get the courage to write.

Anyway, we shouldn’t be feeling self conscious about disability traits we cannot control. But shame and embarrassment is hard to shake when it’s ingrained.

I want to reiterate – even with a strong sense of disability pride, we can still have internalised ableism.

Sending love and solidarity to all the disabled and chronically ill people out there who are embarrassed about what our bodies do naturally, embarrassed by the things we leave behind. I see you, I love you.

Has this post helped you think about disability and ableism? Will you use it in your work? Please consider buying me a drink! 

Allyship must happen within the disability community, too.

Image: a black and white photo of me – a 30 something year old woman, with shiny red skin, wearing a floral dress and large head piece, holding a piece of paper, looking to the side, smiling. People are behind, out of focus.

Ableism hurts more when it comes from other disabled people.

Just because *you* didn’t find it inaccessible or discriminatory, it doesn’t mean others aren’t impacted.

I have learnt that I must look out of my own disability experience and create access and inclusion for many more in the disability community. I do this every single day – in my work in the arts, in writing, and online – and I see so many other disabled people striving to improve disability access, inclusion and representation.

Accessibility and inclusion is more than just getting in the door. It’s about feeling welcome, heard, engaged with and valued – not tokenised.

I also know I’m not going to get it right all the time. I don’t speak for every disabled person – nor do I want or claim to. I’ve made mistakes in how I’ve done activism – and I know I will continue to.

But I will continue to amplify voices, speak about disability rights issues that don’t impact me directly and pass the mic. I will continue to learn from and centre multiply marginalised, less privileged disabled people. I will always call for payment for disabled people’s lives experience and talent. And I will continue to get angry about inaccessibility and injustice – even if that doesn’t make me popular. Because allyship has to happen within the disability community, as well.

It’s not enough just to be included. It’s not enough for accessibility to be the afterthought. It’s not enough for only white disabled people to be visible. It’s not enough to only be hearing from non-intellectually disabled people. It’s not enough for accessibility to only be available on request. It’s not enough for only one type of access provision to exist. It’s not enough to politely laugh exclusion off for fear you might upset the very people who created the ableist structures. It is not enough to only want to conform in non disabled spaces, and not make room in disabled spaces.

I demand access, inclusion and representation for me – and I demand it for all other disabled people, especially those whose voices and faces aren’t often centred, and even when it doesn’t affect me directly.

Has this post helped you? Will you use it in your work? Please consider buying me a drink. 

Book review: Care Work: Dreaming Disability Justice by Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

This book contains heavy themes around suicide, suicide ideation, abuse and trauma.

Image: an iPad with an ebook on it. The book is called Care Work: Dreaming Disability Justice. The title is in large green capital letters. A green plant obscures some of the iPad. The iPad and plant are on a floral pillow case.

Care Work: Dreaming Disability Justice by Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha was Tash and my May #DisabilityReads pick (see my Instagram).

Wow. This book. It was a salve. A reassurance that I am not alone. A learning opportunity. I feel punched in the stomach and hugged all at once. 

In the preface,  Leah writes “Disability justice” is a term coined by the Black, brown, queer, and trans members of the original Disability Justice Collective, founded in 2005 by Patty Berne, Mia Mingus, Stacey Milbern, Leroy Moore, Eli Clare, and Sebastian Margaret. Disabled queer and trans Black, Asian, and white activists and artists, they dreamed up a movement-building framework that would center the lives, needs, and organizing strategies of disabled queer and trans and/or Black and brown people marginalized from mainstream disability rights organizing’s white-dominated, single-issue focus.”

Care Work explores the ideas of how people doing good work can be imperfect; that accessibility is not optional (and that it should be asked for by all disabled people – even if their disability doesn’t require those specific access needs; and what it means to be a disabled person of colour. (Plus so much more.)

As I read Care Work, it felt like I was uncovering new ideas, new work and communities within the disability space – the same feeling I got when I read Pride Against Prejudice by Jenny Morris in 2012, and when I watched Stella Young’s Ted Talk on inspiration porn.

I learnt an incredible amount about disability justice and transformation, and mutual aid – terms that aren’t often explored in white disability spaces. I had started reading the book the night I had a brilliant dinner and conversation with Australian disability activist El Gibbs. We talked about disability justice, and she told me I had practiced disability justice in ensuring accessibility for her that night. It was something I’d just do ordinarily, but for El to name it put the act of providing accessibility within the disability community put it into perspective.

I related to a lot of Leah’s experiences – especially the nature of touring type work and productivity from bed.  Almost all of my writing is done from bed, and so is Leah’s.

The other thing I related to was when Leah wrote how as person of colour, she never talked about disability, because their family had the “toughen up” mentality. I felt this as a kid, so very much.

The content within Care Work feels so mature. It moves so far beyond Disability 101 – and truly covers what it means to practice intersectionality.

The book took me so long to read because I wanted to savour it. I listened to the Protect Your Heart chapter three times, because I just resonated with it so much – as a public figure in the disability activism space who often has huge expectations placed on me, and because of my experiences with lateral violence. I also loved the chapter called Chronically Ill Touring Artist Pro Tips (so useful!),  and the interview between Leah and the late Stacey Milburn was brilliant.

I feel so energised and seen.

I encourage everyone to read it – especially white disabled people.

Leah is an incredible disability and LGBTIQA activist, with a huge folio of work. I can’t wait to explore it more.

I listened to the audiobook, narrated by Leah. Leah’s voice is soothing and reassuring. I am so grateful for this book – it’s a resource that I will go back to many times.

Care Work is available to purchase from Booktopia. It’s also available as an ebook and audiobook. 

My Covid vaccination experience – first dose of Pfizer

Disclaimer:  am not a doctor or medical professional. Please seek professional medical advice before making a decision about vaccination. 

Image: a woman with a red face and dark curly hair tied back, wearing a red, blue, black and purple floral dress, a colourful spotted headband, and a necklace that’s a Hello Kitty in lots of red apples. She’s got a blue floral mask on. A big hospital building is behind her, out of focus.

I have had my first dose of the Pfizer vaccine against Covid. I’m sharing this experience for anyone who is unsure of the process, especially those who are chronically ill or disabled.  The Astra Zeneca vaccine is also available in Australia.

I had my vaccination on Monday. I feel excited and thankful to have had my first dose of the Covid vaccine. Though I am still taking precautions as there’s a Covid outbreak again, and we are in lockdown, again.

My eyes welled up in relief after it was administered.

Thank you science. Thank you nurses.

I am feeling very fortunate I could access this vaccine, and I hope that the Government makes it more available to those who urgently need it – chronically ill, disabled and older people, and healthcare workers, especially.

I wrote this next bit the day after I was vaccinated. Three days after, and I feel fine, just sad we are in lockdown again. I have had no side effects in addition to the few listed below.

It’s been almost 24 hours since I had my Covid 19 vaccination. I am fine! My left arm (where I had the needle) is quite heavy and sore – more so than when I had a flu shot. My upper body is tired. And I slept very well. But it was to be expected. It will be worth it.

 

I had the Pfizer vaccine- and it came about thanks to a Facebook follower sending me the number for the Victorian Govt Covid Vaccination hotline. Details are on the Vic Govt Covid vaccination website, and you can call 1800 675 398.

 

I am under 50 and in the 1B category, thanks to chronic illness – my dermatologists and GP recommended I get vaccinated as broken skin leaves me susceptible to infections – of varying types. My GP gave me letter with my diagnosis and medical history summary, which I took with me to the hospital yesterday.

 

I had to travel to a hospital far from home as at the time of booking, I think there were only five Pfizer hubs in Melbourne then.

 

When I arrived, there was a queue – it was long but moved quickly. The nurse coordinator asked my name and age and address and occupation. i said I am a writer, and she then said “you are here as you’ve got a chronic illness?”. I figure the occupation question must determine what category people fall into – I’m clearly not a healthcare worker!

 

I showed them my Medicare card and driver’s licence.

 

Once I was signed in, I waited – chatting to a guy who recognised me from Instagram. The wait time was short, maybe 10 mins at most.

 

Then I was seen by the nurse in a booth. I completed the consent form. The nurse asked me some questions – mostly to confirm what Ichthyosis is, if I am immunocompromised, and my allergens (the most concerning for them was anaphylaxis – which I have had twice). I said to the nurse that I’m needlephobic when it comes to blood tests, but this should be fine. She distracted me by commenting on my necklace. The injection didn’t hurt. I wasn’t given a bandaid – in case of latex allergy – but I did have a bandaid for my flu shot two and a half weeks ago. I then went into the waiting area for 15 minutes, felt fine, spoke to the nurse to confirm so, and drove home.

 

I was told I could make a booking for my next Pfizer dose much closer to home, but can’t book that appointment for another week or so. Another hub has opened near me. The second dose can be administered three weeks from my first.

 

More details on Australia wide vaccine availability are here.

 

I feel relieved I have the vaccine – to protect me and others. I strongly recommend you do the same. I will be updating you on my second jab when I get it in a few weeks.

I’m not a doctor, so I highly recommend you talk to your doctor to help make an informed decision about the vaccine.

PS: I’m still wearing a mask because I’m not fully protected against the virus, I was traveling on the train when I wrote this, and there are some new cases in Melbourne. Masks are now mandatory. Mask up, stay safe.

Image: a woman with a red face and dark curly hair tied back, wearing a rainbow print mask, a lilac jacket over a floral dress and grey jumper, and a Mary Poppins scene necklace. A yellow bird with purple flowers brooch is pinned to her lapel. A red brick building is behind her.

Finding confidence while living with Ichthyosis

 

Image: a woman with a red face and short dark curly hair tied back, wearing a yellow, blue, pink checked dress over a blue tee and pink stockings, and bright sequined boots. She’s smiling, her head to the side, standing outside a brick building.

It’s still Ichthyosis Awareness Month, and I’ve been writing posts to speak to the Ichthyosis community, rather than educate the wider community.

I get lots of questions from people with Ichthyosis (and without) about how I am so confident. It’s been a journey.

I know that the confidence I have no might seem easy, but it hasn’t always been this way. I used to want to kids, and change my appearance. Those days were hard. Now, I still have days where I feel invisible or too much for some people. But I’ve had almost 40 years to get used to life with Ichthyosis, to shake that internalised ableism and to feel happy in my skin. Life has been so much easier living myself instead of hating myself and wanting to change. To quote Pink, here’s all I know [about feeling confident] so far.

Don’t pretend it doesn’t exist. Ichthyosis is a part of you – it’s not all of you. I’ve found being honest with myself – about my appearance, and access needs – has helped with my confidence. Acknowledging that you have a skin condition will make it easier to ask for any help you might need.

Look after your skin. It’s already fragile! For me, that means showering twice a day and applying ointment to my body after each time, plus anytime on between, grooming well (removing skin from scalp, ears and any other area where it’s loose), drinking at least three litres of water a day, getting enough sleep and eating as well as possible (if I feel I haven’t eaten great, sautéed green veg, salmon and poached eggs are my go-to). Looking after your skin might involve different things for you!

Rest! Well rested skin is so visible. It looks calm, feels comfortable and you feel ready to handle anything. If I haven’t had a proper rest between showering, applying ointments, getting dressed and going out, it is obvious. My skin is more inflamed, my clothes soak up more ointment and I feel flustered.

Connect with others who have Ichthyosis. Seeing and speaking to others who look like me, and who experience the same things as me has been amazing. I wish I had that opportunity as a kid, but I cherish the friendships I’ve made in the Ichthyosis community now.

Surround yourself with people who lift you up. Life is way too short – and great – not to have people who make you feel good and let you be yourself. For too long I tired to fit in with people who made me feel like I was a burden, or too much, and now I’ve found my people, I can relax.

Wear what the hell you want. I was often so scared to stand out more than I did, and also worried that my skin flakes on dark clothes would be gross. And then in my mid 30s I started wearing the rainbow – and it’s improved my life tenfold. I also wear black, and don’t care!

Take selfies – for you and for others to see you. If you’re not comfortable sharing them on social media, just keep them tor yourself, and realise how amazing you are. And speak kindly to yourself!

To the Ichthyosis community (and to anyone else who might need to read this): You matter, you deserve to be seen and to feel comfortable. I love you!

If this post has helped you think differently about Ichthyosis, or facial difference, skin conditions and disability, please consider buying me a drink. My PayPal and Patreon are here.

You might also like to read my memoir, Say Hello, which has lots more of this advice in’ it. 

Face Equality Week 2021

Image: an info graphic. It has text and an illustration. The text is white on a black square, it reads: “Although it’s important for us to educate younger generations, the burden shouldn’t be on us to be the sole educators. Parents should use the vast resources we’ve created – our social media accounts, books, articles, art, music. Please don’t set up the expectation that we will answer every question your child asks us. Maybe their question is the first we’ve had that day, but it could also be the tenth.” Below that is “Carly Findlay Australia. And @faceequalityint. The illustration is of a woman with a red face and curly dark hair, wearing a floral dress. The background is yellow and grey.

It’s #FaceEquality Week this week.

Face Equality International has been posting lots of useful information for parents who want to talk to their kids about facial difference – including the preferred language to use. Go over to their Website, Facebook page and Instagram to read, save and share posts with your friends and family, schools and workplaces. They also launched their resource hub – for parents, schools and the media, as well as to support people with facial differences.

I have contributed to their resource hub too – with some advice for parents. I have been thinking a lot about the power of social media in helping educate kids about diversity – and have started to write a longer piece on it. For now, here’s a tile with a quote and an illustration of me – by the incredible Phyllida Swift.

I recommend you also follow people with facial differences. Go to Instagram and search the following people: @jonolanc, @adam_pearson_tv, @arielhenley, @melissablake81, @chizzyfrancess, @iomikoejohnson, @crystaltheactress, @tofacetheworld, @thetravelin_chick and @bethbradfield_ are just a few amazing accounts.

Here’s Face Equality’s website.

Please also share this post!

Has this post helped you or made you think differently. P

“You’re very brave.” (I don’t have a choice.)

Image: a selfie of a woman with a red face and dark curly hair, tied back, wearing a pink and blue floral dress with a Hello Kitty brooch on it. She’s smiling. At the top is “You’re very brave” in white text on black background. At the bottom is “I don’t have a choice” in the same text.

CW: ableism, vanity, suicide

“Can’t something be done for your face?”

“Is there makeup to cover that?”

“I have seen green makeup to cover redness – you can buy it at the makeup counter.”

“I couldn’t go out of the house looking like that.”

“You’re very brave.”

“I’d kill myself if I looked like you.”

Those are actual statements that have been said to me, multiple times, on top of the stares and intrusive questions.

Today I got tagged in Clementine Ford’s Instagram story, as part of her response to people asking if she will “get around in public” or can cover up with foundation after she had a cosmetic procedure on her face.

These questions imply that one shouldn’t leave the house if they have a facial difference. They’re thinly veiled statements that are vain, oppressive and ableist.

Firstly, I want to state, as Clem has, that facial difference is NOT the same as the side effects of a cosmetic procedure by choice. For me, having a facial difference and a severe skin condition is life long. For others, it might be the result of an accident, surgery, a violent act, or a developed later in life, with no explanation.

I don’t have a choice about going out of the house with a red, shiny face. I can’t cover up with makeup as that would irritate it more, and why should I cover up?

I could either stay home and never be seen, or live my life.

Beauty product advertising tells us we need X product to cover up “unsightly” skin, or reduce “embarrassing” scalp flakes. Filters are at our fingertips – to alter our photo in seconds. And people still just blurt out what they’re thinking – usually related to their own insecurities.

Going out of the house – and being in photos – just as I am is an act of defiance. It’s defying those who suggest I need to “fix” my face to make them comfortable with how I look.

I am brave, not for looking the way I do, but I am brave for enduring the vain, insecure and downright ableist projections from other people.

And if this post makes you uncomfortable – good. Sit with that discomfort, and consider how it feels to have these ableist statements said to you, implying you shouldn’t be seen in public with a facial difference.

Has this post helped you think about appearance diversity? Please consider buying me a drink. If you’re wanting more writing on this topic, check out my memoir, Say Hello. 

The discrimination hangover

Image: A woman with a red face wearing a lilac beanie and jumper, and a green, black and yellow leopard print dress, with a hello kitty brooch. She’s tired. “Discrimination hangover” is in black text in purple background across the middle of the photo.

I want to talk about the discrimination hangover. Because I am exhausted.

On Sunday a taxi driver refused to take me because of my face. I lodged a complaint to the taxi company and taxi regulator. I wrote about it across three social media platforms early on Sunday night and later on Sunday night.

I have received disappointing responses from the taxi regulator (a tweet handballing it to the taxi company; no reply to my email) and also the taxi company (the driver has apparently not been with the taxi company since 2019 so they are “sorry this happened” but can’t do a thing).

I feel disbelieved and dismissed, and despondent – especially given I have made dozens of prior complaints to taxi companies and the regulator; appeared in a driving training video; been to the Human Rights Commission and taken these incidents to media. What more do I need to do to ensure I get home safely?

The incident on Sunday lasted less than a minute. But the aftermath has exhausted me. There were many comments on social media. I said no to two media requests, because I worried about more ridiculous comments on social media. And then, I also grapple with not feeling worthy after being discriminated against and humiliated, once again.

When discrimination happens (this is far from the first time), I weigh up whether to report it quietly or go public. That is because making complaints takes time away from doing paid work, and the secondary level of ableism on top of the discrimination is exhausting – especially when this is something I have endured many times.

These are some of the things that have been said to me since Sunday:

The tone policing: “Carly’s being snarky/rude to people who are just trying to help.”

The helpful suggestions: “Use Uber/Shebah – they’re much safer.” (I just want the convenience of hailing a cab. Plus many disabled people have experienced discrimination with ride share orgs.)

The expectation that the onus is on the disabled person to do all the work: “WHY DON’T YOU REPORT HIM?” (x 500 – I did.)

The blame: “You sound like you want to be discriminated against!” “Call your husband to pick you up.”

The lack of allyship from within the disability community: apparently it’s not all disabled peoples’ problem to speak up about.

 

Each time I approach a cab, I brace myself for discrimination – noting the cab number, getting ready to say, “no, nothing happened to my face”. If the driver lets me in without questions, it’s a relief, though it really shouldn’t be. It’s a service I am paying for, and I am not rubbing my face on the seats. If the driver asks me questions in the cab, I usually choose not to answer them, telling them  that is not relevant to this trip. And then, if discrimination does occur – like the driver asking me what’s wrong with my face, and driving off, like on Sunday night, I am left furious and hurt.

And so I expect better responses and actions from the taxi companies and regulator – even if it’s acknowledging the impact discrimination has on disabled people, and the work involved in reporting  it.

I’ve had loads of support – I really have. But the majority of people don’t understand as they’ve never experienced it. They can get on with their day, privileged that they’ll be able to hail a cab with no issue.

If this post has helped you think about facial differences, skin conditions and disability differently, you can buy me a drink to say thanks! 

Ichthyosis Awareness Month

Image: a full length photo of a woman with a red face, dark curly hair tied back, wearing a yellow, black and white dress – fine stripes form flowers. Shes also got a big sunflower brooch on her dress, and has sunglasses and silver sandals on. She’s standing under a green leafy arch with lemons on it, in a rooftop bar. Buildings are behind, and the sky is cloudy.

May is Ichthyosis Awareness Month.

Here I am, for your awareness. I have Ichthyosis – the type I have is Netherton’s Syndrome. There are around 25 types of Ichthyosis, ranging in severity, appearance and treatments. Mine is one of the obvious, severe types (itchy, painful and scaly red skin), and the treatment I use (paraffin ointment) is very visible); but many people have Ichthyosis that can be hidden, or doesn’t present in an obvious way.

I used to do a month long blog series – profiling different people who have Ichthyosis. I did it for three or four years. It was a lot of work, and I became despondent that despite raising so much awareness, people with Ichthyosis still experience horrific discrimination; and exploitation by the media and parental over sharing.

Awareness is often not for our benefit. It’s to make people without Ichthyosis feel comfortable and educated, and to put their lives into perspective. If I can go out looking like this (cue hand waving around a face, the international gesture for “I don’t know how to talk about your face”), then what the hell do they have to complain about?

I’m cynical about Ichthyosis awareness campaigns and support orgs. But I’m passionate about the power of community. I am so grateful to be friends with so many people around the world who also have Ichthyosis.

I raise awareness for them – for them to see what’s possible and to know their frustration (and joy) is valid, and to help them to recognise discrimination and advocate against it. I also do it so people with Ichthyosis can find pride. And I do it for new parents who are scared about their children’s futures; and also for medical professionals.

Knowing we aren’t alone with this condition is incredibly important.

For more of my writing on living with Ichthyosis, you can read my memoir, Say Hello. 
If this post – or others – has helped you think about skin conditions differently, or you’ll use it in your work, you  can buy me a drink! Thanks!

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A little bit of magic

Image: two people standing against a wall, smiling, hugging, looking at each other. On the left is Carly, and on the right is Eliza.

The most magical thing happened this afternoon.

I saw the beautiful Eliza Hull play at National Gallery of Victoria. So very talented.

Eliza did a half an hour set, and in it she played “Don’t Look Away” – the song she wrote about my life for The Canales Project. The song is about me finding pride despite the stares and comments; and encouraging people not to look away, but to say hello

Lots of families were in the audience. Just before Eliza began the song, a little girl saw me. She was apprehensive at first, but then spotted my shoes – which have sequins and rainbow soles. She came up to me and I showed her that the sequined change colour when she moves her hands over them.

And then, all through the song, I was happily distracted. The little girl was playing with my shoes – stroking the sequins; and also touching my legs.

It was an incredible experience – hearing Eliza sing about me knowing I was different at three years old, being bullied, and then finding myself when I moved to the city.

The little girl at my feet, she was two or three. She showed such loving curiosity and affection.

It made me teary. What a joyous full circle moment.

I went to talk to the little girl’s Mum after the set. She introduced herself – Kate – and her daughter – Dot. I said that I had taken a photo of her daughter playing with my shoes because it was such an amazing moment – especially considering the song’s content. and gave me permission to share the photo.

What an incredible honour – that Eliza has written this song and to connect with Dot. I’ll remember this moment forever. Thank you both.

Purchase the song  and album here

Video: a slide show of a series of photos – Eliza and I looking at each other, hugging and smiling; Eliza and her band performing on a stage – the stained glass ceiling at the NGV is also in frame; a close up photo of the band on stage; a photo of my legs covered by a pastel check blanket, colourful sequin shoes poking out; a little girl about two or three playing with the shoes; the stained glass ceiling; me lying down and looking up at the ceiling smiling; Eliza and I looking at the camera laughing; Eliza and I looking at each other.
The music that’s playing is a small part of Don’t Look Away by Eliza Hull. Lyrics are “Moving away, moving on
She grew to love her skin. ‘I don’t want to look like anyone else. anymore’

Don’t look away, say hello
This is me, say hello