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You never know where you might end up during a spontaneous outburst of vivacity. You could find yourself surrounded by
naked and beautiful women dangerously shaking their hips and performing powerful and graceful acrobatics on poles. You
could find yourself drinking in a shimmering vision of a mermaid and be inspired to buy a round of sea breezes. You
might, fuelled by drink and your delighted senses, tell the whole country what a wonderful time you are having.
But then, if you’re in New Zealand’s disapproving public eye, like Women’s Refuge Head Merepeka Raukawa-Tait, you could
be forced to lie to the country and yourself to save your job and say something like: “My unchecked whimsy was entirely
inappropriate and I now realise I wasn’t having fun at all.”
Merepeka’s mile-wide grin plastered over the Sunday Star Times told a very different story. Predictably, the call has
gone out for her to be sacked, led by Wellington Women’s Refuge spokeswoman Dale Little, and echoed throughout refuges
across the country. Merepeka’s less than enthusiastic apology, made under duress, may not be enough to save her job as
Women’s Refuge boss.
Initially, Merepeka had righteously refused to apologise, saying stripping can be “very, very beautiful” when done
“tastefully”. She refused the dogma, bandied about in PC circles as if it was irrefutable truth, that stripping, as a
branch of pornography, denigrates women.
Sometimes Stripping is exploitative, sometimes it isn't. Exploitation is not an inherent characteristic of the art form.
Luckily for Merepeka, the media has been too preoccupied with the Christine Rankin case to spend too many column inches
on her night out at the Mermaid Bar. But with the Prime Minister Helen Clark adding her voice to the disapproval,
Merepeka’s days appear numbered, another victim of this country’s inability to separate the political from the personal.
Merepeka was just showing a little natural human curiosity – that doesn’t make her any worse a woman or any less of a
passionate and effective advocate for her cause.
If Merepeka is sacked it will be a huge loss for the Women’s Refuge. People - women and men - like her. She’s tough,
she’s a straight shooter, she does her job well. People find her real. That’s why She rated second in the New Zealand Herald Woman of The Year 2000 poll. Only Lucy Lawless, warrior
princess, mother, and campaigner for children is better liked.
The Women’s Refuge is for every woman who needs it – women who live in the real world, with all its faults,
contradictions and inequalities – women like Merepeka. If a radical Marxist-lesbian feminist, or some other ideologue
that would hound Merepeka out of her job for showing some lust for life took over, New Zealand women would lose.
National Leader Jenny Shipley, who said she’d visited strip clubs and didn’t see a problem with Merepeka doing it,
deserves a rare plaudit for her mature and frank attitude towards adult entertainment. Perhaps it’s evidence of her
“human touch”, which has evaded me till now.
A visit to a strip bar demands an occasion, otherwise you’re just being a sad sack. An appearance by the head of the
Women’s Refuge at the Mermaid Bar provided about as good a reason as any for a journalist, and I had every intention of
seeing the show that so delighted her. But my weekend took me to Auckland for the Computerworld Excellence Awards
instead, and I kind of lost the feeling after that.
The last occasion in my life deserving of a strip club visit was my 25th birthday, when me and some mates went to Liks
on Vivian Street. Despite my flowery intro, and despite Merepeka’s endorsement of the beauty of erotic dancing, strip
bars are usually pretty tawdry places. Liks fits that bill, and that’s just the way I like it – sleazy chrome, cowgirl
outfits and pole dancing to AC/DC and Guns ‘n’ Roses.
My mate Damon was nervous at first, and a little wary of who might have seen him walking in and what they might think of
him. Seated with a beer and hearing his favourite music he relaxed a little, and after a generously proportioned
stripper poured his beer over her breasts and rubbed his face in them, he was at home. Steve took every opportunity to
get his fifteen dollars worth. Having deprived myself of this experience all my adult life because, like Damon, I was
worried about what other people thought, I was having about as much fun as is possible without breaking the “don’t touch
the pussy area” rule.
Were we objectifying these women? You could say that, but no more than the girls spotting “501 bums” while stirring
their lattes in a café window, or baying for the Full Monty when a male strip revue comes into town.
Since we were being the kind of broken-asses who go to strip clubs, our evening wouldn’t have been complete without a
stop in at the Evergreen Café – where Wellington’s street walkers, trannies, queers and freaks drink special coffees
(Nescafe with good slug of whisky or meths or something) and listen to disco.
I caused a scene when my non-special coffee, a teaspoon of Nescafe in an Arcroc cup, cost $3 - just as much as a
cappuccino in a flash place!
My outburst was as inappropriate as a bible reading in a jook joint or a “no fat chicks” T- shirt at an Andrea Dworkin
book launch.
I was applying my middle class values where they didn’t belong. Context is everything – a lesson Merepeka’s detractors
would do well to learn.
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