Love

I was at a friend’s place yesterday and got talking to Michael from Melbourne. He told me that he was more of a live-each-day-as-it comes kind of guy.

He then told me that his wife was not like him in this way.

Michael had two grown-up children and his son had a property in Sydney, which Michael was to live in because his work had posted him there for 6 months. He told me, with incredulity, that his wife insisted on him renting the apartment at the market rate.

At this point he tells me that he can show me a picture but I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone about it. I said, ‘ok.’

He paused for a moment and looked into my eyes to gauge whether he could trust me or not. He delicately pinched his polo shirt collar with his right thumb and forefinger and theatrically pulled the shirt across to reveal a tattoo of his wife as a younger woman across the front of his right shoulder.

With some prompting, he told me he got it done in Sri Lanka by the best tattoo artist in the country just before Christmas a long time ago. Being the best tattoo artist meant it was hard to get some time with him but Michael showed him the picture of his wife and told him that he needed this tattoo done and if he wasn’t going to do it that he wouldn’t get it done at all.  The man fit him in.

Eight hours of pain…

So on Christmas morning, Michael rolled over to his wife and told her that he had got some ink done. She – already with tattooed dates of Michael and their two children’s birthdays on her ankle – excitedly asked where… and he pulled the sheet back to reveal his shoulder.

This Christmas, she is taking the whole family on a trip to Sri Lanka – all expenses paid…

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The US Alliance is our Best Defense

I was at the City Recital Hall this evening and after the debate “The US Alliance is our Best Defense” they threw it open to the audience for questions. There would have been about 6-8 men who got up to ask their question and we could see another 10 or so men standing in queues behind the 4 microphones. Finally, we heard from a woman who made a very reasonable and succinct question. And my point isn’t that women are better than men but simply that there was a variety of speakers amongst the men and they all needed their voice heard in its many forms.

There was one man who spoke beyond the one-minute bell indicating his time was up and he kept speaking… he kept speaking even when the audience clapped to indicate to him it was time to finish… and the clapping stopped… and he was still talking… and then we started clapping again. He got the message. But what I am saying is that in this domain – and many others – men will assume the role of contributor while women will comfortably sit back and have the men speak on their behalf.

Anyway, the convener made the bold move to comment on this disparity and in order to balance the mix, he offered for any woman who wanted to ask a question to stand up and go to the front of the queues behind the microphones. Two women took advantage of this – one made a comment rather than making a question and the other asked a great question.

Time was running short and the final women were told they could speak next and one young male in a purple shirt from a minority ethnicity. The two older white baby-boomers behind him jostled a little, obviously disgruntled at suddenly losing their powerful position of privilege and one of them bullied the younger male into asking his question for him in addition to his own.

Interestingly, this young guy in the purple shirt paraphrased his ignoble question and unintentionally made the older guy look petty and egocentric.  The shoe seemed to be on the other food and I wondered if that was the first time that older white male had someone else speak on his behalf.

…

Outside of all that the debate was effective. It swayed the audience away from a majority ‘for’ vote before the debate to a majority ‘against’ vote after the debate. Major General Jim Molan was the most effective speaker and convinced… well, some of the audience… that we needed to stop with the insecurity and the free riding and to have a stronger defense force of our own so we can protect in our own right if push came to shove.

Baby-boomers are such a paradox… on the one hand manipulating and egocentric and the other clever and succinct and if I had a third hand, supportive and standing in solidarity. I guess that is just another good case for avoiding stereotypes.

Lofty Pastures

I have been on this roller-coaster ride in the past… well, probably for the past year at least. I put it down to working with culturally and linguistically diverse people employed at fairly high corporate level jobs. As a teacher of English as a second language, my job is to help them in their job by improving their language skills. But, it has started to feel like there are a lot of managers asking me to make their employees fit into their workplace better and perform in the way they expect. There seems to be very little self-reflection on the behalf of the managers on how they might be able to change to manage their multi-cultural team.

This leads me to disturbing feelings of Australia’s past destructive relationship with assimilation and a general closed mindedness.

It’s an overall feeling that comes from the subtlety and sometime not so subtle comments around managers who expect their staff members to have ‘native level’ or ‘perfect’ English. I have heard managers say things like: “your English is great and very fluent, but in our field our clients would expect you to have perfect English...”. This kind of comment tells me that the manager is the one who feels that his employee should have ‘perfect’ English and is, therefore, embarrassed or ashamed to put the staff member out in front of their client. On a number of occasions I have asked the manager if they have had any complaints or comments from the clients, to which the answer is consistently no and it is just their observations. How is it that a manager would assume that their client would expect ‘perfect’ English?

This stuff is always a bit fluffy because there are no absolutes or rules where language is concerned and impressions are all we have to go by. But I always remember the study done by Australian National University where they sent out 4000 resumes all the same except for the name at the top of them. The names were diverse and in an array of Chinese, Middle Eastern, Anglo Saxon, Indigenous and Italian. The result was that Chinese applicants need to send 68% more applications, 64% for Middle Eastern applicants and surprisingly only 35% for Indigenous applicants.

I don’t find it hard to believe at all that this type of inhibitive racism is keeping culturally and linguistically diverse employees down. It seems that it might even be in the interest of the white employee / manager to unfairly suppress the more than satisfactory language levels of their subordinates so as to keep them believing their perceived inferiority. Is the privilege here that it also artificially inflate their own aptitude for the job where they can securely graze in those lofty pastures?

Happy Belated Mother's Day

I met with my mum today for a belated mother’s day. We normally don’t talk about anything of consequence as she has a tendency to tell me about her friends, many of whom I haven’t met or haven’t seen since I was a kid, and what they’re up to or retell old stories that she’s told me a squillion times.

Today, somehow we ended up talking about race politics and how Australia is racist, especially compared to our comparably more powerful white dominated countries of the United Kingdom and the USA. We spoke about how there isn’t a platform to talk about it and in fact there is quite a bit of white complicity in keeping any thoughts you might have about speaking out quashed.

We spoke about different things and she quoted George Negus from his book The World From Islam in which he had said something to the effect that despite our media having us believe that Islam is the opposition – and not the kind like a netball match where we can all shake hands afterwards (even if it is with fake smiles and congratulations) – the ‘problems’ we see in the media come from approximately 1% of the population of Muslims – the extremists or the fundamentalists. 

She mentioned a time when she was out with one of her craft friends and how another woman in the conversation was declaring that she would have to move out of her neighbourhood because of some Muslim people moving into it. My mum inhaled and opened her mouth to protest but before being able to speak her friend had raised her Hitler-style hand and let out a ‘heil’ or maybe it was a ‘hey’ in prevention of my mother being allowed to speak her mind. My mum, not usually being about to be stifled, sat there in shock and thought about that moment for the rest of the day and clearly days to come until now when she was relaying it to me.

She then, however, went on to tell me about the announcer on the train and how she just couldn’t understand a thing he had said. She clarified that she didn’t want to stop accented people from having a job but they should just have jobs where they didn’t have to talk.

Having experienced the earlier rare moment of bonding and empathy at her being silenced, I decided to remain silent myself at this point. Maybe I could keep this day of celebrating motherness – albeit belated – a day of victory rather than a day of pedantry. One step forward, one step back (or it might have been four steps back – but my pedantry will stop there).

The conversation then turned to the shop on Victoria Road as we passed it and how she had always wanted to go in there but never had because she was always too tired on her way home on the bus, followed by the apartments at Top Ryde Shopping Centre being overpriced and the unknown future occupancy of the old council chambers and her disbelief at the State Government vetoing the Local Council’s decision at keeping housing commission buildings capped at whatever number of storeys. Oh, and this was bookended by one final comment on the weather and how winter was creeping up despite the hot sunny day we had had. She would be digging out the heater tonight and putting on her possum socks.

Happy Belated Mother’s Day… keep up the fight…

Twelve Drummers Drum

Twelve eggs to a dozen; twelve months in a year.

Twelve men on a jury; twelve minds filled with fear.

Twelve cards of a picture for Belch ‘n his fool

for betting and drinking as Lord of Misrule.

Maria and Fabian and Andrew combined

join hands in good cheer as Malvolio’s maligned.

As poised and composed as apostles of twelve,

Malvolio’s style is as pompous as hell!

Twelve knights round a table, they plot his demise.

A twelve-step program would have lessened their highs.

The pendulum swings but the time passes slow.

They play the poor steward – a bad puppet show.

Twelve hours have passed on the grandfather clock;

Malvolio sits in the dark with no lock.

Twelve ribs in his body respond to their spell –

Sir Toby and Feste condemn him to hell,

Orsino sees Viola; his love in disguise,

Cesario, Sebastian in Olivia’s eyes.

Twelve pence in a shilling; a good rule of thumb.

Twelve nights after Christmas; as twelve drummers drum.

Triumph

Triumph of a small kind
Manifestation of a beast.
Emergence of a cyclone
In denial of what’s ceased
Perspective that wavers
Like a nervous girl unleashed
Acceptance of a new birth
That breaches as she weeps
Rising to a barren peak
As she articulates in speech
Fantasy in reality
She’ll reside there in peace.
Triumph of a small kind
Manifestation of a beast.

Love Ridden by Fiona Apple

Love ridden, I've looked at you
With the focus I gave to my birthday candles
I've wished on the lidded blue flames
Under your brow
And baby, I wished for you
Nobody sees when you are lying in your bed
And I wanna crawl in with you
But I cry instead
I want your warm, but it will only make
Me colder when it's over,
So I can't tonight, baby
No, not "baby" anymore - if I need you
I'll just use your simple name
Only kisses on the cheek from now on
And in a little while, we'll only have to wave
My hand won't hold you down no more
The path is clear to follow through
I stood too long in the way of the door
And now I'm giving up on you
No, not "baby" anymore- if I need you
I'll just use your simple name
Only kisses on the cheek from now on
And in a little while, we'll only have to wave
No, not "baby" anymore- if I need you
I'll just use your simple name
Only kisses on the cheek from now on
And in a little while, we'll only have to wave

Out the Window

Under the table
Under the bed
Inside a box
Inside her head

Hiding wherever she could, to find herself a spot. A spot to hide. A spot alone. She loved the corners of the house, but always came when she was called. It was scrabble. It was checkers. It was mastermind.

The pace would pick up. His steps were shorter and more confident. He smelt of success this morning. He was talking to himself in mock conversation in preparation for the 11:30 management compendium. Today was the day that would make all the difference. This was where life would start! Success would come crashing through his door and he would finally be revered for his contributions.

She found a gift.
She laid it down.
She looked at him
but how he frowned.

He looked around the room but said nothing. She didn’t crave affection but she took a step forward. She wasn’t sure if he saw her gesture or not but seeing him walk into the other room dented something in her. Listerine washed away his success.

She’s been saving it up,
That perfect spot,
Keeping it up her sleeve;

She’ll take the risk,
She’ll make the jump,
From here she’ll take her leave.

She brought a distraction as a peace offering. She could not understand his need to seek out the new every day. Anyway, it was that time again. Time for work and she’d found the best place she could in such a small apartment. She knew he wouldn’t look on top of the closet because it was brand new. It was the best spot in the whole world up there. She could see down into the quiet little back street where she saw a mouse run out of the rubbish bin. Life, she though. Life, living outside nature. Life finding its solutions where it could. Life surviving. This was really the best spot she’d ever found. She could tell because he was starting to say bad words and his footsteps were getting heavier and closer together. Words rang louder and louder. They were indecipherable now. All she heard was the pained irritation behind them. She looked back to the waste disposal in the lane. Right next to it was a parked truck, which came right up close to their balcony.

A series of stepping stones safe and sound.
A sort of ladder taking her to ground.

Inviting her away from another day spent the same as the one before that. It was like instinct had taken her. She was out the window; on the back of the truck and into the lid of the rubbish disposal and onto the ground. She scurried to the end of the street and saw a sea of legs moving with purpose. She looked back. The truck had gone. She looked forward. She moved into the sea. Stay close to the building. Someone’s coming. Jump left. Jump left again. A foot connects. Run low.

Empty green plastic
bottle of pop

Shopping mall
Division wall
Graffiti hall
Uniform
Little soldiers off to war
Scattered clouds above it all

Stop! Go!
Give way!
Go slow!

Water the roses
Sell the flat
Read the paper
Catch the nap
Mark the essay
Kick the cat
White shiny tiles
Slippery when wet

Someone watching me watching a lady watching the man cringing and laughing and fearing the mob and bumping around with his backpack banging into people’s heads, with his backpack with his name with his phone number put there by his mother with his headphones with his 50’s music with his maniacal laugh distracting the mourning flow.

The sun is out. I know because I can see it hitting the tops of the buildings. I make it to the corner and look left. I see the gulls. I see the pigeons. I see the figs. I feel the pangs. A tourist takes a snap. I cross the crossing legs and crossing lanes into the oooooooopeeeeeeeeen spaaaaaaaaaace. I feel the pangs. Green grass and watery spray. A man washing his face. He turns around and softly places his hands together and bows his head to me. A blessing from the city. A man asleep under his baseball cap. The city’s convenience. I feel the pangs. A waft of freshly prepared nourishment. The city’s deception. I feel the pangs. I follow the scent like Pépé Le Pue. I feel the pangs. The city’s offering. I feel the pangs no longer.

A middle-aged woman of two found the body of a renowned homeless city icon today in the bushes of Hyde Park. The man was reported to have been shot in the stomach in the early hours of this morning. The woman said that she came across the body due to movement in the bushes surrounding the body. A stray cat had wandered in and was feasting on the corpse. This death follows a series of murders of homeless people in the area and the public are warned to avoid the park after dark. Stay tuned because after the break we’ll have today’s sports news and the weather.

He removed his feet from the coffee table in front of him and placed them on the floor, paused and took a closer look at her nose. Normally, she was black all over except for a white spot on her nose. Today the spot was red. He patted her on the head and took a closer look and noticed a funny smell coming from her.

Silence.

He ran to the bathroom and didn’t come out for a long time.