Is 45 too young to retire?

 

 

Image via Pixabay

 

That’s the dream isn’t it? Make a million dollars, which used to be considered quite substantial, but now is barely enough to purchase a home in Sydney. Then, stop working to live a life of leisure and creativity, self-worth intact. I mean, if I look at being forced out of the workforce this early, while still having a roof over my head and being able to eat from that perspective, I’m living the dream! Admittedly, I’m completely reliant on my partner financially. I’m resentful and grateful simultaneously. Is this the elusive middle way?

 

I started working when I was thirteen. I wasn’t legally old enough but hung out at a coffee shop after school and the owner made a sexist remark about washing his dishes. I mentioned he had to pay me and that was my first job interview. I worked consistently ever since until I embarked on motherhood. It’s not like I was unaware of gender inequality and the gender pay gap, the limitations of the gender binary construct aside, but I naively thought that I could overcome it. It’s only in retrospect that I see how deeply ingrained inequality is, particularly in the labour market.

 

In Australia, the gender pay gap is currently around 14% and is measured using Australian Bureau of Statistics figures, by calculating the difference between the average full-time weekly earnings of men and women. For the last couple of decades, it has been between 15% and 19%, and it can be affected by factors such as occupation, industry and sector; public or private. The two main drivers of the gender pay gap are occupational segregation and the undervaluing of feminised work. In Australia, women tend to congregate in roles that are incorrectly and degradingly considered to be less skilled, like those in the nurturing and care sector, the service industry, the humanities and the arts. For example, industries like education, nursing, aged care and childcare are dominated by women. In 2016, around 97% of childcare workers were women. Their average income was around $600 a week, ironically seeing many of them unable to work full-time and afford their own childcare fees. On the other hand, the stock market value for the sector at the time saw profits of around the $1b mark. Furthermore, even in skilled professions, women still tend to earn less compared to their male counterparts for the same work. Women who pursue successful careers, also tend to lean on other women to support them with domestic services; race and class exacerbating inequality. Additionally, women tend to do more invisible and uncredited labour including emotional labour. We grumble about its exploitation, but instead of valuing it as vital within a paid economy, which we have seen starkly during the current global pandemic, we dismiss it and continue to deny its remuneration.

 

Throughout high school and university, I had regular part-time work, mostly in food service. I was encouraged to earn an income, take on responsibility and have a strong work ethic. That’s the main reason my parents emigrated to Australia from Malta in the 70s and 80s. I was obligated. A contribution of hard work builds character and attains freedom for myself and others, I was taught. Menial work, a means to an end; education paramount.

 

So, I studied hard. I did well in high school and got a high score at the end. I got into university but had no direction or guidance about what my desires or strengths were, so I followed my heart. I did an Arts Degree. They were affordable and popular when I studied between 1993 – 1995 and we had HECS (Higher Education Contributions Scheme). I never worried about the cost because I knew I didn’t have to pay anything until I was required to pay it back through the taxation system once I started earning a decent wage over the threshold. I didn’t notice the debt, but I remember the relief when I’d paid it off. The system has gradually become more complex to navigate and Arts degrees themselves more expensive. I’d chosen essay subjects in high school; the easier road apparently. My choices were similar at university and while I didn’t fully participate in university life, I did have a few lightbulb moments.

 

My Anthropology Professor in first year was the only one that ever gave me a High Distinction. Another Anthropology tutor suggested I stay back after class to listen to Noel Pearson speak. Once in Sociology, a mature age student sat beside me in a lecture and suggested I choose Women’s Studies in second year. She thought I’d enjoy it. I took her advice and she was right. I failed English miserably in first year. I didn’t realise I’d failed until third year, when I was lining up (in person before the internet) to register, hoping to graduate. I had to pick a first year subject to make up the units to get my degree. I chose Government 101. Practical and useful I thought. I still don’t understand the Westminster System. I graduated and John Bell from the Shakespeare Theatre Company spoke at the ceremony. I hired a gown and got photos near the Jacaranda tree. My family came. We were like aliens on a foreign planet. Working class people from the western suburbs, a daughter of migrants, don’t belong in that world. But I got my piece of paper; it was currency. An example of intelligence, commitment and completion. An unattainable symbol of prestige in my family.

 

My first full-time job was in residential community support. It was the closest I got to feeling that dignity of having finished an Arts Degree at the University of Sydney, majoring in Women’s Studies, Anthropology and Sociology and putting it to good use. Doing my Masters or a Phd wasn’t really an option. I’d already strayed far enough out of my lane and I wasn’t about to push my luck. I certainly couldn’t afford to. I was eager to work and be debt free. I spent three years in a domestic violence refuge, doing important work that was shamefully undervalued. There were three generations of women working side by side and to my knowledge, I was the only one there with a degree. It felt superfluous in comparison to the abundance of wisdom and life experience of my co-workers, but it proved invaluable during the refuge’s transition from a grassroots shelter to a funded and operational service provider. I burnt out fast, three years in, feeling like the nature of the work and the lack of resources didn’t attract the compensation or appreciation it deserved. The older workers had more tenacity than me.

 

The next six years were an attempt to figure out where I could be productive and valued in the private sector, because as I’d learned, the community sector was potentially harmful to workers; neglected by government, funding bodies and society at large. It was underfunded, underpaid and traumatic work. I have regrets about giving up too soon, but my body and mind’s deterioration gave me little choice at the age of 23. My parents had been recently married and had had me at that age, but I dreamed of doing more with my life, given the opportunity to delay settling down. The private sector, I assumed, would have boundaries, safety nets and a pathway to a ladder to climb. With a degree under my belt and several years of experience doing the gritty work, a fancy office and people in tailored clothes would welcome me with open arms and help mold me into something befitting my intellect and compassion, I thought. I discovered that the opposite was true. To make it in the corporate world, I soon learned I had to be callous and compromise some of my values. Empathy and collaboration wasn’t encouraged, competitiveness and individualism was. I had learned about the structures that demanded my subordination in that world. Evidently unionised menial employment, an Arts degree with a feminist angle and supporting diverse survivors of family violence were useful and empowering eye openers. I did my best but without vocational qualifications and unrelated experience, it was only possible to start at the bottom in a private company. Receptionist, secretarial or mail room and casualised. No perks, bare minimum. I was expected to work my way up and I was motivated at first.

 

One of my first private sector jobs was in a fashion warehouse of a small-scale designer as the receptionist at head office and the designer’s personal assistant. I cringed at the stored carcasses of fox stoles, I prepared lunch for the staff every day and picked up her son from school.  A couple of the men in the office were a bit too aggressive for my liking but I knew my assertiveness wouldn’t be welcome. It was a four-hour return commute each day by car and it proved unsustainable. I felt ungrateful and oversensitive, but I knew toxic when I saw it, so I quit.

 

Shortly after, I found a job at another corporate company, an engineering firm comprised of five smaller businesses. My “office” was a dark room surrounded by compactus shelving units. I had a huge bowl of lollies on my desk, that I was responsible for keeping full for the staff to nibble on when they came to return files to my in-tray. I bound documents with the coil binder machine and went to the post office to send and retrieve mail. Sometimes I relieved at reception and took calls. I recall supporting and advocating for a co-worker that was being abused and stalked by her parents, my refuge skills resurfacing. A senior staff member raised his voice at me once and I didn’t hold back like before. I shouted back with no inhibition to never speak to me that way again. A female senior staff member made him apologise but it was the beginning of the end. Once, we were having an office celebration. I went out to the balcony for a cigarette and in the meantime, someone had closed the glass sliding door. On my way back in, I walked into it like a budgie flying into a mirror. The office erupted into laughter and quickly refrained to save me embarrassment, but I didn’t feel the humiliation. I realised that even walking into a glass door with full force while everyone snickered at my expense didn’t make me feel any less worthless than I already did working there. I started planning my exit.

 

I began working in a call center selling insurance products for a conglomerate of financial institutions. It was an opportunity I probably blew to be honest. They let casual staff turn up every day if they were keen. We sat in a large open plan office at rows of desks, behind computers, wearing headsets. Calls dropped in as we cold called existing bank customers, offering them life and accident insurance products with free coverage for three months. We signed them up and gave them details about how to cancel before the billing kicked in. It was easy and I learned to sell quickly. I had a knack for connecting with people in a non-threatening and nurturing way. I didn’t pressure them and if there was no interest, I empowered their decision making and didn’t waste either of our time. I made them feel like they were in control, that they were getting something for nothing if they only remembered to cancel, but if the price suited them, they would wind up with a great product. If there was strong resistance, I wished them a good day and promptly hung up. I got so good at selling they used me to test out phone lines. Once, I spoke to so many customers in one day, the system looped back around to the first person I’d called that morning, then the second and third and so on. It baffled the IT guys, I’d clocked it. So, they promoted me. When I say promoted, I mean the pay and casual status remained the same, but I got to sit at a different desk and process cancellations. There was less volume and more responsibility. I sat in a more private room, away from the entry level plebs, among the second and third-year plebs. With one foot on a possible rung, I had a moment of self-righteous doubt about working for banks and insurance companies. I’d been looking for an out, a return to dignified, ethical work in the care industry and scored a job in a disability support service just as the “promotion” kicked in. It was a huge mistake. I went straight back to that feeling of powerlessness and grief that had sunk me at the refuge and I lasted as long as the probation period before finding something else.

 

I secured casual employment with future potential at a labour hire company. They advertised the position as temp to perm, as was becoming the trend. The incentive was that if you proved yourself over a twelve-month period, you would then become full-time staff. It was one of the more unusual experiences I had. For instance, only Capricorns were promoted to management – I’m a Gemini, I was already out of the running. I don’t recall ever doing any substantial or relevant work. I took calls from labourers and airport baggage handlers, usually giving them scripted answers about when they could expect to be paid. I sorted timesheets, shuffling them into alphabetical order in a wooden sorter. I remember emptying boxes, retyping something that had already been typed, returning files to shelving, meeting with an angry man who hadn’t been paid. My refuge experience and training dealing with possible aggression and violence saw me draw that short straw. They tried to include me socially, but I had nothing in common with my co-workers. A team building weekend in the Blue Mountains was organised by the company. We had to trek through the bush and work in teams to find a mock plane wreckage. I located the wreckage in a tree but none of my teammates believed me. They told me I was going “bush mad”. I tried to explain that if they followed me a few meters and looked up they’d see it too, but they refused. The other team won. I quit before the Christmas party having lined up another casual role.

 

I knew the corporate world was not going to ever feel safe or right for my interests or skillset. I had one last attempt at a private vascular clinic. Medical administration felt like care. Another temp to perm role, it also didn’t work out. I contributed high quality work but at the end of the twelve months the manager cut my shifts instead of making me permanent, so I quit. It was the first time I was truly unemployed with nothing to go to. I spent November to February of 2004/2005 unemployed and on Newstart, barely covering rent, job hunting over the holiday period. Centerlink forgot to send me a group certificate and the taxation office audited me. I had to pay them back $300.

 

I eventually landed in the public service in workers’ compensation health administration and stayed for a decade. It was unionised, a permanent role with Award protections and stability. I had never been ambitious for power or wealth. I only wanted security, a decent income, camaraderie and to be of service. I finally felt like I was making a difference to people’s lives and it allowed me to embark on adulthood with the self-respect and independence I’d always strived for, even though career progression was corporatised and near impossible. In that role I was able to travel, I met my partner, we bought our first home and started a family. I wasn’t fully prepared for the interruption to my working life that having children was going to bring.

 

I had my first child and while on unpaid maternity leave, conceived two more; twins. Suddenly we were responsible for three young children. Returning to full-time work was not an option until they were in daycare, around the age of two which was our personal preference. Privatised childcare is expensive and even with the rebate and my partner’s uninterrupted income, we could only afford a couple of days. Sydney is cursed with the tyranny of distance, traffic, and inadequate parking and public transport. Not working in my local area felt overwhelming. My partner and I agreed that we’d only access school hours at daycare to get accustomed to a routine as early as possible, knowing how short the school day is and how unaccommodating full-time employment and workplaces are to these limitations. If I was going to return to work, it was only going to be a couple of days a week with daycare restricted to school hours.

 

I had a total of four years out of the workforce and watched as my superannuation plummeted compared to my partner’s and as soon as the twins joined their older sibling at daycare two days a week, I started looking for work. Seven months and over 60 applications later I found another public service administration role in health. I persevered for almost three years, but then Covid-19 hit. The kids had started primary school by then and I was required to home school. It was a short-lived return to the workforce.

 

After lockdown ended, I didn’t go back to work. The risks felt too high, the uncertainty of further adjustments related to the pandemic too distracting. The casualisation of my role, the culture of devaluation of administrative work in general, the travel, and the lack of working from home options, which we needed a pandemic to even begin to talk about as a nation, didn’t provide enough incentive to balance the demands of a young family with paid employment. So, for now, I guess I’m semi-retired and hope to have a decent income again someday. Or not.

 

The raw egg and the 2 cent piece

Image via: Pixabay

My first full-time job was in a women and children's domestic violence refuge in the western suburbs of Sydney. I'd been working part-time through school and uni and once my studies were over, I knew what I wanted to do at the time. I wanted to work in women's services, somewhere in the community, where I could learn about issues affecting women and somehow make a difference. I got lucky. I found a job locally as a women's support worker. It was part-time with a view to becoming full-time for the right candidate. At the time I had a part-time job in a valuations office in the city, so I juggled my week between the two jobs, eventually quitting the valuer's office and working in a community housing co-op, until the refuge put me on full-time. It really was my dream job, but it was short lived. I lasted around three years. I soon grew restless, jaded and fed up with the lack of resources, the poor pay, the politics and the hopelessness and moved on. But those three years are some of the most valuable of my entire life's work experience and I still go back to that time to make sense of a lot of what I encounter in the work place and in the world today. Working in a collective, in a women's centered environment, in a community organisation with limited funding and a monumental social problem to tackle, violence against women and children; it taught me a lot about humanity, government policy, popular culture, social and economic class and diversity. The refuge was a microcosm of the world at large and in a very short time, I got a lifetime's worth of education so valuable, it still echoes in my life today.

Comparing my own life experience and reflecting upon my own cultural and social upbringing, I started to understand deeply the injustices, inequalities, and the cavernous gaps that exist for disadvantaged people. In particular, women and children, people of colour but especially First Nations people, those from non-English speaking backgrounds, poor families and those who were not only being victimised physically, emotionally and psychologically, (I soon learned ALL women and children are, in some ways, within a patriarchal society), but also those that had endeavoured to resist and escape, making the very difficult and dangerous choice to change their lives and demand their safety and prosperity. 

The refuge housed four families at a time in the main house, for a period of up to eight weeks. In the adjoining house, another four families could be accommodated for a longer period of time, for up to three months. Women and their children from all walks of life lived together communally, where the differences between them soon became irrelevant and were stripped away, leaving only the commonalities - their health, well-being and security, their day-to-day routines, their goals to become self-reliant and self-determining and their resolve to heal. It didn't matter what language they spoke, what food they preferred to eat, who or what they worshiped, what government they voted for, how much money they made, what suburb they'd come from, what clothes they wore, where they sent their kids to school and what their past experiences had been. They were all suddenly in the same boat, equalised by the paths that had led them to the large house in the suburbs that would be their in-between home, their sanctuary until they could get back on their feet.

It was the 90s. The Bosnian war was raging and we once welcomed two families in the same week; one Serbian, one Bosnian. We knew we had to tread carefully. We discussed the issues with each woman separately during their intake interviews and it was instantly clear that in the state they were both in, due to their very separate and crisis-filled circumstances, it was wise to create some space between them. We took both families in and decided to house them separately, which was an exception to our policy rules. On initial intake we were required to house new families in the main house for eight weeks, until they could move on to permanent housing or get the necessary protection to be able to go back home. The second house was reserved for families who needed more time, giving them three months to establish long-term security. In that instance, we bent the rules and let one of the families stay in the second house on intake, to separate the families and given them the distance they needed to settle in.

As time passed, the women were inevitably introduced and crossed-paths. There were workers on-site 24/7 at the time, but residents lived independent, adult lives and went about their days as they saw fit without much interference from us workers. They had a roster to maintain the house, but were largely able to come and go as they pleased, using the communal facilities together and taking turns to cook or shower and bath their kids. It was for the most part very civilised. Women just get on with it.

Without anyone even realising when or how it happened, the two women connected. They spoke a common language, they found the things that united them and they became friends to some extent. We eventually moved them both into the main house and they got along, even supported each other, until they eventually moved on and went their separate ways. 

Culture, religion, language and lifestyle are all constructs. Deeply ingrained and seemingly inherent "second nature", especially those lineages that go back longer than others, they are only however our experiences by luck of birth. Continuity of culture gives us stability and belonging and while it can only take a few generations to solidify and define our identities, the further our histories go back, the more entrenched they become - for better and/or worse. Once we understand that, we can look beyond these constructs and really understand each other as people, without diminishing our unique differences, because those differences are what enrich us. While the values and ideologies we inherit are what gives us our place in the world, our tribe, when we make comparisons we soon see that we simply have different definitions and understandings of the same universal human experience. I learned that very quickly and for the first time at school. My high school had something like 52 different countries represented. It was truly a melting pot. We celebrated our differences, but belonged to one community.

At the refuge it was sometimes difficult to accommodate everyone, but we did it, and that is when people find their common ground. When they are first given the space to be themselves. Like the two women from two different sides of a war who after being given the liberty to express their identities, came together by themselves.

We made sure every single family was allowed to feel acceptance and freedom to exist as they saw fit. We worked with translators and interpreters and communicated in ways other than speaking. We mimed when we had to and used very basic language to get sometimes very complex messages across. We allowed the provision of culturally diverse food. The western suburbs of Sydney are a global marketplace and we either shopped for the women ourselves as all food was provided and covered by the weekly rent they paid (an incremental fraction of their income or nothing if they had none), or reimbursed them if they bought food for themselves. We allowed them to create spaces for reflection, meditation and ritual as they saw fit, to facilitate the reclaiming of their sense of peace from the conflict they had endured. Altars and offerings of all denominations sprung up around the residence and it was inclusive. Adults and children alike knew to show reverence and respect for the trinkets and artifacts that people displayed around the house. Incense sticks, oranges, crosses, candles, flowers, statues, beads and the like would be placed in various corners of the house and yard. Each family had their own private bedroom but the communal areas were collectively used and taken care of whilst still providing an opportunity for individuals to contribute their own expression of identity. With each family passing through, the house reflected countless regions from all over the country and the globe. The cooking smells in the house were varied, cross cultural and always delicious! The office was in the front room and unless we had a meeting on, the door was always open. The backyard had a large childcare center and the children that weren't at school all played together. We held classes and activities including cooking, massage, art and play therapy and had both informal and formal counselling sessions. We celebrated together for birthdays, culturally significant days or just spontaneously over a cup of tea or a cake someone had baked. The women cooked for each other and us workers, they looked after each other's children, they helped each other get dressed and prepared for court or a job interview, they hugged each other when they sobbed and passed the tissues around. They broke up quarrels between the kids and danced when the radio was on. It was often a place of rage, fear and sadness, but mostly a house of hope, joy and fun. More than anything it was a house of kinship and particularly when a group of families ended up living together for the better part of the accommodation period, people got to know each other and became close. That's when the differences were stripped away and love and friendship was all that was left. Those weeks were truly something special and while there was always a service operating in the background: court dates had to be attended, AVOs applied for, instances of abuse and violence rehashed and recorded, mental health issues addressed, Child Protection policies adhered to; what kept everyone going was support, trust, unity, community - sameness, empathy, kindness. Also, courage, strength, resilience and the indomitable spirit of being a woman in this world.

I started off writing this piece with the desire to share two stories, anecdotes that sprung to mind recently, from that time in my life. Sometimes I remember an experience from those days and it takes me back and shows me how to deal with something in the present. I remember how much these events changed my perspective at the time. I was young, in my early 20s and was more naive and optimistic than the older women I worked with, most of whom were in their 50s and had been victims of family violence, racism and discrimination themselves. There were three generations of women working at the refuge at one stage. The first crop were the pioneers from the 1970s when refuges were first established, three women in their 60s and close to retirement who were generally from an Anglo-Australian background. The next group were a group of baby boomers from South American and Asian backgrounds - Uruguay, Argentina, Vietnam - all strongly represented demographics in the local area. Then there was myself and another young woman my age who was Lebanese. 

Once there as a Vietnamese resident at the refuge who had a very swollen and black eye. The story goes that her husband had gambled a lot of their life savings away and they'd fought. He assaulted her, hitting her in the face and giving her a black eye. She left with her children and sought accommodation at our service. We knew she had limited English and our Vietnamese worker was working very closely with her as her caseworker. We also knew she was incredibly scared, depressed and sad, understandably and commonly so. She kept to herself, but was always friendly enough. Our Argentinian overnight worker started her shift in the afternoons as we were all leaving. She spent the night and went home as we were all arriving in the morning. She was becoming concerned about the resident as she had been waiting until everyone had gone to bed and then would sit alone outside on the patio and play with an egg. The overnight worker observed her each night and was becoming increasingly concerned about her mental state. When we spoke to the Vietnamese worker about her client, she proceeded to explain what the woman had been doing. She had taken a raw egg and was gently gliding the egg over her black eye, without touching the skin. The swelling and bruising was filled with inflammation and heat and this was being transferred into the egg, causing the swelling and inflammation to be reduced and the white of the egg to harden. At the end of the exercise, the once raw egg became semi-hard boiled. The overnight worker claimed she witnessed this. Over just a few days, the woman's eye was better and the egg was no longer completely raw. Studies have shown the relationship between the consumption of eggs (eating them) and their effects on inflammation. I found some information about hard boiled eggs being used to reduce bruising and swelling, but not a raw egg absorbing the heat of the inflammation and diminishing the swelling, becoming hard in the process. Whether or not what the overnight worker had claim to have witnessed was true, or whether or not the remedy actually works was irrelevant. There was no need to be concerned for her mental state, more than was ordinary given her experience. She knew what she was doing and while a cold pack or ointment is something we would have recommended, using an egg was a legitimate cultural practice that we gave her the space to express. It wasn't bothering or harming anyone and the freedom to do it was comforting and facilitated her healing. From memory the story was shared around with the other women and everyone took an interest. Traditional healing techniques like that opened up conversations among the women that lead to connection and had therapeutic benefits, and even the shyest women would offer up an old remedy that had been passed down among the women in their family. Sometimes it was the ice breaker needed to bring down barriers between them and encourage co-operative living. It also encouraged them to share their more recent experiences and empower each other through their commonalities.

The second story is similar. Again a Vietnamese family was involved. Our child support worker, another Argentinian woman, had noticed that one of the children was displaying some angry red marks up their arms. At first she thought the child may have been scratching themselves, either from an allergy or eczema, or at the very worst case scenario, which wasn't unusual, self-harming. We even considered the possibility that mum may have been harming her child. We were required to be aware and suspicious of child abuse and mistreatment when evidence of injury presented itself. We observed the family and again discussed it with the Vietnamese caseworker. Mum had taken a 2 cent piece (they were still in circulation at that time), and was gently scratching her child's arm, just until the red marks appeared. It wasn't painful, but it was visible. The practice we learned, is called Gua sha (Chinese) or cạo gió (Vietnamese), which is an ancient Chinese medicinal practice that "releases unhealthy bodily matter from blood stasis within sore, tired, stiff or injured muscle areas to stimulate new oxygenated blood flow to the areas, thus promot(ing) metabolic cell repair, regeneration, healing and recovery." Basically, scraping the skin helps with circulation and boosts immunity. It was flu season and the family had just moved into a communal space. Mum wanted to make sure her child didn't get sick. Thankfully we didn't jump to calling DoCS!

These two stories were similar and taught us all a valuable lesson about understanding. When the status quo is a certain set of values, anything deviating from that is othered, judged and condemned. We needed to see with wider eyes. It was so valuable to have culturally appropriate caseworkers and a space where we sought to understand our clients instead of jumping to conclusions. It is something that is lacking in many social services and public domains at large, and the situation is even worse in the private sector, I would imagine.

I am now working in the public health system. It is a diverse environment both in terms of clientele and service providers being from all over the world. We are required to participate in Aboriginal Cultural Awareness Training as mandatory training. I took part recently and found it profoundly moving and emotional. The main feeling I had was rage. I kept thinking about the fact that here we were trying to condense 80,000 years of continuous culture into a three hour seminar to make us better workers, when the gift shop in the main hospital still sells golliwogs! 

Image writer's own

Fucking golliwogs! They've been popping up everywhere. Didn't we decide around 30 years ago that golliwogs weren't an acceptable artifact to sell given their very racist and genocidal history? Honestly, look it up, because I can't be stuffed explaining it! This SBS article from two years ago is a good place to start.

While cultural awareness and sensitivity policies are fantastic on paper, the reality is vastly lacking. It is an effort every day to maintain my composure when I witness blatant instances of racial profiling, discrimination, prejudice and downright ignorance, with no clear way to address it or report it and get any sort of adequate response. "Report it to your Manager" is not good enough. 


The best I can do is be an example, treat everyone equally while being aware and sensitive toward their individual needs and keep trying to see beyond the things that divide us, by connecting with everyone's humanity first.

Here we go again!

Image via: Pixabay

The other day, I was in my kids' bedroom and through the window, I watched a woman stake an Australian flag in the ground at my letterbox. She went around the whole neighbourhood sticking flags in the ground outside everyone's house. It turns out she's a local Real Estate Agent and she does this every year. A handful of people on the local community Facebook page were thrilled and thanked her, saying it made their kids happy and to keep it up. To be honest, I saw it as a bit of a passive aggressive act, given the current national debate so close to Invasion Day. At the very least it was tone deaf and defiant. I simply went outside after she was gone and put the flag in the bin. I discussed this with a few people. The reaction was mixed. Most people like to sit on the fence in this kind of debate. Her intentions may have been good, she didn't mean any harm. Or is it a subtle message about who is still in charge and what the sentiment in this community is? I asked the question, where are the Aboriginal flags? What if someone did the same so close to January 26 and planted Aboriginal flags outside everyone's home. I would like that. I believe many people in my community would see it as an act of aggression. 

EQUALITY FEELS LIKE OPPRESSION WHEN YOU'RE USED TO PRIVILEGE!

I'm paying attention to the national discussion again this year. It feels like every year it picks up a bit more momentum. Rallies are being organised all over the country, there are festivals being organised by Aboriginal groups celebrating culture and honouring remembrance, and the discussion is filtering into the (very resistant) mainstream media.

What I'm noticing is a huge case of national cognitive dissonance. People are affronted by change and when they are confronted with the reality of how provocative having an Australia Day celebration happen on January 26th is, the day the First Fleet landed on our shores; when they are faced with acknowledging that this day is not a shared day of unity and jubilation, but for many a painful slap in the face that reminds them of the attempted destruction of their culture, that only a specific group of people think this day is an appropriate day to celebrate their version of what this nation is, people tend to hold on tighter to their way of doing things. I understand that for many people, the idea of redefining who and what Australia really is, is terrifying. Sometimes I think that they imagine what it would be like if the shoe was on the other foot. If Anglo Australia surrendered its homogeneous identity and relinquished some of its power, would they suddenly be treated as poorly as the treatment they have inflicted on others in the past? I'd be scared too.

It's interesting how this cognitive dissonance plays out. The little symbols and the not so little ones. All the shops start selling Australia Day paraphernalia, or people, you know, start staking the flag at your letterbox. The language and symbolism in the media is persistent. It's all about selling booze and food, having a BBQ and speaking in Aussie slang. These images are from my local paper, The Manly Daily, who incidentally, included an Australian flag with their last delivery.

Image via: The Manly Daily

Image via: The Manly Daily

Image via: The Manly Daily

 

Image via: The Manly Daily

The other thing I've noticed is how the status quo will manipulate non-white Australians into participating in perpetuating the dominant paradigm. They will literally use dark skinned or ethnically diverse models and personalities to promote white culture. See, they seem to say, this includes you! It's gaslighting.

Image via: The Manly Daily

Image via: Aldi catalogue

I try and reflect upon my own response to these things and why I feel the way I do. I get why. In the good old days of inappropriate language, I'm what was commonly referred to as a "wog". Never mind that I was born here and have spent the majority of my life living in Australia. My parents are Maltese, I have dark hair, skin that swings from light to dark with only a little sun exposure and a big nose. I have had an interesting version of growing up in Australia. I pass as Aussie most of the time. I speak the language well, have an Australian accent and use lots of Aussie slang: "mate" mostly. I know my way around, I've lived all over Sydney, I was educated in Australia and am "assimilated" - whatever the hell that is. I get what being a mainstream Australian is all about. Sometimes, I don't pass. I was always mistaken for Greek or Italian growing up. Sometimes, I'm sure people assume I'm Arabic, especially if they hear me speaking in Maltese. It's a language of both Latin and Semitic origin. I've been asked if I was Turkish. I've also been asked if I was Jewish. I'm sure it's the nose.

It's a unique experience being mostly acceptable, passable as Australian, but sometimes not. I'm still othered and different when it suits people to undermine me. However, most of the time I can get away with not being vilified and condemned because I tick a lot of the boxes for what it means to be acceptably Australian. Am I not Aussie enough because I don't have blonde hair and blue eyes or Anglo heritage? I'd never understood this properly until recently. How can a second generation English person be considered more "Australian" than say, a person with Chinese heritage that goes back to the gold rush days? I know now. White supremacy, that's why.

So where to from here? I'm not sure what we are doing as a family this Friday. Probably nothing. It's going to be hot and it's easier to stay home and catch up on stuff around the house when you have a public holiday and small children. I'm reluctant to go to the beach because I know I am going to be triggered by people who are defiantly claiming their right to celebrate the unlawful invasion of this land. I've been to parties where there were so many Australian flags, it felt like I was at the Nuremberg rally. Last year we went to Yabun Festival in the city. It was a beautiful day and I loved exposing my young kids to Aboriginal culture, music, dance and community. 

For a long time, I supported the campaign to change the date, but to what? It is something we, as a nation, have still not yet resolved. I'm leaning towards abolishing it altogether until there is real structural change. I am listening to the important voices of Aboriginal elders and activists and that is what they are telling us. We need to disassemble so much still. A day that celebrates this nation, truly represents everyone and has made peace with our history, committed to healing the present and is looking forward to an inclusive and equal future for everyone; that day hasn't arrived yet. Maybe we can aim for that day and then we'll have a date. I envision treaty with and reparation for all Aboriginal nations, I look forward to a Republic, I wish for a new flag and a new national anthem. All those things are still coming despite the resistance and denial.

I know for many people it feels like change is happening too fast and suddenly and we need to go slower. I wholeheartedly disagree. Resistance has been happening from day one and many have been speaking about these issues for decades. I think we are at the pointy end of it to be honest. Many have been gradually seeing reason. I mean just in the last few years we've seen this debate gain momentum and the backlash that goes along with it, reflected in the emergence of right wing politics and fascist ideology, the ideals people thought they'd got rid of for good during the last couple of world wars. Isn't it funny that some of the people who solemnly celebrate things like ANZAC Day are some of the most resistant to acknowledging the white supremacy that established this nation in the first place! We don't need to go any slower. We've gone too slow for too long and change is now undeniable and inevitable.

For now we have to be honest with ourselves. We have to work towards reconciliation by facing up to the destruction that our colonial history subjected our Indigenous people to. We have to move past the anger and the hurt and the confusion and look towards reclaiming our identity. As a white, (sometimes brownish), big-nosed person, I feel so much sorrow when I think about what our country and the whole world lost when we destroyed Indigenous cultures globally. I imagine what a world that shared resources peacefully from the start would have looked like. I wonder how differently we would have navigated, as humans, things like the environment, birth, sex, death, infrastructure, medicine, law, politics, exploration, science, astronomy and survival. I wonder how much more inclusive of women, the elderly and children, of all colours, we would have been if humanity had not been held captive by the ideology of whiteness, masculinity, wealth and religion over the last couple of millenniums. Because it's not a new idea that people can live in harmony and with equality. We wouldn't have survived this long as a species if we weren't altruistic, co-operative and diplomatic for the majority of the time.

Aboriginal people have been on this land for around 80,000 years, the science is still uncertain and I suspect will change to show us that it has been much longer. The arrival of the First Fleet didn't end the "stone age" here, as Piers Akerman ignorantly brain farted on Twitter the other day. The people that inhabited this land for so long before the British arrived, did so prosperously and expertly for millennia. And despite efforts to destroy them completely, they have survived and thrived. Isn't that enough proof that the colonialists were wrong? That's where we are at. Time's up alright. Time's up for a lot of things and if we're truthful, we can move forward and fix this mess.