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.

Resolutions

Making resolutions is a tricky thing. Big decisions are made, mostly in our own minds, during a rush of emotion, often marked by significant milestones in life. New Year's Day is the most common one. Birthdays too. We feel like we are getting a clean slate. The end of something and the hope for a new beginning. There are other triggers too. Falling in love, a quarrel, losing or starting a new job, having a baby. Sometimes it's simply a matter of waking up with an unexplained surge of energy. After a powerful yoga session, I feel like I can change the world!

The reality though, is that many of these thought processes never see the light of day. We don't manifest many of the thoughts in our mind, because they are simply thoughts. What ifs. Coulda, shoulda, wouldas. That's why we are such suckers for entertainment. Living vicariously through others. Reality TV, a sitcom or soap opera, a film or play, music. We look outside of ourselves and want that feeling within. "I'll have what she's having!"

Finding a balance between dissatisfaction and gratitude is tricky. It's no good simmering in bitterness and unhappiness, but complacency is the killer of dreams. It's tempting to live vividly in our heads and merely survive reality. Or go the other way; mindlessly seeking instant gratification to satiate our endlessly insatiable desires, never making peace with anything we do or have.

Where can we get perspective? In nature? With our loved ones? Through exercise, sex, intoxication? Why not all of them?

Above all else is creativity. I think the answer lies in Art. What is your art? What do you create alone? By yourself and for yourself. Do you garden, cook, paint, write, play music, sing, build, craft, mend or heal?

Sometimes the jumble of thoughts that make us crave change are just a jumble of thoughts making us crave change.

Fizzy, muddled energy that clouds our vision and torments our feelings.

Go make something beautiful. Make it a habit. Share it. Sell it or give it away, display it or collect it for future generations to find. And learn to read what you create. What does it tell you about yourself? What does it make you notice? How does it help you to see? What path is it leading you on? 

Do it. Or not. Sometimes doing nothing is an act of creativity - simply observing, existing, when life is demanding you to do anything but. What art and creativity does achieve is a manifestation of energy, a practice that trains us to make decisions. To choose. It really does. Art, in and of itself, imitates life. It teaches you to think and see efficiently. To make sense of the 'thought mess', the 'feeling chaos' and turn all of that into something beautiful and meaningful. Or at least external. Art pushes out the muck inside and transforms it, makes sense of it. It liberates and lightens. It empties and makes room. Art creates and takes up space simultaneously. It facilitates balance.

This is my resolution for 2018. Also, growing out my eyebrows, but that's another blog post.

I resolve to create. I write. I crochet. I sew. I might draw and paint again. I make every action a work of art. As luminous with beauty or prickly with ugliness as it needs to be, I resolve to notice my ability to create. What other purpose is there? 

Happy New Year.

A Time to be Impolite

  

Image via: emaze.com

 

The other day, I saw the best Tweet. Thank you @XannieW.

It's funny how whenever there is a debate or clash of ideas, people suddenly become peace makers and fence sitters. Everyone scrambles madly for their high horse and self-righteousness, like the moral high ground is all of a sudden the place to be and the moral high road is the only way to get there. If only they really believed that. They only pull that card when someone stands up to their bullshit, because most of the time they're placing barriers to morality.

As I've said before and will say again, fuck that noise. No. I don't have to be respectful of lies. I don't have to respect bigotry, sexism, misogyny, racism, homophobia, religious delusion, hatred, child abuse, irrational, apologist, cowardly and vile ideas or behaviour.

If you support a sexist and racist arsehole like Donald Trump or Pauline Hanson or Tony Abbott or Scott Morrison or Peter Dutton or Miranda Devine or some other dipshit who's head is so far up their bum, they can't see the light of day....I DON'T HAVE TO LIKE YOU OR BE NICE TO YOU.

If you still believe there's a man sitting on a throne in the sky, telling people who they should be having sex with, telling women what to do with their bodies, asking for heaps of money that never gets to the poor, only to the fat, sexless, perverted priests in their delusional and untouchable cocoons....I DON'T HAVE TO LIKE YOU OR RESPECT YOU.

If you are more offended by me criticising religion, churches, politicians, injustice, people who don't 'get' science, people who are old fashioned, people who refuse to educate themselves, people who are more comfortable with what they have been brainwashed to believe than the truth; if that offends you more than the damage these idiots inflict on all of us.....I DON'T HAVE TO LIKE YOU OR TOLERATE YOUR IGNORANCE.

Opinions are an interesting thing. Everyone has their own view of the world based on their genetics, their upbringing, their education and environment. That is all well and good when it comes to some things. If you hate Skittles, good luck to you. I think they are the tastiest, fruitiest, sweetest lollies on earth. It doesn't bother me if you don't like them. That is a matter of taste and opinion.

If you hate women, people of colour, LGBTIQ, the disabled, think abortion is murder and think it's forgivable to lock up innocent people in detention or excuse pedophile priests; that isn't an opinion. That isn't a logical and acceptable state of mind. It isn't a matter of taste or upbringing or education. If you don't understand those concepts, your opinion is based in fear and ignorance. Not reality and not fact. And your reality and your idea of fact is harmful, destructive and wrong. If you hate Skittles, that doesn't matter to anyone, but you and your deprived taste buds, poor things.

So I'll make it clear. These days I am very comfortable with eliminating people from my circle of family and friends. Since having children in particular, I feel a very strong obligation to be very choosy about who I associate with, who I will allow into my sphere of influence and mutual love, who I expose my children to. I have no time for oxygen thieves. I don't have to be nice. I don't have to explain. It's not my job to accommodate your ignorance.

I am making room for people of like mind and heart. I know many others who are doing the same and we are gravitating towards each other into a force to be reckoned with. We are changing the world. One small step, one system, one decision at a time. 

I urge you all to do the same. No fear. Keep speaking out against the things that you know are wrong. The things that divide us. Look for opportunities to make those "opinions": that women are less, that people of colour are less, that LGBTIQ are less, that different-abled bodies are less; make those "opinions" as unacceptable as they are. Zero tolerance should be applied to those world views that are holding us back.

And try Skittles again. They're delicious.

March In March 2014

This week I attended the March In March demonstration in Sydney with my husband and my nearly 9 month old baby. It was an opportunity to catch the ferry (for the first time for the bub) and enjoy a day in the city with like minded people; those who are embarrassed and appalled by our current government and their decisions. Those who want things to change and soon.

For me, these rallies are also a way to show gratitude that I live in a country where we can disagree with our government, publicly and en masse. We can peacefully protest without the threat of violence, imprisonment or death. I do not take this right for granted.

We got there nice and early and set up our picnic blanket right in front of the stage. I was mainly wanting to hear the speeches and planned to go home before the march to get the baby home in time for dinner and bed. 

It poured with rain and despite getting a good spot early, we had to take shelter at Central Station for a while and move from the good spot. I did manage to give the baby some lunch and vacuum down a vegemite and cheese sandwich before the down pour; I even breastfed the baby right there in the middle of Belmore Park, another right I am grateful for and don't take for granted.

At first it seemed that there were only going to be a handful of people at the Sydney march. I was reading tweets and communicating with my sister who lives in Melbourne and it appeared that the Melbourne rally was getting quite crowded. Melbourne people have always been that little bit more radical and political and creative. I think Melbourne city is smaller and easier to get to as well as being designed in a grid, not to mention having a very accessible and efficient public transport system. In comparison, Sydney is huge and complicated and distances are vast and difficult to cover, whether by car or public transport. Sydney was colonised, it just happened, it wasn't really designed, particularly the CBD. Even driving to Manly and catching the ferry to Circular Quay then a train to Central, although efficient, took us a good two hours. I was impressed that on a Sunday we could get a family day tripper ticket and my husband and I got pensioner rates; $2.50 each for traveling on public transport all day. As a friend of ours pointed out, you just don't know about these deals until you have kids. Good info for next time we want to spend the day in town on a Sunday, especially if there is another rally on. It's hard to get Sydney siders to be anything but complacent about important issues. Maybe we're more conservative here; more cynical. Nonetheless, as we were leaving, people were still turning up and although not as huge as Melbourne, I would say the Sydney rally was still a success. Here are some amazing photos of the Sydney rally.

When we started to make our way back to the stage from the shelter of Central, the rain had eased somewhat, but it was still drizzling. The baby had fallen asleep and we bought a plastic rain coat, the last one at the shop as most places had understandably sold out, to cover the pram. I forgot to take the plastic pram cover and discovered the pram is waterproof; it got a good wash anyway. Despite the baby being dry and safe and pretty comfortable in there, I still worried that bringing her to a rally wasn't the brightest idea, I've ever had. I was wrong. I saw heaps of mums with babies and toddlers in prams and strollers and didn't feel out of place at all. The biggest concern then was to avoid standing next to someone who was smoking. An ex smoker myself, I can tolerate the occasional plume of smoke wafting in my direction and although I don't like it, I can persevere; I just didn't want the baby exposed to it. In the fresh air of the outdoors, it wasn't hard to stand in a ventilated spot. Mummy jitters aside, we met up with some friends and settled under my Public Service Association umbrella for the formalities.

The speeches began with a welcome to country, something that should continue to occur as often as possible at any public address, in my opinion. It happened throughout the refuge movement when we held conferences, it happens at any union conference or mass meeting and it should happen at any official ceremony as recognition and respect for the traditional owners of our land. In my mind, the current true custodians of this country. Despite what controversies arise, I enjoy this new tradition. It is very new. It was begun in the 1970's by one Ernie Dingo and it has continued to be practiced, sometimes at some expense and elaborate ceremony, sometimes simply stating recognition of the indigenous custodians of the area. There are some who have criticised this practice and depending on who is doing the criticising and their agenda, although I can see their point of view, I have to disagree. I think it is honourable and often very moving. It needs to be done in the right context and with the right intention to have a positive impact. Here are some instances of this criticism from Wiki.

In 2012, Northern Territory MP and traditional Warlpiri woman Bess Price told a reporter that Welcome to Country ceremonies were not meaningful to traditional people, saying "We don't do that in communities. It's just a recent thing. It's just people who are trying to grapple at something they believe should be traditional."^{[10][11] 
This I find completely justified - if anyone has the authority and authenticity to comment on such a practice it is a traditional indigenous woman and I believe she is simply stating that because it is a recent practice, it shouldn't be claimed as a traditional practice. I don't think she is dismissing its importance.}
 

In 2010, Leader of the Opposition Tony Abbott said he thought that, in many contexts, the Welcome to Country seems like out-of-place tokenism.^[12]  
This I find sinister - our now PM, although he wasn't when he made the comments is coming from a place of prejudice. He is implying that there shouldn't be any obligation to do this because it is meaningless.

In 2012, Rhonda Roberts, a prominent indigenous Australian and head of Sydney Opera House indigenous programming, echoed Tony Abbott's criticisms.<sup>[8]
Again I find this an acceptable statement by an Indigenous Australian and although I disagree with her sentiment that the practice is tokenistic, I still feel that she is entitled to make that statement more than Tony Abbott and if she feels it is out of place then I respect that. 

Indigenous Australians have the right to comment on this practice and determine amongst their very diverse community whether it should continue. A white, male, privileged politician doesn't. 

Regardless, at the march it happened and it was wonderful. People cheered and applauded and it didn't seem at all tokenistic or unnecessary. It was practiced with respect, pride and joy and a sense of rebellion; a sense that no matter what, we will keep acknowledging that our indigenous heritage is valuable and worthy of mention EVERY TIME we gather for something purposeful on this land.

There were seven speakers at the rally all up and they all spoke about different things. The topics ranged from our treatment of asylum seekers to cuts to education and the erasing of Gonski, Australia's trade agreements, indigenous rights, disability support, marriage equality and class division to name a few. In between making sure my baby wasn't getting wet or having smoke blown on her (some of which was not tobacco - wonderful for me, not for the baby) I listened closely to what was being said. None of it was new to me and hearing all the negative realities of how this PM and his ministers are governing supposedly on our behalf caused me to tune out half the time. Except when this man  spoke, Hamoun Iranmanesh. I heard; I felt every word. I goosebumped and fought back tears. I wanted to hug him. Instead I shouted and woohooed and cheered and clapped with the crowd. He elated us.

Then Billy Bragg came on, which was a nice surprise, I've always admired him and didn't know he would be at the rally. He sang some politically angsty songs and spoke about Gina Reinhardt and her comments last week about how our country needed more Thatcherism. He commented that she timed it perfectly for his arrival, he wasn't impressed. She obviously made those remarks knowing full well that it would infuriate most people, especially those who weren't born into the kind of wealth that she enjoys. Even if she truly believed that that period of English history was somehow economically favourable; I'm sure it was for some, it wasn't for many; it was insensitive at the least and down right inflammatory and a little bit cunty at the most. Pardon my language. Well no actually; cunty, amongst other c word derivatives, is now in the Oxford English Dictionary. Hooray!

Billy Bragg spoke about how destructive the period of Thatcher's Prime Ministership was for the economically and financially marginalised (it starts at around 2:57. Apologies for the loud distortion earlier at around 1:50 - he was having issues with his sound). He told us we would know Thatcherism when the recipients of welfare assistance are demonised 24/7, when the disabled are disempowered by having their payments made to someone else instead of directly to them, when people living in department housing with one spare bedroom are evicted and made homeless because their accommodation is thought to be superfluous and no smaller dwellings are available, when people needing state provided food rises from 30 a week to 1600 a week as it did in Newcastle in England during Thatcher's years in power. Billy talked about how a conservative government like Thatcher's and like Abbott's degrades and diminishes the well being and prosperity of the most marginalised people in our society "and if socialism is not at heart a form of organised compassion then it is not worthy of the name socialism." Brilliant. 

He then went on to say (at around 6:50) that our greatest enemy is cynicism not capitalism or conservatism - cynicism in our media and particularly attacks on intelligent young women on social media. I could have hugged him too.

Those two speakers; Billy Bragg and Hamoun Iranmanesh were to me the highlight of the day and what it was all about. They summarised my intentions and the reasons I felt so strongly about attending that I dragged my husband and baby through the rain and crowds to be counted as someone who is unhappy about the state of affairs in this country and to stand up and say that the government is not behaving on my behalf. I didn't vote for these idiots, #NOTINMYNAME!</sup> 

 These are a great example of some of the signs at the rallies and how humour can really demonstrate a point peacefully and effectively. I was disappointed to see at the Sydney rally an example of the exact opposite of this. A group of angry young men holding a very long banner that said something which ended in KILL THE POLITICIANS. It pissed me off. There is absolutely no need for that sort of aggression and instigation of violence at a peaceful rally. It was unnecessary and the antithesis of what the whole day was about. It really annoyed me and I was tempted to approach them, but I didn't. I was afraid. 

Anyway, it was a successful movement and I hope we have more. I hope as a nation we continue to call out the government when it blunders. Not just this government, but all future governments too. They work for us you know.