Tracey Spicer with Anne Summers at Warringah Library

Last night I went to Warringah Library to see Tracey Spicer talk to Anne Summers about her new biography Unfettered and Alive. I've been an admirer of Anne Summers since I was in my 20s and working in the Women's Refuge Movement of NSW, for which she was partially responsible for establishing through founding the first women's refuge in Glebe called Elsie. 

When I walked in the room my first thought was the same thought I have in most places in this geographical area where I've lived for the last decade, but also in this type of gathering of white feminism - it's a thing. Everyone was white. Myself included of course. I pass as white, mostly. I avoid the scrutiny that people of colour face that attracts erasure, racism, victimisation and incarceration, but I'm not fair enough to pass as a 'real' Aussie for some people, because I'm not Anglo.

I looked around trying not to look too conspicuous, to see if I could spot some diversity - there was a smattering. I was born and have lived in Australia most of my life, but my background is Maltese, and if you don't know me, it's hard to tell if I'm European or Middle Eastern. I interpret all frowns in my direction as suspicion, so I work hard to adjust my standing bitch face and smile, even though I enjoy my SBF as my neutral face. It's comfortable. I made the assessment that most people were white and past middle age, mostly women, some men, and a few young people.

I looked up at the projection of the cover of the book on the wall and instantly thought to myself 'oh look that's white too, with blonde writing'...

Image via: Allen and Unwin

Then Tracey and Anne walked in and I thought 'Barbies'. That's my childish reference, what we all grew up with as the ideal girl; tall, thin, blonde, in a pants suit. I do respect both women immensely, but they don't reflect myself back. I read Tracey Spicer's book The Good Girl Stripped Bare and enjoyed it, but I couldn't relate to a lot of it. She had the Barbie life I would never have as a child of migrants. As removed as her life experience is from mine, I found some commonalities about her experiences in the workplace, but mine were not in elite news rooms or like Anne, in academia or offices of government. My experiences were in take away shops, factories, offices and the public service. It's hard to relate to someone when their life, while being portrayed as ordinary, is actually kind of extraordinary to someone from my own background - migrant and working class.

Anne and Tracey talked about a number of issues and experiences that Anne has covered in her book. They discussed the gender pay gap and the necessity for equal pay to be legislated, like in countries such as Iceland. Anne said it's no use leaving this issue in the hands of tribunals like Fair Work. It doesn't work. It complicates the matter and makes equality not only too difficult to access, but too complex to establish in the workplace. While I've never really worked on a professional basis, so was never really comparing my wage to my male counterparts, I've certainly experienced sexism in the workplace. They wouldn't let me get my forklift driver's licence in the factory I worked at with my dad while I was at Uni and I've worked with more incompetent and mediocre men who excelled while their female counterparts worked twice as hard for half the recognition, than I can count. My refuge experience was my link to Anne. I only spent three years there, because the pay was terrible compared to the risk and stress I was experiencing. Some types of work are simply not valued because they are considered feminine and are largely occupied by women - nursing, teaching, community support, early childhood, aged care. That influences the pay gap too.

I worked in a refuge named Bonnie in the western suburbs of Sydney, after graduating from my Arts degree at Sydney Uni, where I spent three invisible years, floating through the old buildings and gargoyles, not really making any friends, overwhelmed by the social pace, barely able to raise my voice above a husky whisper. Bonnie was established around the same time as Elsie. Folklore among the three generations of women I worked with was that Bonnie may have preceded Elsie but the attention was always focused on the city refuge not the one out in the sticks. The demographic was different too and may have contributed to Bonnie's obscurity. In the 1970s and 80s the western suburbs became home to a large number of Vietnamese and Cambodian refugees following the exodus of people at the end of the Vietnam war, but the western suburbs were and still are largely populated by migrants from all over the globe.

Customs Officer Frank Dalton holding a Vietnamese refugee child, Xye Than Hueon the deck of the Tu Do in Darwin, November, 1977. Courtesy National Library of Australia - Image via: Migration Heritage NSW (site no longer active)

It was the 90s and I worked with women in their 60s who'd been there in the 70s when the refuge was established. There were also the baby boomers who secured funding, assets and corporatisation and me and my peers who began the process of digitising our newly created systems including policies, procedures, values and mission statements. The refuge is still in operation today as an advanced network of support services, thanks to the tireless work of the women who insisted on networking with the community and running the organisation efficiently whilst maintaining its independence. Elsie was taken over by St Vincent De Paul, (religious organisations tend to be preferenced for funding these days) in 2014 and while it still operates today, it can be argued that it lost its feminist principles by having to adhere to the NSW government's Going Home Staying Home policy, a problematic concept for women experiencing domestic violence and those supporting them to leave an abusive relationship. 

I was keen to hear about the establishment of Elsie, how local women squatted in a disused house and turned it into a safe haven for battered women and wanted to ask Anne about the value of grassroots movements today. She talked a little bit about 'hitting the barricades' again and using social media as a tool for activism and I would have loved her to elaborate. I was too shy to speak up, still the intimidated migrant in a room full of Anglos.

Tracey and Anne mentioned briefly the factionalism that can happen in feminism, almost as though women are all individuals with different backgrounds, experiences, thoughts and lives. Go figure! This idea that women can't disagree or experience the world from opposing views and ideologies is one of the problems that keeps us subjugated and all lumped in together as 'other'. Men can be valued as individuals, but as a women's movement, we've often had to homogenise to maintain our solidarity, which almost always reverts back to white and middle class. They briefly touched on this with discussion about Anne's experience working with Gloria Steinem on Ms. Magazine in New York and the disagreements they had which she elaborates on in her book. But more than that it was palpable in the room that discussion about women being different to one another and having different needs, agendas and disadvantages was only going to remain on the surface. What white women tend to do is hold onto their perceived superiority at all costs, for the good of unity they say, by erasing the intersectional needs of marginalised women. We need a balance of both. We need to refrain from attacking each other, but reverse racism isn't a thing. When you're white, your skin colour isn't the thing that marginalises you and yes, we still need affirmative action. Anne talked about being criticised as being Anglo and commented that it wasn't something she could help or change about herself, but she could be vigilantly aware of her given identity, (at least as much as non-white women are) and white women need to learn the art of stepping aside. They need to stop stealing the work and achievements of women of colour and passing it off as their own, give them credit when it's due and by using their privilege help non-white women to be self-determining and independent so that they can strengthen their own communities. And they need to let them disagree with their brand of feminism, which doesn't always serve everybody equally. For more on this, start following Ruby Hamad on Twitter and her experience as a journalist who is constantly ignored when she writes something, only to have her work plagiarised, discredited and celebrated as the work of someone else. I see it all the time, particularly at work. They'll talk to you when they need something, but it's really hard to break the white barrier! That invisible wall that not only denies you credit where it's due, but I've witnessed and experienced the existence of women of colour literally being ignored, being othered by white women, the same way men other women generally.

The discussion was interesting, anecdotal and covered many issues including abortion and how important it is to achieve reproductive rights in the form of safe, legal and accessible abortion, and to keep talking openly about our experiences, all good introductions to the content of her book. Check out the Shout Your Abortion movement. 

I was a bit distracted to be honest, missing some of the content because I wanted to pay more attention to the audience's responses. Like, nobody booed like I wanted to stand up and do when Tony Abbott was mentioned, of course not, it's his town. People wriggled in their seats a bit though, it was hard to tell what the feeling was as it is definitely shifting. Anne didn't defend or criticise any politician too much or unfairly. She talked about both sides of government on merit and spoke fondly and honestly about Julia Gillard and her horrendous experiences as our first female PM, even mentioning that her speech in Parliament directed at Tony about sexism is still talked about globally to this day. 

My interest was piqued when discussion turned to childcare. I have three kids under five in daycare two days a week and it costs us an arm and a leg. It has meant that I could only return to work two days a week and as a result my career prospects and superannuation have suffered the most. Anne talked about the childcare rebate and the change in culture that has seen childcare places and their funding go from in the thousands to in the millions over the last decade or so. She talked about the Liberal government's push to privatise everything, including childcare and the impact this will have not only on cost for families, but on women, their agency, their place in the workforce and public life and children's learning.

Anne argued that she has always noticed that Australians have a particular kind of disdain for women without children - a distrust or judgement that she herself has suffered alongside women like Julia Gillard. She also said however, that on one hand we exalt the value of mothers, but then punish them by expecting they withdraw from life to care for their young children (and the aged too by the way). Anne has always advocated for childcare to be absorbed into the education system. In many countries this already happens (including Malta), making childcare, like primary and high school free, paid for by the taxes of the population to benefit everyone equally. It pushes the quality of the service to higher standards, ensures qualified providers and promotes access across the board. How awesome would it be if childcare was of excellent quality and free! The trouble is there is an attitude that is growing in Australia that public services are not an entitlement. I work in public health and I have heard it from staff and clinicians alike that the public get the service they pay for (in other words, if it's free it's crap), and use this idea to deny or give sub-par service. I find it concerning that people don't understand the importance of public service, in particular public health. I challenge them to consider the situation in countries like the US where people go bankrupt when faced with unexpected health crises or ordinary health events like childbirth, unless they have expensive health insurance that not everyone can access or afford. I am tempted to tell them that if they don't believe in public health, they should cut up their Medicare card immediately and go and work in a shoe shop! It's the same with education. I wholeheartedly agree with Anne's notion that childcare is an important aspect of a child's education. It's not baby sitting. My kids get the attention, activities, learning and specialised guidance that only a trained early childhood educator can provide. As much as I love and care for them, the daycare staff do it better in some respects and it enhances their development. It also benefits them to see me happy and working, living the same kind of life that my partner is entitled to and the family benefits financially as well. I send my kids to daycare so that I can work and have a break and a life, yes, but I also send them for the same reasons I will send them to school. They need it and it's good for them. That is why it is the norm now. The majority of children attend daycare because its importance has become incredibly obvious. In my childhood it wasn't as prevalent. 

In Australia we have seen years of cuts and neglect for public education. Private schools are given precedence without a shred of evidence that students perform any better, in fact the opposite is true. I was interested in the response of the demographic in Warringah last night given there are so many private schools in the area and while the public schools are fantastic, because they are supported by privileged communities (through corporate and small business sponsorship, no less) and do better than public schools in other parts of Sydney, they are still overshadowed by the prevalence of the private schools, particularly those marred by religious indoctrination, which in my opinion has no place in education or public life. But we know all this, surely, and the opposite is happening. When we privatise education and make it expensive and exclusive to access quality schools, we risk dumbing down the population and ending up with someone like Trump in charge - we're not far off. The same happens when we privatise public services. The quality diminishes when the goal is profit not service provision. Public service should be the benchmark for private industry to aspire to, not the other way around. Better still, we should encourage community style organisations and co-operatives that are relevant to the communities and people using them. I kept thinking to myself, I hope Jane Caro runs as an Independent and with her wealth of knowledge about and advocacy for public education, I hope she wins and makes changes in Warringah! I hope the audience remember that next time they vote.

Finally, I want to address a question by one of the audience members. An older man asked Anne what she believed the genesis of violence, particularly against women was. She'd talked about her knowledge of domestic violence and the reasons why she'd established Elsie, and mentioned the 61 women that have been killed this year already, 8 up on last year and only 40 odd weeks into the year. These are some very confronting numbers and there is no presser from the PM about this kind of terrorism. The audience member lamented about the prevalence of violent images in our media, film, television, video games and social media and how desensitised young people are, as though violence is a new phenomenon in Australia. I wanted to answer the question. I wanted to say that we live on a continent that was colonised violently and that same violence continues today. We have not faced that history properly as a country. Tokenistic government apologies achieve nothing when First Nations children are still being removed disproportionately from their families, at greater numbers than the first stolen generations and when child protection legislation is about to change to force adoptions within two years, with no provision for extended family to have any input and to make these rash decisions largely outside the courts. Add to that mix the establishment of a My Health Record with the necessity to opt out (I believe the cut off date has been extended to January 2019) and the risks FN people in particular face of being monitored and judged based on prior health experiences in child protection matters is terrifying. Tokenistic acknowledgements of country as was performed in passing at the beginning of the night are meaningless when there is not enough visibility of FN culture in our mainstream. And not just in this area. Throughout Sydney and Australia I'm sure, we use a lot of FN culture - place names, animal names, concepts without allowing leadership and acknowledging origin and ownership. We don't have treaties. It's blatant erasure, complicity and continuation of colonial violence.

As a country we still haven't reconciled our past. We haven't owned it properly and until we do, violence is an acceptable means to an end. We also need to address toxic masculinity, the notion that aggression, conquest, exploitation and destruction - human traits which are masculine and not necessarily exclusively present in men, that these traits are superior and desirable to feminine traits, again prevalent in both sexes that are deemed inferior: nurture, kindness, creativity, humanity, honesty, integrity.

I also wanted to point out that while it is a concern that people, particularly young people, become desensitised to violence, we can't allow violence to be cloaked in secrecy and remain in the shadows. The world changed when the Vietnam war was televised. It was no longer the words of surviving soldiers, journalists and historians we relied on to imagine the details, we could watch it with our own eyes on TV. Same now with the democratisation of information via social media. We get to witness wars, atrocities, violence, corrupt governments and militaries, and violent crime in real time on our phones. Yes it desensitises us to some extent, but what if it also allows us to confront it head on and nurture the desire to stop it. Check out the #ThisISMyLane hashtag on Twitter where doctors in the US are answering the NRAs appalling comments to stay out of the gun debate by sharing pictures of gun trauma they deal with daily. The images are confronting, but necessary.

It was a really valuable night and got me thinking about so many things. Sometimes we forget that the purpose of feminism is to change lenses and see/move through the world with a feminine gaze and that gaze is diverse. Feminism isn't about aspiring to conform to a masculine world, by becoming the tyrants we abhor. It's about deconstructing and dismantling the patriarchal, and in our case, colonial systems that oppress us and damage people regardless of their gendered bodies and sexuality. The questions we need to start asking within the feminist movement must include the intersections of race, class, sexuality, gender and lived experience. We need feminism to lead us away from white supremacy, the cost of which is not only our humanity and our planet, but our future.

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.

Kept Woman

As of now, at the time of writing this, I am officially without an income. As mentioned in my bio, I have been an active member of the workforce since I was 13 years old and now I am officially unemployed, not unoccupied; as I write, my baby is crying for a feed and a soothe. She needs me. I am 38 and a stay at home mum.

My first job interview was unconventional. I used to go to a coffee shop, owned by two Greek brothers, before and after school, I was 13. I'd hang out with friends and we would buy a doughnut and a milkshake or something. The older of the brothers was married with a family. He was respectful. The younger brother was single, he was sleazy, sexist, but harmless. The interview went like this:

Sleazy guy: Hey you wanna wash my dishes?
Me: You gonna pay me?
Sleazy guy: Come Thursday night.
Me: Ok

I worked a four hour shift on the Thursday night, learning about how to clean the coffee and soft serve machines and clearing tables and of course, washing the dishes, by hand, they didn't let me use the dishwasher. The older brother cooked; burgers, chips, battered goods. The younger brother served at the counter and made coffees. I helped out where I could. They were impressed and asked me to come back for four hours during the day on Saturday. For the two shifts I got $50. I thought I was rich! Back then, a 13 year old making $50 a week, cash in hand, no tax and getting some work experience as well as keeping myself occupied and learning some great skills. My parents encouraged me to earn an income, but they wanted me to spend half of the money I earned as I pleased, as long as I saved the other half. That never happened. I saved up if I wanted something, like my first pair of Doc Marten boots, but I spent the lot. I loved the independence.

That job led to others and I haven't been unemployed for very long since. I worked in food service some more, I got some casual shifts at a factory with my dad and this supported me throughout university. I got my dream job in a Women and Children's Refuge upon graduating from an Arts Degree at Sydney Uni. I got great marks after high school and had my choice of courses and universities, but I chose the biggest and oldest one in Australia, mainly because great bands played there and they had awesome old buildings and gargoyles and I could hang out in Newtown if I wanted to; and I did Arts because at 17 I had no idea what vocation I wanted to pursue. I did my three years and left. I majored in Sociology, Anthropology and Women's Studies and I still view the world and people through those eyes.

In third year, at enrollment (back then you had to go in person and queue up for hours to sign up for courses, there was no internet in 1995), I was told that I hadn't fulfilled my unit requirements to graduate. Unbeknownst to me, I had failed English in first year. I was great at English at school because I had a wonderful teacher and we studied interesting texts that he brought to life for us. He even ended the year with a study session in the form of a game show to help us remember stuff for the HSC. At the end of the gameshow, we all had to recite a memorised monologue from one of the texts; Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra. I'll never forget when the quietest most unassuming girl in the class recited Cleopatra's death monologue and the whole class gave her a standing ovation because she absolutely blew us away, she was that good. I still get goosebumps thinking about that moment. I got Cesar's monologue and I was crap. I always hated public speaking and I made a fucking idiot of myself, I was so nervous. 

Anyway, English in high school - good, at Uni - not so good. I had an old fart of a lecturer who had taught one of my high school teachers, he was ancient in the mind not just the body and he sapped every ounce of joy out of every text we ever looked at. He never made eye contact, he just waffled on for hours about what he thought the author meant. He destroyed any interest I had in the subject and failed me. Prick. I didn't even notice. 

So there I was at enrollment, smug about it being my last year when the student volunteer told me with glee that I would have to pick up another first year subject if I wanted to graduate. I did, Government 101. Boring as bat shit, but it came in pretty handy eventually and I passed with no trouble. 

On graduation day, our valedictorian was John Bell from the Bell Shakespeare Theater Company; all I remember from his speech was that he got drunk at Manning Bar heaps too. I have to say, I didn't make any friends at uni; I was so shy and completely unprepared for the social and political side of study at that age. I drank and watched bands alone and hung out at the library or in quiet corners of the magnificent buildings by myself. I wish I had my personality now, back then. Oh and for the record, no body EVER, in any job interview EVER, has given a flying toss about my degree. Well maybe once; my Women's Studies major impressed them at the interview at the refuge. That's about it. The piece of paper now hangs proudly in my old bedroom at home at my parents' place. I loved studying and being a student, but I couldn't do it for very long because I had to make a living. I wish I could go back to it. I have considered doing some post graduate studies, perhaps via correspondence; these days it is so easy to do that, but it's expensive and time consuming and well that ship has sailed.

The refuge was the jewel in my working life's crown. In high school I was very passionate about human rights. I'd joined Amnesty International and participated in their letter writing campaign to help with the release of political prisoners. I loved the writing aspect of it and thought it was the least I could do from my privileged existence and I took on the task with gusto; memorising whole sections of the UN's Universal Declaration of Human Rights. At uni in first year, a mature aged student in my Sociology lecture befriended me and told me that she thought I would really enjoy Women's Studies, so in second year I dropped Medieval History (which, like English I nearly failed, but the lecturer at least had the decency to warn me that I was failing, so we agreed that if he gave me a score of 50 and passed me, he would never see me again) and enrolled into Women's Studies. This course changed my life. It validated my gendered experience, it allowed me to understand what viewing the world through a feminine perspective meant, regardless of a gendered body; men can be feminists too. It exposed me to incredible literature and texts, amazing female lecturers and tutors and topics that although directly affect women exclusively, half the population, have consequences for all of humanity. Everything clicked into place. I knew I wanted to work in women's services, so not long after graduation, when I saw the ad in the local paper for a junior to work in a women's refuge, I jumped at the opportunity and I got the job. I thought, 'sheez that was easy!' Especially after hearing that old Arts joke over and over again. You know the one that goes something like: What did the Arts student say to the Economics student? Would you like fries with that? 

Working at the refuge was a hard slog, but inspiring, emotional and empowering. I started there at a time of great transition for the refuge movement in NSW, particularly ours and was at the time working with three generations of women. The first generation were the women in their 70s who had been there from the beginning. They were old school. They still did things the way they did when refuges were first established in the 1970s. With a sense of emergency, they practiced separatist feminism. Men were the enemy most of the time, unless they wore a uniform and even then they weren't to be trusted too much. They didn't document their work other than in day books and journals and photos; they were secretive and cliquey. They were maternal and traditional, but radical for their time. The next wave were the baby boomers. They had money because they worked compared to their predecessors who were often happy to just volunteer, they were occasionally sole parents, they were business minded and professional. They were multicultural and multi denominational. Men too were the enemy, but they focused on educating the boys. Then my generation came along. We introduced computer programs to document our services and designed forms and manuals. We used a consultant and established a value and motto system. We created a structured service worthy of the stretched funding we received. We built upon the values and services that were established over the three generations and reached out further to the women in our community and the network of refuges across the entire state. In my opinion, we had easier relationships with men; we were fortunate to have the strength and independence fought for and won by the women before us. Men weren't the enemy, authority and systems were. Through all three generations - the personal was still the political.

We were a women and children's refuge - a service for families escaping and surviving domestic violence (physical/sexual/psychological/emotional violence) and where in the past, the services were focused on the family as a unit, we could now divide the services into those aimed at the woman's needs and those focused more on the needs of the child. That was the straw that broke this camel's back. I was 23 when I started, 26 when I left. I felt strong and motivated to empower a woman; an adult able to make her own choices, a woman whose potential and instinct for survival I could harness and reflect back to her to encourage her to fight for her rights, to respect herself, to demand safety and justice and the freedom to nurture herself and her children. But when I moved from the women's services section to the child protection aspect of my work, I crumbled. I didn't have the stomach for what I witnessed and saw. I didn't have a heart yet strong enough to protect those babies. I regressed to a child myself and felt too helpless, too weak to revive them. All I could do was suffer with them. As a mother now, I wonder if I could go back to that work. It was debilitating. I'm simply not strong enough and the rage just drowns the compassion and that doesn't help anyone. I quit after a particularly difficult case and after only three years took some time out to process what the refuge experience gave me. I tip my hat to the women who have made this their life. My refuge coordinator is still there 30 odd years later. Her salary was only slightly higher than what I earned as a junior admin clerk in the public service. I bumped into her recently at a union rally for community workers who were fighting for a pay rise. I asked her how she can still do it and not break after all these years and she said to me, "I just keep going".

I've worked in so many different industries: property valuations, community housing, disability support, engineering, domestic cleaning, child minding, fashion, insurance and banking, call centers, medical reception, mostly in a service or admin capacity, never really wielding any power, but certainly making a significant contribution. Eventually I ended up in the public service. I finally got to where I wanted to be; a secure, well paying job, with great benefits, interesting work focusing on social justice, unionised protection, a great bunch of people to work with, in the city - I secretly love Sydney for all it's fast paced, impersonal, aggressive flaws. By the time I was 30 I figured it didn't matter where I worked, as long as I was contributing something meaningful to society, was earning a decent wage so that I could be independent and self sufficient (pay rent, maintain a car, travel a little and not need anyone to support me like my parents or a partner) and build upon a foundation so that I could become a parent and do it right, planned, organised. People tell me you're never really ready to be a parent, but I disagree. You can aim towards being prepared somewhat. I take the role of creating humans rather seriously, shouldn't we? And one important lesson I learned in my studies about women's issues and working in women's services is that if you empower women; if you protect them; if you give them the right, education and freedom to determine and control their reproductive bodies; we would solve the world's problems.  It would certainly be a kinder and healthier society. Matriarchal societies have demonstrated this over and over again, but today we still choose to ignore them. We prefer the patriarchy, we let it win. It destroys men as much as women. Why can't we achieve a balance? What have we got to lose in trying?

I didn't know at the time the circumstances in which I would have a child and although I was raised in a fairly traditional nuclear family, I wasn't sure if I wanted to get married and have babies; I was never going to be a perpetual breeder, but I knew for sure that I wanted to have a child or two if I was fortunate enough. I also knew that I would risk not having children if the right circumstances didn't present themselves. If I wasn't financially and emotionally stable, healthy and well ready to give up myself, even for just a short time while they were babies and dependent on me completely. I would have rather not had kids than had them and not been prepared.

So here I am. At 38, married - I buckled under the pressure. Marriage wasn't important to me. I didn't care about it all, but mine and my husband's parents did and he did and well in the end I did too. We gave everyone, including ourselves a decent party. I wore green; I had a celebrant; we ate great food and cake and danced. I got a nice (cheap) ring, we had a great honeymoon in Tahiti and I took my husband's surname. I struggled with that one, but with every option it was a man's name anyway. My maiden name was dad's, my mother's maiden name her dad's, my grandmothers' names all went back to a man, so I stopped fighting it. My first name matters more to me anyway. So we gave our parents their first wedding, we were both the first born. My husband's sister and my brother soon followed. My sister is a lesbian. She lives with her girlfriend and they've been together for six years. They're still waiting for the government to pull their giant finger out of their sphincter and change the law. It's shit and not fair and we will keep fighting for equality. 

At 38, married and a stay at home mum. I felt a bit lost and emotional this week. This is what I worked towards, so why am I feeling like this? Nostalgic, afraid, ripped off, but ultimately content and vindicated. I earned this! I knew that if I had a baby I would stay at home as long as was necessary to look after it because I don't have my own business and the option from working from home. I'm slightly OCD and there is no way that I would be able to work from home and keep the baby and the house and everything clean and ordered and organised anyway. I'm learning to let things go and writing is one way to immerse myself in something that allows me to ignore everything else (except the baby of course). I also knew that I couldn't go back to the 9 - 5 or in my case 7 - 630 (work is an hour and a half away) straight away so I've decided to take a couple of years off without pay. This makes me utterly dependent on my husband's income; utterly dependent on someone else for money for the first time since I was 13 and I'm a bit terrified and sort of not really ok with it. Now that the maternity and parental pay have run out, and it has literally been a few days, I'm looking for the next way in which I can earn an income, even though I don't really have to.

I fared better than most. With a public service job I was entitled to 14 weeks at full pay (or 28 weeks at half pay - I took the former); then the government helped me out with the parenting payment - 18 weeks at minimum wage. I was happy to take a pay cut knowing that everyone gets the same, including a mother who may be struggling working in a low paying job without the generous maternity leave package that I have access to. I am completely astonished that the current government wants to allow mothers on maternity leave to be paid their actual pay up to $75,000 a year. That is really attractive to someone who earns a great wage, including myself, but what about the women working in factories or retail or the community sector and care industries or the million other jobs dominated by women that don't pay anywhere near what is necessary to live on, particularly when you have dependents to look after and either a low paid partner or an unemployed partner or no partner at all to rely on. A government's obligation is to ensure an even distribution of wealth by promoting and implementing equal opportunity and access. Who are they to determine the value of some mothers over others.

I'm a bit sad and uncomfortable about being without an income even though we more than manage financially because I feel like given all my experience and contributions, in the past and now as a mother, I must be worth something! I've never worked harder than what I do at home, by choice, but also because I care about this role more than any other occupation I've had before - including the refuge. But it's not a job as such is it? I don't clock in or out for that matter; I don't get paid, but I do have unlimited access to the household purse and I don't have a boss besides myself and the baby, she bloody owns me most days. 

For now I must accept this new me and I'm enjoying every fleeting moment of my daughter's childhood - when they say it flies and they grow up quick, they weren't even remotely incorrect. I'm taking pleasure in the little things. Yes they can be mundane and tedious, but I don't mind doing the house work and the cooking (although my husband contributes to both). I am loving spending days just watching my baby play and learn and develop. I don't mind changing her and feeding her and cleaning her and babbling back at her and chasing her around the house as she becomes mobile and ensuring her safety. I've been lucky to find a wonderful network of other women in my community in my mothers' group and on social networking who are doing the same and most of them have more than one child, do all of the above and hold down full time jobs! Women are amazing! And men too, some men, are becoming increasingly focused on the important things in life too. Working to live instead of the other way around. 

Come to think of it, it is exciting to think about the prospect of the next chapter in my working life. Perhaps another baby. Perhaps another job. Maybe neither, maybe both. Time will tell.