Now, this is going to make me sound really old, but in my day we didn't have facebook or email or skype - we just wrote one another letters... lots and lots of letters. During my teenage years, I corresponded with friends in other cities, love interests, boyfriends, mentors, pen friends overseas who I'd never met, and school friends who I saw every day. It was the way we expressed ourselves, and how we connected.
There is a box at my parents' place full of letters that I received, and cherished. This little box of treasures provides a glimpse into the 1980's teenage experience, expressed through the people I was communicating with. There are tentative reflections in french on a memorable night, angsty post-break up letters complete with lyrics from REM, tales of road trips and overseas travel accompanied by photos, drawings and mixed tapes, queries about life's purpose, declarations of love, and secrets shared that I have never disclosed. Boy-crazy letters and girl-crazy letters. Letters on pretty paper, neat paper, and on the back of recycled paper. Letters that followed ruled lines, and others that whirled across the page in a spiral. That was the great thing about those letters - there were no rules, and each person's style of writing and choice about the packaging said as much about them as the words they wrote.
While I hold some of the letters written to me, those I wrote are scattered around the world. I have since wondered who kept them, what they meant to the recipients, what I was saying back then, and where they will end up. After my grandfather died, and we were methodically and painstakingly going through his possessions, I stumbled upon a Valentine's Day card Grandma had written him early on in their marriage, when she was not much older than I was at the height of my letter writing era. I felt like an intruder into a time and intimacy that I hadn't been privy to before. I guess that's what happens with letters - sometimes they outlive those who cherished them.
After my friend David died, Lisa told me she had some of the letters I had written him over the years and that I could have them back if I wanted. He had kept them for over a decade. For those years since he died, I didn't feel ready to read them, perhaps scared to discover myself there - raw in black and white. What if I wasn't how I remember, or I don't like that girl? But one day I will read them, and like a voyeur again, I will be transported back into the experience of my 21 year old self, a girl who might seem as distant from my "today" self as the newly-wed woman was to my Grandmother. But that's the thing with letters...
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Wednesday, February 05, 2014
Gender, peace and politics
The other day I came almost face to face with my political hero. I was in Hobart with family and had wanted to catch up with my mate Peter sometime during my visit. Given that Peter is such a very busy man, and doesn't have a mobile phone or answering machine and is never home to answer the landline anyway, it was agreed that we'd just meet at the anti pulp mill rally and go for lunch afterwards. As I glanced around the Parliament House Gardens looking for Peter, I noticed Bob Brown, casually leaning against a garbage bin at the edge of the crowd. I had to do a double take because he was in disguise - a blue baseball cap was shielding his face from the sun. Of course I was too shy to go and say hello, but it was very comforting to know that he was there.
I've been reflecting on why I am so fond of dear old Bob and why I finally joined the Greens last year. I guess I can blame Peter to a certain extent. The whole time we have been corresponding (since I was about ten), he has been modelling for me a life of activism and integrity; riding his bike to work, refusing to own a car or mobile phone, writing angry letters, teaching literature from a social justice point of view, handing out greens leaflets and generally encouraging every young person in his life to take a global perspective. He worked for Quaker Senator Jo Valentine when I was in primary school and took me on a private tour of Parliament House.
Skip forward a decade or two to my late twenties, and I was right in the thick of leading a Peter-approved life. I worked for an NGO, was vegetarian, didn't own a car or a mobile phone and was completing a Masters in Peace and Conflict Studies. In a course entitled "Gender and the development of peace" I found myself writing an essay about the feminisation of politics in Australia. I could have written about anything from female genital mutilation to the Grameen Bank, but I chose the feminisation of politics in Australia. It was an odd decision in some ways, but I got a pretty good mark for it!
In my essay I critiqued the adversarial nature of politics in Australia, describing it as patriarchal and violent. Our political climate was and still is dominated by men and operates in a culture of competition. I was writing at the height of the Iraq war when, as now, we had a conservative government that was trying everything it could to divert resources away from basic needs such as health, education and humanitarian aid in order to justify military interventions in places where we should have been offering development aid and diplomatic support.
What was needed, according to feminist theorists was a feminist approach to politics. Anne Summers was amongst those arguing that increasing the representation of women in parliament would transform the nature of politics. There was the discussion of whether quotas were important, or needed. Bronwyn Bishop was saying we didn't need quotas, since she had made it. Joan Kirner was arguing that we do, because greater numbers of women will break down the male dominated factional leadership. Yet, the fact remained that in spite of quotas in the Labor Party, very little had changed in the way the game was played. After all, people like Amanda Vanstone were asserting that the system ain't broke: "Look Susan. It’s an adversarial system, and you’re never going to change that...it’s probably my legal training, but I think the adversarial system is the best way to get as close as possible to the best result, to what the truth is" (from "The Scent of Power" by Susan Mitchell).
In a mentoring session with Meredith Bergman, she told us essentially the same thing - to power dress and act more like men if we wanted to be taken seriously in male dominated arenas. I have taken on board her advice to introduce myself by both names but feel uneasy about changing aspects of my personality or wearing shoulder pads in order to fit in. Rejecting the notion that for women to succeed they just needed to be more like men, and play the political game, I was drawing on feminist and nonviolence theory to argue that this didn't need to be the case. Women have strengths to offer politics, and, I argued, the political system could do with a bit of an overhaul and this required more than an increase in representation of women in parliament.We needed to challenge and replace the patriarchal and violent structures that underpin politics in Australia.
One theorist (Rod Cameron) was arguing that feminisation of politics would not only involve greater representation of women in leadership roles, but also a change to our definition of strong leadership. Leaders of the future would be increasingly judged on their humanity, intelligence, honesty and creativity. We will be looking for leaders who are in touch, honest and direct.
As I read further, it became clear to me that there were in fact alternatives to the existing model already being tested. It was our friend Jo Valentine and my beloved Greens party that were actually exploring different, more feminised, if you like, ways of doing politics. Jo Valentine told me all about her attempts to model nonviolent behaviour when interacting with other politicians. Using her background in nonviolent civil disobedience, she cited times when she had changed hearts and minds through taking a more patient, listening and collaborative approach to points of difference.
In a book co-authored by Bob Brown entitled "The Greens", society is condemned for being selfish and consumer-driven, and not meeting the needs of the current generation, let alone the needs of future generations and non-human species. They describe the Greens party model as non-hierarchical, networking and alliance-building. Decisions are made by consensus and women were equally represented within the membership and leadership, not because of quotas, but because the greens arose out of activist and community groups where women are already well represented. Policy positions, decided in consultation with members, seemed to reinforce values of cooperation, compassion, integrity and a concern for future generations. The qualities traditionally associated with feminism seemed to be lived out and considered valuable and important qualities in future-thinking politics by the Greens.
Whenever I have heard Bob Brown speak since, he has lived up to the values that are now so important to me - integrity, compassion and a participatory approach to democracy. He always modelled a style of leadership that is in touch, honest and direct. Women and men in Australian politics could learn a lot from Bob. Although he has now left politics, and so was wearing his "concerned citizen" cap rather than his "Leader of the Greens" hat, I admire and thank him for his contribution to Australian politics.
As I sat down to lunch with Peter and a bunch of our activist and Quaker friends, I felt reinvigorated. While the situation we find ourselves in today is pretty dire - even more dispassionate approaches to asylum seekers, reductions in overseas aid, funding cuts to basic needs, and a female Prime Minister who was treated appallingly - there is hope. Since joining the Greens I have met so many gorgeous, charming, welcoming, committed, passionate and intelligent people to add to the list of pretty amazing Quaker friends, flatmates and colleagues who will be part of making this clunky old political system of ours into one that is more community based, nonviolent and future thinking. All of them are my political heroes too.
 |
| Me and Peter at the rally. Bob Brown is somewhere in the vicinity. |
Skip forward a decade or two to my late twenties, and I was right in the thick of leading a Peter-approved life. I worked for an NGO, was vegetarian, didn't own a car or a mobile phone and was completing a Masters in Peace and Conflict Studies. In a course entitled "Gender and the development of peace" I found myself writing an essay about the feminisation of politics in Australia. I could have written about anything from female genital mutilation to the Grameen Bank, but I chose the feminisation of politics in Australia. It was an odd decision in some ways, but I got a pretty good mark for it!
In my essay I critiqued the adversarial nature of politics in Australia, describing it as patriarchal and violent. Our political climate was and still is dominated by men and operates in a culture of competition. I was writing at the height of the Iraq war when, as now, we had a conservative government that was trying everything it could to divert resources away from basic needs such as health, education and humanitarian aid in order to justify military interventions in places where we should have been offering development aid and diplomatic support.
What was needed, according to feminist theorists was a feminist approach to politics. Anne Summers was amongst those arguing that increasing the representation of women in parliament would transform the nature of politics. There was the discussion of whether quotas were important, or needed. Bronwyn Bishop was saying we didn't need quotas, since she had made it. Joan Kirner was arguing that we do, because greater numbers of women will break down the male dominated factional leadership. Yet, the fact remained that in spite of quotas in the Labor Party, very little had changed in the way the game was played. After all, people like Amanda Vanstone were asserting that the system ain't broke: "Look Susan. It’s an adversarial system, and you’re never going to change that...it’s probably my legal training, but I think the adversarial system is the best way to get as close as possible to the best result, to what the truth is" (from "The Scent of Power" by Susan Mitchell).
In a mentoring session with Meredith Bergman, she told us essentially the same thing - to power dress and act more like men if we wanted to be taken seriously in male dominated arenas. I have taken on board her advice to introduce myself by both names but feel uneasy about changing aspects of my personality or wearing shoulder pads in order to fit in. Rejecting the notion that for women to succeed they just needed to be more like men, and play the political game, I was drawing on feminist and nonviolence theory to argue that this didn't need to be the case. Women have strengths to offer politics, and, I argued, the political system could do with a bit of an overhaul and this required more than an increase in representation of women in parliament.We needed to challenge and replace the patriarchal and violent structures that underpin politics in Australia.
One theorist (Rod Cameron) was arguing that feminisation of politics would not only involve greater representation of women in leadership roles, but also a change to our definition of strong leadership. Leaders of the future would be increasingly judged on their humanity, intelligence, honesty and creativity. We will be looking for leaders who are in touch, honest and direct.
As I read further, it became clear to me that there were in fact alternatives to the existing model already being tested. It was our friend Jo Valentine and my beloved Greens party that were actually exploring different, more feminised, if you like, ways of doing politics. Jo Valentine told me all about her attempts to model nonviolent behaviour when interacting with other politicians. Using her background in nonviolent civil disobedience, she cited times when she had changed hearts and minds through taking a more patient, listening and collaborative approach to points of difference.
In a book co-authored by Bob Brown entitled "The Greens", society is condemned for being selfish and consumer-driven, and not meeting the needs of the current generation, let alone the needs of future generations and non-human species. They describe the Greens party model as non-hierarchical, networking and alliance-building. Decisions are made by consensus and women were equally represented within the membership and leadership, not because of quotas, but because the greens arose out of activist and community groups where women are already well represented. Policy positions, decided in consultation with members, seemed to reinforce values of cooperation, compassion, integrity and a concern for future generations. The qualities traditionally associated with feminism seemed to be lived out and considered valuable and important qualities in future-thinking politics by the Greens.
Whenever I have heard Bob Brown speak since, he has lived up to the values that are now so important to me - integrity, compassion and a participatory approach to democracy. He always modelled a style of leadership that is in touch, honest and direct. Women and men in Australian politics could learn a lot from Bob. Although he has now left politics, and so was wearing his "concerned citizen" cap rather than his "Leader of the Greens" hat, I admire and thank him for his contribution to Australian politics.
As I sat down to lunch with Peter and a bunch of our activist and Quaker friends, I felt reinvigorated. While the situation we find ourselves in today is pretty dire - even more dispassionate approaches to asylum seekers, reductions in overseas aid, funding cuts to basic needs, and a female Prime Minister who was treated appallingly - there is hope. Since joining the Greens I have met so many gorgeous, charming, welcoming, committed, passionate and intelligent people to add to the list of pretty amazing Quaker friends, flatmates and colleagues who will be part of making this clunky old political system of ours into one that is more community based, nonviolent and future thinking. All of them are my political heroes too.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Booked in
One of my end of year resolutions, if you like, was to solve the reading while travelling dilemma. Since I have been known to take month long trips to the Solomon Islands for work, with my suitcase half full of books, I had begun to feel that a 'kindley-type-thing' might be more practical than taking half my bookshelf with me each time. I also thought it might be more environmentally friendly in the long term.
The trouble is that I don't like doing what I call 'shopping research'. I just find it time consuming and I'm not that good at making decisions. Plus, all the options and permutations stress me out. I can happily go down one research path almost ready to commit, only to discover that it doesn't have a USB drive, or it only works in the northern hemisphere, and I have to start all over again. So, in a stroke of brilliance I decided to outsource the problem and happily put 'research the best kindley-type-thing for me to take overseas when travelling' on my santa list, and then put the matter out of my mind. I had vaguely thought that if my brother was my secret santa this year he might really enjoy doing this for me.
 |
| Best gift ever - the research done, AND beautifully presented! |
 |
| My new travel reading companion |
 |
| The bedside bookshelf remains |
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Utopia
The other night I saw John Pilger's film "Utopia" at The Block in Redfern. Arriving late, I was wondering whether I'd find anyone to sit with or whether I would miss the beginning, but I needn't have worried. It seemed that Sydney's entire progressive community had turned out to see the film. The movie itself didn't get started until I was well and truly settled into my picnic spot surrounded by people I knew.
At the beginning of the documentary we learn of the price people are willing to pay to stay one night in a luxury apartment by Sydney's breathtakingly beautiful harbour. This opulence is then juxtaposed with Utopia, a remote desert community just a few hundred kilometres north of Alice Springs, where a health worker describes the appalling conditions that people live in. In one particular house, the only toilet doesn't work most of the time meaning that raw sewage collects in the back yard, and they don't have the basic medical supplies for immunisations or to prevent diseases that are non-existent in the rest of Australia. Oh, and cockroaches have been found in children's ears.
The description reminded me of an incident in Balgo, another desert community set on the intersection of Warlpiri, Kukatja, and Ngarti lands a couple of hundred kilometres further north, where I journeyed in 2009 to attend The Kapulalungu Aboriginal Women's Association Law Camp. Arriving in town, I remember one of my travelling companions commenting loudly about the state of the sleeping quarters, citing cockroaches, dog poo and unwashed dishes scattered about the place as unacceptable, perhaps unaware that while our new room-mates might have been too shy to speak English with us, they understood the gist only too well. We were perpetrating again the shame we place on First Nations people because they are not like us, or because they don't have access to the basic sanitation facilities that we take for granted.
In that community I formed a bond early on with one lady who had recently lost her son to suicide. He was the third young person to die that way in the space of 12 months. As we shared snippets of our very different lives, I marvelled at her resilience. Some of her older female relatives remembered a time pre-invasion, before the middle generation had been raised in a Catholic mission school away from their families and prevented from speaking their language. These women were now teaching their traditional laws and customs to the younger and middle generations with the hope that re-connecting to culture would make a difference to self-confidence, cultural pride and a sense of healing for the community as a whole. Even after sixty short years, "settlement" had clearly been very destructive to the mental health of young people, evidenced in the high rates of suicide.
Rates of youth suicide amongst First Nations people was highlighted in the movie, with Robert and Selina Eggington from the Nyoongar Nation speaking about their own experience of grief losing a son to suicide, and then talking about a space of remembrance that they created for other grieving parents in the Perth area. I wished the movie had included more positive stories like this, and perhaps more from urban and rural experiences as well as remote. But I did find it valuable to hear about successful strikes and union activities that had led to increases in wages, improved standards of living and safety for workers. Stories of resistance movements and urban survivors could have been more prominent.
The irony in the connection between the Northern Territory Intervention and the Stolen Generation was explored. John Pilger reminded us that the Intervention was supposedly implemented because of John Howard's concern about rape of children by Aboriginal men in Northern Territory communities following the "Little Children are Sacred" report. Yet, such allegations were a complete misrepresentation of the report. Even more frustrating is the irony that it was the rape of Aboriginal women and girls by white men that resulted in the "half-caste" children who were stolen as part of a racist policies to breed out the black. Some of the books that tell the stories of the stolen children are so powerful, and I remember tears streaming down my face as I learnt of each person's unique but similar heartbreak. Since I was aware that my grandparents had fostered an Aboriginal girl in the 1960s, believing they were doing a good thing, I imagined with some discomfort every story taking place in their house.
The racism of newcomer Australians is evident in interviews with former politicians, people celebrating Australia Day, and countless stories of unnecessary deaths in custody and massacres that have gone un-noticed in history books. I am also disappointed by how this country has handled Australia Day, almost completely oblivious that our day of pride represents nothing less than invasion day for First Nations people. My sister-in-law tells me that she was shocked by the racism she noticed amongst settler Australians when she first moved here. As I continue to struggle with my own racism and privilege, I am filled with love for the First Nations people in my life who have opened their hearts to me over the years. I have a number of "uncles" who continually forgive me as I stumble and offend. They gently nudge me in the right direction.This movie is another step on my journey. I hope it is seen by those who need to see it, rather than only those of us who are "the converted" - those of us well-intentioned lefties who want to be supportive, but still need a great deal more educating, mind you! And I hope this story will spark vigorous discussions. I reckon it's okay if we don't all like the style of journalism or the choice of content, as long as it gets us talking about our embarrassing history, the change we want to see in the future, and maybe even taking action in our own lives to be that change.
 |
| Photo taken by my friend Costa |
At the beginning of the documentary we learn of the price people are willing to pay to stay one night in a luxury apartment by Sydney's breathtakingly beautiful harbour. This opulence is then juxtaposed with Utopia, a remote desert community just a few hundred kilometres north of Alice Springs, where a health worker describes the appalling conditions that people live in. In one particular house, the only toilet doesn't work most of the time meaning that raw sewage collects in the back yard, and they don't have the basic medical supplies for immunisations or to prevent diseases that are non-existent in the rest of Australia. Oh, and cockroaches have been found in children's ears.
The description reminded me of an incident in Balgo, another desert community set on the intersection of Warlpiri, Kukatja, and Ngarti lands a couple of hundred kilometres further north, where I journeyed in 2009 to attend The Kapulalungu Aboriginal Women's Association Law Camp. Arriving in town, I remember one of my travelling companions commenting loudly about the state of the sleeping quarters, citing cockroaches, dog poo and unwashed dishes scattered about the place as unacceptable, perhaps unaware that while our new room-mates might have been too shy to speak English with us, they understood the gist only too well. We were perpetrating again the shame we place on First Nations people because they are not like us, or because they don't have access to the basic sanitation facilities that we take for granted.
In that community I formed a bond early on with one lady who had recently lost her son to suicide. He was the third young person to die that way in the space of 12 months. As we shared snippets of our very different lives, I marvelled at her resilience. Some of her older female relatives remembered a time pre-invasion, before the middle generation had been raised in a Catholic mission school away from their families and prevented from speaking their language. These women were now teaching their traditional laws and customs to the younger and middle generations with the hope that re-connecting to culture would make a difference to self-confidence, cultural pride and a sense of healing for the community as a whole. Even after sixty short years, "settlement" had clearly been very destructive to the mental health of young people, evidenced in the high rates of suicide.
 |
| One of the buildings used for health and community work, Balgo |
Rates of youth suicide amongst First Nations people was highlighted in the movie, with Robert and Selina Eggington from the Nyoongar Nation speaking about their own experience of grief losing a son to suicide, and then talking about a space of remembrance that they created for other grieving parents in the Perth area. I wished the movie had included more positive stories like this, and perhaps more from urban and rural experiences as well as remote. But I did find it valuable to hear about successful strikes and union activities that had led to increases in wages, improved standards of living and safety for workers. Stories of resistance movements and urban survivors could have been more prominent.
The irony in the connection between the Northern Territory Intervention and the Stolen Generation was explored. John Pilger reminded us that the Intervention was supposedly implemented because of John Howard's concern about rape of children by Aboriginal men in Northern Territory communities following the "Little Children are Sacred" report. Yet, such allegations were a complete misrepresentation of the report. Even more frustrating is the irony that it was the rape of Aboriginal women and girls by white men that resulted in the "half-caste" children who were stolen as part of a racist policies to breed out the black. Some of the books that tell the stories of the stolen children are so powerful, and I remember tears streaming down my face as I learnt of each person's unique but similar heartbreak. Since I was aware that my grandparents had fostered an Aboriginal girl in the 1960s, believing they were doing a good thing, I imagined with some discomfort every story taking place in their house.
The racism of newcomer Australians is evident in interviews with former politicians, people celebrating Australia Day, and countless stories of unnecessary deaths in custody and massacres that have gone un-noticed in history books. I am also disappointed by how this country has handled Australia Day, almost completely oblivious that our day of pride represents nothing less than invasion day for First Nations people. My sister-in-law tells me that she was shocked by the racism she noticed amongst settler Australians when she first moved here. As I continue to struggle with my own racism and privilege, I am filled with love for the First Nations people in my life who have opened their hearts to me over the years. I have a number of "uncles" who continually forgive me as I stumble and offend. They gently nudge me in the right direction.This movie is another step on my journey. I hope it is seen by those who need to see it, rather than only those of us who are "the converted" - those of us well-intentioned lefties who want to be supportive, but still need a great deal more educating, mind you! And I hope this story will spark vigorous discussions. I reckon it's okay if we don't all like the style of journalism or the choice of content, as long as it gets us talking about our embarrassing history, the change we want to see in the future, and maybe even taking action in our own lives to be that change.
Saturday, January 18, 2014
The story of the extraordinary helping elephants
 |
| The director and storyteller with his elephants |
Once upon many a time there were three elephants; a mummy elephant, a daddy elephant and a Noah elephant*. This happy family liked to bound exuberantly over the African plains. Then, suddenly and tragically, during the course of such joyful bounding, one of the elephants falls over.
"What happened?" the mother elephant asks in a very concerned voice.
"I falled down" explains the Noah elephant, or the Daddy elephant, depending on who fell.
"Don't worry" soothes the mummy elephant, "I will rescue you", and efforts are immediately made to help. If the other two elephants can't put the fallen elephant back on its feet, a large rescue truck or fire engine with a crane can be brought in to assist.
The family bound off happily again, until another calamity erupts. This time the daddy elephant, because he is actually a puzzle, falls apart and find himself bounding off without his rear end. But again, disaster is averted with the assistance of puppeteers, match box cars or a dinosaur figurine, and all is well again with the world.
THE END.
This story, in all its variations, says a lot about the story teller's own world view. Just last week he adopted a kitten that was found abandoned on a bus. whenever it cries he says "don't worry meow". A few weeks ago he became distressed when at the aquarium, having noticed a lobster that seemed stuck against a rock and wondered whether in fact he should help this lobster out of its predicament. It was only when he was reassured that the lobster's friends would probably help him out that he was satisfied and able to move on to the next exhibit.
As I delight in this stage, I wonder how I can foster and encourage the empathy that I see emerging in my young relative. Probably adding variations of the story that involve the elephants farting loudly and saying "excuse me" probably wasn't the best way to do this, in retrospect, particularly when I am told he now likes to insert this variation into everyday tasks at shopping centres and other public places, much to his grandmother's embarrassment! But on a more serious note, I hope I can join in modelling good helping behaviour, and I applaud Noah for his dedication in tackling such an important theme. I recommend the helping elephant show as a must-see for all ages!
*Any reference to real people is purely co-incidental.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
The Jesus effect
There's been a bit of an Orwellian vibe about recollections of Nelson Mandela since he died. People who had previously called him a terrorist are now calling him a freedom fighter. World leaders are comfortable saying that he stood for forgiveness and non-violence, while conveniently forgetting to mention that he disn't always advocate for non-violence and the connections he drew between apartheid in South Africa and the treatment of Palestinians by Israelis and Indigenous Australians by settler Australians.
My fear is that history will re-write the story of Mandela in the same way that I think happened to Jesus. Enthusiastic Christians who can't help but maintain the structural violence of the church seem to equate Jesus with patriarchal, homophobic and oppressive beliefs, forgetting that Jesus was considered a terrorist by the Romans, was willing to take a stand against injustice in all its forms, and would have had far more in common with the more radical left of the modern church than with Tony Abbott and George Pell.
I remember reading an article by Walter Wink, a progressive Christian theologian, about Jesus' teachings from a non-violent social change perspective. It's called "The Third Way" and sheds new light on the "turn the other cheek" passage. His message was possibly more like training for freedom riders and radical activists than a message of passivity.
When the slappee turned the other cheek, the slapper is faced (excuse the pun) with a dilemma; they must choose between using their left hand (unclean) or using a backhanded slap (only delivered to children or slaves, so makes them look really bad) to slap the other cheek.Taking all the clothes from your back and standing there naked is another way to humiliate the oppressor, as apparently nakedness was as much an embarrassment for the viewer as the one who was naked. Carrying the soldier's pack a second mile infringed the military code and created a dilemma for the soldier.
So, according to Wink, Jesus was never suggesting that people passively resist, he was giving them clever tools for resisting, humiliating, and surprising their oppressors. They were techniques for taking back power through creativity and surprise. The important thing for me is that Jesus, like Mandela, didn't stand for passive resistance, forgiveness without justice or maintaining structures of violence.Yet, the story has been diluted over time and we rarely hear Jesus referred to as an activist or freedom fighter anymore.
So, I hope that when we remember Mandela, we remember the entire, complicated, human and committed man that he was, and note that he questioned and opposed oppression and apartheid everywhere, right up until his death. And I hope we don't try to squeeze him into a convenient box that fits the current political climate.
Wednesday, December 04, 2013
The bad day
It was one of those days. My morning had consisted of burning a cooking pot to a crisp while watching the Alec Baldwin version of "A streetcar named desire", followed by dashing back and forth between doctor and imaging people for 3 hours to get a redundant x-ray result. Now, after hobbling from the car to the 'old' dentist and hobbling more frantically to the 'new' location, I was seated in the dentist's chair with a mouth full of flouride solution and an ice pack on my aching toe (clever use of time, i thought). To top it all off I had left my phone at home so was unable to confirm a catch up with a friend. I began wondering what else could go wrong.
The dentist, however, was a very up- beat sortof guy, and he gave me a new perspective. Adapting easily to his first (and possibly only) frozen peas-on-the-foot-of-the-patient scenario with enthusiasm, and after the usual chit chat, and the right amount of toe-related sympathy, he got to work. "Well, you don't need any fillings" he announced cheerily. "See, there's always something good happens even on bad days" he added, and i couldn't argue with his reasoning.
So, as I rinsed, and spat, and promised yet again to floss more often, i reminded myself that i have lots to be grateful for - friends who forgive me when I mysteriously don't respond to phone messages, beautiful strawberries growing in our garden, the fact that I didn't burn down the entire house, no fillings, and the kindness of strangers!! Life's not too bad after all.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
A caterpillar's heart
Recently I chanced upon an old friend at a work event. We had lost touch, and it took us a while to place one another. After a few attempts at "did you work here?" and "are you involved in such and such a cause" he hit upon the connection. We had studied psychology together at Macquarie University back in 1995.
He showed me pictures of his children, and we reminisced about those carefree, and occassionally not so carefree, days of our youth. Then, out of the blue, he told me that he had remembered me as a beautiful soul, somebody he had admired. My reaction at the time was delight and surprise, as I saw such high praise as representing how i had hoped to be, but not who i was. I had thought of myself more as somebody who was not yet fully formed, a chrysalis, if you will. And I still think I have a long way to go before I emerge triumphant and colourful from my cocoon. There are so many ways that I could be more compassionate, more considered and more humble.
In pondering this matter, and thinking of many old friends who are still incredibly important to me, I was reminded me of a poem my mother wrote in my autograph book when I was about ten years old. These autograph books were kindof like the facebook of the 1980's. You took it around to everyone you knew and they wrote thoughtful, complimentary or funny things in it. Mum's message has stayed with me, even though the autograph book has been long since lost, because of the beauty of the words she wrote:
"A caterpillar's heart still beats in every butterfly. Inside you are always you. Inside you are always you". -
I like to think that, even as we grow and change, we are the same person on the inside and that's why it's so easy to pick up a phone conversation as if two decades had not passed, or camp together as if still in our 20s.
As my new-old friend and I talked in the car on the way home, about lots of deep and spiritual matters, I caught a glimpse of that beautiful soul being re-awakened, of the person I had always hoped to become. With this new-found sense of my own beautiful soul, I feel encouraged to go about life seeking out that beauty in others, or to use the Quakerly quote "walk cheerfully over the earth, answering that of God in everyone". I intend to be brave enough to tell people about their beautiful soul when I particularly notice it, because life is short and we are all precious.
He showed me pictures of his children, and we reminisced about those carefree, and occassionally not so carefree, days of our youth. Then, out of the blue, he told me that he had remembered me as a beautiful soul, somebody he had admired. My reaction at the time was delight and surprise, as I saw such high praise as representing how i had hoped to be, but not who i was. I had thought of myself more as somebody who was not yet fully formed, a chrysalis, if you will. And I still think I have a long way to go before I emerge triumphant and colourful from my cocoon. There are so many ways that I could be more compassionate, more considered and more humble.
 |
| butterfly image on a handmade card |
In pondering this matter, and thinking of many old friends who are still incredibly important to me, I was reminded me of a poem my mother wrote in my autograph book when I was about ten years old. These autograph books were kindof like the facebook of the 1980's. You took it around to everyone you knew and they wrote thoughtful, complimentary or funny things in it. Mum's message has stayed with me, even though the autograph book has been long since lost, because of the beauty of the words she wrote:
"A caterpillar's heart still beats in every butterfly. Inside you are always you. Inside you are always you". -
I like to think that, even as we grow and change, we are the same person on the inside and that's why it's so easy to pick up a phone conversation as if two decades had not passed, or camp together as if still in our 20s.
As my new-old friend and I talked in the car on the way home, about lots of deep and spiritual matters, I caught a glimpse of that beautiful soul being re-awakened, of the person I had always hoped to become. With this new-found sense of my own beautiful soul, I feel encouraged to go about life seeking out that beauty in others, or to use the Quakerly quote "walk cheerfully over the earth, answering that of God in everyone". I intend to be brave enough to tell people about their beautiful soul when I particularly notice it, because life is short and we are all precious.
 |
| Aspirational street art in Surry Hills |
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Family Maiden Aunt
With my brother's wedding coming up, it has dawned on me that I am in that slightly uncomfortable place that Bridget Jones was so well known for - being single and childless. Yep, I'm now the family maiden aunt. But don't worry, I'm not completely alone. Apart from good ol' bridget, there is also a close family member not in a committed relationship... my three year old nephew!! So the two of us singles will be bunkmates for the duration of the wedding. Sigh. Back home, things are not much more impressive. I'm living in a share house again, and my assets include a wardrobe that I found on the side of the road, a chest of drawers that has been with me since childhood, and my shoes are lovingly arranged on four bricks and a length of wood that was lying about in our garden. All that's missing from the picture of the poverty stricken, lonely spinster is a cat.
And like Judy Small, in her ditty about being the family maiden aunt, I may have experienced some inadvertent sighing and shaking of heads from extended family members. Topics of inquiry in my early thirties focused on things like "when are you getting married?" and "do you think you'll have kids?" Now that all that's been covered, and it seems apparent that I won't do either, there's just an awkward silence. Some people are almost too enthusiastic about my work - possibly afraid to touch on more personal matters, some seem wistful and a bit starry eyed when we talk about the things I have done recently like travel and work and activism and adventures. With others there is definitely the impression that I have taken the easy, selfish road.
So, I guess I want to explain. When I was younger I did imagine myself as a parent and a partner. I had a dream that I still occasionally indulge in... it's of a slightly rural, sustainable house, with a vegie patch, chickens, kids, and maybe even a few children. (The kids are the young goats, if that wasn't clear). During my teens and then again in my late twenties I spent a lot of time babysitting and as a nanny. I would return home utterly exhausted, but happy - boring friends and family with stories of how Connor insisted we start populating his ant farm then and there, or how Lexi so beautifully explained to me why she was angry and what her needs were. Definitely the most rewarding work I have ever done has been with children, so I have some idea of what I'm missing out on. But don't feel pity for me. I've made some choices in life that have taken me on a different path. It's taken a fair bit of "work" for me to get to that place of acceptance, recognising that where I am is a result both these choices and the cards I've been dealt, but I'm pretty much there now.
I am okay with this, because I know there are certain things that I can do because I'm not tied down. There are perks. I can do the work I love without worrying about anybody missing me back home when I travel. I can be the person who attends a rally, or evening meeting because I don't have other obligations. I can fly down to Hobart to spend my day off with my nephew and or spend it helping a friend. I can walk the Overland Track for five days. I can sleep in on a Sunday. And I am not under any illusions about how hard parenting can be sometimes. I have seen my own parents, and now most of my friends, at the end of their tethers, and struggling to keep it together at times. I take my hat off to you all. But don't envy me. You made your life choices, and there are perks for you too - cuddles in bed on a Sunday morning, 50 million facebook likes because your child just blew a bubble, and knowing that somebody small loves you a whole lot.
Then there is the thing about leading a meaningful life. I have heard so many people say things to me like "my job was getting a bit dull, so I thought having kids would give me a purpose again" or "this parenting gig is the most rewarding role I have ever taken on". Sometimes I feel judged because there's an unspoken assumption that the only way to find meaning in life is through having children, and by extension, if you don't have children your life must be fairly meaningless. Occasionally I have bought into this view, and judged myself quite harshly as a result. But, when I think about the parents I really admire, they are the ones who are already engaged in lots of activities, and care about issues. Their children simply augment their lives rather than providing all their raison d'etre. Secondly, many people whose lives were particularly meaningful because they changed history through leading significant social or spiritual movements, were either childless or received criticism for abandoning their children and partner in preference for this spiritual or ethical cause. I recently read that the Buddha left for a 6 year pilgrimage soon after his first child was born. Sometimes I think there is so much to be done in the world, that we need a certain proportion of single, childless people to do the other, non-child-related meaningful stuff, unencumbered by family obligations.
So, luckily the wedding is going to be a very inclusive one, and outside of our immediate family there will be lots of people there who don't fit the conventional mould, many of whom are close friends of mine. And sometimes I feel so touched that my beautiful friends with children want to connect with silly old me, and I am reminded that we will always have our values and love for one another in common, even if we don't share being parents. But, if you find yourself feeling awkward about talking with me at the wedding or any other event, remember that I might have taken a different path, but I'm not from another planet, and I am able to engage in conversation on a number of topics, including other people's partners and offspring. I don't want to be treated with pity, envy or judgement. I would love, though, to find out what's really happening in your life, and what gives it meaning. And who knows what the future will hold. Perhaps I'll foster, adopt or step-parent some amazing little people one day, and then we can talk about that too!
 |
| Not a bad companion, really |
And like Judy Small, in her ditty about being the family maiden aunt, I may have experienced some inadvertent sighing and shaking of heads from extended family members. Topics of inquiry in my early thirties focused on things like "when are you getting married?" and "do you think you'll have kids?" Now that all that's been covered, and it seems apparent that I won't do either, there's just an awkward silence. Some people are almost too enthusiastic about my work - possibly afraid to touch on more personal matters, some seem wistful and a bit starry eyed when we talk about the things I have done recently like travel and work and activism and adventures. With others there is definitely the impression that I have taken the easy, selfish road.
So, I guess I want to explain. When I was younger I did imagine myself as a parent and a partner. I had a dream that I still occasionally indulge in... it's of a slightly rural, sustainable house, with a vegie patch, chickens, kids, and maybe even a few children. (The kids are the young goats, if that wasn't clear). During my teens and then again in my late twenties I spent a lot of time babysitting and as a nanny. I would return home utterly exhausted, but happy - boring friends and family with stories of how Connor insisted we start populating his ant farm then and there, or how Lexi so beautifully explained to me why she was angry and what her needs were. Definitely the most rewarding work I have ever done has been with children, so I have some idea of what I'm missing out on. But don't feel pity for me. I've made some choices in life that have taken me on a different path. It's taken a fair bit of "work" for me to get to that place of acceptance, recognising that where I am is a result both these choices and the cards I've been dealt, but I'm pretty much there now.
I am okay with this, because I know there are certain things that I can do because I'm not tied down. There are perks. I can do the work I love without worrying about anybody missing me back home when I travel. I can be the person who attends a rally, or evening meeting because I don't have other obligations. I can fly down to Hobart to spend my day off with my nephew and or spend it helping a friend. I can walk the Overland Track for five days. I can sleep in on a Sunday. And I am not under any illusions about how hard parenting can be sometimes. I have seen my own parents, and now most of my friends, at the end of their tethers, and struggling to keep it together at times. I take my hat off to you all. But don't envy me. You made your life choices, and there are perks for you too - cuddles in bed on a Sunday morning, 50 million facebook likes because your child just blew a bubble, and knowing that somebody small loves you a whole lot.
 |
| The perks - having adventures AND cuddles |
So, luckily the wedding is going to be a very inclusive one, and outside of our immediate family there will be lots of people there who don't fit the conventional mould, many of whom are close friends of mine. And sometimes I feel so touched that my beautiful friends with children want to connect with silly old me, and I am reminded that we will always have our values and love for one another in common, even if we don't share being parents. But, if you find yourself feeling awkward about talking with me at the wedding or any other event, remember that I might have taken a different path, but I'm not from another planet, and I am able to engage in conversation on a number of topics, including other people's partners and offspring. I don't want to be treated with pity, envy or judgement. I would love, though, to find out what's really happening in your life, and what gives it meaning. And who knows what the future will hold. Perhaps I'll foster, adopt or step-parent some amazing little people one day, and then we can talk about that too!
Monday, October 07, 2013
Bandaid solutions
Over the past few days I have had a rather high number of paper cuts. I think they must be 'going around'. Because of the disproportionately high level of discomfort caused by such small cuts, I have taken to applying band-aids and this got me thinking about the old band-aid analogy.
I am pretty sure there are two types of people. Those who like to rip band-aids off quickly, and those who prefer to peel them off bit by bit over the course of a number of days/weeks/months. I have a lifetime membership of the latter category. As a child I would take a daily stocktake of the state of the knee and its covering, taking a significant amount of time out of my busy schedule (not) to work on the task of gently separating the two, bit by bit. Being a deliberator and a 'thoughtful' person, I am not one for hasty decisions and have always hoped that if I peel slowly enough, the pain will be diluted to the point of being unrecognisable as pain.
This year I have learnt that the same band-aid solutions tend to be applied to matters of the heart. Some people prefer to take quick and decisive measures while others like to linger. Even when all logical and practical indicators point to the fact that the band-aid needs to come off at some point, I still prefer to peel it off gently, hoping again to dilute the pain. Probably frustrated with this situation of band-aid “no-man’s-land”, I have had the band-aid unceremoniously ripped off once or twice by the other person, in the same way as a frustrated mother who is tired of watching that child painstakingly edge the flapping and grubby plaster from their knee will swoop in and rip! And, like the small child, I am left a little bewildered and unsure about whether to be indignant or secretly relieved.
This state of affairs has left me wondering whether there are in fact times when it's better to just "rip" and get it over with. Perhaps ripping is not so bad. Maybe it can be freeing, and positive, and bold. So, in an unprecedented move, I decided to rip off the band-aid that had been on my paper-sliced finger - just to see how it felt. And then I just ... walked away!! Ah, not so bad after all. In fact, I think it means my finger is now truly ready for its next adventure without carrying around any excess baggage, so to speak.
I am pretty sure there are two types of people. Those who like to rip band-aids off quickly, and those who prefer to peel them off bit by bit over the course of a number of days/weeks/months. I have a lifetime membership of the latter category. As a child I would take a daily stocktake of the state of the knee and its covering, taking a significant amount of time out of my busy schedule (not) to work on the task of gently separating the two, bit by bit. Being a deliberator and a 'thoughtful' person, I am not one for hasty decisions and have always hoped that if I peel slowly enough, the pain will be diluted to the point of being unrecognisable as pain. This year I have learnt that the same band-aid solutions tend to be applied to matters of the heart. Some people prefer to take quick and decisive measures while others like to linger. Even when all logical and practical indicators point to the fact that the band-aid needs to come off at some point, I still prefer to peel it off gently, hoping again to dilute the pain. Probably frustrated with this situation of band-aid “no-man’s-land”, I have had the band-aid unceremoniously ripped off once or twice by the other person, in the same way as a frustrated mother who is tired of watching that child painstakingly edge the flapping and grubby plaster from their knee will swoop in and rip! And, like the small child, I am left a little bewildered and unsure about whether to be indignant or secretly relieved.
This state of affairs has left me wondering whether there are in fact times when it's better to just "rip" and get it over with. Perhaps ripping is not so bad. Maybe it can be freeing, and positive, and bold. So, in an unprecedented move, I decided to rip off the band-aid that had been on my paper-sliced finger - just to see how it felt. And then I just ... walked away!! Ah, not so bad after all. In fact, I think it means my finger is now truly ready for its next adventure without carrying around any excess baggage, so to speak.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)