Today I rocked somebody's world. Not in the backslapping-ly jubilant 'you rock my world' kind of way. No, I think I managed to creak some one's high horse and dash some of their ill-founded security. And I don't feel at all bad or remorseful for having done it.
I was buttering my toast at work having - as always - run out of time to eat breakfast at home, when one of the trainers jocularly asked me if I wanted Vegemite with that.
Before I go further I need to explain a bit about my workplace.
For the last 5 years (almost 6) I have worked in the office of a training company. Generally speaking it is an excellent, though dull, place to work. I like nearly everybody I work with, and those I'm not so keen on rarely cause me grief, we are just never going to be besties. They accommodate me when I'm crampy and menstrual and on days when I am so bored with the work that spending hours surfing through Wikipedia is the only way to maintain my sanity. But there are some aspects of my workplace that result in me spending the bus ride home clenching my teeth and fretting that I've either been to harsh or too lenient (usually the latter) in confronting some of the day's events. To say that many of my colleagues' worldviews run contrary to mine is not only an understatement, it's assuming they can see beyond their own mortgages and plasma screens. Others upset and annoy me more because they do have an interest in the world, yet they allow their colleagues, and occasionally themselves, to indulge in some rather gross examples of bigotry. My days at work are peppered with moments of stomach-twisting racism that I almost always ignore, studiously turning my head the other way and pretending I can't hear their hate. Of course I am sure that the dozen or so times that I have voiced my disagreement or offence at their proclamations are well remembered by those who feel I have either ruined their fun, or brought the dreaded curse of political correctness into their world - my usual silent acquiescence to the majority culture of the office goes entirely unnoticed.
Back to breakfast.
This particular trainer is undeniably a nice man. He is also undeniably a stupid rube whose latent insecurity manifests by being either terrified or aggro towards anyone who isn't white, working class, heterosexual and slow witted. He bitches about all of 'The Asians' who are, I don't know, breathing his air, or some such offence. He once asked me to warn him if there are any women on the course (99+% of our students are men) and I am still not sure why. The man openly admits to 'getting chills' when he sees a Muslim name on his roll list. He also discusses 'The Jews' with the wariness of one who thinks that The Protocols of the Elders of Zion may not be a crack-pot theory kept alive by the overactive imagination of home-schooled hicks with more fingers than teeth. He doesn't say 'Jews are evil and fly to their SINagogues using the rendered fat of unbaptised Christian children as rocket fuel', but he does manage to make the word 'Jew' rhyme with 'Christ Killing Scum'. The latest in the Jewish comments occurred a couple of weeks ago and I made it very clear that I was unhappy. I thumped my moisturiser bottle down, feeling a stab of righteous glee when it skidded noisily across my desk, swept out of the room and clip clopped down the hall to cool off in the toilets. In truth my dramatic turn was in part a result of not being able to find my brand new $15 tweezers, and I had planned to go to the bathroom to pluck my eyebrows anyway, but it felt fantastic to make the statement.
Back to breakfast. Again.
I hate Vegemite, I always have. So I said so. I knew that I was tempting fate, becuase I am well rehearsed in the standard response to to a born and bred Anglo Aussie saying that they don't like Vegemite; Shock. It's a fucking spread people, not an admission of flag-burning! I can't pretend that I would have said it the same way to someone else. 'Nah, I don't like it much' would have been fine, but instead I emphatically, even challengingly, said, 'No, I hate Vegemite'.
'Really', 'Yeah'. Pause. Pause. I was staring him in the eye, daring him to say it, then; 'Not liking Vegemite, that's (Sing along, you know the words) UnAustralian'. Bingo. He was of course joking, but I still saw a moment to make a point. What about the 'Australian' idea of a fair go? Of egalitarianism? Of decency? (As an aside, how revoltingly conceited is it that some people, like this chap, pretend that these ideals are exclusively Australian? As though no other races and creeds value fairness and decency.) So I said, 'I hate Australia'. My mind had started to form a grand narrative in which I would explain that I consider his attitudes far more 'UnAustralian' than my distaste for yeast spread and I thought that I could stun him into listening to it with my juvenile statement (yes, I knew at the time that it was a juvenile and puerile thing to say). I had assumed that he would realise that I was joking, or being annoyingly facetious in the way that my generation so enjoys and tell me off. This would open up the opportunity for me to explain why I had said it, assure him of my genuine love of my country while reserving my right to criticise it (which is one of the things I love about it) and aid him in reaching a higher level of self awareness that would ripple across our land leading to complete racial harmony in under six months. I am serious, I did kind of think that it could happen that way. Or rather my overactive daydream-drive was manufacturing this scenario and fooling my rationality into believing it was possible.
Give me a break, it all happened in the space of seconds and I admit that I really messed up my personal attempt at Healing the World. But as I stared at him, waiting for him to break the moment with chiding humour (the man is a dab hand at deadpan humour, I really thought he'd get the joke) I saw the look of worry, fear even, spread across his face.
'But only as a joke, right?', he really wasn't sure.
A white girl, a proper Australian, one that has 'airs' and is PC, but a person he knows just said the unthinkable. I let him sweat, and I enjoyed it. One second. Two? I swept past him with my freshly buttered toast saying, 'Of course, but I hate Vegemite, it tastes like poo'.
I particularly liked my use of the childish 'poo', I fancy that it made the whole exchange more disconcerting; evil and innocence colliding in his mind. Hell, that maybe be pushing it, but I was smiling broadly as I left the room.
I kept thinking about what had happened, usually I would have felt incredibly guilty for causing anyone to have that look on their face, 'stricken' is not much of an exaggeration, but not today and I doubt I ever will look back on this with regret. I think there is a childish sadism behind my glee, he (and nearly all of my workmates) have caused my heart to fall, my stomach to twist and even my throat to thicken with their racism and small-mindedness. I am not one to choke up when they are confronted with the uglier sides of human beings, but these are people that I know, like and care for. They are not a faceless other, they are normal, good people who's vision is blurred by fear and hatred of the unknown and unfamiliar. But today I turned the tables. I caused him that same confusion and slump-shouldered weariness that has been a regular feature of my working days for nearly 6 years and I revel in the payback.
Writing this has lifted what has often felt like the weight of the world from my shoulders, but I am concerned about upsetting the 1 or 2 of my workmates who read this blog. It is only out of concern and respect for them that I haven't mentioned any of this on here earlier, but I don't think I did anyone any favours by not exposing (albeit rather privately) their tacit approval of the culture of bigotry and hate that permeates our office.
Time to get a new job.
Sorry to the Vegemite lovers, I'm sure that you all have excellent taste in clothes, music and reading material, if not in food.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered
Apparently I only get to write one post about not being able to write a post. Or so they say. And yes, 'They' are The Wizards.
I am well and truly over the somewhat unspectacular, though painful, bout of bloggers block that has plagued me since leaving the Pitjantjatjara Lands back in September, and I am now ready to exploit it for all of the comedic worth I can muster! Your upholstered seats are quite safe, I am not yet up to wee-inducing hilarity.
After writing about working on the Pit Lands I found it impossible to consider writing about anything frivolous or trivial, which is quite unfortunate as most of the bugs flying around my brain are beautiful, and basically useless, butterfly's rather than industrious bees.
I was also reticent to write any more about indigenous issues seeing as how I am not indigenous, have a limited understanding (and even interest) of the issues and because I had found the process of being up there and of writing about it incredibly depressing.
This is the main reason I bowed out of the blogosphere; debilitating, hateful, ponderous depression (see, I’m not yet up to hilarity).
It wasn't just being up there that did it, but it didn't help. Being unable to find work (thanks to an evil, painful wrist injury), which led to being poor and living with my mother and generally hating the complete arse I had made of my once promising life was getting me down. I'm funny like that.
I wanted to write about the election, for the first time since ‘96 I was hopeful and with three weeks to go I was relatively confident of us ousting Howard, but the dreaded blogger's block prevailed.
I wanted to write about some of the fabulously crappy shows I was watching on Ma's Foxtel, but blogger's block prevailed.
I wanted to write about the insanity of a public health system that would sideline an otherwise healthy and employable person on a waiting list for 6+ months rather than springing for the $1500 it would cost to fix her wrist. Keep in mind that a 6 month period of being on Centrelink because I couldn't work would have cost at least $5000. In the end my parent's paid. Oh yeah, and I couldn't write because of bloggers block. And because I was medically unfit to type. On a sidebar, how lame is that? 'Medically unfit to type'? I know someone who is completely and utterly blind who can type! Again, I sucked.
As I recovered from my surgery, graduated (!) and generally started to gather the trappings of a successful life, I found that I was still struggling to drag myself out of the jaws of the Black Dog.
I couldn't be bothered applying for jobs that I knew I'd be bored stiff in and with no chance for promotion. I also couldn't apply for jobs that wouldn't be boring, and would have chance for promotion, but would involve working for planetary gang-rapists. Outside of this coterie of career-crapness there is not a lot of choice in 'Delaide. I was slipping down the Dog's gullet. Again. This situation is not new to me, only the causes were shiny and vacuum-packed. One completely unhelpful, in fact borderline abusive (verbally, no handsies) counsellor (Adelaide Uni Counselling Service, I think his name was Mark) once posited that I had suffered from depressive bouts since early since childhood. He's probably right, but for other reasons he is also a complete and utter, big, fat c-word.
And then the opportunity to shock myself out of my funk and lop off the right leg of the beast! My sister needed a house mate, stat. I had almost no money to do the move, but on the plus side I had almost no money to do the move! No one else got it either.
Without money, but with bills coming in I had one choice, I had to get work. Getting out of the house, even if it meant missing The Hotel Inspector and being bored senseless all day was the only way I could move on. Within a couple of weeks I had enthusiastically accepted some temporary work with my old employer (dull, but comfy) and life started again.
One morning, on my way to work, a chap got on the bus that caught my attention. He was wearing typical blue-collar work wear. All labels read Hard Yakka and his shirt and shorts had clearly been worn whilst doing something tough and manly, but they were neatly pressed and his shirt was tucked around his belly. He had a neat little row of pens in his top pocket. His self-cut, shoulder-length straggles were neatly parted in the middle and combed down with zealously applied hair gel and his half-dead Rossi Boots were buffed 'til they reflected my none too subtle gaze. The effect was unusual and quite sweet, he looked like a bricklaying Hobbit. He got off at the TAFE and I realised the significance of the neat row of pens. Each morning he would get on the bus, his enthusiasm undiminished, his boots a little less shiny and seeing him always made me smile.
I wanted to write about this scene so badly, I had found it very touching and I wanted to share it, but mostly I wanted to share the insight that it had given me. I needed to write about this moment because it marked my return to the world. I hadn't been around strangers for months, aside from the soul destroying Centrelink queue, which had left me with nothing of interest to write about. I didn't end up blogging it back in February because I was so (pleasurably) exhausted by my newly reinvigorated life that I frankly could not be fagged. Also, I felt protective of my own realisation about my withdrawal; I wasn't ready to share it, though I was oddly proud of it.
Since then (February) I have had so many moments, events and occasions that I wanted to write about, but I knew I had to write about the Hobbit first.
See you in the world.
I am well and truly over the somewhat unspectacular, though painful, bout of bloggers block that has plagued me since leaving the Pitjantjatjara Lands back in September, and I am now ready to exploit it for all of the comedic worth I can muster! Your upholstered seats are quite safe, I am not yet up to wee-inducing hilarity.
After writing about working on the Pit Lands I found it impossible to consider writing about anything frivolous or trivial, which is quite unfortunate as most of the bugs flying around my brain are beautiful, and basically useless, butterfly's rather than industrious bees.
I was also reticent to write any more about indigenous issues seeing as how I am not indigenous, have a limited understanding (and even interest) of the issues and because I had found the process of being up there and of writing about it incredibly depressing.
This is the main reason I bowed out of the blogosphere; debilitating, hateful, ponderous depression (see, I’m not yet up to hilarity).
It wasn't just being up there that did it, but it didn't help. Being unable to find work (thanks to an evil, painful wrist injury), which led to being poor and living with my mother and generally hating the complete arse I had made of my once promising life was getting me down. I'm funny like that.
I wanted to write about the election, for the first time since ‘96 I was hopeful and with three weeks to go I was relatively confident of us ousting Howard, but the dreaded blogger's block prevailed.
I wanted to write about some of the fabulously crappy shows I was watching on Ma's Foxtel, but blogger's block prevailed.
I wanted to write about the insanity of a public health system that would sideline an otherwise healthy and employable person on a waiting list for 6+ months rather than springing for the $1500 it would cost to fix her wrist. Keep in mind that a 6 month period of being on Centrelink because I couldn't work would have cost at least $5000. In the end my parent's paid. Oh yeah, and I couldn't write because of bloggers block. And because I was medically unfit to type. On a sidebar, how lame is that? 'Medically unfit to type'? I know someone who is completely and utterly blind who can type! Again, I sucked.
As I recovered from my surgery, graduated (!) and generally started to gather the trappings of a successful life, I found that I was still struggling to drag myself out of the jaws of the Black Dog.
I couldn't be bothered applying for jobs that I knew I'd be bored stiff in and with no chance for promotion. I also couldn't apply for jobs that wouldn't be boring, and would have chance for promotion, but would involve working for planetary gang-rapists. Outside of this coterie of career-crapness there is not a lot of choice in 'Delaide. I was slipping down the Dog's gullet. Again. This situation is not new to me, only the causes were shiny and vacuum-packed. One completely unhelpful, in fact borderline abusive (verbally, no handsies) counsellor (Adelaide Uni Counselling Service, I think his name was Mark) once posited that I had suffered from depressive bouts since early since childhood. He's probably right, but for other reasons he is also a complete and utter, big, fat c-word.
And then the opportunity to shock myself out of my funk and lop off the right leg of the beast! My sister needed a house mate, stat. I had almost no money to do the move, but on the plus side I had almost no money to do the move! No one else got it either.
Without money, but with bills coming in I had one choice, I had to get work. Getting out of the house, even if it meant missing The Hotel Inspector and being bored senseless all day was the only way I could move on. Within a couple of weeks I had enthusiastically accepted some temporary work with my old employer (dull, but comfy) and life started again.
One morning, on my way to work, a chap got on the bus that caught my attention. He was wearing typical blue-collar work wear. All labels read Hard Yakka and his shirt and shorts had clearly been worn whilst doing something tough and manly, but they were neatly pressed and his shirt was tucked around his belly. He had a neat little row of pens in his top pocket. His self-cut, shoulder-length straggles were neatly parted in the middle and combed down with zealously applied hair gel and his half-dead Rossi Boots were buffed 'til they reflected my none too subtle gaze. The effect was unusual and quite sweet, he looked like a bricklaying Hobbit. He got off at the TAFE and I realised the significance of the neat row of pens. Each morning he would get on the bus, his enthusiasm undiminished, his boots a little less shiny and seeing him always made me smile.
I wanted to write about this scene so badly, I had found it very touching and I wanted to share it, but mostly I wanted to share the insight that it had given me. I needed to write about this moment because it marked my return to the world. I hadn't been around strangers for months, aside from the soul destroying Centrelink queue, which had left me with nothing of interest to write about. I didn't end up blogging it back in February because I was so (pleasurably) exhausted by my newly reinvigorated life that I frankly could not be fagged. Also, I felt protective of my own realisation about my withdrawal; I wasn't ready to share it, though I was oddly proud of it.
Since then (February) I have had so many moments, events and occasions that I wanted to write about, but I knew I had to write about the Hobbit first.
See you in the world.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Life Serial
Forgive the picaresque nature of this post, but I would like to cover as much as I can in as short a time as possible. My prolonged disappearance from the blog world, no it wasn’t just yours, is owed to minor (though bloody painful) surgery that kept me from being able to type. It’s almost healed now and I look forward to not only rejoining the blogosphere, but also to rejoining the paid workforce within the next couple of weeks. Hurrah!
I have had a rather intense few weeks. I turned 28, but was so drugged out and nauseous after my operation that I barely noticed it. I have gone from having dull, chronic pain, to intense, acute, debilitating pain, to now being almost pain free for the first time in 9 months. I started, completed, submitted and received my mark for the last essay of my degree. For one week I teen-sat for the easiest (in the non-slut way) and sweetest (don’t even think about licking her) 16 year old in existence. I spent sleepless hours thinking about how I can re-jig my ‘Hellmouth’ pieces for the mainstream (now I can type, it shouldn’t be too long before I start hounding some of you for your thoughts on my mini-opus, opi? Whatever). I have been repeatedly reminded of the importance of having a close group of ladies around me, including those from across the generational divide, to keep me happy and sane. I spent hours studying the Federal Election 2007 Form Guide in order to announce my prediction; I’ve correctly called the winner of the SA and Federal elections since I was 6 years old (I suspect my success in the 80s had more to do with keeping my Labor-minded parentals happy than it did with any prodigal tendencies). Once more my political nose prevailed, though I was far from certain and had butterflies and squirms in my tummy that were only vaguely related to the massive bender of Friday the 23rd of November. I have joined the populous in saying ‘Goodbye!’ to the most destructive, divisive and ill-conceived ‘leadership’ of this country’s history.
So how about that election? Is not Julia Gillard the epitome of sassy-smartypantsness? God I love her, and going by the huge cheers she got from the Tally Room’s public gallery, I am not alone. While I am Thuh-rilled by the booting of Howard et al, I can’t say I am hugely excited by election of the ALP at this time. Or at any other time since my birth. In fact they weren’t that spectacular before then (think ‘blind eye’ to the invasion of
You’ve seen this image before, but now I am relaunching it for a new era.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Halloween
I know we Antipodean types don't hold much truck with the whole Halloween thing, what's the point of a holiday when you still have to work? But this has to be seen:
Oz was never like this! This is one of many routines available on YouTube (blessed be) brought to you by "1,500 plus CPDRC inmates of the Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center, Cebu" in the Philipenes. They wish to assure you that "This is not the final routine, and definitely not a punishment! just a teaser." WooHoo! There's more to come!
A quick browse through the poster's vid list shows the hardened convicts performing routines to the sounds of the Blackeyed Peas, Queen's "Radio GaGa" and most excitingly (I'll be checking it out as soon as I've finished this post) "I Will Follow Him" a la Sister Act. Complete with nun! I wonder if the nun will be played by the same very evocative (though balding) chap who played Michael's Girlfriend in the Thriller clip?
A real post will be up by the end of the day, promise.
The new post is the next one down, I started it a few days ago....
Oz was never like this! This is one of many routines available on YouTube (blessed be) brought to you by "1,500 plus CPDRC inmates of the Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center, Cebu" in the Philipenes. They wish to assure you that "This is not the final routine, and definitely not a punishment! just a teaser." WooHoo! There's more to come!
A quick browse through the poster's vid list shows the hardened convicts performing routines to the sounds of the Blackeyed Peas, Queen's "Radio GaGa" and most excitingly (I'll be checking it out as soon as I've finished this post) "I Will Follow Him" a la Sister Act. Complete with nun! I wonder if the nun will be played by the same very evocative (though balding) chap who played Michael's Girlfriend in the Thriller clip?
A real post will be up by the end of the day, promise.
The new post is the next one down, I started it a few days ago....
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Welcome to the Hellmouth: Part 2
If I don't write this now, I never will. Further, if I don't do a final write up about working on the Pitjantjatjara Lands, I may never write here again. I've been tempted to blog about other, happier, funner stuff, but I knew that if I did that, I'd never write up this last, closing post. I'll try to address all of the issues that I can think of, as well as giving an opinion on the questions that I have been asked since I got back.
When I first wrote about going up there I was of the opinion that you had to be a bit of a crusader to be able to do the work, now I'm convinced that crusaders need not apply. Rose coloured spectacles and pity will not help anyone out there. Big ideas people are needed in the relevant Departments and in policy making bodies, not at the coal-face; there a focused mind and a tough but fair approach is needed (ghastly cliches will abound in this post, soz). Where I was staying is a bit of a mess, or rather it's a pigsty, somewhat like my bedroom, and it needs a massive devotion of energy, time and (judiciously spent) funds. Yet I was repeatedly told that the Community I was staying in was the nicest/cleanest/quietest on the Pitjtantjatjara Lands. Scary.
There are so many issues and realities that disturbed me up there that I hardly know where to begin. I'll have to resort to interviewing myself to be able to get anywhere.
So what is so bad up there? What hit you the most?
In no particular order; the people's inability to use money in a responsible way, lack of personal responsibility for their actions, the openness of domestic violence, the lack of proper nutrition, the lack of personal hygiene, the way kids were never disciplined, the exploitation of the elderly, the expectation that some white will do work that they don't want to do (I quote, 'you're white, you will do it for me'. Nice), animal abuse and the people's lack of understanding of the world outside of the Lands.
In greater detail please...
Money
There is a campaign from the NT government and various NT indigenous bodies to educate people about money. Everything, from not giving your PIN number out to other people, to not buying the first thing you see when you have available cash. At first I thought the ads were targeting a small number of people, but the longer I stayed I could see that issues surrounding the responsible use of money are huge. I really can't explain in quantifiable terms what the problem is, it's almost like they don't really understand how money works, they know that they need it to buy things, but that's as deep as it goes. Some examples: a couple got a $10,000 tax cheque, bought two cars from a dealer at Mintabie that EVERYONE knows is dodgy (including the couple), the cars died within days - goodbye $10, 000. The same car dealer convinced people to give him their key cards and PINs to pay off cars. A bank that shall not be named (I believe that the appropriate question is "Which Bank...?") was approving loans of up to $20, 000 to people on Centrelink who can barely speak English, and therefore did not understand any of the terms etc, this has since been referred to an ombudsman. These three situations involved people being duped in one way or another, but in other situations no one can be 'blamed'.
The people really do live for their kids, unfortunately this lovely sentiment is frequently interpreted as allowing their kids anything and everything that they want. One lovely little chap, all of 8, has his own little motorised dirt bike to hightail around town in, but no shoes. One mother bought her 2 year old son a pedal car on the day that she received her CDEP payment and stole money from her own mum so that she could eat for the rest of the week. 4 days later the toy was trashed, left upside down under the peppercorn trees. The woman who runs the store told me that on days that art cheques come in it gets really insane. She has seen a 2 year old clutching a $50 note and buying whatever he wanted, he wanted motor coolant (presumably because it was bright green etc) so he got it. She has also seen the older people - being mobbed by family with outstretched claws - when they have received cheques, the cash barely hitting their hands before being wrenched away by the horde.
Some of the artists earn 6 figures a year, yet they live in squalor and poverty because as soon as a cheque comes through, everyone that they are vaguely related to hovers over them asking for money. I understand that there is a (potentially wonderful) sense of communalism and family at the source of this, but the reality is that a whole heap of lazy, younger people are bullying little old ladies into giving over all of their money. I could always tell when artists cheques had come in because of the calls I'd get from various relatives and friends asking me to fax the money over to them. It was like a pack of vultures closing in on a dying animal. I guess this ties into my anger at the way some of the elderly are treated. One young man actually hit an 80+ year old woman and poured her tea all over her canvas because she didn't give him enough money. Pa gave him a serve over it and it was then decided that the worse thing that had happened was that Pa had 'growled' at the waste of space, not that said waste of space was bashing old ladies. In the past, in a traditional setting, sharing the spoils of a hunt with the entire clan made sense, everyone would be able to eat and kudos would go to the provider. But cash isn't as easily distributed, there will be winners and losers and frequently it is the elderly who are missing out.
With the combination of Centrelink, CDEP (Commonwealth and Development Program), artist's cheques, fledgling tourism, almost entirely subsidised housing etc, no one should be struggling to eat, stay healthy and get on with life. But many are. Someone, the councils, governments, whoever, needs to get serious about teaching the people how to handle money as a matter of urgency.
Responsibility
At the risk using a hoary and offensive chestnut like 'they are just like children', I lack another basis for comparison when talking about some of their actions. I don't doubt that their intellectual capacity is the same as everyone else's and I feel very uncomfortable with using the comparison, but it is the only one I have. I've tried to think of another, less value laden way to express the 'they're just like children' idea and the best I can come up with is the qualifier 'with white fella ways...'. It's still not a particularly agreeable phrase, any ideas for an alternative out there?
No one ever takes responsibility for their mistakes/stuff ups/accidents etc. People will claim credit for their 'good' actions with glee, but will either shirk, lie or place blame on others to avoid taking responsibility for their actions when things go awry. If something was stolen from the community kitty (equipment, machinery, petrol, a tap) it was ALWAYS someone from another community, preferably someone from over the border. If something is broken and there is no one from out of town to blame it is blamed on the anonymous mass of 'kids'. I am not referring to the children as being an anonymous mass, it is the fact that no one will take responsibility for their children's actions and assume that simply blaming these faceless 'kids' will ensure that no one will have to take responsibility. One of the communities was without TV for a fortnight, dire for a TV fan like me, impossible for people who do little else besides watching it all day and night. Everyone wanted it fixed, but due to the lack of money in the community fund (which should be topped up by the community for minor emergencies, but just try getting any donations out of people) it couldn't be done. Predictably the nameless kids were blamed, probably quite fairly, but these kids have parents and not one of them came forward to offer help in realigning the satellite etc.
Here there is a cultural divide between what I see as taking responsibility for your actions and what the Anangu see as being shamed. From what I could gather, being shamed is the worst thing you can do to someone. It was the error that Pa made when he 'growled' at the boy (initiation be damned, no man would do that) for beating the old woman. Pa knew the line he was crossing, but he was too riled to care. By taking responsibility for your actions you are admitting blame, and therefore shame. Don't ask me what to do about this one, it's one of the many times when the cultural divide may be too wide to stitch together.
The flip side to this is that you need to understand that many of the concepts that Westerners have been au fait with since childhood are relatively foreign to the Anangu. The whole money issue ties into this. Other ways that it crops up can been relatively easily seen if you listen closely to the way people speak, for example the English words that are used in conversations that are otherwise spoken entirely in Pitjantjatjara. Words like 'yesterday', 'today' and 'tomorrow' will be peppered through conversations in Pitjantjatjara. According to Anangu people I spoke with the number 3 is as high as Pitjantjatjara goes. From these differences in language it is easy to see some major differences between our respective cultures. It's little wonder that you can almost never count on someone to be on time etc, which is annoying if you're working up there, but can lead to people getting in huge amounts of trouble if they miss a very important date (Centrelink, court etc).
I had a conversation with a woman who couldn't understand why her keycard wasn't working in the store. I looked at the card, it had been sticky taped up after being broken in half. I was unable to make her understand that the card wouldn't work because she was convinced that her money was in her card and that by sticking it back together she had stopped the money from spilling out. She didn't see the difference between the card as a symbol that enabled her to access her money, and the money itself. It's actually a pretty tricky concept when you think about it, but Westerners learn it when we are very, very young and so forget that it isn't a clear and easy idea. It is probably similar to me trying to get my head around the concept of The Dreaming being past, present and future, mystical, spiritual and mundane all at once. Other people where quite confused by the various 'white' agencies that they have to deal with, i.e. wanting to contact Centrelink because they needed a new keycard, or getting angry with the bank because they haven't received all of their CDEP pay. With gaps in cultural understanding like this it becomes clear that you need to start from a position that assumes no prior knowledge, without being patronising when you are teaching. It's incredibly difficult.
Domestic Violence
I don't know if domestic violence is any more prevalent in remote indigenous communities than it is in the wider community, but it is more open. Women are bottom of the heap and many of the men don't want them to forget it. Pa said to me, very early on during my stay, 'The women hold the real power, as you can imagine'. I let this vaguely cryptic comment slide, fully expecting my colonialist feminism to be dealt a massive blow by the end of my time there. It wasn't, and aside from the women deciding 'when children will be born' (quoting Pa there) I can see no sign that they have any real power within the community. Apparently women's magic is more powerful, which presumably leads to resentment from the men who treat them horribly on this non-mystical plain. Colonialism, be damned. Cultural relativists turn away now (and go back to la-la land): the women here are so downtrodden and abused it had me seething and sobbing with anger. I am relieved that I was never aware of any beatings while they were occurring because I am really worried about how I would have reacted. Part of me is terrified that I would have used my key to the gun cabinet and gone vigilante, on the other hand I am even more appalled by the prospect of my not doing anything at all.
I had dealings several times a week with men who everyone knew had killed previous wives. There were odd facial characteristics on some women that I later came to realise were the scars from years of beatings. The oldest, and ugliest, 45 year old I have ever seen was once considered the most beautiful woman in the area. Her husband had literally butchered is previous wife and now uses her as a punching bag. Like I said before, no man does that, only a terrified and pathetic little boy with big muscles. Fucker. I know the generally accepted argument here is that the disempowered men are hitting out at the only people who they perceive as being lower than themselves (although no one has then explained how wealthy and influential wife-beaters tie into this equation), But I think there is some deeper cultural issues here. Nearly all societies on the planet are traditionally misogynistic, this isn't a special issue for the Anangu in that way, but the current situation is disgusting.
I was writing an essay on the problems of using universalist notions of right and wrong in relation to women in non-Western cultures while I was up on the Lands. I found it almost impossible to write an academic article on this while I was immersed in an environment where I was so keenly aware of the secondary status of women. I threw a book across the room when some idiot tried to say that spiritual power trumps political power in some cultures. What good does magic do against a split lip, black eye and broken rib?
Nutrition
No one cooks, it's microwaved frozen pizzas and hamburgers all round. Yes, the food is expensive, but, no the store is not making a killing, it just costs a bomb to get the food out there. Meals made from fresh fruit and vegetables, with carbohydrates and some meat would cost less, but the people don't know how to cook. Pa's trying to get a community kitchen going, but the last I heard he has come to realise that it is too big an undertaking for them at this point. Basic food handling concepts, like not using the same spoon to both taste test and stir a communal meal, is completely foreign and people must be constantly reminded of it. Which leads on to...
Hygiene
I am by no means a neat freak. I am actually pretty lax, lax to the point of ewwww. Some of my closest friends still affectionately remind me of the squalor of my first flat, it had several types of mold and fungi - I was on a first name basis with all of them. In short I am not squeamish, but my stomach turned on more than one occasion while I was up there. Scabies, gastro-bugs, STI's and other communicable diseases are massive problems. There are exceptions, but for the most part people do not wash themselves, their clothes or their houses, and thus the disease spreads. Kids sport the stereotypical dry snot and flies look, while they play in dirt that is strewn with dog poo. I have spoken of the smells, and I don't want to relive it, but I do have to say that I have never before been with children, who are post-nappy and pre-pubescent BO issues, who have had a repellent smell. I had a recurring thought of these kids being in Adelaide for Christmas (the Lands are deserted during Christmas) and not understanding why other children will not play with them.
Why is it the way it is?
The simple answer is that successive government policies have right-royally fucked things up. A basic timeline: the initial invasion of the land, the declaration of terra nullius, the stolen children, indentured workers (stock men etc), the implementation of the return ownership and the policies to rectify the atrocities of the past, utter demonisation by the Howard Government. All of these, including the policies that every good lefty should support, has contributed to things being the unmitigated shambles that it currently is. I won't bother explaining why I think that the majority of these where bad, it is self evident. But what was wrong with implementation of the return of the lands and the various policies implemented to rectify the atrocities of the past? Here is another basic timeline: Stone-age hunter-gatherer culture, invasion and disempowerment, dehumanisation (not citizens until 1967!), indentured and forced workers, limited education possibilities for the majority of indigenous people and then; "Here, have a multi-million dollar corporation and welfare/guilt money- but don't fuck it up". I think that succinctly sums up my argument, but feel free to ask for clarification.
What needs to be done?
I don't know!! I was there for 4 weeks and I am not claiming to be an expert. The majority of these issues could be solved with appropriate education programs being run and given the time needed to work (i.e. longer than the voting cycle). But how do you teach an adult how to wash themselves without being a patronising git? How do you then maintain the momentum for these programs when the initial trainers will move on to the next community, leaving the full time staff to continue on with them - keeping in mind that most staff stay for approximately 12 months in one community? What would be the best way to finance these programs? There is a hell of a lot of money up here already, and yet it never seems to do any good. There are so many different State and Federal departments, programs and bureaucracies involved in funding the Lands that it is almost impossible to use money from one line item without applying to another jurisdiction's accounts department for permission to use the funds. It makes it very difficult to get anything done. There is also lot of graft, there are plenty of cases where huge amounts of money have been embezzled by unscrupulous types and most seem to have gotten away with it scott free.
I think that the only way to 'fix' the situation up there is for a concerted effort to be made by CoAG to streamline the funding systems, RESEARCH what is needed up there (by spending time up there and talking with both the Anangu and the staff), and then to implement the changes with vim, vigour and cash. Also, the Anangu need to get their shit together. They need to take responsibility for their future. But we, the great Austrayan public need to accept that it is going to take time for them to change. Aside from the massive cultural change that will be needed on their part, we need to accept and support them working through the trauma that they as individuals, families, a culture and nations have suffered. The 'get over it' approach is so unfair. We accept that individuals who have (for example) been torn away from their parents, placed in state care, abused in state care and then rejected by society are going to have a bloody hard time adjusting to the world. Every third episode of Law and Order: SVU revolves around this premise in one way or another, so why are we unable to see that the same applies to indigenous Australians? There is most definitely a point in every survivor's life when they have to decide to either sink into the hole that was dug for them, or clamber out under their own steam and against the odds. This is no different for the Anangu, although I argue that it is even more difficult for them than for a white person who has been through a similar ordeal because they have to deal with a society that expects them to stuff up; and hates them for it.
There it is, Thank God I could leave.
Big thank yous to Harms and MtK, without your electronic support I really could not have coped.
When I first wrote about going up there I was of the opinion that you had to be a bit of a crusader to be able to do the work, now I'm convinced that crusaders need not apply. Rose coloured spectacles and pity will not help anyone out there. Big ideas people are needed in the relevant Departments and in policy making bodies, not at the coal-face; there a focused mind and a tough but fair approach is needed (ghastly cliches will abound in this post, soz). Where I was staying is a bit of a mess, or rather it's a pigsty, somewhat like my bedroom, and it needs a massive devotion of energy, time and (judiciously spent) funds. Yet I was repeatedly told that the Community I was staying in was the nicest/cleanest/quietest on the Pitjtantjatjara Lands. Scary.
There are so many issues and realities that disturbed me up there that I hardly know where to begin. I'll have to resort to interviewing myself to be able to get anywhere.
So what is so bad up there? What hit you the most?
In no particular order; the people's inability to use money in a responsible way, lack of personal responsibility for their actions, the openness of domestic violence, the lack of proper nutrition, the lack of personal hygiene, the way kids were never disciplined, the exploitation of the elderly, the expectation that some white will do work that they don't want to do (I quote, 'you're white, you will do it for me'. Nice), animal abuse and the people's lack of understanding of the world outside of the Lands.
In greater detail please...
Money
There is a campaign from the NT government and various NT indigenous bodies to educate people about money. Everything, from not giving your PIN number out to other people, to not buying the first thing you see when you have available cash. At first I thought the ads were targeting a small number of people, but the longer I stayed I could see that issues surrounding the responsible use of money are huge. I really can't explain in quantifiable terms what the problem is, it's almost like they don't really understand how money works, they know that they need it to buy things, but that's as deep as it goes. Some examples: a couple got a $10,000 tax cheque, bought two cars from a dealer at Mintabie that EVERYONE knows is dodgy (including the couple), the cars died within days - goodbye $10, 000. The same car dealer convinced people to give him their key cards and PINs to pay off cars. A bank that shall not be named (I believe that the appropriate question is "Which Bank...?") was approving loans of up to $20, 000 to people on Centrelink who can barely speak English, and therefore did not understand any of the terms etc, this has since been referred to an ombudsman. These three situations involved people being duped in one way or another, but in other situations no one can be 'blamed'.
The people really do live for their kids, unfortunately this lovely sentiment is frequently interpreted as allowing their kids anything and everything that they want. One lovely little chap, all of 8, has his own little motorised dirt bike to hightail around town in, but no shoes. One mother bought her 2 year old son a pedal car on the day that she received her CDEP payment and stole money from her own mum so that she could eat for the rest of the week. 4 days later the toy was trashed, left upside down under the peppercorn trees. The woman who runs the store told me that on days that art cheques come in it gets really insane. She has seen a 2 year old clutching a $50 note and buying whatever he wanted, he wanted motor coolant (presumably because it was bright green etc) so he got it. She has also seen the older people - being mobbed by family with outstretched claws - when they have received cheques, the cash barely hitting their hands before being wrenched away by the horde.
Some of the artists earn 6 figures a year, yet they live in squalor and poverty because as soon as a cheque comes through, everyone that they are vaguely related to hovers over them asking for money. I understand that there is a (potentially wonderful) sense of communalism and family at the source of this, but the reality is that a whole heap of lazy, younger people are bullying little old ladies into giving over all of their money. I could always tell when artists cheques had come in because of the calls I'd get from various relatives and friends asking me to fax the money over to them. It was like a pack of vultures closing in on a dying animal. I guess this ties into my anger at the way some of the elderly are treated. One young man actually hit an 80+ year old woman and poured her tea all over her canvas because she didn't give him enough money. Pa gave him a serve over it and it was then decided that the worse thing that had happened was that Pa had 'growled' at the waste of space, not that said waste of space was bashing old ladies. In the past, in a traditional setting, sharing the spoils of a hunt with the entire clan made sense, everyone would be able to eat and kudos would go to the provider. But cash isn't as easily distributed, there will be winners and losers and frequently it is the elderly who are missing out.
With the combination of Centrelink, CDEP (Commonwealth and Development Program), artist's cheques, fledgling tourism, almost entirely subsidised housing etc, no one should be struggling to eat, stay healthy and get on with life. But many are. Someone, the councils, governments, whoever, needs to get serious about teaching the people how to handle money as a matter of urgency.
Responsibility
At the risk using a hoary and offensive chestnut like 'they are just like children', I lack another basis for comparison when talking about some of their actions. I don't doubt that their intellectual capacity is the same as everyone else's and I feel very uncomfortable with using the comparison, but it is the only one I have. I've tried to think of another, less value laden way to express the 'they're just like children' idea and the best I can come up with is the qualifier 'with white fella ways...'. It's still not a particularly agreeable phrase, any ideas for an alternative out there?
No one ever takes responsibility for their mistakes/stuff ups/accidents etc. People will claim credit for their 'good' actions with glee, but will either shirk, lie or place blame on others to avoid taking responsibility for their actions when things go awry. If something was stolen from the community kitty (equipment, machinery, petrol, a tap) it was ALWAYS someone from another community, preferably someone from over the border. If something is broken and there is no one from out of town to blame it is blamed on the anonymous mass of 'kids'. I am not referring to the children as being an anonymous mass, it is the fact that no one will take responsibility for their children's actions and assume that simply blaming these faceless 'kids' will ensure that no one will have to take responsibility. One of the communities was without TV for a fortnight, dire for a TV fan like me, impossible for people who do little else besides watching it all day and night. Everyone wanted it fixed, but due to the lack of money in the community fund (which should be topped up by the community for minor emergencies, but just try getting any donations out of people) it couldn't be done. Predictably the nameless kids were blamed, probably quite fairly, but these kids have parents and not one of them came forward to offer help in realigning the satellite etc.
Here there is a cultural divide between what I see as taking responsibility for your actions and what the Anangu see as being shamed. From what I could gather, being shamed is the worst thing you can do to someone. It was the error that Pa made when he 'growled' at the boy (initiation be damned, no man would do that) for beating the old woman. Pa knew the line he was crossing, but he was too riled to care. By taking responsibility for your actions you are admitting blame, and therefore shame. Don't ask me what to do about this one, it's one of the many times when the cultural divide may be too wide to stitch together.
The flip side to this is that you need to understand that many of the concepts that Westerners have been au fait with since childhood are relatively foreign to the Anangu. The whole money issue ties into this. Other ways that it crops up can been relatively easily seen if you listen closely to the way people speak, for example the English words that are used in conversations that are otherwise spoken entirely in Pitjantjatjara. Words like 'yesterday', 'today' and 'tomorrow' will be peppered through conversations in Pitjantjatjara. According to Anangu people I spoke with the number 3 is as high as Pitjantjatjara goes. From these differences in language it is easy to see some major differences between our respective cultures. It's little wonder that you can almost never count on someone to be on time etc, which is annoying if you're working up there, but can lead to people getting in huge amounts of trouble if they miss a very important date (Centrelink, court etc).
I had a conversation with a woman who couldn't understand why her keycard wasn't working in the store. I looked at the card, it had been sticky taped up after being broken in half. I was unable to make her understand that the card wouldn't work because she was convinced that her money was in her card and that by sticking it back together she had stopped the money from spilling out. She didn't see the difference between the card as a symbol that enabled her to access her money, and the money itself. It's actually a pretty tricky concept when you think about it, but Westerners learn it when we are very, very young and so forget that it isn't a clear and easy idea. It is probably similar to me trying to get my head around the concept of The Dreaming being past, present and future, mystical, spiritual and mundane all at once. Other people where quite confused by the various 'white' agencies that they have to deal with, i.e. wanting to contact Centrelink because they needed a new keycard, or getting angry with the bank because they haven't received all of their CDEP pay. With gaps in cultural understanding like this it becomes clear that you need to start from a position that assumes no prior knowledge, without being patronising when you are teaching. It's incredibly difficult.
Domestic Violence
I don't know if domestic violence is any more prevalent in remote indigenous communities than it is in the wider community, but it is more open. Women are bottom of the heap and many of the men don't want them to forget it. Pa said to me, very early on during my stay, 'The women hold the real power, as you can imagine'. I let this vaguely cryptic comment slide, fully expecting my colonialist feminism to be dealt a massive blow by the end of my time there. It wasn't, and aside from the women deciding 'when children will be born' (quoting Pa there) I can see no sign that they have any real power within the community. Apparently women's magic is more powerful, which presumably leads to resentment from the men who treat them horribly on this non-mystical plain. Colonialism, be damned. Cultural relativists turn away now (and go back to la-la land): the women here are so downtrodden and abused it had me seething and sobbing with anger. I am relieved that I was never aware of any beatings while they were occurring because I am really worried about how I would have reacted. Part of me is terrified that I would have used my key to the gun cabinet and gone vigilante, on the other hand I am even more appalled by the prospect of my not doing anything at all.
I had dealings several times a week with men who everyone knew had killed previous wives. There were odd facial characteristics on some women that I later came to realise were the scars from years of beatings. The oldest, and ugliest, 45 year old I have ever seen was once considered the most beautiful woman in the area. Her husband had literally butchered is previous wife and now uses her as a punching bag. Like I said before, no man does that, only a terrified and pathetic little boy with big muscles. Fucker. I know the generally accepted argument here is that the disempowered men are hitting out at the only people who they perceive as being lower than themselves (although no one has then explained how wealthy and influential wife-beaters tie into this equation), But I think there is some deeper cultural issues here. Nearly all societies on the planet are traditionally misogynistic, this isn't a special issue for the Anangu in that way, but the current situation is disgusting.
I was writing an essay on the problems of using universalist notions of right and wrong in relation to women in non-Western cultures while I was up on the Lands. I found it almost impossible to write an academic article on this while I was immersed in an environment where I was so keenly aware of the secondary status of women. I threw a book across the room when some idiot tried to say that spiritual power trumps political power in some cultures. What good does magic do against a split lip, black eye and broken rib?
Nutrition
No one cooks, it's microwaved frozen pizzas and hamburgers all round. Yes, the food is expensive, but, no the store is not making a killing, it just costs a bomb to get the food out there. Meals made from fresh fruit and vegetables, with carbohydrates and some meat would cost less, but the people don't know how to cook. Pa's trying to get a community kitchen going, but the last I heard he has come to realise that it is too big an undertaking for them at this point. Basic food handling concepts, like not using the same spoon to both taste test and stir a communal meal, is completely foreign and people must be constantly reminded of it. Which leads on to...
Hygiene
I am by no means a neat freak. I am actually pretty lax, lax to the point of ewwww. Some of my closest friends still affectionately remind me of the squalor of my first flat, it had several types of mold and fungi - I was on a first name basis with all of them. In short I am not squeamish, but my stomach turned on more than one occasion while I was up there. Scabies, gastro-bugs, STI's and other communicable diseases are massive problems. There are exceptions, but for the most part people do not wash themselves, their clothes or their houses, and thus the disease spreads. Kids sport the stereotypical dry snot and flies look, while they play in dirt that is strewn with dog poo. I have spoken of the smells, and I don't want to relive it, but I do have to say that I have never before been with children, who are post-nappy and pre-pubescent BO issues, who have had a repellent smell. I had a recurring thought of these kids being in Adelaide for Christmas (the Lands are deserted during Christmas) and not understanding why other children will not play with them.
Why is it the way it is?
The simple answer is that successive government policies have right-royally fucked things up. A basic timeline: the initial invasion of the land, the declaration of terra nullius, the stolen children, indentured workers (stock men etc), the implementation of the return ownership and the policies to rectify the atrocities of the past, utter demonisation by the Howard Government. All of these, including the policies that every good lefty should support, has contributed to things being the unmitigated shambles that it currently is. I won't bother explaining why I think that the majority of these where bad, it is self evident. But what was wrong with implementation of the return of the lands and the various policies implemented to rectify the atrocities of the past? Here is another basic timeline: Stone-age hunter-gatherer culture, invasion and disempowerment, dehumanisation (not citizens until 1967!), indentured and forced workers, limited education possibilities for the majority of indigenous people and then; "Here, have a multi-million dollar corporation and welfare/guilt money- but don't fuck it up". I think that succinctly sums up my argument, but feel free to ask for clarification.
What needs to be done?
I don't know!! I was there for 4 weeks and I am not claiming to be an expert. The majority of these issues could be solved with appropriate education programs being run and given the time needed to work (i.e. longer than the voting cycle). But how do you teach an adult how to wash themselves without being a patronising git? How do you then maintain the momentum for these programs when the initial trainers will move on to the next community, leaving the full time staff to continue on with them - keeping in mind that most staff stay for approximately 12 months in one community? What would be the best way to finance these programs? There is a hell of a lot of money up here already, and yet it never seems to do any good. There are so many different State and Federal departments, programs and bureaucracies involved in funding the Lands that it is almost impossible to use money from one line item without applying to another jurisdiction's accounts department for permission to use the funds. It makes it very difficult to get anything done. There is also lot of graft, there are plenty of cases where huge amounts of money have been embezzled by unscrupulous types and most seem to have gotten away with it scott free.
I think that the only way to 'fix' the situation up there is for a concerted effort to be made by CoAG to streamline the funding systems, RESEARCH what is needed up there (by spending time up there and talking with both the Anangu and the staff), and then to implement the changes with vim, vigour and cash. Also, the Anangu need to get their shit together. They need to take responsibility for their future. But we, the great Austrayan public need to accept that it is going to take time for them to change. Aside from the massive cultural change that will be needed on their part, we need to accept and support them working through the trauma that they as individuals, families, a culture and nations have suffered. The 'get over it' approach is so unfair. We accept that individuals who have (for example) been torn away from their parents, placed in state care, abused in state care and then rejected by society are going to have a bloody hard time adjusting to the world. Every third episode of Law and Order: SVU revolves around this premise in one way or another, so why are we unable to see that the same applies to indigenous Australians? There is most definitely a point in every survivor's life when they have to decide to either sink into the hole that was dug for them, or clamber out under their own steam and against the odds. This is no different for the Anangu, although I argue that it is even more difficult for them than for a white person who has been through a similar ordeal because they have to deal with a society that expects them to stuff up; and hates them for it.
There it is, Thank God I could leave.
Big thank yous to Harms and MtK, without your electronic support I really could not have coped.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Hey all - sorry for the lack of comments and updates, I could barely look at this stuff until today, it was just too raw. I'm halfway through about eight posts, all of which are exceedingly difficult to write.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Welcome to the Hellmouth: Part 1
I have had a serious dose of blogger's block. I have plenty to say, but it keeps getting caught between my brain and my fingertips. It all comes down to me self-censoring my thoughts about what I am seeing up here. I don't want to start moaning about how restricted I feel writing about the situation up here, labouring under my burden of white, educated, middle class leftiness, but I guess I need to.
This will be a quick round up of my day, warts and all. The longer I spend out here, the more I see and the more I learn, the more I start to say things that a One Nation candidate would spew out of their vile bilge-hole. I like to think (and man, I hope I'm right) that I am in a different category from the reactionary right because I can see the 'how's' and the 'why's' not just the mess that needs fixing, but I could be wrong. I am wracked with lefty guilt, it's debilitating and bloody stupid, but I just can't seem to work past it.
Here are a few things that happened to me today:
This will be a quick round up of my day, warts and all. The longer I spend out here, the more I see and the more I learn, the more I start to say things that a One Nation candidate would spew out of their vile bilge-hole. I like to think (and man, I hope I'm right) that I am in a different category from the reactionary right because I can see the 'how's' and the 'why's' not just the mess that needs fixing, but I could be wrong. I am wracked with lefty guilt, it's debilitating and bloody stupid, but I just can't seem to work past it.
Here are a few things that happened to me today:
- Friday is mail plane day, all the pays arrive, all the Centrelink cheques come in and it is a shambolic mess at the best of times.
- People who are on CDEP (Community Development and Employment Program) are now expected to work in order to get the extra dollars on top of the base rate. In the past this was never checked, now it is and some people are flipping out over their pay reductions.
- Someone flipped out to the point of threatening to smash all the windows in the office. The CDEP manager tried to calm him, but it didn't work. I had an 8 year old girl with me in the office who was just terrified by what she saw. After he left, she went outside, only to come tearing back in because he was on his way back. With a hammer. Usually I wouldn't be too worried, Anangu will attack property, but rarely people. But this man has only been out of gaol for a few weeks after a decade for nearly killing someone. I decided that the situation would be calmed quicker if he were talking to a woman, when he was talking to the CDEP manager (male) he just got more and more aggressive despite Mr CDEP's calm and understanding demeanor. It was like watching a rather tragic a one sided pissing contest. Luckily Mr CDEP seemed to be on the same page as me and made himself scarce. After saying his piece the guy calmed down, I am still amazed by how calm I was. It was only when I wrote it down that I realised how bad the situation could have been.
- We informed the local police that there may be a problem brewing with Mr Hammer, as we were chatting a car pulled up with several of the younger community leaders. Someone had brought more alcohol into the community and a bunch of the younger men were off drinking. The cop was unable to do anything because, due to rather understandable safety concerns, they are not allowed to respond solo. Keep in mind that there is only about a third of the police that are needed on the Lands. It is really telling that the community will turn to the local police voluntarily, but will do anything to never have anything to do with the Port Augusta police. To be a police officer out here you have to be seriously dedicated to the communities, there is no other inducement.
- As I got back to the office the police officer called to say that they wouldn't be able to come to the community because all available officer's have been sent to Amata and a man has been evacuated on medical grounds, more specifically psychiatric grounds. I wouldn't be at all surprised if it were Mr Hammer.
- I feel like I'm never off duty. Pa had a bit of an open door policy when he first got here. He, like nearly all of you reading this, was horrified when white workers said, 'you can't let people into your home, they'll never leave you alone'. Well guess what, the evil racists were right. You need your home to be private, otherwise you will never finish work. I had a grown man knock on my door wanting to ring Pa in Adelaide so Pa could tell another man to take over some work for him. I suggested he ask the other man himself. He seemed genuinely surprised that him sorting it out solo was an option, but was more than happy to do it and it all worked out nicely. This was at 7.30pm and I had my jammies on. This was a stress free interaction, but one that shouldn't need to happen. But it does, and no, we are not paid for overtime.
- I have a tonne of work to finish, there is no air conditioning in my office, it's currently 34 degrees and I am close to tears. Getting your actual work done, the stuff that you are paid to do and that the policy makers imagine is the only work you do, is damn near impossible until after you have closed the office for the day. I know that writing this may seem like a waste of time (though it is after 5pm), but if I don't write it I will explode. I am so close to crying with frustration and tiredness that I am having to giggle a pictures of cats with stuff on them to hold back the water. I am also sucking all of the emotional energy I can out of a g-chat with my cousin.
- And it goes without saying that if anyone is angry with Centrelink, CDEP, their bank, themselves or God, I'm meant to be able to fix it.
There is so much I have to say about policy implementation, random theories as to why things are as bad up here as they are and other grand political statements, but for now I am having to focus on myself. To be frank, there is an OH&S disaster waiting to happen. Scratch that, they happen every damn day. How can the Anangu help themselves when their support staff are emotionally smashed?
****I was really not a happy chicken when I wrote this, was I? A less fraught, more informative post will follow soonish.****
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