"Every memory is really a scar." - Nathan Hill (as quoted by a FB friend).
I have many scars and many memories. A psychologist once said to me that when we sleep each night our brains pack down and resolve the events of the day: recurring memories are those which remain unresolved. These memories often involve trauma. I don't have many happy memories, and yet I know I have had many happy times. So, 'every memory is a scar'.
Curious about the synergy I felt with Nathan Hill's words, I wanted to learn more about Nathan Hill himself. He's a writer and has been compared to John Irving. I had a Twilight Zone alarm go off in my head. When I was much younger, I'd chomped through most of Irving's novels. My favourite was "The World According to Garp". I hadn't thought about the novel in a long, long time and I was describing it to a teacher friend last night in a long FB message conversation. So, I had the theme tune of this 1960s TV showing playing in my head.
My friend is Gen X and I am a retired Baby Boomer. I was a Head Teacher Science at a poverty stricken, disadvantaged, multi-cultural, inner city all girls high school in the late 1990's. About 60% of our populus was Muslim. The school uniform included optional hijab, full length skirt and long sleeves in summer: designed just to meet your cultural and religious if not physical needs. Another significant portion were Turkish: Muslim and Christian, but you couldn't pick 'em because quite a few of the Turkish Muslim girls did not wear hijab. There parents were often well educated. Other groups in significant numbers were: Lebanese Christians, Samaons, Tongans, Kiwis (Maoris), Chinese, refugees (mostly Afghanis) and boat people (refugees, of course, they were mostly Vietnamese). In all, there were 36 cultural groups. If we had one "Anglo-Celtic" enrolment in any one year (e.g. a whitey enrollee in Year 7, a WASP in Year 11 and so on) this was exceptional. A cause for much cackling amongst the clerks: "We've got one. We've got a Skip. It's like the old days". Most of the clerks were locals and had lived in the area since childhood. They were mostly 'Skips' but not all: the Head Clerk was Hindi (Indian) and the Receptionist Chinese Malay.
Teachers would skip down the corridor taking the news back to their scattered staff rooms. The label 'Skip' was fairly new in the 1990s. reportedly coined by the Lebanese Arabs of the further Western suburbs schools, it came from a reference to Skippy the Kangaroo: Anglo-Celtic descent, whitey invaders. It was derogatory and often used in sporting matches between schools to incite anger in the opposing team. Fights were not the uncommon result. The Skips generally lost both the match (often forfeiting with bloody noses) and their tempers. The other team was generally physically bigger and being much more used being called names would not lose their tempers. They were cool, calm and in control. Qualities that brought great pride to their (mostly) Anglo male teacher coaches. Most of the female teachers were not interested in coaching grade teams: whether of ethnic or Anglo origin (about 50:50 in number) being female meant they had long since had any interest in competitive sport stifled out of them. The Physical Education teachers (both female) organised the Sport Afternoon and as such were not available for coaching.
There was one class(about 25% of the students) in every year where the students had less than four years experience of the English language. Some Year 7 students arrived at our school, aged 12, with 7 years experience of English. Their mothers spoke no English, so they spoke no English until they started school aged 5. There were no Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander students in the time I was there. Although we searched hard we never found a single one. It was a great pity as they were valuable commodities to have, attracting great levels of funding. I tell a lie, there was one. but her family was self-identified and looked white. They had lost connection with Indigenous community so could their claim could not be 'verified', so no funding for her. Sigh. We had a turn-over in every year of about 30%: for example, about 15% of the students of Year 8 students would leave the school in a given calendar year, but they were replaced by 15% who would arrive. Teachers call this the churn-rate, or the churnover: the students are like a school of fish flapping about in shallow water. They find it hard to breathe, they are disoriented and are grasping for stillness and stability. As soon they find their bearings, the fisher comes and throw them in the boat, or back out into deep water anyway.
A survival skill I quickly developed in my job was a 'video tape inside my head' and a 'tape recorder'in my ear. The various incidents I was called in to sort out from moment to moment each day were recorded mentally and readily available. Incidents between staff, staff and students, me and staff, me and my supervisors. At the end of the day there would be various incidents to replay and download by pen onto paper (no p.c's or laptops for us: far too costly) into reports. The paper work began when the students went home, and on average, took 1 1/2 to 2 hours. This was not lesson preparation or marking, that started after the family dinner at home. Early mornings, before breakfast, were reserved for emergency tasks like writing student reports, setting exams, admin work. So, it was long hours, little sleep and it all began again the next day, like a very bad Ground Hog Day movie. But, adrenalin is a great drug and the buzz is very addictive until your adrenals get depleted, and your endorphins bottom out.
I remember one of my chants was "keep passing the open windows". This meme came from the Garp novel (I think). Externally, the school had the art deco architecture of the early 1930s: beautiful double brick storied, long internal corridors with classrooms off the corridors, and internal stair wells. Once inside the school it was possible not to experience the warmth of the sun on your skin, breeze between your legs or the rain on your skin for the entire day. On inclement days, both staff and students would not experience the elements for the entire day. The weather meant students sat in the corridors and ate their lunch. On these days it was surreal and disorienting for all.
The construction of the school had been approved prior to World War 2. Its construction was delayed by the war, and its internal fit out was that of the early 1950s when it had actually been built. The whole effect was rather jarring and more than a little unsettling. In the 10 years I was there I never really got over a queasy feeling as I moved between internal and external spaces. To add insult to injury, a new school library had been added in the 1970s with all the cheap, brash aluminium and glass that those years imply. The library was 'open plan' but had been used to enclose a space between two of the original buildings. This enclosure created a trapezium due to the nature of the school's boundary with the street. One looked out windows to enjoy a view of the intermittent flame of the Shell Oil Refinery burning its excess gases: these form part of the safety valve complex of such industrial megaliths.
To add insult to injury, the entrance to the School Library adjoined the entrance to the 1930's designed Domestic Unit integrated into all girls' high schools at that time. The pursuit of higher learning rubbed walls with the technical and the tangible. Some would have said the downright earthy.
The school was completed in 1958 and it is doubtful the Domestic Unit was ever used for its designated purpose. Even the Home Science Head Teacher did not know for sure. She was of the middle generation of what evolved into Design & Technology (Home Science and Industrial Arts combined). SHE taught practical skills that could be used in home AND workplace: cookin' and sewin'.
The Domestic Unit was like a house that had not received enough growth hormone. The mini home was complete with kitchen, bathroom and laundry. There was a lounge and dining area in it. There were also two other rooms which none of the Executive Staff could figure out exactly what they were for. Our detective work had included asking the history teacher who was a student at the school in its first year. Her reply was: "I can't remember. I don't think it was ever used, but then I was academic not technical stream. Our best guess represented the young married's bedroom and the nursery. These were tinier than you would expect for bedrooms. But, how much space do you really need for a representative bed that you can teach girls to make? And, a representative change table, with a representative doll, penis not included, to teach 'how to fold nappies and change your baby? Hospital corners were taught at no extra charge, but with little extra expectation that a student might actually use them in a professional role. And, certainly, nappy changing skills were for mothers not mid-wives.
In Irving's novel: 'The World According to Garp', one of the characters thinks about suicide by jumping out an open window. Throughout the novel, he keeps choosing survival - he keeps passing the open windows. The school was extreme crisis management every day: think Emergency Room Intensity where the only comfort an is the clients are (mostly) unlikely to die or go home injured, but there was always the possibility...
We called an ambulance on average three times a week. There was no pattern in it. Sometimes it was regular like a heart beat: Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Other times it slowed: M,W,Tu ... M,W,Tu. The extremes of tachycardia (M,Tu,W,Th,F,M,Tu,W ...) or bradycardia(M,M,M,M ...) were atypical. Typically, arrhythmias were the norm: M,Tu,F ... Tu,W ... M,Th,F. Death (no ambulance called all week) rarely occurred and was a cause for celebration amongst the school clerical staff, and jubilation for teaching staff.
It was an unusual start to the week if Police were not dialled on Monday morning. Disappointingly, the record of five Police calls over each of the five days of the working week was never broken. Twice on a Monday however was equalled several times, but never exceeded: Strike 1 for the vandalism over the week-end, Strike 2 for either Police charging/investigating some student(s) for an illegal activity (usually committed over the week-end) or some welfare matter (reported physical/sexual abuse or neglect, or violation of an apprehended violence order by one of the adults in their lives). There was one 'three times on Thursday' but that was only once in the ten years I was there. And, does it count if they came back twice to collect information about the same incident? Personally, I don't think so. If only my sex life had mirrored the police pattern, I would have been a much happier woman. Sadly, it never did.
So, while walking from science laboratories on the Upper Level to the Computer Rooms (also on the Upper Level) I would chant in my mind: "keep passing the open windows" and remember Irving's fine sense of gentle comedy. As science Head Teacher I was also 'in charge' of computers and the Computer Co-ordinator, and what a fine, dedicated Aspie he was, ... but that is a story for another time ...
Okay, so Nathan Hill's "The Nix" is on my list. Imagine being a writer and having your computer and all back-ups stolen from your car as Hill did shortly after arriving in New York. I know an academic writer who keeps three separate back-ups of her works in progress on three separate lanyards around her neck. The USB disks dangle like mill stones between her breasts. She was presenting a writers' workshop at the time I learned this. Even an anal attendee like me thought: that is an Extreme Use of a Lanyard. As a lone traveller, during waking hours my van keys are ALWAYS around my neck, and under my pillow when I sleep but now I can see why this academic writer recommended the Lanyard Olympics...
During 2000, the year of the Sydney Olympics, I relocated to a country high-school in a small town on the mid-north coast. A year or so later and our teacher home telephones buzzed relentlessly on the morning after 9/11. Those of us who had the "while marking weather-eye out", on the last commercial TV news bulletin of the evening on Channel 7, knew what it was about: two buildings which most of us barely knew existed had witnessed their demolition in New York. Our colleagues calls were about sussing out the lay of the land and availability of work outside the Big Smoke. The crash happened that quickly. That morning staff room conversations were as much about the possible exodus en masse of our colleagues from their city lives as the events in the US overnight.
The insidious creep of bigotry and xenophobia has been with us ever since that day. In gaol for a 3 month holiday, Pauline Hanson planned her comeback and collected some new fishy recipes. She decided, wisely, to keep her speeches of the 1990s: one day all she would need to do would be to cross out Aborigine and insert Muslim and she'd have a job on Easy Street again.
As 2016 draws to a close, everywhere I go in my beloved country, I can feel a deep sense of restlessness. There is a festering pustulence across the land: something is going to burst, more likely it will ooze, dissipating without forcing the necessary change. Instead, decay will set in and the human species will become extinct. Hooray I say to the demise of such an egocentric, self absorbed, violent species. I don't really like my own species very much anymore, but there are a few individuals I have great fondness for: treasured family and friends.
The hoi polloi are nervous. They are edgy. In every town and city I've been this year there is the people are directionless. They are frightened. They are being kept that way by the people who are in power. The rich and the powerful have their politicians pinned, and their media sewn up. Those who cannot think as well as others are being kept ill-informed and uneducated. I believe those gifted with privilege have a responsibility to use their gifts wisely to educate those less gifted: to lead the hoi polloi in a healthy, happy direction.
The intelligentsia: the teachers, the doctors, the nurses, the academics, the lawyers: all those are capable thinkers and educated are being kept busy on a competitive economic treadmill. Their energy is being kept diffuse by the distracters: 'no brainer' issues like refugees (don't lock 'em up - we are signatories to the UN Charter of Human Rights). We've already settled the basic moral issue now let's just get on and implement our decision. Similarly, we are (un)happily being distracted with the issue of Gay Marriage. The US Supreme Court decided it was a matter of Equal Rights: a whole heap of resources (in a country with similar political, legal and judicial systems all with similar Judaeo-Christian underpinnings) has gone into that thought process already. Let's not re-invent the wheel, why not go with the flow? and move onto more pressing issues like climate change
Rome is burning, people, and you're still fiddling around. The Earth is heating up and Mother Earth is a tad vexed. Crone Earth is bloody angry, she's pissed off and her alter-ego, Gaia, is about to rage. Gaia is angry. Since 1970, half of all the vertebrate species in existence at that time have been wiped off the face of the Mother by just one greedy species: humans. Even mothers are entitled to mistakes, but when erasing your mistake is the only solution, well, mothers are tough critters, and when ya gotta banish one species for the sake of the family, well, it's been done before, hasn't it? Garden of Eden and all that.
Generation X who, at around 30 years of age, are coming into the peak of their intellectual, mental and physical powers are being stifled and wasted by selfish, greedy Baby Boomers who do not want to relinquish their power. At 64, I'm active, thriving and intelligent but I know my peak was 30 to 50, not 50 to 70. Indigenous societies have elders who advise and counsel, but wisely step down from leading the tribe. Time to step down Baby Boomers. Be Wise. Don't waste your young. Only extinct species do that. Baby Boomers the young you are wasting are your own children.
In the great novel written by John Irving "The World According to Garp", the family dog, called Sorrow, drowns .... the whole family are in a plane crash (from memory) and as the plane goes down Sorrow is sucked down with the plane in the undertow. So, one of the mantras of Garp (the narrator/observer in the family) is "Beware the Undertow" or like Sorrow you'll get sucked under. That's what it feels like. Many are aware of an undertow, but they don't want to acknowledge it, because if they do they'll get sucked down with Sorrow.
I have written this 'thought explosion' while a bird has been incessantly calling in an upwards ascending monotonous repetitive tone.
P.S. I'm off to kill a koel. Now, c'mon, one less male koel in the world will not a species extinct make!
P.P.S. Dear soft-hearted greenie friends: Did you get distracted by the above statement? If so, let me remind you of the story of the two frogs: one placed in cold water and gently boiled to death, the other placed in hot water jumps out straight away. Your species is the first frog, not the second.
P.P.P.S. Dear eco-terrorist: koels are not an endangered species. There is no need for radical activism over the death of one annoying male bird.
P.P.P.P.S. Dear gullible, stupid eco-tourist: no birds were harmed in the writing of this thought connection. Go find a feral cat to pat and it must be obvious I don't like you very much so why are you reading this?
Good Night, dear thoughtful reader. Thank you for persisting. I mean, good morning, thank you, koel.
Monday, October 31, 2016
Sorrow Floats
"Every memory is really a scar." - Nathan Hill (as quoted by a FB friend).
I have many scars and many memories. A psychologist once said to me that when we sleep each night our brains pack down and resolve the events of the day: recurring memories are those which remain unresolved. These memories often involve trauma. I don't have many happy memories, and yet I know I have had many happy times. So, 'every memory is a scar'.
Curious about the synergy I felt with Nathan Hill's words, I wanted to learn more about Nathan Hill himself. He's a writer and has been compared to John Irving. I had a Twilight Zone alarm go off in my head. When I was much younger, I'd chomped through most of Irving's novels. My favourite was "The World According to Garp". I hadn't thought about the novel in a long, long time and I was describing it to a teacher friend last night in a long FB message conversation. So, I had the theme tune of this 1960s TV showing playing in my head.
My friend is Gen X and I am a retired Baby Boomer. I was a Head Teacher Science at a poverty stricken, disadvantaged, multi-cultural, inner city all girls high school in the late 1990's. About 60% of our populus was Muslim. The school uniform included optional hijab, full length skirt and long sleeves in summer: designed just to meet your cultural and religious if not physical needs. Another significant portion were Turkish: Muslim and Christian, but you couldn't pick 'em because quite a few of the Turkish Muslim girls did not wear hijab. There parents were often well educated. Other groups in significant numbers were: Lebanese Christians, Samaons, Tongans, Kiwis (Maoris), Chinese, refugees (mostly Afghanis) and boat people (refugees, of course, they were mostly Vietnamese). In all, there were 36 cultural groups. If we had one "Anglo-Celtic" enrolment in any one year (e.g. a whitey enrollee in Year 7, a WASP in Year 11 and so on) this was exceptional. A cause for much cackling amongst the clerks: "We've got one. We've got a Skip. It's like the old days". Most of the clerks were locals and had lived in the area since childhood. They were mostly 'Skips' but not all: the Head Clerk was Hindi (Indian) and the Receptionist Chinese Malay.
Teachers would skip down the corridor taking the news back to their scattered staff rooms. The label 'Skip' was fairly new in the 1990s. reportedly coined by the Lebanese Arabs of the further Western suburbs schools, it came from a reference to Skippy the Kangaroo: Anglo-Celtic descent, whitey invaders. It was derogatory and often used in sporting matches between schools to incite anger in the opposing team. Fights were not the uncommon result. The Skips generally lost both the match (often forfeiting with bloody noses) and their tempers. The other team was generally physically bigger and being much more used being called names would not lose their tempers. They were cool, calm and in control. Qualities that brought great pride to their (mostly) Anglo male teacher coaches. Most of the female teachers were not interested in coaching grade teams: whether of ethnic or Anglo origin (about 50:50 in number) being female meant they had long since had any interest in competitive sport stifled out of them. The Physical Education teachers (both female) organised the Sport Afternoon and as such were not available for coaching.
There was one class(about 25% of the students) in every year where the students had less than four years experience of the English language. Some Year 7 students arrived at our school, aged 12, with 7 years experience of English. Their mothers spoke no English, so they spoke no English until they started school aged 5. There were no Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander students in the time I was there. Although we searched hard we never found a single one. It was a great pity as they were valuable commodities to have, attracting great levels of funding. I tell a lie, there was one. but her family was self-identified and looked white. They had lost connection with Indigenous community so could their claim could not be 'verified', so no funding for her. Sigh. We had a turn-over in every year of about 30%: for example, about 15% of the students of Year 8 students would leave the school in a given calendar year, but they were replaced by 15% who would arrive. Teachers call this the churn-rate, or the churnover: the students are like a school of fish flapping about in shallow water. They find it hard to breathe, they are disoriented and are grasping for stillness and stability. As soon they find their bearings, the fisher comes and throw them in the boat, or back out into deep water anyway.
A survival skill I quickly developed in my job was a 'video tape inside my head' and a 'tape recorder'in my ear. The various incidents I was called in to sort out from moment to moment each day were recorded mentally and readily available. Incidents between staff, staff and students, me and staff, me and my supervisors. At the end of the day there would be various incidents to replay and download by pen onto paper (no p.c's or laptops for us: far too costly) into reports. The paper work began when the students went home, and on average, took 1 1/2 to 2 hours. This was not lesson preparation or marking, that started after the family dinner at home. Early mornings, before breakfast, were reserved for emergency tasks like writing student reports, setting exams, admin work. So, it was long hours, little sleep and it all began again the next day, like a very bad Ground Hog Day movie. But, adrenalin is a great drug and the buzz is very addictive until your adrenals get depleted, and your endorphins bottom out.
I remember one of my chants was "keep passing the open windows". This meme came from the Garp novel (I think). Externally, the school had the art deco architecture of the early 1930s: beautiful double brick storied, long internal corridors with classrooms off the corridors, and internal stair wells. Once inside the school it was possible not to experience the warmth of the sun on your skin, breeze between your legs or the rain on your skin for the entire day. On inclement days, both staff and students would not experience the elements for the entire day. The weather meant students sat in the corridors and ate their lunch. On these days it was surreal and disorienting for all.
The construction of the school had been approved prior to World War 2. Its construction was delayed by the war, and its internal fit out was that of the early 1950s when it had actually been built. The whole effect was rather jarring and more than a little unsettling. In the 10 years I was there I never really got over a queasy feeling as I moved between internal and external spaces. To add insult to injury, a new school library had been added in the 1970s with all the cheap, brash aluminium and glass that those years imply. The library was 'open plan' but had been used to enclose a space between two of the original buildings. This enclosure created a trapezium due to the nature of the school's boundary with the street. One looked out windows to enjoy a view of the intermittent flame of the Shell Oil Refinery burning its excess gases: these form part of the safety valve complex of such industrial megaliths.
To add insult to injury, the entrance to the School Library adjoined the entrance to the 1930's designed Domestic Unit integrated into all girls' high schools at that time. The pursuit of higher learning rubbed walls with the technical and the tangible. Some would have said the downright earthy.
The school was completed in 1958 and it is doubtful the Domestic Unit was ever used for its designated purpose. Even the Home Science Head Teacher did not know for sure. She was of the middle generation of what evolved into Design & Technology (Home Science and Industrial Arts combined). SHE taught practical skills that could be used in home AND workplace: cookin' and sewin'.
The Domestic Unit was like a house that had not received enough growth hormone. The mini home was complete with kitchen, bathroom and laundry. There was a lounge and dining area in it. There were also two other rooms which none of the Executive Staff could figure out exactly what they were for. Our detective work had included asking the history teacher who was a student at the school in its first year. Her reply was: "I can't remember. I don't think it was ever used, but then I was academic not technical stream. Our best guess represented the young married's bedroom and the nursery. These were tinier than you would expect for bedrooms. But, how much space do you really need for a representative bed that you can teach girls to make? And, a representative change table, with a representative doll, penis not included, to teach 'how to fold nappies and change your baby? Hospital corners were taught at no extra charge, but with little extra expectation that a student might actually use them in a professional role. And, certainly, nappy changing skills were for mothers not mid-wives.
In Irving's novel: 'The World According to Garp', one of the characters thinks about suicide by jumping out an open window. Throughout the novel, he keeps choosing survival - he keeps passing the open windows. The school was extreme crisis management every day: think Emergency Room Intensity where the only comfort an is the clients are (mostly) unlikely to die or go home injured, but there was always the possibility...
We called an ambulance on average three times a week. There was no pattern in it. Sometimes it was regular like a heart beat: Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Other times it slowed: M,W,Tu ... M,W,Tu. The extremes of tachycardia (M,Tu,W,Th,F,M,Tu,W ...) or bradycardia(M,M,M,M ...) were atypical. Typically, arrhythmias were the norm: M,Tu,F ... Tu,W ... M,Th,F. Death (no ambulance called all week) rarely occurred and was a cause for celebration amongst the school clerical staff, and jubilation for teaching staff.
It was an unusual start to the week if Police were not dialled on Monday morning. Disappointingly, the record of five Police calls over each of the five days of the working week was never broken. Twice on a Monday however was equalled several times, but never exceeded: Strike 1 for the vandalism over the week-end, Strike 2 for either Police charging/investigating some student(s) for an illegal activity (usually committed over the week-end) or some welfare matter (reported physical/sexual abuse or neglect, or violation of an apprehended violence order by one of the adults in their lives). There was one 'three times on Thursday' but that was only once in the ten years I was there. And, does it count if they came back twice to collect information about the same incident? Personally, I don't think so. If only my sex life had mirrored the police pattern, I would have been a much happier woman. Sadly, it never did.
So, while walking from science laboratories on the Upper Level to the Computer Rooms (also on the Upper Level) I would chant in my mind: "keep passing the open windows" and remember Irving's fine sense of gentle comedy. As science Head Teacher I was also 'in charge' of computers and the Computer Co-ordinator, and what a fine, dedicated Aspie he was, ... but that is a story for another time ...
Okay, so Nathan Hill's "The Nix" is on my list. Imagine being a writer and having your computer and all back-ups stolen from your car as Hill did shortly after arriving in New York. I know an academic writer who keeps three separate back-ups of her works in progress on three separate lanyards around her neck. The USB disks dangle like mill stones between her breasts. She was presenting a writers' workshop at the time I learned this. Even an anal attendee like me thought: that is an Extreme Use of a Lanyard. As a lone traveller, during waking hours my van keys are ALWAYS around my neck, and under my pillow when I sleep but now I can see why this academic writer recommended the Lanyard Olympics...
During 2000, the year of the Sydney Olympics, I relocated to a country high-school in a small town on the mid-north coast. A year or so later and our teacher home telephones buzzed relentlessly on the morning after 9/11. Those of us who had the "while marking weather-eye out", on the last commercial TV news bulletin of the evening on Channel 7, knew what it was about: two buildings which most of us barely knew existed had witnessed their demolition in New York. Our colleagues calls were about sussing out the lay of the land and availability of work outside the Big Smoke. The crash happened that quickly. That morning staff room conversations were as much about the possible exodus en masse of our colleagues from their city lives as the events in the US overnight.
The insidious creep of bigotry and xenophobia has been with us ever since that day. In gaol for a 3 month holiday, Pauline Hanson planned her comeback and collected some new fishy recipes. She decided, wisely, to keep her speeches of the 1990s: one day all she would need to do would be to cross out Aborigine and insert Muslim and she'd have a job on Easy Street again.
As 2016 draws to a close, everywhere I go in my beloved country, I can feel a deep sense of restlessness. There is a festering pustulence across the land: something is going to burst, more likely it will ooze, dissipating without forcing the necessary change. Instead, decay will set in and the human species will become extinct. Hooray I say to the demise of such an egocentric, self absorbed, violent species. I don't really like my own species very much anymore, but there are a few individuals I have great fondness for: treasured family and friends.
The hoi polloi are nervous. They are edgy. In every town and city I've been this year there is the people are directionless. They are frightened. They are being kept that way by the people who are in power. The rich and the powerful have their politicians pinned, and their media sewn up. Those who cannot think as well as others are being kept ill-informed and uneducated. I believe those gifted with privilege have a responsibility to use their gifts wisely to educate those less gifted: to lead the hoi polloi in a healthy, happy direction.
The intelligentsia: the teachers, the doctors, the nurses, the academics, the lawyers: all those are capable thinkers and educated are being kept busy on a competitive economic treadmill. Their energy is being kept diffuse by the distracters: 'no brainer' issues like refugees (don't lock 'em up - we are signatories to the UN Charter of Human Rights). We've already settled the basic moral issue now let's just get on and implement our decision. Similarly, we are (un)happily being distracted with the issue of Gay Marriage. The US Supreme Court decided it was a matter of Equal Rights: a whole heap of resources (in a country with similar political, legal and judicial systems all with similar Judaeo-Christian underpinnings) has gone into that thought process already. Let's not re-invent the wheel, why not go with the flow? and move onto more pressing issues like climate change
Rome is burning, people, and you're still fiddling around. The Earth is heating up and Mother Earth is a tad vexed. Crone Earth is bloody angry, she's pissed off and her alter-ego, Gaia, is about to rage. Gaia is angry. Since 1970, half of all the vertebrate species in existence at that time have been wiped off the face of the Mother by just one greedy species: humans. Even mothers are entitled to mistakes, but when erasing your mistake is the only solution, well, mothers are tough critters, and when ya gotta banish one species for the sake of the family, well, it's been done before, hasn't it? Garden of Eden and all that.
Generation X who, at around 30 years of age, are coming into the peak of their intellectual, mental and physical powers are being stifled and wasted by selfish, greedy Baby Boomers who do not want to relinquish their power. At 64, I'm active, thriving and intelligent but I know my peak was 30 to 50, not 50 to 70. Indigenous societies have elders who advise and counsel, but wisely step down from leading the tribe. Time to step down Baby Boomers. Be Wise. Don't waste your young. Only extinct species do that. Baby Boomers the young you are wasting are your own children.
In the great novel written by John Irving "The World According to Garp", the family dog, called Sorrow, drowns .... the whole family are in a plane crash (from memory) and as the plane goes down Sorrow is sucked down with the plane in the undertow. So, one of the mantras of Garp (the narrator/observer in the family) is "Beware the Undertow" or like Sorrow you'll get sucked under. That's what it feels like. Many are aware of an undertow, but they don't want to acknowledge it, because if they do they'll get sucked down with Sorrow.
I have written this 'thought explosion' while a bird has been incessantly calling in an upwards ascending monotonous repetitive tone.
P.S. I'm off to kill a koel. Now, c'mon, one less male koel in the world will not a species extinct make!
P.P.S. Dear soft-hearted greenie friends: Did you get distracted by the above statement? If so, let me remind you of the story of the two frogs: one placed in cold water and gently boiled to death, the other placed in hot water jumps out straight away. Your species is the first frog, not the second.
P.P.P.S. Dear eco-terrorist: koels are not an endangered species. There is no need for radical activism over the death of one annoying male bird.
P.P.P.P.S. Dear gullible, stupid eco-tourist: no birds were harmed in the writing of this thought connection. Go find a feral cat to pat and it must be obvious I don't like you very much so why are you reading this?
Good Night, dear thoughtful reader. Thank you for persisting. I mean, good morning, thank you, koel.
I have many scars and many memories. A psychologist once said to me that when we sleep each night our brains pack down and resolve the events of the day: recurring memories are those which remain unresolved. These memories often involve trauma. I don't have many happy memories, and yet I know I have had many happy times. So, 'every memory is a scar'.
Curious about the synergy I felt with Nathan Hill's words, I wanted to learn more about Nathan Hill himself. He's a writer and has been compared to John Irving. I had a Twilight Zone alarm go off in my head. When I was much younger, I'd chomped through most of Irving's novels. My favourite was "The World According to Garp". I hadn't thought about the novel in a long, long time and I was describing it to a teacher friend last night in a long FB message conversation. So, I had the theme tune of this 1960s TV showing playing in my head.
My friend is Gen X and I am a retired Baby Boomer. I was a Head Teacher Science at a poverty stricken, disadvantaged, multi-cultural, inner city all girls high school in the late 1990's. About 60% of our populus was Muslim. The school uniform included optional hijab, full length skirt and long sleeves in summer: designed just to meet your cultural and religious if not physical needs. Another significant portion were Turkish: Muslim and Christian, but you couldn't pick 'em because quite a few of the Turkish Muslim girls did not wear hijab. There parents were often well educated. Other groups in significant numbers were: Lebanese Christians, Samaons, Tongans, Kiwis (Maoris), Chinese, refugees (mostly Afghanis) and boat people (refugees, of course, they were mostly Vietnamese). In all, there were 36 cultural groups. If we had one "Anglo-Celtic" enrolment in any one year (e.g. a whitey enrollee in Year 7, a WASP in Year 11 and so on) this was exceptional. A cause for much cackling amongst the clerks: "We've got one. We've got a Skip. It's like the old days". Most of the clerks were locals and had lived in the area since childhood. They were mostly 'Skips' but not all: the Head Clerk was Hindi (Indian) and the Receptionist Chinese Malay.
Teachers would skip down the corridor taking the news back to their scattered staff rooms. The label 'Skip' was fairly new in the 1990s. reportedly coined by the Lebanese Arabs of the further Western suburbs schools, it came from a reference to Skippy the Kangaroo: Anglo-Celtic descent, whitey invaders. It was derogatory and often used in sporting matches between schools to incite anger in the opposing team. Fights were not the uncommon result. The Skips generally lost both the match (often forfeiting with bloody noses) and their tempers. The other team was generally physically bigger and being much more used being called names would not lose their tempers. They were cool, calm and in control. Qualities that brought great pride to their (mostly) Anglo male teacher coaches. Most of the female teachers were not interested in coaching grade teams: whether of ethnic or Anglo origin (about 50:50 in number) being female meant they had long since had any interest in competitive sport stifled out of them. The Physical Education teachers (both female) organised the Sport Afternoon and as such were not available for coaching.
There was one class(about 25% of the students) in every year where the students had less than four years experience of the English language. Some Year 7 students arrived at our school, aged 12, with 7 years experience of English. Their mothers spoke no English, so they spoke no English until they started school aged 5. There were no Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander students in the time I was there. Although we searched hard we never found a single one. It was a great pity as they were valuable commodities to have, attracting great levels of funding. I tell a lie, there was one. but her family was self-identified and looked white. They had lost connection with Indigenous community so could their claim could not be 'verified', so no funding for her. Sigh. We had a turn-over in every year of about 30%: for example, about 15% of the students of Year 8 students would leave the school in a given calendar year, but they were replaced by 15% who would arrive. Teachers call this the churn-rate, or the churnover: the students are like a school of fish flapping about in shallow water. They find it hard to breathe, they are disoriented and are grasping for stillness and stability. As soon they find their bearings, the fisher comes and throw them in the boat, or back out into deep water anyway.
A survival skill I quickly developed in my job was a 'video tape inside my head' and a 'tape recorder'in my ear. The various incidents I was called in to sort out from moment to moment each day were recorded mentally and readily available. Incidents between staff, staff and students, me and staff, me and my supervisors. At the end of the day there would be various incidents to replay and download by pen onto paper (no p.c's or laptops for us: far too costly) into reports. The paper work began when the students went home, and on average, took 1 1/2 to 2 hours. This was not lesson preparation or marking, that started after the family dinner at home. Early mornings, before breakfast, were reserved for emergency tasks like writing student reports, setting exams, admin work. So, it was long hours, little sleep and it all began again the next day, like a very bad Ground Hog Day movie. But, adrenalin is a great drug and the buzz is very addictive until your adrenals get depleted, and your endorphins bottom out.
I remember one of my chants was "keep passing the open windows". This meme came from the Garp novel (I think). Externally, the school had the art deco architecture of the early 1930s: beautiful double brick storied, long internal corridors with classrooms off the corridors, and internal stair wells. Once inside the school it was possible not to experience the warmth of the sun on your skin, breeze between your legs or the rain on your skin for the entire day. On inclement days, both staff and students would not experience the elements for the entire day. The weather meant students sat in the corridors and ate their lunch. On these days it was surreal and disorienting for all.
The construction of the school had been approved prior to World War 2. Its construction was delayed by the war, and its internal fit out was that of the early 1950s when it had actually been built. The whole effect was rather jarring and more than a little unsettling. In the 10 years I was there I never really got over a queasy feeling as I moved between internal and external spaces. To add insult to injury, a new school library had been added in the 1970s with all the cheap, brash aluminium and glass that those years imply. The library was 'open plan' but had been used to enclose a space between two of the original buildings. This enclosure created a trapezium due to the nature of the school's boundary with the street. One looked out windows to enjoy a view of the intermittent flame of the Shell Oil Refinery burning its excess gases: these form part of the safety valve complex of such industrial megaliths.
To add insult to injury, the entrance to the School Library adjoined the entrance to the 1930's designed Domestic Unit integrated into all girls' high schools at that time. The pursuit of higher learning rubbed walls with the technical and the tangible. Some would have said the downright earthy.
The school was completed in 1958 and it is doubtful the Domestic Unit was ever used for its designated purpose. Even the Home Science Head Teacher did not know for sure. She was of the middle generation of what evolved into Design & Technology (Home Science and Industrial Arts combined). SHE taught practical skills that could be used in home AND workplace: cookin' and sewin'.
The Domestic Unit was like a house that had not received enough growth hormone. The mini home was complete with kitchen, bathroom and laundry. There was a lounge and dining area in it. There were also two other rooms which none of the Executive Staff could figure out exactly what they were for. Our detective work had included asking the history teacher who was a student at the school in its first year. Her reply was: "I can't remember. I don't think it was ever used, but then I was academic not technical stream. Our best guess represented the young married's bedroom and the nursery. These were tinier than you would expect for bedrooms. But, how much space do you really need for a representative bed that you can teach girls to make? And, a representative change table, with a representative doll, penis not included, to teach 'how to fold nappies and change your baby? Hospital corners were taught at no extra charge, but with little extra expectation that a student might actually use them in a professional role. And, certainly, nappy changing skills were for mothers not mid-wives.
In Irving's novel: 'The World According to Garp', one of the characters thinks about suicide by jumping out an open window. Throughout the novel, he keeps choosing survival - he keeps passing the open windows. The school was extreme crisis management every day: think Emergency Room Intensity where the only comfort an is the clients are (mostly) unlikely to die or go home injured, but there was always the possibility...
We called an ambulance on average three times a week. There was no pattern in it. Sometimes it was regular like a heart beat: Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Other times it slowed: M,W,Tu ... M,W,Tu. The extremes of tachycardia (M,Tu,W,Th,F,M,Tu,W ...) or bradycardia(M,M,M,M ...) were atypical. Typically, arrhythmias were the norm: M,Tu,F ... Tu,W ... M,Th,F. Death (no ambulance called all week) rarely occurred and was a cause for celebration amongst the school clerical staff, and jubilation for teaching staff.
It was an unusual start to the week if Police were not dialled on Monday morning. Disappointingly, the record of five Police calls over each of the five days of the working week was never broken. Twice on a Monday however was equalled several times, but never exceeded: Strike 1 for the vandalism over the week-end, Strike 2 for either Police charging/investigating some student(s) for an illegal activity (usually committed over the week-end) or some welfare matter (reported physical/sexual abuse or neglect, or violation of an apprehended violence order by one of the adults in their lives). There was one 'three times on Thursday' but that was only once in the ten years I was there. And, does it count if they came back twice to collect information about the same incident? Personally, I don't think so. If only my sex life had mirrored the police pattern, I would have been a much happier woman. Sadly, it never did.
So, while walking from science laboratories on the Upper Level to the Computer Rooms (also on the Upper Level) I would chant in my mind: "keep passing the open windows" and remember Irving's fine sense of gentle comedy. As science Head Teacher I was also 'in charge' of computers and the Computer Co-ordinator, and what a fine, dedicated Aspie he was, ... but that is a story for another time ...
Okay, so Nathan Hill's "The Nix" is on my list. Imagine being a writer and having your computer and all back-ups stolen from your car as Hill did shortly after arriving in New York. I know an academic writer who keeps three separate back-ups of her works in progress on three separate lanyards around her neck. The USB disks dangle like mill stones between her breasts. She was presenting a writers' workshop at the time I learned this. Even an anal attendee like me thought: that is an Extreme Use of a Lanyard. As a lone traveller, during waking hours my van keys are ALWAYS around my neck, and under my pillow when I sleep but now I can see why this academic writer recommended the Lanyard Olympics...
During 2000, the year of the Sydney Olympics, I relocated to a country high-school in a small town on the mid-north coast. A year or so later and our teacher home telephones buzzed relentlessly on the morning after 9/11. Those of us who had the "while marking weather-eye out", on the last commercial TV news bulletin of the evening on Channel 7, knew what it was about: two buildings which most of us barely knew existed had witnessed their demolition in New York. Our colleagues calls were about sussing out the lay of the land and availability of work outside the Big Smoke. The crash happened that quickly. That morning staff room conversations were as much about the possible exodus en masse of our colleagues from their city lives as the events in the US overnight.
The insidious creep of bigotry and xenophobia has been with us ever since that day. In gaol for a 3 month holiday, Pauline Hanson planned her comeback and collected some new fishy recipes. She decided, wisely, to keep her speeches of the 1990s: one day all she would need to do would be to cross out Aborigine and insert Muslim and she'd have a job on Easy Street again.
As 2016 draws to a close, everywhere I go in my beloved country, I can feel a deep sense of restlessness. There is a festering pustulence across the land: something is going to burst, more likely it will ooze, dissipating without forcing the necessary change. Instead, decay will set in and the human species will become extinct. Hooray I say to the demise of such an egocentric, self absorbed, violent species. I don't really like my own species very much anymore, but there are a few individuals I have great fondness for: treasured family and friends.
The hoi polloi are nervous. They are edgy. In every town and city I've been this year there is the people are directionless. They are frightened. They are being kept that way by the people who are in power. The rich and the powerful have their politicians pinned, and their media sewn up. Those who cannot think as well as others are being kept ill-informed and uneducated. I believe those gifted with privilege have a responsibility to use their gifts wisely to educate those less gifted: to lead the hoi polloi in a healthy, happy direction.
The intelligentsia: the teachers, the doctors, the nurses, the academics, the lawyers: all those are capable thinkers and educated are being kept busy on a competitive economic treadmill. Their energy is being kept diffuse by the distracters: 'no brainer' issues like refugees (don't lock 'em up - we are signatories to the UN Charter of Human Rights). We've already settled the basic moral issue now let's just get on and implement our decision. Similarly, we are (un)happily being distracted with the issue of Gay Marriage. The US Supreme Court decided it was a matter of Equal Rights: a whole heap of resources (in a country with similar political, legal and judicial systems all with similar Judaeo-Christian underpinnings) has gone into that thought process already. Let's not re-invent the wheel, why not go with the flow? and move onto more pressing issues like climate change
Rome is burning, people, and you're still fiddling around. The Earth is heating up and Mother Earth is a tad vexed. Crone Earth is bloody angry, she's pissed off and her alter-ego, Gaia, is about to rage. Gaia is angry. Since 1970, half of all the vertebrate species in existence at that time have been wiped off the face of the Mother by just one greedy species: humans. Even mothers are entitled to mistakes, but when erasing your mistake is the only solution, well, mothers are tough critters, and when ya gotta banish one species for the sake of the family, well, it's been done before, hasn't it? Garden of Eden and all that.
Generation X who, at around 30 years of age, are coming into the peak of their intellectual, mental and physical powers are being stifled and wasted by selfish, greedy Baby Boomers who do not want to relinquish their power. At 64, I'm active, thriving and intelligent but I know my peak was 30 to 50, not 50 to 70. Indigenous societies have elders who advise and counsel, but wisely step down from leading the tribe. Time to step down Baby Boomers. Be Wise. Don't waste your young. Only extinct species do that. Baby Boomers the young you are wasting are your own children.
In the great novel written by John Irving "The World According to Garp", the family dog, called Sorrow, drowns .... the whole family are in a plane crash (from memory) and as the plane goes down Sorrow is sucked down with the plane in the undertow. So, one of the mantras of Garp (the narrator/observer in the family) is "Beware the Undertow" or like Sorrow you'll get sucked under. That's what it feels like. Many are aware of an undertow, but they don't want to acknowledge it, because if they do they'll get sucked down with Sorrow.
I have written this 'thought explosion' while a bird has been incessantly calling in an upwards ascending monotonous repetitive tone.
P.S. I'm off to kill a koel. Now, c'mon, one less male koel in the world will not a species extinct make!
P.P.S. Dear soft-hearted greenie friends: Did you get distracted by the above statement? If so, let me remind you of the story of the two frogs: one placed in cold water and gently boiled to death, the other placed in hot water jumps out straight away. Your species is the first frog, not the second.
P.P.P.S. Dear eco-terrorist: koels are not an endangered species. There is no need for radical activism over the death of one annoying male bird.
P.P.P.P.S. Dear gullible, stupid eco-tourist: no birds were harmed in the writing of this thought connection. Go find a feral cat to pat and it must be obvious I don't like you very much so why are you reading this?
Good Night, dear thoughtful reader. Thank you for persisting. I mean, good morning, thank you, koel.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Bamboo Girl
Our choir sings "'Taint No Sin". This is a song from the 1930s. There is a reference in it to Bamboo Babies. I am curious about the meaning and started chasing it down on the internet. So far, I've found that there is a Japanese folk myth of a tiny Bamboo Girl found by a cane cutter. It is a Naughty Girl myth. She has been sleeping for 100 years (shades of Sleeping Beauty) after God punished her naughtiness at age 8. She grants the cutter 3 wishes - he wants only one: to be a samurai. He gets his wish and she is free. Graeme Connors also refers to the Bamboo Girl and Leapin'Lena in his song "Don't go down to the River"
Sunday, July 4, 2010
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