Nelson Mandela

In my early teens a girl from South Africa started at my high school.  Before her arrival I conjured ideas of a girl who lived in a Savannah with spears and wild elephants and a monkey as a best friend.  Of course my lack of knowledge was only bred out of the fact that Australian schools were incapable of teaching children what was in fact happening in other countries.  My small view of the world was not helped by the fact that I hadn't travelled further than Budgewoi.

The new girl was stunning and absolutely nothing like I had imagined a girl from South Africa to be.  She wore makeup and she had an amazing hairstyle.  She knew all the latest fashion trends and music and wherever she went she made everyone else seem positively boring.  Unlike anything I could have imagined she was just like me.  She loved boys and being a teenager and food and fun and of course boys, boys, boys, just like me.  She had an older brother just like me, and she laughed and was a teenager just like me.  I only ever saw her as equal and I never understood how any one could ever be prejudice to a girl that was just like me.  Skin color or not we were the same.  Just teenage girls that's all.  I immediately enjoyed her company and loved hearing stories about where she had come from.  The place I thought she had come from sounded awful and scary and I thanked my lucky stars that she had been spared and had come to my school to be my friend in the safety and acceptance which was Australia.

I was fortunate because my friend heightened my awareness of South Africa and I read everything I could to learn more.  I was in awe of Nelson Mandela in my late teens and I wished so hard for him to be free and to help his country.  When he was released from jail I along with the rest of the world cried as he walked free.  It was a momentous occasion and one which I will never forget.  I truly believed that the world was changing.  The Berlin Wall had collapsed and now Nelson Mandela was free.  Amazing!  

In 1994 I listened to the radio all day to hear the election results from South Africa as they were broadcast.  I was enthralled to hear of the lines of people that extended for kilometers in every direction in order that everyone who wanted to could vote.  After all the blood that had been shed finally the country was being pieced back together and her broken wings now may be healed to fly once again.  When I heard the announcement that Nelson Mandela had won the election I cried.

Nelson Mandela has taught many people a great deal but for me oddly he taught me the value of having the right to vote.  In Australia we sneer at politics and largely do not hold sacred the right to vote.  As an 18 year old I didn't enroll to vote because I didn't care about politics or who would run the country.  After the election in South Africa I realised that I had been wrong. I felt shameful that I had so flippantly ignored a right that others had died trying to obtain.  I was lucky enough to live in a country where as a woman I could vote and where the colour of my skin or my convictions didn't matter.  I was free to vote.  From that moment on I determined no matter what the political atmosphere I would educate myself about the candidates before me and vote.  I now hold voting as sacred it is a human right that every person should be afforded.

Nelson Mandela taught us all that we are equal.  I felt I already believed that but until you have had something taken away from you that is a basic human right then you really don't understand equality at all.

I admired my friend from South Africa so very much, I still do. She is strong and beautiful and I'm glad that I met her because she showed me that no matter how different we are we are the same.

Satellite city

Did I miss the brief?  Was I asleep when certain areas of Sydney got gigantic satellites installed on their roofs, in their yards and on top of anywhere that can receive a signal?  You see I have started driving to my new job via streets that I was not so familiar with before.  Sure I had been through these town but certainly not on a regular basis.  Then I noticed them, not just one, but HEAPS and HEAPS of gigantic sized satellite dishes adorning peoples homes.

I was under the impression with the internet that there would be little to no need for any type of satellite dish bar the odd need to connect to pay television but that would only warrant a small dish if that.  So how is that I spot giant satellite dishes for the first time ever in increasing numbers?  Its times like these that I almost feel compelled to knock on peoples doors and inquire within.  Is it a new home fashion accessory? Surely not!  

So I will take a few photos and blog them and wait for people to tell me that I am the last to know that we have made contact with aliens and the only way to speak with them is by putting up a gigantic black satellite dish.  So if I did miss the brief can someone please send it to me I promise I will pay attention and read it.

Writing

It's high time I started writing again.  It's not like I don't have anything to talk about.  Stay tuned.  I'm back baby!

Icehouse In Concert In the Riff

Every time I drive to Penrith I remember that it is an awfully long way away from the city. In fact and I don't mean any disrespect, but, What on earth is there out in the "riff" that would warrant some musical greats to venture out that far? In any case it was the only venue I could see them play apart from some, ahem, "Ute Muster" that the famed Icehouse were to perform. Of course they are due to do some shows with Hall and Oats but I didn't want to wait that long to see my Australian musical hero, Iva, strut his stuff Penrith style!

I knew Icehouse would not disappoint and it was apparent from the very beginning that the band were as tight as ever. Every detail of the sound and lighting and audio visual show had been timed to within an inch of its life. It is so refreshing to see a band take such pride in producing and delivering a quality show that every instrument is balanced and the sound guys appeared to be completely into every note that they mixed to perfection.

Now you might be thinking that being such a big fan that of course I would say something as predictable as "Oh they were so brilliant blah blah blah" but the fact is that I have been to see many a major musical genius in the past and come away wondering what on earth I was thinking some of these highlights include;

Public Enemy, who were crap, walked out half way; George Clinton, so bad I demanded my money back and oh yes who could forget ye olde Barry White who took about an hour off my life which I can never get back. Oh oh and I almost forgot to mention REM where I got the tickets for free through industry friends and fronted up to a completely blacked out Sydney Entertainment Centre except for the floor seating. You don't have to guess how shit that evening was. Stipey needed a Bex and a lie down let me assure you. Actually the truth is by the end of the night I considered taking up a crack habit. So yes Icehouse were fucking brilliant no doubt about it.

So after Iva played all the classics and then some he played "Don't Believe Anymore". The fact is that I honestly felt like I had borne wings at that moment and was floating on the roof. It was superb. The song is pure genius and I have probably listened to it about forty million times and I doubt I will ever grow tired of it or its sentiment. Of course when I asked Iva about it a few years ago he said that he didn't think it was anywhere near as melancholic as he had obviously felt at the time of writing it. Oh yes Iva it is melancholic personified times a thousand. So a long drive to the Riff was worth it and I look forward to seeing Iva again very very soon.

Passengers

"If you want be a passenger

Climb aboard with me we're leaving now

Step outside and see another world

Only if you want to be a passenger"

Lyrics to Passenger by Powderfinger.

In the course of my life I have picked up an awful lot of passengers. Some have stayed in the car, some have got out half way through the journey, some ran off and didn't pay for petrol and some jumped out whilst the vehicle was still in motion. Of course there were also some who were outright hitchhikers that I should have left by the side of the road in a plume of dust.

I am amazed at how many people you meet in a lifetime. They are passengers and some stay with you and some either jump, push, run or walk themselves out of your life. I am fortunate as most of the people who come along for the ride don't get out of the car and its a brilliant journey with them in the passenger seat. Though those who grab hold of the wheel and push you into oncoming traffic are more often than not the ones that are a car crash waiting to happen.

Recently I have been reminded of some of the hitchhikers I have picked up and the lessons they have subsequently imparted upon me for being naive enough to stop and let them ride for free. Interestingly I seem to stop less often for hitchhikers these days. Maybe the car is full? or maybe I have learned that it is only wise to pick up full fare paying passengers who have no destination.

Have We Learned Nothing

I was saddened to hear of the recent death of David Ngoombujarra. I feel this way as we have come so far but have learned so little as a society. Australian history is a topic that is only now being served up to a relatively clueless Australian society. Most Australians are unaware of the past and it is largely because as I have determined from a great deal of study that Australia has largely been embarrassed by its convict heritage. We have been embarrassed by the dissemination of the initial inhabitants of the land and the disastrous ways in which previous governments have dealt with the correct way to provide Australian history to the masses in order for them to feel proud of their heritage and learn from our mistakes in order to help the country and her people in the future.

So yet again another black male has been wronged by our society. A society that has failed to look at the past in order to rectify and assist the future. A society that is too busy to stop and take stock and a society which should only look inward to assess where it went so horribly wrong.

Woollarawarre Bennelong was a senior man of the Eora, an aboriginal who lived in the Port Jackson area at the time of the arrival of the British First Fleet. Arthur Phillip who was the governor of the colony ordered that Bennelong be brought to him to establish relationships with the indiginous populations. The fact is that Bennelong was kidnapped by Phillip who held him against his will for a period of six months, after which Bennelong escaped.

A few months after his escape Bennelong made contact with Phillip and requested that Phillip meet him at Manly for a meeting. During this meeting another aboriginal man threw a spear at Phillip hitting him in the shoulder and wounding him. Perhaps it was retribution for holding Bennelong against his will but suffice to say that Phillip had the good sense to leave well alone and accept that the ways of the indigenous population should be left to their own devices, for the time being anyway. I assume at the time that a dirty big fucken spear through Phillips shoulder made him see their point of view quite clearly.

In 1792 Bennelong travelled to England. The details of his trip are not particularly clear but it was said he was sent in order to meet King George III. Upon Bennelongs return to Sydney Cove in 1795 his health was declining and he was suffering from the effects of alcoholism. He was drinking to excess and nobody thought to stop him. They just provided more and did nothing.

On January 13th 1813 Bennelong succumbed to the disease and died at Kissing Point in Putney.

My point in telling you this story is the place in which Bennelong died and was subsequently buried. The estate of James Squire.

James Squire was a convict transported to Australia for stealing. His claim to fame is he founded Australia's first commercial brewery. If you desire you can still drink in James Squire's name the beers brewed are a special testament to our history and James Squires legacy.

So it was on Sunday July 17th 2011 at 2:40pm some 198 years since the death of Bennelong that Australia loses another of its sons. Why does this continue to happen. Because we allow it to.

Take Your Passion, And Make It Happen!

Winter usually conjures up visions of warm fires, comfort food and layers of clothing but for me it also conjures up "Flash dance"! Yes at certain times during winter I am reminded of a great childhood night out. It was a Friday! - It was Winter! - And it was Great!.

My friend at school during this time was Irene and she was from a strict Italian family. She lived in the classic big "wog" house which was not far from my place and I thought she lived in a right royal mansion. Of course I was of the firm believe that her father must have been involved in the Mafia! How else could they afford such riches because as far as I was concerned at the age of about 8 or so they were rich beyond my wildest dreams. They had a two story freaking house they MUST have been rich!

Of course this was due to my childish observations as I lived in a two bedroom fibro home that you could barely swing a cat in. The back yard was five times the size of the actual dwelling. There was lice in the roof and holes in the floor where the walls would not meet - therefore exposing - well - the soil underneath the house! It was paradise! The fact that we lived only a few streets away did not deter my believe that they were in fact the richest people in the neighbourhood or in fact the entire world.

I was not jealous of their riches I was resided to being systemically poor for life and I loved going into their home. It was completely different to mine. The floors were tiled and the house was always immaculate although we shared that in common as my house was like a hospital theatre. Irene's home smelt different to mine, it felt different to mine and the cultural activities that took place at her home made me feel like I had stepped off Earth and into another planet. Though these are where the differences ended.

The things I do know we shared was the fact that we didn't fit in. She was different because of her cultural background and I was different for reasons that I still can not explain. Even when pressed in a lecture full of teenagers waiting for my big response on the matter. ("Wear it Purple" lecture circa 2011) I now feel that we also shared a common but unspoken of bond which was the pain in our lives during that time. This was due to factors outside of our control as children.

My family life was tearing apart. Nobody discussed divorce in those days, it simply wasn't spoke of and it certainly was not discussed with children. This was because of course as we all know it wasn't about the children! It was about the parents. Their loss, their pain, their sorrow. (Incidentally as this is in written format let me assure you I am being sarcastic. Divorce with children IS in fact all about the children. At least in perfect world it would be about their welfare but it rarely is)

Irene on the other hand, and it is only now as I grow older, and emotionally wiser, that I remember that she may have been a late baby for her parents. Her brother and sister were much older than her so she was kind of brought up like an only child, the baby of the family. However I don't believe this was a problem for her. What I know is that her brother was killed in a car accident. I remember it very clearly but as a child I did not have the emotional maturity to know how to deal with this sort of thing, what child does.

I remember feeling awkward around her mother in particular. Perhaps because I felt so sad about what had happened I could feel she was terribly devastated and I felt by being around at Irene's house I was just a hindrance and in the way at a time for many years they just wanted to be left alone. The fact that I could not speak Italian and I was an alien in many ways didn't help convince me that having another child under toe was a wonderful diversion for her family.

Of course now that I am a fully paid up member of the adult club I realise that they probably didn't think anything like that. No doubt as hard working people they were simply trying to get through their lives as best they could under such terrible circumstances as losing a vibrant young man, their son.

Irene and I would walk home from school each day together the distance not being particularly far but it took us all afternoon. We talked and talked and talked in fact I think I collectively spoke more words to Irene in those early years than I spoke to any other person in my life at the time. How I wish I could go back in time and walk behind those two young girls, chitter chattering away. I am sure I would be shocked and stunned, in fact I know so. We were both mature for our age but under the circumstances we had to be. And it was this among other traits that drew me close to Irene. She like me had to prepare the house each evening as our mother's worked. We were responsible for starting dinner preparations, cleaning the house and getting our homework completed. We also spent the rest of the afternoon that we had left talking on the telephone to each other.

I remember how much we both loved food. I loved going to her home because the food was so different to what my mother prepared. I loved going into her father's cellar and looking at all the bottled goodies that they had stored up. I loved wondering around in her garden and feeding the chooks. I especially loved when we convinced our parents that we needed to complete some homework together on a Friday night and we could steal away as much chocolate and salt and vinegar chips as we could eat and gobble them up without having as much as drawn a border on our project cardboard. It was great.

I remember when she went to Italy and the excitement of receiving a post card from - Abroad! I fondly kept an ashtray she brought back for me from San Remo and when I actually went to San Remo as an adult I thought I had made it as far as the ash tray had come. Wow!

Though my fondet memory will always be when her sister on one freezing cold winter's night took us to see Flashdance at the movies. A really big treat. I remember feeling very grown up with my hand bag and friend on a big night out. We possibly were home by 6pm as it was day light saving and the sun had gone down early but I am hoping it was later, perhaps 9pm? I remember the movie theatre being packed out and the subject matter that we were seeing was as mature as we clearly thought we were able to cope with. The one part of that night out which was a lucky escape was the fact that neither of us had grandiose dreams of being instant dancers. In fact I don't even think we talked about that aspect of it, phew! I would have been washed up as a dancer about a year later when they worked out that ahem I could not in fact dance. Okay, okay a week later!

It was simply brilliant, the movie, the friendship and the great childhood memories.

By the time we went to high school we remained friends but we went in different directions.

It was a normal and natural part of growing up.

So in the dead of winter I often crack open a packet of salt and vinegar chips and snuggle up to watch Flashdance and remember my friend - Irene -Who I hope took all her passions and made them happen.