Australia Day

I remember explaining the term 'bogan' to a Greek friend, phrasing it beautifully to coincide with his bronzed skin, sunnies, wifebeater, boardshorts and thongs. (Un)fortunately he was too cultured to fit the definition more than outwardly. 

This year I explained the term again. This time to a lovely American who was joining us on our venture to the South Perth foreshore to watch the Australia Day fireworks. It was a term I felt she needed to know for it defined the type of person she might expect to see during the course of the evening. This was particularly the case as the case of a serious glassing on the South Perth foreshore was still a vivid memory even if it had happened a few years ago now.

When we arrived, I'll admit I was pleasantly surprised; the area was very family friendly and filled with groups more than happy to curl up on a picnic rug and wait for the sun to die and the light show to begin. Perhaps it was being away for several years. Perhaps it was lowering expectations. I don't know. 

Unfortunately as the sky blackened and I hoped to have my assumptions proved wrong, people with a very unAustralian spirit proved my expectations to be all too appropriate. Groups of people would arrive at the last minute and stand before you, looking towards the river wondering which inch of grass they could squeeze their arse onto. Or they would kneel on the footpath, in front of a family of small kids, their heads popping up right into the midst of the exploding fireworks. 

One girl (hopefully subsequently named and shamed on Facebook) arrived late and parked herself at the very front before loudly commenting that the people behind her (people who had arrived at least five hours earlier) were going to be disappointed when she stood up to take photos (not that she even knew how to operate her camera). And it wasn't as though she needed to extend her tripod and stand up as the fireworks always explore above us allowing you to sit cross legged on the grass and tilt the whole contraption back to point upwards towards the stars. 

I wouldn't mind so much if this behaviour were typical of new Australians; ones who didn't as yet know the typical Australia Day customs and where they were expected to look (for fireworks here are different to the ones overseas), people who just needed a friendly word to help them assimilate with with new countrymen. Unfortunately I don't find this to be the case. Those who were the worst offenders were young, selfish and identifiably Australian. 

If only they weren't, for I personally don't want to be associated with such behaviour... particularly when it ruins Australia Day for others. 

A lesson well taught.

Like with many people, teachers have shaped my life, through school and through uni, helping me to learn the subjects which interested me and those which were necessary through life, and directing me along a path that would carry my interests through from academic transcripts into the rest of life.
In addition I seem to gravitate towards them naturally. It's in my nurture. You see my parents are teachers, so was an ex-boyfriend. My London housemates are teachers, converged in one city to experience the hell of teaching London children, as were many of the friends I made travelling around Europe at the end of my stay.

Seeing a small collection of my old teachers at my high school reunion and recalling to mind many others who I had not seen in so many years made me realise just how much they shaped my memories of school, and how much I have to thank them for. These were the ones who embodied entire years or subjects, or shaped a continued disinterest in various fields. And yet they were also the ones who encouraged interactions, team-based 'learning' and applied everyday matters to the topic at hand.

• One of my earliest teachers was my year one teacher; a brilliant teacher, if a little scatterbrained, who would engross the class so completely in activities that the changeover into new periods would have been missed completely. But she was a teacher who knew how to get the most out of the small charges in her control. Comparing her to my sister's year one teacher a few years later made her dedication and skill all the more striking.
• A early primary school teacher who took over our class in term two only to find the entire class had taken a dislike to her because she was different from our term one teacher. She persevered and opened up a world of art and make-believe before our very eyes and taught us to watch the world grow through tiny plots of garden just outside the classroom door. 
• A carefree, relaxed man who somehow managed to teach in spite of a tendency to wander in and out of classrooms that weren't his own kicking a footy. 
• A teacher with a pride in our achievements, all our achievements and plastered every inch of the walls and windows with our creations. 
• The English/History teacher who knew our names, who knew each and every one of us and encouraged us to expand ourselves. He had an open door policy to his office and we love him enough that me may have abused the privilege ever so slightly. He gave the impression of putting the students first and when he was promoted made a point of wandering the school yard at lunchtime interacting with anyone and everyone. 
• A History teacher who recognised and encouraged(?) the dynamics of her class and allowed them to shape the class for three consecutive years. Whether it was rivalry, combative spirits or something else its hard to say, but in at least one of those years it prompted our progress. 
• A Human Biology teacher who made understanding elements of the human body easier through the use of examples from her son's life... who just happened to be one of our classmates. 
• A short term student teacher who gained the respect of her year 10 class and successfully taught us an understanding of Romeo and Juliet. Though I only like the play for the memories of those classes. 

However unfortunately memories also surfaces of those teachers whom you remember for all the wrong reasons. Those who consistently failed to control the class, those who remain little more than comic figures running through familiar settings. A few were unique though: 

• One was a Maths teacher who was a brilliant teacher of maths and ensured you learnt every concept completely. However this was achieved though fear to the extent that no one liked him as a person and anyone who had to deal with him outside of maths lessons felt as though they were constantly on tenterhooks. 
• The other most memorable one was a physics teacher who has left me with a complete lack of understanding of physics. His class taught me the importance of the circle in meditation, the words to  Monty Python's Galaxy Song and comprised an assignment: 'research the influence the ruling planet of you star sign has on you life'. I never did learn physics, but I got an awful lot of writing done in that class. 

Going back and seeing my old teachers again make me realise how significantly they contributed to my education, not just academically, but to my education as a person, as an informal teacher and to my appreciation of the cultural heritage, history, natural beauty of the world in which we live and the opportunities open to us if we only think to look for them.

Wedding Bliss

I've never been a fan of weddings.
Is that bad of me?
I just don't get excited as others do.
Yes, they are beautiful occasions filled with love and happiness and joy, and they are a time for family and friends to come together and share in these emotions that are radiating out of your lives.
But I've just never been an avid fan.

I suppose the prime reason is that for me, weddings are superfluous. An expensive surplus I might add. The use of hard earned funds that would be better spent on a mortgage or holiday.
My parents aren't married.
Never have been - to each other. Have never needed to be. So yes, I am a bastard. But it's never been an issue. I have never had to deal with negativity as a result. When people find out they're surprised more than anything, but by then they know me for me, not me for my parents marriage license. Perhaps there are a few stories floating around, of the struggles my mother underwent to stop my school referring to her as Mrs.  But nothing more than that.

I suppose it hasn't helped that the 'happily ever after' of Disney's princesses never reared its ugly head in my childhood. Marriage was taught through real people. Family members who decided not to marry. Family members who married and then divorced. Family members who married and perhaps should have divorced had religion or financial circumstances allowed. Family members who married and then ignored the conventions of marriage altogether. Family members who weathered the storm and came out stronger.
It was never viewed through rose-tinted glasses.
Never treated as a life ambition. Education and Self Identity held that position.

However I understand that most people are not like me.
I do.
Most people like a wedding. Most people like to witness the beginning of a marriage, of a new start to a new life together. But unless its the wedding of acquaintances rather than family and friends, its a (quasi)religious ceremony followed by the same conversations by the same people at greater expense.
And as the evening unfolds, stories emerge of the torment of arranging the venue, annoyance of chasing up rsvps, expense of getting the dress fitted, anguish of choosing the photographer, disgust at the selfishness of a bridesmaid, time involved in making the place settings, time involved in writing the invites, time involved in addressing the bonbonerie, time involved in making the table decorations, time involved in setting up and cleaning up the reception hall...
So, by all means, get married, it is after all your decision, not mine.
Just give me something to do so that I may ease your burden as opposed to adding to it.

The Joy of Poetry

The Perth Writer's Festival was this weekend passed, and in discussing with my mother the various sessions I would be attending, we lighted upon one which discussed whether it is novelists or poets who are more likely to make us swoon. Now for me, this is easily resolved: in my experience, it's always been novelists.

But is this because the only poetry I've been taught to appreciate is, though well worded, of a depressing nature, focusing not on the beauty of life and love, but on the misery and suffering it can inflict upon some. Take for instance Gwen Harwood's 'Home of Mercy'. It is a thought provoking poem, but its topic is the plight of unmarried mothers forced into a home of mercy where they are make to feel more acutely the social degradation of their situation. And when read from even the slightest of feminine viewpoints its complete absence of menfolk highlights the gender imbalance that we in part are still fighting to this day. Or take John Donne's 'The Apparition', a poem about sexual revenge in the form of syphilis. Even his poems of love fail to rejoice in the beauty of life but instead focus upon the depressing fact of the objection of his lover's father.

In fact, very little of what I studied in English Literature would be deemed as positive reading. The poetry was melancholy and the plays tragic. In three years, the only Shakespeare we studied were three tragedies: Romeo and Juliet, Othello and Macbeth. Shakespeare is renown for the breadth of his plays. He wrote histories and comedies in addition to his tragedies, and yet it is the tragedies alone that we are forced to study on a yearly basis. We are allowed to enjoy the comedy of Juliet's nurse, and the tertiary actors, but only in amongst the greater context of two love lorn teenagers who disregard their parents and take things into their own hands with tragic consequences.

And yet, while we focus upon these stories of murder, deception, youth suicide, injustice... we still wonder why the youth of today are so depressed and so often fail to see the beauty in the world around us.

Is it simply because we've been trained that way? 

Do I?

I've never been much of a wedding person. Personally, I haven't seen the point. Its an awful expense for one day, money which could be better spent on travel or a deposit for a house. But for some people it is a fundamental milestone. To me though, it's just never seemed necessary.

I never grew up in an environment where weddings were the norm. Not in my family and not in the books I read; mythology seems to care surprisingly little about the institution of marriage, particularly in comparison with the 'happily ever after's of most people's Disney upbringing. I never spent my childhood dreaming about the big white dress, who my bridesmaids would be, my Prince Charming... any of it. It just never seemed relevant.

Its only now as I prepare a talk in connection with the Unveiled exhibition at the WA Museum, that I find myself drawn in to this entirely new world. A world of white and lace and ostentation... and envy. My [ideology] has not been stirred, but my vanity has. Wandering through the exhibition researching, it's impossible not to be tempted by the skin-tight sheath of the Charles James, or wish for a coat as striking as Sara Donaldson-Hudson's hand-painted Bellville Sassoon. Each item was crafted with care and chosen with love, from the gentleman's embroidered waistcoat to the vivid red silk worn by a female electrical engineer during the war. Each one was worn with a reason, a symbol of their time or of their own personality, shining though as it filled the (verbal and written) gossip columns of the day.


Marvelling in the beauty of each piece, I wonder that my decision will be when my turn comes... if my turn comes. Would I contemplate wearing something as spectacular ( for it is still a spectacle) and worthy of display, or instead an ensemble that is simply endearingly identifiable as me. With so much subtext, so much symbolism at stake, what messages about my self would I feel a need to convey? What do I hold so dear to my personal identity that I could not let a little wedding tradition subsume?


And what customs would I adopt and make my own? Do I want 'something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, and a silver sixpence in my shoe'? Or is the language of flowers more fitting? And so I leave contemplating ideas of a wedding. Contemplating the practicalities of the dress, and veil and flowers and ... and ...

What is love?

What is it about us?
Do we have such unrealistic expectations of love that we're never satisfied?
Have we come to view the romance of being in love as the only type of love? As the thing we should expect to feel for someone for the entire of our lives? As though the absence of this is the absence of love, period?
Have we ceased to identify the different concepts of love, focussing solely on the intoxication of being in love because that is the idealistic fluff that is perpetrated to us through the mediums of society? This bliss of first falling in love is what we expect to perpetrate through the 'happily ever after' fairy tales have promised us?

I remember a sermon at school where we were introduced to the Ancient Greek classifications of love, for where we have one word which sprouts confusion, they have at least four: agape, eros, philia and storge. Unlike us, they differentiate between the dutiful love of children towards their parents, or the love that exists between friends. They also differentiate between the passionate sensual type, or being in love and the deeper sense of true love. And it is this last word, agape that is used to express 'I love you (s'agapo)', a phrase that even in this language should outlive the honeymoon period.

While the feeling of eros, of passionate sensual love, be it sexual or not, is an intoxication of which we can never get enough, we have ceased to listen to the voice of experience that warns us of eros' short life span. It is the honeymoon period before real life sets in, when our eyes are opened to the faults of the other and life's little stresses get in the way. When the addition of new responsibilities impact upon the dynamics of a relationship. When the mundaneness of raising children and maintaining a household become the focus of each lover's world and their passionate love for each other morphs into a steadier love.

Growing up, we are subconsciously indoctrinated by the fairy tales and Disney stories upon which we are fed. Though they teach us reading and comprehension they also provide lessons in social expectations: the type of women of the world, the importance of beauty, the 'happily ever after' of falling in love and marrying Price Charming. In this day and age, this is unrealistic and unacceptable. And yet novels exist that can prepare us for life. Romances even, that override the kitsch that Disney has to offer, that can explain this difference in love about which we appear to have become so oblivious. Just one example is Georgette Heyer's 'A Civil Contract' where the young hero is torn between the woman he is in love with but could not marry and the woman with whom he entered a marriage of convenience but eventually comes to genuinely love. Not only does it show that relationships need work to thrive and overcome hurdles, but also the potential unsuitability of in love love to the hardships and business of day-to-day life.
As an exercise in realism, this is a far better thing upon which to base your expectations than the fairy tales and Disney stories upon which we are expected now to grow up.

I don't understand

Perth drivers can't merge.
Not like the Italians can. Not with a short on-ramp, a queue of cars behind you and a truck bearing down on you at 80 miles per hour.  On the autostrada, there's not much else you can do, and really its far to difficult to journey anywhere avoiding the autostrada. In Genova at least.

Here, we get scared at the mere thought of it. We're petrified of merging with traffic whilst travelling at a snail's pace. And if it's travelling at anything faster than a jog, we slow to a crawl and inch our way into the lane bringing that lane to a familiar crawl in the process. And yet we wonder why the freeway is so congested...

And yet if the traffic lights at an intersection are out we become brilliant drivers; we automatically work as a team and ensure everything runs as smoothly as ever, as though there was never a problem.

I just don't understand. 

A Disney Wedding

Unveiled has opened at the WA Museum, a lusciously lustful collection of wedding dresses from the Victoria and Albert Museum in London town and it has me thinking. Not about marriage, I've had enough weddings of late to keep me satisfied, but of a current phenomenon.

The exhibition which I spent four glorious hours examining and imbuing through every fibre of my being covers 200 years of bridal fashion history (with a few menswear items thrown in) and it was delightful to see such a diversity of styles, even amongst the very best of historical design. Some brides were practical, some subversive, some innovative and on trend, others conservative for the time and place. But they were all different, and through the careful attention of Edwina Erhman and her team at the V&A, each dress is infused with the identity of the bride and so each dress has a story to tell from how it came to be designed for the bride for her special day, to the love and care the family as put into recording the identity of these garments and accessories (including the bridegroom's waistcoat) and preserving them for our benefit today.

Looking at the variety of styles on display, they serve to clearly illuminate the overarching monotony of bridal gowns today. Here on display are 200 years of diverging styles, 200 years of inspiration: the beautiful and the unusual that women were willing to wear on their special day, clothes that truly did set them apart from the crowd and make their day a day to remember. I know its a terrible thing to say, but today so many brides look alike. I think I can safely say that the dress is the most important part. Too often it has been decided before the groom is even known. In a way it's nice to hope it means the bride has taste, or individuality and a sense of identity. But all too often each dress is big: a large crinolined skirt attached to a boned and beaded strapless bodice.

And its not even the most flattering of styles. So why do so many brides insist upon it for that one day when they are the centre of the world, the day when they get to marry their Prince Charming?
Is it that on this one day, their day, they simply want to be viewed as a princess... in the Disney Style?

This phenomenon appears to be prevalent among my generation, a generation of girls who grew up with Disney's version of Snow White and Cinderella, no doubt watched Beauty and the Beast in the cinemas, and wanted to be like Ariel with her cave of treasures or Sleeping Beauty with her ability to commune with the animals. Women who's life goal was to find 'the one' and marry. As impressionable little girls we adopt it quickly and apply our own dreams to this thing called a wedding. In more recent years we've added a few more goals to our list, but it still remains firmly implanted there: 'find the one and marry'.

Thankfully, I would add that my generation missed the brunt of the damage. We're just that little too old for the 'Disney Princess' scheme which has taken merchandising by storm. We escaped with our own clutch of Disney princesses, instead of having this growing clutch of vapid beauties stuffed down our throats by marketing giants. Still, we spent formative years amongst characters who's 'happily ever after' began with a big white dress.

That Ring Finger

It's a strange feeling, to have your ring finger obviously checked for signs of marriage.

I'll admit, on this occasion, perhaps it was a little more expected than usual as I was at a wedding dress exhibition and was so obviously taking notes on the wonders of the exhibition. And assumption has it that someone my age would no doubt be there looking for inspiration... that is if I wasn't already married. So she had to check. So she knew how to word her question. Silly really, as historical fashion is enough of a draw for me. But I suppose she wasn't to know that.

It's strange though because I view my marital status as completely irrelevant both to my life, and to society's view of me. I am who I am, an interesting person in my own right. And if you feel the need to check my finger before deciding whether its worth your while to come and talk to me, I wonder whether I'd want to talk to you. But it still holds an immense importance for others and guides (even if only subtly) their expectations and assumptions. Norms that deserve to be tested and challenged.

I'll admit, I delighted that on this occasion the woman's response to my fingers was pure confusion and I had to draw her attention away from the solitaire diamond and heirloom wedding band on the wrong  finger to accept a view at odds with the standards in social expectation. I wear old jewellery: my mother's Art-Deco diamond, my grandmother's cross, my great-grandmother's earrings, my great-great-grandmother's wedding band named and dated for prosperity. It just so happens that my mother's solitaire compliments the wedding band quite superbly and raises more questions than I'd ever allow it to answer. You see, for me marriage is very much an after-thought; as my sister puts it, only of consideration when financially advantageous to her overseas life with her partner. While I understand its importance to others, I didn't grow up dreaming of my wedding dress, planning my wedding in detail whilst waiting from 'the one.' It didn't seem necessary... at least not to me.

Kitchen Tea Etiquette

This past weekend I attended the kitchen tea of a dear friend and watching as she sat in a pile of presents opening them one by one, it was becoming increasingly obvious that the rules of a Kitchen tea were unknown to more than one of the guests. Despite the looming cost of the wedding presents, the bride was unwrapping expensive tea sets and seasonal plates by Rob Ryan, gifts that surely cost far more than the $2 that will get you a perfectly functional spatula from Kmart.

As dictated to me by my mother, when she and previous generations married the bride went from being a daughter in her parent's house to owning and running her own house, a house that needed kitting out before she moved in as a newly married woman. Then, the groom provided the house but as the bride's role in the new house was running the household and ensuring her husband was fed, it was her duty to fill the kitchen and linen closets. The bride's dowry box contained the household linen, and the bridal registry contained the more expensive, more important items, the typical white goods of the house: the microwave, the toaster, and the crockery and cutlery of the house. But the kitchen drawers still needed to be stocked with those utensils so necessary to preparing dinner like vegetable peelers, spatulas and potato mashers. To accommodate this, the female family and friends of the bride would gather together and present to the bride these utensils.

As my generation has preferred the practise of moving out of our parent's home before marriage, we have acquired for ourselves the household of furniture and medley of kitchen utensils. However the tradition of the kitchen tea has quietly hung on and is now making a come back. Unfortunately in conjunction with this the etiquette of this occasion is not experiencing an equal resurgence: mothers have forgotten to pass this vital information on to their daughters to the extent that some girlfriends have no idea of what a kitchen tea actually is. And of those who do, some still don't realise that they are supposed to arrive with nothing more than the eponymous vegetable peeler.