An Illustrated Christmas (card) Story

An Ilustrated Christmas (card) Story
(c) Melina Magdalena 2007

**please note, some names and identifying details have been altered, to protect the identities of people involved in these incidents**

In early December, I received a Christmas card from an old friend. I call her that, because for a couple of years we socialised regularly, and exchanged quite a lot of information about one another. We had a mutual friend in common, and she remains one of the brightest stars in the constellation of my social network.

Here's the card:

(I have no idea to whom this image belongs, but this is the copyright information on the back. © distributed by Austwide Wholesalers Pty Ltd)

Inside, it read

To Dear Melina, K, I & family …
With Season’s Greetings
and All Good Wishes
for the New Year
from (those pesky Christians!)
Nancy & Michael Smith
X

It was quite a relief when Nancy and Michael moved interstate two or three years ago. Since that time, we have exchanged pleasantries on the phone from time to time, and a couple of perfunctory emails. All contact has been initiated by Nancy. She always uses the opportunity to enquire about our mutual friend, who had already curtailed even this level of contact with Nancy, finding the hypocrisy of maintaining friendly relations more than she could bear. There’s more to their story, but I’ll just stick with mine here.

I wrote her a card in response. It wasn’t a Christmas card. It wasn’t a Channukah card. It was a blank card with a picture of butterflies, one of a set of cards I’d purchased from the Foot and Mouth Artists. I chose the card carefully, knowing that Nancy and I had strong reactions to butterflies, as a symbol of beauty in survival.

11 December 2007
Dear Nancy,
Thank you for your Christmas card and funny message. It’s good to know that you and Michael are doing well.
I do have to wonder though, about your choice of card for me, showing the Nativity scene. A culturally sensitive friend might have chosen a more neutral image for her Jewish friend. I’m not offended. I happen to love the Christmas story, and stories of Jesus the Jew, the teacher, the poet, the activist, the man, the friend…
I have nothing against Christians. In fact, I’m deeply in love with a Christian. I would, however, urge you towards a little self-reflection. Do you understand that it’s precisely because you are a white, Anglo, Christian woman, that you feel you are entitled to deliberately send me a culturally-inappropriate card at this season?
Do you remember several years ago, when you asked to participate in a Jewish Sabbath meal? I arranged this for you, in good faith, as a friend. My parents welcomed you into their home, shared their food with you, and gave generously of their time. I was alarmed, ashamed, offended and upset when you then began to express your racist attitudes. Consider for a moment, the impact this had on people whose family were refugees and migrants, and who choose to work with refugees, migrants and Aboriginal people. Just as with this Christmas card, you failed to show any sensitivity to our cultural differences. Perhaps because you feel part of the powerful, oppressive majority, you felt at home to speak your support for Pauline Hanson’s One Nation policies, for locking up asylum seekers indefinitely in concentration camps, and to express your view that Aboriginal people have it far to easy in Australia, compared with whites. Your behaviour was outright offensive and fear-provoking. It’s taken me a very long time to find a way to tell you about this.
Nancy, I do thank you for your kind wishes, but I don’t wish to cultivate a friendship with a racist.
Best wishes for a bright future.
Merry Christmas & Happy 2008.
love, peace and blessings,
Melina Magdalena

I was away for a few days, visiting my sweetheart, and upon my return, this message was on my answering machine:

Message received 17/12 @ 7:03 pm
Oh hi Melina, it’s Nancy Smith calling. I received your Christmas card today. And first of all I’d like to say I’m really sorry if I’ve offended you, but I also found what you wrote in there very very offensive. I’m not going to grace the insults that you dished out in defense; they’re completely wrong, and I’d be very careful who I call those kinds of names. And you have deeply offended me, because I am not those things, and you’ve taken my comments out of context. And I suggest you look in the mirror yourself at the resentments that you’ve been harbouring. I also invited you into my home, and I never had any idea that you harboured those pathetic resentments about me. I’m very sorry that you’ve written such untruths about me. I’m very happy that you’ve been emotionally honest, and that you haven’t been two-faced anymore, which you have been all these years, and I’m very glad to disassociate from you and your insults. OK? And I do wish you well, but yeah, we’ll leave it at that, hey? Goodbye.

It’s worth pointing out that I had only ever spoken of that Shabbat meal to our mutual friend. I’d never spoken about it to Nancy, or even to my parents. We felt too ashamed and bewildered to mention it.

My first reaction to Nancy’s phone message was one of abject fear. To hear her accusations and the hurt in her strident voice felt threatening, ominous. I know she has criminal connections and a long history of illegal goings on. I wouldn’t put it past her to organize something nasty to happen to me or to someone I love, in retaliation for the “insults” I dished out to her, even though we are physically thousands of kilometers apart.

I acknowledge two things in her defense
a) it wasn’t particularly nice for me to choose Christmas as the time to finally raise this matter with her
b) yes, I have been two-faced in not speaking of this sooner.
However, I take no responsibility for her selective memory. The impact of her behaviour has stung ever since, like a resounding slap in the face, or a brick thrown through a bedroom window.

My mother invited me over for tea, and while my father was outside struggling with an overenthusiastic BBQ, I told her about the phone message. I’d told her about my earlier reply to Nancy’s Christmas card, so she knew the story. She had laughed, when I told her that I’d finally made some response to what had happened at Shabbat that night.

“You’re so much like your father,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“You worry at things, and carry them around until finally, you can’t keep hold of them anymore and out bursts your response.”

“I’ve been wanting to say SOMETHING to Nancy for a long time, I just didn’t know how,” I replied.

My father came in then, and I spoke to him of what had happened. He has a history of misplacing my friends and acquaintances. When I tell him stories, he usually spends quite a long time organizing in his mind who I’m talking about and how that person fits in relation to my messy life.

“Is she the one?” he said, as soon as I’d barely begun.

“Yes,” I replied, knowing instantly, that he had placed her.

He continued speaking doggedly, as though if he didn’t say it then, he never would, “We thought she was on our side, and then after dinner, she started talking about how good the detention centres were, and so on….”

“Yes, that’s Nancy,” I confirmed.

My father turned and carried the dish of burnt chops out to the table. “Well, since that night, we’ve stopped inviting total strangers to sharing Shabbat with us.”


Shabbat = Jewish day of rest, day when one ceases work; also called “Shabbos”, and in English, Sabbath.
Shabbat Shalom = peace of the Sabbath; the traditional greeting exchanged around the Shabbat table.

The Double Bind - book review

The Double Bind - book review
(c) Melina Magdalena 2007

I’ve read several novels by Chris Bohjalian. Each time I close the books feeling a little depleted and possibly misused. It’s a curious sensation, because I enjoy every minute of every novel while I’m reading them – it’s just that the endings leave me with a sense of betrayal.

Perhaps it is my trite and feisty longing always to be on the side of the woman who was wronged. If I am so shallow then I disappoint myself. Maybe life isn’t really so black and white! Bohjalian’s plots turn the tables on his women protagonists, leaving them in either an overtly bad light, or floundering with serious ambiguity as to their ability to avoid consequences of poor decision-making or their actual feminine nature, which in his eyes appears to invite said dire consequences for these women protagonists and those unfortunate enough to become involved with them.

The Double Bind is not a novel about blaming victims. Much of what it has to say about PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) is valid. Bohjalian’s compassionate view of his character’s world is not offensive in itself. At least in this plot, the hurt that protagonist Laurel Estabrook inflicts upon the people in her life is clearly unintended and unavoidable. What Laurel suffers is the fault only of the men who attacked her. The consequences of their attack can never be blamed on their victim. The people who love Laurel understand clearly that she does not intend to cause them harm; indeed that her every action is directed from the vantage point to which she has withdrawn. To protect themselves, they keep Laurel at arm’s length every bit as much as she keeps them at bay.

The book for me was a head-spin in that it left me questioning my own sense of reality. I wondered to what extent I have created an illusion of health, a glamour of safety, a delusion that the world still belongs to me even as I still belong to the world, when in fact, perhaps I would be better off dead. Do I need my fantasies in order to continue to function? Are my delusions necessary for my survival? Must I trick myself into believing I am more than that to which I was reduced, through the actions of the men who damaged me, so that I can convince myself that life is still worth living?

I did not drift for too long, in the howling winds of such existential agonies. I am not a fictional character – I know there is a lot more to me and to my life, than a few isolated events that had far-reaching effects on the way I choose to live my life.

Instead, I pursued this thread by questioning to whose benefit it is, that Laurel confront, define, acknowledge and own every nasty little detail of her experience. In order to be a “true survivor” is she to be left undefended and indefensible, with no dignity of choice and no delicacy of privacy? Is it necessary, in order for her to wear the mantle of “survivor” as opposed to “victim”, to somehow step out from under the burden of her experience and say – hey look at me, I’m still a valuable, contributing human being, even though those men did this and this and this and this to me?

In this sense, the demand that Laurel be open about her experience runs parallel to the demands that every person whose identity falls outside the mainstream, whether through race, gender, ability, or affiliation come out repeatedly, consistently and continuously, in order to be validated as a healthy human being. These demands call for superhuman effort. Most of us are too busy living our lives to waste our time constantly bringing our differences to the attention of those who would just as soon ignore them.

Is not Laurel, by the nature of the life that she is leading, proving her worth and her survival with each and every waking moment? She remains defiant, intelligent, unbeaten and spirited to the end.

I wondered anew about the nature of true healing. The sour taste that was left in my mouth when I finished Double Bind was more to do with the big question of – is it possible or even desirable to heal from such a major traumatic event? Clearly, if PTSD leads directly to madness, and if madness by its definition is mental disease, than the most that can be hoped for is a set of coping mechanisms and a network of support people to prop up the unfortunate victim.

It is unquestionable that no one should go through what Laurel goes through. It is undeniable that many people do experience abuse and torture, and that most of us do not die as a direct consequence of such maltreatment. So what should be done to us, or what should we do, in order to choose a different path, than the path that Laurel takes on her quest for survival? How different are our journeys, from Laurel’s experience of survival?

If healing means denying oneself the liberty or luxury of rewriting the past to something that is more acceptable and tolerable to us, than what other people know really happened, than do we all not live in a state of denial? Do we all not tend to rewrite our pasts, dampen down the emotional states to bearable levels, in order that we continue to function?

We do not all descend into madness. Nor is madness necessarily a permanent state. Madness can provide the respite we need sometimes, in order to regroup and find our feet again. PTSD perhaps, is a life sentence – a direct result of specific traumatic experiences. Not everyone with PTSD experiences madness all, or even some of the time. Nearly everyone with PTSD is accused at some stage, of at least being emotionally extravagant and at worst, of being mad.

The human mind and spirit is incredible in many ways. Those of us who live successfully with PTSD develop our meaning-making skills of intuition and connectivity to a level that others can barely glimpse as possible. It is difficult to verbalise this amongst ourselves, let alone to medicos whose understandings are relegated to regulated mechanical understandings.

Bohjalian does not seem to realize in his PTSD character, the depth and levels of self-talk that must necessarily interweave in a complex and strangely harmonious manner to enable Laurel’s survival in this hostile world. Her world is indisputably hostile, despite the mostly benign characters with whom Bohjalian has peopled it. Were it not hostile, at least in the way Laurel perceives it, why would she have needed to develop such strong defences against it? Laurel’s defenses range way beyond the defense of her own mutilated body. Her purpose is to defend anyone she cares about, from being affected and destroyed by the forces that came so close to destroying her.

So for Laurel herself, since the novel deals mostly with her internalized world as she comes to externalize it, I was gripped by the buzzing current that keeps her sleepless, that runs through her body and circulates in her blood. How could she appear to be anything but calm, in the face of constant panic? How can she possibly escape her past? She is guarded, day and night; vigilant against any attack upon the semblance of sanity and good health that she has created around herself.

Would it be better for Laurel to meditate every morning about the horrors that were enacted upon her body, count them off in a litany of gruesome acknowledgement, and then rise from her bed and go about her day along with the constant physical reminders of these acts? Perhaps it’s her ability to repress part of the knowledge from her everyday consciousness that enables her to function at all? Perhaps it’s amazing that she functions as she does, despite the unvarying murmuring of self-talk, panic and mind-messages that are playing in the background? Perhaps this ability to hear around and despite all this, is healing and health.

What is not spoken of in this book is the question which drives Laurel. Her story, and the story in this book, is infused with the question “WHY?”

Why did this happen to me?
What is it in me that caused this to happen?

Why did they do this to me?
What kind of people imagine and consciously carry out such horrifying acts?

Why did I survive?
What does it mean for the rest of my life, that I must carry the scars from these unspeakable acts?

When there are no answers to these questions and yet these questions cannot be avoided, the only way open is for Laurel to deal with them herself. She seeks meaning, and she finds it on a level that others define as madness. The other people in her life cannot follow her, because they do not understand the path she took to reach that place. Their experience of Laurel is not her experience of herself. That doesn’t make her completely wrong, misguided and crazy. When there is no one left to blame, the blame must be self-inflicted. And that is precisely the shame.

There is no Goddess in Laurel’s world. She must birth herself. Life is hard. To find new meaning in her life, Laurel looks beyond the confines of her own rich inner world, and extends her compassion to those whose realities are even harsher and stranger than her own. Such is the depth of her character.

boundary runner

boundary runner
© Melina Magdalena 2007

you know the kind of dog I’m talking about
overgrown, full-blown, slightly out-of-control
everyone would like to love her because she is so loveable
but that slightly wild aspect that permeates your every interaction
causes people instinctively to throw up their hands
back away, retreat to higher ground – she’s all too much, so
they keep her on that short leash that defies any possibility of intimacy

she doesn’t need obedience training – good lord no!
she doesn’t need her spirit crushed with harsh words and demands of martial precision
a large portion of her charm lies in her ability
to transcend those social norms, to insinuate herself beyond those walls
and end up with her wet nose pushed into your face,
those liquid eyes that beseech you to become your own best friend
it’s uncanny. she doesn’t push or barge her way in
no one sees quite how she does it
she’s just there! suddenly! where she wasn’t, a moment before
and after no one beckoned her to enter

rare are the moments when she yaps like a terrier
alerting you to the fact that she is well aware of the silly games you’re playing
the patrols you set around your barbed-wire fences who only
begrudgingly permit the passage in either direction of anything at all
no one ever told her this was not the way to do things
and she’s knows it’s not the way to do things

she really doesn’t mean to find herself lurking where she’s not welcomed
chastized, she hangs her head, droops her ears, lets her tail sag into the dirt
banished, she starts that slow creep once again around the edges
sniffing the perimeter, leaving her mark at every sapling like a promise that
she’s still out there waiting for the good times when you will finally let her in

energised, that slow lope picks up momentum – yes, she’s passed this way before
gaining confidence, she’s completely forgotten
how she came to be here in this barren, unfriendly place,
on the outside in the first place … second place …
time immemorial has faded into insignificance
memory is meaningless when possibility hovers enticingly at the horizon line

around and around and around she circles, alert now
to the murmurs, the panic-stricken yelps of alarm, the dull drone of despair
it’s so much more than she can bear
she leaps frantically against the windows and barred doors, she’s scary now
that persistent, rhythmic scratching – let me in, let me in!
because she knows full well that it’s her purpose to be there,
to witness and to soothe
it makes no sense at all when you lock her out
she wants only to love and be loved

it’s not harsh words, obedience training, choker collars, short leashes and rewards
that keep her going – she’s tough, well schooled in hard knocks
she survives this periodic maltreatment, yes
but how she would blossom and thrive on
gentle training, a loving hand and consistent guidance
to teach her how to navigate those places without again
coming to grief or causing that endless offence

Marriage and Other Great Acts of Political Resistance

Marriage and Other Great Acts of Political Resistance
(c) Melina Magdalena 2007

Reflecting upon the so-called "gay marriage debate" (the opposing sides are not speaking to one another), my first marriage proposal came to mind. I was 15, visiting relatives in East Berlin. I was up in the bedroom of ny second cousin, Albrecht Lachmann (1967-2002). He had just finished playing for me, his blackmarket recording of Pink Floyd's The Wall . Albrecht burned with a passionate desire for freedom. In my callow state of ignorant, apolitical, inhibited youth I rejected his proposal.

I first met Albrecht when he was 8 and I was 6. He used to take violin lessons. I was visiting Germany with my parents and siblings. My mother had reconnected with her father for the first time since he left the USA in the wake of his divorce from my grandmother Ruth. My mother's father Christof Lucchesi was the brother of Albrecht's mother's father, Immo Lucchesi.

Seven years later, I still had only a dim understanding of what it meant to live in a police state like the German Democratic Republic. I knew fresh food was chronically short, travel was restricted, the currency was practically worthless outside the USSR, and that families remained divided across the internal German borders.

I heard murmurings from Onkel Immo and his wife, Tante Ursul.... Albrecht was only making things more difficult for himself, with his attitude. All students were forced to study the Russian language. Only by excelling in this subject, could a young person be guaranteed a chance at further study and a career.

I had also met another young second cousin, whose name I have regrettably forgotten. She lived in Dresden with her mother. Her chances of further study were nil, due to the fact that her father had defected from East Germany after divorcing her mother. The justification for this? Bear in mind - there were no secrets about her plight. There was no chance for her to resist the decisions imposed on her by the police state in which she lived. The already slim chance this young woman might find a way to join her father in West Germany had been increased by a mere smidgeon. Therefore the East German government deemed it a fruitless exercise on their part to educate this young woman.

Here in South Australia, we do not labour under a police state. But the rules and restrictions that the state and federal governments impose upon our people, young and old still have those affected chafing at the bits of their confinement.

In the case of my teenagers, both have chosen to focus upon the mandatory learning of "Australian Studies" as the site of their resistance. Australian Studies is a Year 10 subject. My son weasled his way out of taking it last year, by becoming overinvolved with cricket - a legitimate passion. However, he was forced to take the subject this year as a Year 11 student. My daughter took the subject during the first semester of this year. She is currently a Year 10 student.

Their tactics of resistance are lamentably crude. I would have to say they are ineffective in so far as their rage is enacted against their teacher, poor thing, who has to mark their work and cajole them to do any work before she has anything to mark. From what I've heard, neither of their Australian Studies teachers has been too impressed, impassioned or informed about what wisdom, history and values she is supposed to be imparting to these youngsters. One of them focused her curriculum almost entirely on US Indigenous issues; the other asked her students to produce a piece of work about imported species. Perhaps the teachers are sneakily resisting in their own way.

I cannot resist posting this example of resistance by a South Australian teenager. The task was supposed to be 1000 words long.



For this illustrious example of academic excellence my very smart teenager received a grand total of 7 (out of 20). I suppose this is Recorded Achievement, at its best.

I believe the best acts of political resistance are personal. I believe these may be acts of outstanding courage and fortitude, but they do not need to be showy spectacles that draw the awed attention of passersby. Most importantly, effective acts of political and personal resistance must not hurt the actor more than he or she would be hurt by not resisting. Yes, there are times and there are situations where people risk their lives in order to stand for what they believe in; this usually takes the form of standing against what they disbelieve. But there are many ways in which ordinary, humble, brave, optimistic human beings may resist the seductive pull of conformity, the thrall of convention, and the deadly boredom of only ever doing what others expect of you.

Hence, Loved Up!.

Crushed

Crushed
(c) Melina Magdalena 2007

To K.L. with best wishes on her 38th birthday next month.

I didn’t want to be with her. I wanted to be her. She fascinated me; from the moment I laid eyes on her. At almost twelve years of age, I had no one to talk to about this. Newly arrived in the small Queensland sugar town, I had no friends, no cousins, no aunts, and no older siblings. I remember the day so clearly.

It was the last weekend before school started for the year. The Girl Guides in that part of the world were active throughout the year, so I went to my first meeting in this new place. The Guide Hall was a long weatherboard building. I think it was painted blue. I walked up the three steps and in through the door to be greeted with the sight of many busy girls, all in uniform, sectioned off into their patrols along each side of the room. Our Guide Leader walked me across the wooden floor to meet my new Patrol Leader. I met her second first, a merry, round-cheeked, frizzy haired girl who became my best friend for the two years we lived there. She tapped S on the shoulder to get her attention.

Thinking back, I can’t figure out how S was already Patrol Leader, because from what I know of the story, she was also new in town. Maybe she had moved up with her family the previous year, and had had some time to establish herself. She looked at me through her glittering brown eyes, down the curve of her arrogant nose, smiled cursorily and set me to work. In that moment, I became hers for the taking.

What must she have seen, when she glanced at me, that tall, willowy girl, a study of brown on brown, with her long, tanned arms and long, tanned legs? What was I? A short, stocky little girl in a Girl Guide uniform, her light brown hair in two preposterous pigtails that stuck out at odd angles over each ear, the aftershock of a haircut several months earlier. I was too shy and nervous to smile. I didn’t make small talk. What eleven year old does?

The rest of my family spent the afternoon house hunting. When my mother came to pick me up, I bubbled and burbled my way to the car, excited about the new best friend I’d made. Her name was S. She was so great. I was going to be so happy there. I got some kind of “That’s nice, dear” response. That’s OK. I understood; there were other things on my mother’s mind.

What does one do, in the grip of sudden infatuation? Within a matter of weeks, I transited from being a happy little girl, to a confused and awkward adolescent. A month or two earlier I had kicked a boy in the balls when he looked up my dress as I played on the monkey bars. I was severely spoken to for that incident, but I didn’t appreciate his interference in my games. It seems while I was preternaturally disposed to intercept and deflect the male gaze, I was sorely unequipped with words to explain my new superpowers.

I had grown breasts and hips over the past eighteen months, and I didn’t like them. I used to wear a tight zipped cardigan to squash my chest, but just before we moved, my mother took me downtown and got me fitted for some proper bras. We referred to them as my unmentionables. I was sure that if I tried hard enough to pretend I was still a little girl, I could make them – and my messy, painful, frightening periods go away.

And now this – what did it mean? I just wanted to be her friend, that’s all.

Maybe I looked at her with too much intensity? Maybe I tried too hard? Maybe I infringed on the boundaries of the friendships she’d already established within the group. She was after all, the undisputed queen bee of the hive. That is not why I was so attracted to her. I liked her elegant brownness, her suave, smooth way of moving through the world. I admired her adeptness at dealing with authority figures, and the ease with which she interacted with her peers. I wanted to be just like her.

Maybe she just didn’t like me. That’s always possible. If she were so remarkable that I would want to be like her, if follows doesn’t it, that there is no way she would aspire to be anything like me!

School started. I drifted through the classes, separated thanks to our untimely arrival in the town, from any of my guiding buddies. High school was hard for that fact alone. At least I had someone I could hang out with during lunch and recess.

The next clear incident that I recall was in November, at my best friend’s birthday party. She lived next to the swamp, which was one of the mangrove areas around the town. The party was not at the swamp, but we giggling girls went for a secret walk to the swamp so that S could meet her boyfriend.

I didn’t really mind that she had a boyfriend, although I didn’t want one. I thought it was stupid really – I stubbornly resisted all those teenage flirtations, knowing instinctively they were somehow not for me. I seem to remember his name as Kermit, though I’m sure it wasn’t. It must have been some Germanic name like Klaus or Kurt or something. S had ostentatiously used a black marker to write his and hers initials on her arm. I know his first name started with ‘k’, because in an insane moment of identification with S, I secretly took up that same black marker and copied the four letters onto my own arm, along with the heart that linked them.

How S mocked me for that unforgivable act. It was her best buddy who revealed my indiscretion to all and sundry. I was shamed, without even being able to adequately explain my actions. It didn’t make sense to anyone, let alone me. I was sullied in their eyes, no longer a known entity, but something dangerous and strange.

I’ve blocked out most of the memories of what happened after that. I managed to avoid Susan during most of that summer, but the next year, school became a nightmare. She contracted glandular fever towards the end of the school year, which was a blessing for me. I remember hearing that she was so weak that her mother had to bath her.

I was not a sophisticated type. Even before the birthday party, I didn’t pursue S, or seek her out, as is common when people are in the grip of infatuation. In this small town, we all knew where each other lived, but I had never been to S’s house. The infatuation had long disappeared, submerged beneath the combined weight of my bewilderment and misery. Now I imagined going to her house, pushing her head under the water and holding it there until the bubbles stopped.

It’s literally at this moment, twenty-five years later that I begin to realize S may have been smarter, or savvier, than I ever gave her credit for. Certainly, she found her target every time with me, and I was so innocent, I had no knowledge or prior warning of what she would aim for next. S seems to have known quite well, what she thought of me – dirty, hairy and perverted.

I once wandered into the change rooms before PE, to discover to my shock, that S and her crowd was already in there. I took another bite of my apple, and nearly choked, as her harpy’s voice berated me for being so dirty that I would eat my lunch in the toilets.

When she started taunting me with the gorilla tag I begged my mother to let me start shaving my legs. I hated the whole process. I didn’t want anything to do with my misbegotten body. One Saturday afternoon I sat in the bath and doggedly dragged the razor with such ragged pressure up my shin that the bathwater turned shockingly red with my blood and I had to shower whilst attempting to staunch the bleeding so that no one would find out. I bore those scars for about fifteen years before they faded – and that was long after I had stopped shaving my legs for good.

A new girl started at the school, and was immediately taken under the shelter of S’s malevolent wings. She still wore her uniform from her previous school. Her dress was far too short, and she would sit on the benches at lunchtimes, rubbing and rubbing the section of her legs between the hem of her dress and her knees. When S gleefully claimed that I had been looking at this girl’s legs, I wasn’t sure why I felt so shamed, but I felt it anyway.

S was merciless in avenging her honour. I had crossed a boundary into a new country where I was to be persecuted for the rest of time. During my childhood, I always had close friendships, and being a naturally studious and motivated learner, I had been popular with nearly all of my teachers. I hadn’t experienced such severe ostracism. I wasn’t brought up to be a pariah. The shock was too much to bear.

I took myself off and tried to find some other friends. Even the gentle, longhaired girls who belonged to some variety of Brethren background could not suffer my presence in their midst. S made sure my reputation caught up with me. So I tried to stay alone at school. This was difficult. I found it was necessary not only to be alone, but also to become invisible. I acquired this skill by virtue of necessity.

I began to have nightmares. There was something dangerous and corrupt in me. My nightmares were all about my need to protect those around me, from my influence. My sister was in particular danger, and I pushed her as far away from me as I dared.

My hitherto best friend was a dear and loyal soul. She weathered my bizarre behaviour and maintained her earnest desire to be my friend, though I did my best not to corrupt her with my presence. From her point of view, I was still welcome to join her and her friends at school, at band, and at Guides, but I could not feel welcome or safe in any place where S was.

So after two years, when we left that town, I tried to leave all of that behind me. My spirit was crushed beneath the weight of my despair. There was something very wrong with me, and there was not a damned thing I could do about it. I could not even name what it was, though the corruption was like a vivid, ugly stain across my face that everyone else could see. I could only stare out of my sullen green eyes in utter incomprehension, and strive to be invisible.

My Own Private Xenophobia

My Own Private Xenophobia
(c) Melina Magdalena 2007

Xenophobia - a fear of foreigners or strangers

A question for this week - to what extent are my attitudes and prejudices governed by my fear of the strange?

This question can only arise if I subject myself to the same level of scrutiny to which I subject and judge others. It emerges as I wallow in a cloud of grief that envelopes me from time to time, like a cloak lent to me by some friendly stranger to shelter me from the the indifference of those who allow my tears to fall unremarked.
Why a friendly stranger? The tears are mine. My griefs run both deep and wide. Under this cloak I can let them flow in private. I can honour my grief, express my sorrow with no expectation that others will allow me this unimpeded. A friendly stranger indeed. I know no one who suffers other people's tears easily.

Another question - to what extent must 'safe space' be constituted within exclusivity?

This question arises from my intense personal need for safe space, a need which I believe I share with every other human being. But what may be safe for me is not the same as what is safe for others. So to what extent can I reasonably expect that my need be answered?
I first encountered the concept of 'safe space' when as a university student, I was introduced to the Women's Room on my campus. I readily took advantage of this room for study and time out. This was well before I was a wife, a mother, a divorcee or a lesbian. I was intrigued by the idea, and I welcomed this haven. Even though I had no words for verbalising why I felt so refreshed by spending time in the Women's Room, I felt acutely the difference between being in a male dominated sphere and being in a female exclusive sphere. It took me many more years to appreciate the insight, strength and intelligence that must have been required for the women who first set out to carve their own space on campus.
The idea of a Women's Officer was similar. For quite a while I didn't know why I thought it was a good idea for there to be a women's officer in the Student Union, but I was glad that she existed.
Later, I noticed there were new positions, new categories, some of which I could enter, others that excluded me. Suddenly there was an Environment Officer, a Sexuality Officer...

As well, my personal journey of discovery coincided with the merging and transformation on university campuses around Australia of women's rooms, women's departments, women's studies into shared spaces. At the university I attended for example, Women's Studies disappeared into Gender Studies, into Gender and Labour Studies. In other places, Women's Studies was similarly subsumed by something called Queer Studies. These merges have not been popular in all quarters. There are as strong arguments to support the separation of Women's Studies from Queer Studies or Labour Studies, as to support their subsumption.

When I was abused and then separated and then raped I discovered to my chagrin and outrage that there was no safe space on this planet. Not for me. I learned to live with the feeling that danger was ever present.
I imagine this experience is similar to the experience of desensitisation that people go through when they live in a place where there is constant warfare, under the threat that at any moment, they might be blown to pieces, or see someone next to them annihilated in an instant.
I hope it is not perceived as insensitive for me to compare these two human experiences. But if safe space is something which every human being requires; if safe spaces are a human right, than it is important to explore what happens to people when safe spaces are not available.

Because I am a mother of a son and a daughter, lesbian separatism was never something to which I felt I had access. Although on the one hand I felt far freer and safer in the company of only women, there was no way I would abandon my son in the expectation that he would grow up to abuse his position as a white male. With hindsight, I have come to appreciate how lucky I have been to avoid the excesses of separatist attitude.
And again, this insight was not gained without due pain. When I left the mixed company of idealistic patronising misogynist racist peace activists and entered a female-exclusive peace group, it was with an expectation that we would all treat one another as we expected to be treated; that justice, sweetness and light would prevail; that the burden of hard work that was required to mend the world would be a burden shared amongst friends, not a matter for endless contention and the obsessive controlling power of consensus blocking that was the favourite ploy of male peace activists who were afraid of taking action.
How my mighty expectations were brought low is already a matter of public record. It's my naivete that makes me cringe to remember it these days. And yet - the promise was there, the possibility still hovers endlessly on the horizon - it is power that corrupts and shatters love and goodwill and courage and perverts them into the same old same old patterns of exclusion and victimisation time and time again, whatever the gender of those who seek to use their positions of power and control others.

My next foray was when I took on the mantle of Reform Judaism. Here is my home, I thought! Here I can be myself, I can explore my heritage, I can mend the torn shreds of my secret longings to reconnect with my past and paint a colourful, positive picture for my children of what it means to be Jewish in the world today.
The synagogue didn't approve of me or my children. I lacked both the funds and the chutzpah to convince them of our worth. I tried to give in kind, but got rejection after rejection in return. This was no safe space for me, or my children.

I went to a LesFest soon after I came out as a lesbian. At last! Safe space! Women's only space! But what on earth is a woman born woman? It took a few years for me to understand what this meant.
Perhaps I'm a slow learner? Perhaps it's my natural optimism that prevents the cynicism that would pop up like those annoying balloons on my monitor to ensure I didn't stray from the stoic path of realism. I don't suppose I've ever lived in anyone else's "real world". Mine must be very different from the norm.

On the other hand, lesbian space has come to be very special to me. The world I inhabit in my everyday allows me to be myself so long as I stick to the paths and keep off the grass. Within reason, I can be surprising. I can speak out. I can come out sometimes, and expose myself as a lesbian. I prefer to pretend that I am out, when in fact most of the time no one questions my sexual identity. And that can be quite convenient. It feels almost safe, in a funny kind of way.
My days are spent in this heteronormative world, where I live a kind of half-life. Although I do not feel constricted or confined to the closet, nor am I free to relate to most of the other women in my world, and certainly NOT to any of the men, in any way except as an apparent heterosexual.
This is familiar to me. I have adapted to living in this way. It begins to burden me only when I have no respite. No lesbian safe space. No lesbian company.

And this is where the question of my own private xenophobia begins to play out.

As a woman, what must I do to find women's only space some of the time?

As a lesbian, what must I do to find lesbian only space - just occasionally?

Is there something wrong with me that I define lesbian safe space as a space where lesbians are free to gather and socialise where we do not have to suffer the endless gaze of heterosexual men?

This week I sought lesbian only space at a public restaurant. It was Adelaide's monthly lesbian dinner, at a gay-friendly restaurant, on the first Friday of the month. This has been a long-running event in a city which boasts very few regular public lesbian get-togethers.
Yes! This dinner was at a public restuarant.
No! We have no rights over who dines at this restaurant on any particular night.
Yes! Restaurant management reserves the right to open its doors to whomever it pleases, in order to turn a profit.
For me, it has become an unfriendly, unwelcoming place to be. On this occasion, as well as the lesbians, there were two other groups there. One was a group of men who were attending a men's health conference. Interestingly, they did not impinge on lesbian space. The second group was a mixed bunch of people who are into BDSM.
Perhaps this is where my xenophobia and prejudices kick in? I freely admit - BDSM does not attract or interest me in the slightest. In fact, I find the idea repugnant. I'm not interested in being converted.
It was my observation that this group of people used the restaurant space to their full advantage with no consideration for the needs of anyone else in the restaurant that evening. We lesbians were relegated to a few tables into which we were packed like sardines, trying earnestly to communicate and socialise as though the BDSM men and women were not loudly and rudely flaunting their presence and impinging on our space.
Their arrogance was all the more profound because it felt as though there were a quality that they were enjoying it all the more because they were opressing a weaker group and getting off on this fact, rather than it simply being a quality of relief and refreshment to be gathering for once, in a BDSM safe space.

Which brings me back to the question of exclusivity. It seems that for me, safe space is constituted equally by what is not there, as what is present. In order for me to feel safe, something must be lacking.
My impulse is to reject the possibility of finding safe space at Out4Tea anymore, since the first Friday of every month is now marked not only by the lesbian dinner at Caos Cafe, but the BDSM dinner in the same small space.
There are probably places where we would like to all be weirdos together, safe and free and happy in the fact that we are different from the mainstream, but just because we are two facets of queer does not mean we all get along like one big happy family, even if we ought to. Just because neither group is heteronormative is not enough of a bond to make all of us feel safe in the presence of one another.

Perhaps it is my xenophobia that prevents my embracing the presence of queerness in all its forms as constituting safe space for me? How can I own this fact, without being blamed for it? Am I automatically at fault because of my attitude?

The truth, and nothing but the truth…

The truth, and nothing but the truth…
(c) Melina Magdalena (2007)

Are these two things unrelated?

a) Yahoo! News today includes Why Women Worry So Much which posits a more developed mind connection in females than males, between the past and future. These connections, far from being useless stressors by overemotional, hysterical females, provide a basis for reasoned arguments and decision-making. As Andrea Thompson writes, “This skill, in its simplest form, is critical to social understanding as it is important to making decisions and assessing risk.”

b) Wikipedia’s article about "Truth" is unrelentingly male. Not one woman’s voice is quoted in this article, though women wrote some of the references (diligently doing their research on men’s ideas). Two of the three images on this page portray “Truth” as a naked woman – one being rescued by “Time”, as he vanquishes “Falsehood” and “Envy” (both male?) and the other (naturally the work of another male artist) portrays Truth as a naked white woman with long, dark hair, who holds a shining orb of light. Interestingly, the light is neither a long and pointed flame, nor a beacon, but a glowing sphere.

You tell me! Can you see a connection here?

In my experience, it is not possible to be on the ‘right’ side of the Law. The Law has no ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ side – it is merely an instrument for establishing and maintaining a system of decision-making, which is based on layer upon layer of previous decisions. Those who are touched by the Law, even when they firmly believe that ‘right’ is on their side, usually end up burned, along with their treasured version of Truth, which has been maimed beyond recognition.

There is very little transparency in Law. Those who practice the Art of Law are hard-pressed to explain its ins and outs to those whom they represent. The best example of this fact is the unwillingness of lawyers to be able to say which way any case is likely to go. Both sides enter the game with the possibility of emerging the victor. Where is the justice in this?

My interactions with lawyers, judges and barristers have been overwhelmingly frustrating. There are never any clear answers. Advice is invariably couched in terms of perhaps and could be. This has the effect of making me feel that there are prevarications on every side. Like a character in a Kafkaesque story, the unwitting victim has no recourse.

There is no easy way out, once the process has begun. Those who fight their way out are blamed for failing to show proper respect to the Law, and end up with egg on their faces. Look at those survivors of Family Violence who steadfastly refuse to press charges against their abusers on the basis that having to go through the police and court system will be more painful and achieve a less satisfactory outcome, than continuing to survive the abuse. Especially once they’ve already been exposed to such risks, women can be very skilled at perceiving and avoiding further risk of pain, exposure and humiliation.

When we refer to arbiters of the law as sleazy, untrustworthy crooks, it is because of the contradiction between the message we are given, that Law is pure, logical and just, and our experience of Law, which is mystifying, illogical, painful, humiliating and unfair. In my experience, Law has no transparency and very little logic.

It’s not fair to lawyers, that laypeople complain and abuse them, and hold lawyers and politicians to blame for all of the ills of the world, but nor is there much fairness in the Law. Such accusations should not be taken personally.

The Law, you see, is played at by Experts. These Experts may be familiar with the strange fire they encounter, but the layperson very often doesn’t, as those who become tangled in Law discover, to their great cost. The layperson’s objections to the great monetary cost of legal battles are justified. What is the price of a life?

Monopoly is the board game most akin to legal battles, in which vast sums of meaningless cash are handed from one player to another, without there being much fairness or justice involved in the transactions. It all comes down to the roll of the dice. Once the Experts have creamed off their portion of the spoils, there’s sometimes not much left for the person to whom these sums of money were awarded.

And who really believes that money can repair, undo or make good the damage done to people? I am as guilty as the next person, in believing that having more money will make me happier and more comfortable, but I don’t have to dig very deep to find an inner voice that tells me I will always, no matter how well off I am, have something to struggle with, and that wrestling with those demons is what life is really all about.

Those who enter the world of Law do so at risk of their privacy and wellbeing. Few emerge unscathed, even if their cases do not get sucked into the maelstrom of sensational news reporting. In fact, journalists usually ignore those whose stories ought to be told, but that’s another story.

Things happen. They are rarely planned. Causality is most often a product of hindsight. Those who find comfort and happiness in seeing the connections, and those who are skilled in choosing their path may find their path is smoother than those whose dispositions lead them to grumble and complain and always believe the worst of any situation. But even an optimist can be thrown for a six at the worst of times, and find herself struggling for her next breath.

Or is that an unbearably facile proposition? Is it inane? Am I insane? Allow me to try just once again.

If Truth is a shining orb of light – not the harsh, damaging, life-giving sunlight, but rather the gentle, silvery glow of moonlight – then surely we must be equally preoccupied by what is hidden, as what is exposed? Perhaps it is a happy accident that Men have chosen to represent Women as the bearers of Truth?

In this simplistic dichotomous world, Women are often seen as those who seek to make connections, to see causality, to predict the future in ways that are renowned for mystifying and frustrating the Men who just can’t keep up with our brilliant leaps of logic.

Add the Male versus Female Power quotient into the brew, and attempt to discern Truth, and it is as clear as the proverbial mud. This is a sick, sad world and that’s the truth.

Come on Women – you know the answer to my next question even before I go so far as to ask it:
What is most often, the product of frustration?
Anger, of course! Accompanied by violent outbursts!

Many are the foul crimes that are committed in blind rage as a product of humiliation. It is a perverse situation when such crimes in turn are the direct product of a lack of humility in those who commit them. Those who take themselves too seriously expect others to do the same. Though they appear unpredictable and occur unpredicted, such acts of violence horrify, terrify and suppress resistance. Such crimes compound and multiply, all in the name of truth and justice and logic and causality, although these are in fact rarely acknowledged.

I’d better watch out now, lest I be accused of inciting male violence as inflicted upon females who are just too smart to know any better.

Perhaps you’ve heard the sentencing arguments before. Perhaps it’s because their uncle abused them, or because of how their mothers brought them up? People find it easier to believe that criminals and those who start wars are tragically flawed in some way, than to believe that they are no better and no worse than any of us, and that they make considered, though horrifying and greedy choices to harm others for their own personal gain.

Of course you’re entitled use Law to pursue damages. You believe Right is on your side. You believe Law is based upon Truth and Justice. Your lawyers will guide you through the labyrinth, but they won’t explain, illuminate or enlighten you of the outcome. They can’t, because they have no prior knowledge of the outcome. Some things, such as media attention, simply can’t be predicted.

Enter at your own risk. Maybe you will get satisfaction from playing the game? But beware! If you play the victim when you find you have jumped out of the frying pan that was your life, and into the strange fire that is Law, you may be hard-pressed to find sympathy. Perhaps it’s human nature to blame people for their own misfortunes. Who ever said that life would be easy, or that the Law would treat you fairly?

I rest my case.

Begging Your Pardon

Begging Your Pardon
(c) Melina Magdalena 2007

Today is Yom Kippur, the most solemn day in the Jewish calendar. On this day, Jews fast from sunset to sunrise, pray, meditate and seek forgiveness. We seek forgiveness from those we harmed intentionally, and from those whom we harmed without meaning to, and without knowing that we did so until after the fact. We seek forgiveness from those we love, as well as those we despise. Jews do not require or demand of G-d that we be forgiven. We have no right to do this. On Yom Kippur we stand before the Book of Life as humble human beings, capable of great good and terrible evil, and await judgment. It is not for G-d to forgive us our wrongdoings against other human beings. G-d can only forgive our wrongdoings against G-d.

Forgiveness can be given, but not bought. Forgiving oneself is as important as being forgiven by someone else. The important element is the acknowledgment of pain, the acceptance of one's responsibility for causing this pain, and the wish to undo that pain, however impossible it is, to rewind the videotape of life and start the segment over.

For me, I wonder when I will have time to be a good Jew. Last night, I lay in bed and thought about fasting. I planned to spend today in penitence and meditation. I considered those people to whom I would like to make my amends. There are several. But this morning, I got up and showered; watered my garden, put the kettle on, and ate some almonds along with my daily regime of vitamins. Everything I put in my mouth has stuck in my throat.

I finished Harry Potter's Deathly Hallows this morning, for the second time. I was deeply moved again, at arriving at the conclusion of this epic. The end of course, marks the beginning of Harry Potter's life - a life now not determined by the evil intentions of somebody else... a life in which he is free to be a humble human being, albeit a magical one...

Dictionaries distinguish "pardon" and "forgiveness" with reference to punishment. One who is "pardoned" is excused from being punished for one's wrongdoings. I believe the quality of "being forgiven" is different. In order to seek forgivness, one accepts the punishment that is part and parcel of the outcome of wrongdoing.

Some people are like House Elves. They seek out punishment because of their acute awareness of their inability to avoid wrongdoing, no matter how hard they try. Such people punish themselves. This can be separate from their seeking forgiveness from those whom they have wronged. When they are warped, they begin to enjoy their self-inflicted punishments, because this is all they know.

Some people are more like Lord Voldemort. They deny that there is any "wrong" in their evildoings, and when pushed to acknowledge the dire consequences of their actions, they make excuses, still avoiding culpability.

There are people who are unaware of their wrongdoings. Like the "simple son" of the Passover Service, these people are not necessarily in denial. They are not perfect people - their oblivion does not make them angels, but their lack of self-awareness makes them slippery characters on whom it is difficult to pin any specific wrongdoings. For those of us who are vulnerable to taking full responsibility for the actions of others, because our self-doubt and self-hatred drives us to seek punishment wherever it may be found, it is easy to blame oneself for hurting the Oblivious, rather than acknowledging the pain that one has suffered through the indifferent and often callous behaviour of the Oblivious.

I can be a smug, self-righteous bitch sometimes, and I know it. I can be blinded to everything, except my own pain. In flailing around not only do I fail to notice the compassion extended towards me by others, but I inflict further pain upon those who would come to my assistance.

I am sorry.

I can be inspired by my own good intentions sometimes, to the detriment of those whome I seek to rescue and assist. My pushiness and busyness means I fail in the tests of compassion and disable, rather than enable those whom I would help and support.

I am sorry.

My egocentricity often makes me the centre of my own universe, believing that everything revolves around me, and that I have the power to determine what will happen next. This hubris removes me from the reality that is me as one small speck of consciousness, floating in space, seeking to grow and learn. This deceit inverts my intention and my experience, so that I am unable to truly connect with those around me, even those I love.

I am sorry.

To all of those whom I have hurt and harmed, whether intentionally or unintentionally, I am sorry. I acknowledge that I have hurt you through my egotism, my own suffering, my own pain and anger, and my own need for recognition. I take full responsibility for my actions and my inactions; for speaking out when I should have remained silent, and for not speaking when words of strength, courage and compassion were required. I am sorry for my failings. I am sorry for being too busy and preoccupied to see what I could do in situations where I left you in need. Please forgive me.

One of the Faceless Majority

One of the Faceless Majority
(c) Melina Magdalena 2007

Two weird things happened to me at school this week that made me reassess my ideas of cultural identity and my place in the world.

The first thing, was the reaction of several students in my class when we went into the Library's Seminar Room for our reading lesson. A number of new books had been pinned to the noticeboard in the hopes of attracting favourable attention from said students.

"Miss!" One young woman's hand shot up (she's one of the brightest sparkles in the group), "Is that book about you? Is that you in the picture?"
"Er, no..." I replied, looking around to see what she was referring to, "That's a book about Princess Diana."
And sure enough, as the rest of the students dribbled through the door, two others made very similar comments.

Now I know my younger brother bears a distinct resemblance to Prince William - this has been an oft-remarked fact during the course of his life, much to his chagrin. And indeed, our Germanic family colouring and build (apart from the fact that I am height-challenged) is very British Royal. We are not the weedy, pale English flowers, but the rosy-cheeked, hearty German peasant types.

But still - no one has ever mistaken me for Princess Diana before. And I'm not sure whether to be disturbed or flattered!

On the same day, after school, I was standing at the Reception Desk, sorting out some paperwork for next week, when one of the school's BSSOs (Bilingual Support School Officer) came up and congratulated me for winning a permanent teaching position at the school.
"Er, no..." said I, "It's not me. I didn't even apply!"

Oh my, was she embarrassed. Seems she had mistaken me for one of the other teachers. Now again - I'm not sure whether to be disturbed of flattered! The other teacher is also a lesbian; neither of us wear a hijab; we both have short, dark hair - hers is curly. Neither of us wear glasses, and I've never seen the other teacher in anything but trousers, which is the same for me.

I've grown to enjoy the plaintive questions from children - always around the age of 4-6, who wail "Mummy, is that a man or a woman?" As if the large breasts on my chest were not a dead giveaway. I really don't look very masculine, I think?

Anyway, I've been lucky enough to grow up in a multicultural, multiracial society and family. I can hardly imagine what it would be like to have to relearn to read faces and identities if I'd grown up in a homogenous place, where everyone was more or less the same eye, skin and hair colour and where the differences in facial features, build and posture were far more subtle.

It's not as if I'm a know-it-all, and I'm learning new things every minute I'm in the classroom with these students. The subtlety of an eye-brow lift, for example, to indicate assent and understanding, versus the looking down and refusal to meet the teacher's gaze, to indicate compliance and respect.

This week, another teacher revealed to me that when some Sudanese people look away over their shoulders after being offered food or drink, this is not embarrassment or shyness, this indicates their having been gravely insulted.

As if!

As if, they were not able to supply their own needs! As if they were dependent upon the charity and goodwill of others, for their survival. They are a proud people - and this turned my naiive notions of the universal value of hospitality right upon its head.

There are people who nod their heads and make pleasant noises, just in order not to show disagreement, so vital is it in their communities, to present a united front. Occasionally I play games with the Asian students in my class, where I try to force them to reveal their true opinions. So far, I think I've lost out at every attempt.

People watching is one of my all time favourite activities. I watch people, examine their faces and body language, and make up stories about them. I observe their interactions, and when I see family groups, I like to compare features and see the interplay of genetic inheritance. I find this utterly fascinating.

In the playground of a school whose population is mostly new arrivals to Australia, I get the opportunity to look at a myriad of faces every day. There are some groups whose faces are scarred - one group, as ritual scarification and the other group pitted and torn by the ravages of war. The hair is absolutely amazing, on the groups who show their hair, and for the other groups, whose women keep their heads covered, the variety of hijab is colourful and awe-inspiring. It is sometimes more than I can bear, to look into the eyes of those people who allow eye contact. What lies beneath the surface runs far deeper than many would give them credit for.

As a teacher, there are days when I feel depleted and irritated by the many demands for my attention, the clamour of need, and the awareness that what I have to offer is quite often not what the students feel they want. But there are other days touched by the glamour of golden sunshine, days that are filled with love. Of course these are the days that make it all worthwhile.

I'm reminded of Kim Stanley Robinson's character Frank in 40 Signs of Rain - a scientist, who assesses every situation as though humans were a group of primates running bewildered through this modern world in search of our primeval savannah. We are a weird bunch. I often marvel at the things we do, what we choose to see as important, how we select particular features or activities and prioritise them for no good reason. It's not just about survival anymore...

As for the students, and all the people I watch, they are every one of them individual, and every one of them is beautiful.

Second-hand Notoriety

Second-hand Notoriety
(c) Melina Magdalena (2007)

When I was first married, I naively assumed this would mean that men other than my husband would leave me alone. In fact, this was one of the main reasons I got married – to be safe from the sleazy, predatory behaviour of the men – young and old – I encountered every day as I went about my business of being a university student and part-time kitchen hand.

I didn’t realize for a really long time that I looked different from the outside, than the way I saw myself from within. Marriage didn’t impose any picket fence to protect me and keep me safely inside its boundaries. In fact marriage – far from giving me status as an untouchable respectable matron – opened me up to being viewed as sexually available. This was probably due to the fact that in the social circle I inhabited (by begrudged husbandly proxy, as I had no social circle of my own) there were no married couples. I was decidedly the odd one out. And we were all young and hot-blooded.

How was I to understand, coy, squeamish, naïve and inhibited as I was, that being pregnant and married added up to me being sexually active? I didn’t see myself that way! And… since I was willing to have sex with my husband, perhaps I would be willing to tolerate the attentions of other young men who were probably (as I certainly didn’t imagine at the time) curious testosterone-driven and deprived of the female attention they so craved?

Then again, the men who felt it was quite OK to tease and taunt me weren’t all of the young shy virgin variety.

Those who become celebrities at any level, attract the kind of attention from their admirers, which completely changes their image. Or maybe it’s a precondition of celebrity status, that one should have a certain amount of charisma to begin with, and given the opportunity, one’s notoriety grows because of this?

One of my children’s most beloved local musicians was Baterz, who died a few years ago of AIDS-related complications. Baterz himself was a gifted, prolific and creative songmaker. However on one of his creative ventures, he chose to cover a song that was penned by another man. And ever since I heard Baterz’ rendition of that song, “Waza D”, I have been curious as to its origins.

A young man named Basil wrote the song. He was part of a band at the time, and may have collaborated on it. In any case, the facile lyrics of “Waza D” and its persistent rhythm, as well as Baterz & Co’s trademark repetitive harmonies, combine to make a catchy tune that sticks in my mind and in my throat.

I woke up one night in the last couple of weeks with the thought that maybe I was the girl that Basil had met. Could I have been the one who “said she thought I was a D”? It’s the kind of thing I would have said back then, when I hadn’t learned to swear. I recall a party I went to with my husband and baby, in the early 1990s. It was in North Adelaide. I’ve had dreams about the house it was in, for years … dreams in which I faced unexpected obstacles, and found it difficult to get to the front door, no matter how urgently I needed to leave. I hated parties. I hated the attention I got from young men like this one.

So what does “D” connote? “D” for dickhead? “D” for failing grade? “D” for dropkick? Don't suppose I'll ever know now...

And it’s likely I wasn’t the inspiration for that particular song anyway. I should probably just join the queue! Being one of the faceless majority, I suppose I’m simply guilty of scratching around like one of the chooks, willing to settle for second-hand notoriety.

Witnessing

Witnessing
(c) Melina Magdalena (2007)

This morning I was digging up my front yard and thinking about – of all things – God. About an hour later, when I was inside about to roll up my sleeves to do the dishes, there was a knock on my door and there were the Jehovah’s Witnesses. The JW who spoke, talked about how so many people say that history continues to repeat itself whereas as a JW he believes that “man keeps making the same mistakes”. Considering one of my first actions this morning was to write to Turnbull via GetUp, and beg him not to eradicate the Tamar River in Tasmania by permitting Gunn’s Pulp Mill to be built on its banks, this was quite apt. It almost felt like I had that oft-touted personal relationship with God, who sent these JWs to knock on my door today.

The scripture message the JW shared with me this morning was from Psalms. The last line promises us “an abundance of peace”. He stuffed himself up considerably, to my view, when he began to talk about how most people in Christendom believe that they will die and go to Heaven but aren’t able to say what they’ll be doing there, because I began to question in my mind just how an era of peace would differ from that. How will the lucky chosen ones choose to spend their time on this rejuvenated planet where we are all brothers and sisters with no need to toil? To my way of thinking, the distinction is between peace on earth or peace in heaven. I believe we can have heaven on earth, if it’s what humanity chooses.

But then again, perhaps we are not really destined for peace at all. Perhaps it is in the conflicts we encounter in our lives, that we grow and evolve? Or perhaps the talk of god and peace and heaven is just an expression of humanity’s need to be important and effective? Perhaps all the various things we humans do and say and believe is part of our eternal quest for significance?

Did you know that God has a dotcom? I’m not putting that link on my blog. The links here are playful, and I have no wish to promote fundamentalist Christianity or any other brand of fundamentalism. But I do want to write about God today.

I was recently privy to an episode of Radio National’s http://www.abc.net.au/rn/religionreport/stories/2007/1987489.htm Religion Report, with Stephen Crittenden. It made me hopping mad. I missed out on the following program one week later, broadcast in response to Part One of the program. The subject of discussion was http://www.samfordschool.com/FAQ.htm/ Steiner Schools, and their infiltration into the secular public school system in Victoria. Accusations have been levelled against proponents of Steiner Education, that it is occult and that including a Steiner Stream within a public school contravenes the principles of secular education. These accusations come from parents who enrolled their children into the Steiner Stream but later withdrew them, finding it not to their liking.

I have two main objections to the program, and the way it attacked Steiner Schooling. My first objection is about the hypocrisy in claiming that the secular public school system of Australia is less objectionable than Steiner Schooling on the basis that Steiner Schooling promulgates racist ideology, whereas secular schooling does not.

Rudolf Steiner, the originator of Steiner Schooling, is held responsible for all aspects of contemporary Steiner Education. I was disturbed when I heard about the Sri Lankan children who were prevented from using dark colours to depict themselves. The basis for preventing these children’s access to accurate skin tones is plainly racist. Likewise, the absurd notion that blue-eyed, fair-skinned children are more intelligent than dark-eyed, dark-skinned children. These ideas should hold no currency in contemporary culturally diverse Australia.

But Rudolf Steiner lived from 1861-1925. Racist ideology against Aboriginal people was still being openly acted upon through government policies in Australia until 1967 http://www.abc.net.au/messageclub/duknow/stories/s888141.htm when Aboriginal people were finally granted the right to vote as citizens of this nation. Many would argue that Australia continues to manifest its racist ideologies against people of colour, including Aboriginal people, southern Europeans, Middle Easterners, Asians, South Americans, Africans and everyone who does not conform to the fair-skinned version of what a real Australian is supposed to look like (i.e. Anglo-Celtic).

Scratch the surface of Australia’s public school systems and expose the underlying racist ideology that informs almost every aspect of its curricula. What is not made explicit is nonetheless very present, and those whose life experiences have sensitized them to racism will feel a familiar prickly heat of outrage whenever the whitewashing of their experiences continues to be promulgated.

Yes, conscientious politically-correct schools and teachers do what they can to counter ingrained societal attitudes, but this holds as equally for teachers who are teaching in the public sector as it does for those in any alternative education system, including Steiner Schools. When outdated educational materials that are inescapably racist, homophobic, ageist and sexist continue to be used in schools, what hope do we have of changing societal attitudes?

Secondly, why is it so difficult to imagine that Steiner Education has grown beyond the beliefs of its founder? Is it impossible to consider that teachers have minds that can incorporate the beautiful, functional, effective aspects of Steiner Education whilst rejecting the bigoted aspects?

Thirdly, the outright hypocrisy in labelling Steiner Education as inherently racist and occult is shown up by the eager acceptance of Christian fundamentalism in schools. In South Australian public schools, it has become popular to invite Chaplains onto the school sites to work with the students. This is cheaper than hiring a qualified school counsellor, because evangelical organisations are willing to foot the bill. A quick glance at the website of Marryatville High, http://www.marryatvillehs.sa.edu.au/schoolprofile/ser_chaplain.html/ one of Adelaide’s most prestigious secondary public schools, shows exactly what a chaplain brings to the school – and it doesn’t even pretend to pander to the realities of cultural or religious diversity.

I wonder why Steiner Education in the classroom is seen to be promoting the Spiritual World and the Occult more than Christian Fundamentalism on the school site? Is this not in itself a hypocrisy, given Rudolf Steiner’s professed adherence to the Christian faith?

In this episode, the spiritual aspects of Steiner Education were attacked on the premise that children enrolled in public schools should not be exposed to any spiritual elements within their schooling. This is another fallacy. Rare is the teacher who chooses not to engage in the Christmas and Easter celebrations that are mainstream Australian fare. In my experience, it is only when JW families have the temerity to explicitly demand of the teachers of their children that they not promote birthday celebrations or other religious events within their classrooms that teachers bother to examine whether it is appropriate to assume that every child in his or her classroom is Christian.

To be fair, this may be changing as the face of Australia changes. In the mid 1990s when my children were in kindergarten, I went to the Director and suggested that she request families bring halal or vegetarian dishes to our family luncheons, so as not to offend or exclude anyone. At that time we had an Indonesian Muslim girl and a Brahmin boy amongst our class, as well as my Jewish children. Such a thing had not occurred to the Kindergarten Director, but to her credit, she took it on board.

To accuse Steiner Education of being occult is as silly as accusing mainstream teachers of satanism on the basis that they put up Christmas trees and other decorations, and teach their students about Easter Bunny and Father Christmans http://www.lone-star.net/mall/main-areas/santafaq.htm/.

Don’t you think children need to have something beyond themselves to reach for? Yes, these MeMeMegeneration Individuals are egocentric and have disproportionate beliefs in their own entitlement, but for many young people the mirror image of this is the void of connection with anything other than their peers. Couple this with the fanatical belief in their efficacy and it becomes obvious why the denial of access to the development of spiritual belief leads to a very sick society.

Every child is the centre of his or her own universe, and as such, every child tends to believe in his or her ability to cause things to happen. When children are left hanging with no one to catch them, it is easy for a child to attribute anything bad that occurs, to something he or she does, thinks or believes. Why aren’t my parents married? Oh it must be my fault. Why is my mother so unhappy? Well, if she hadn’t had children, (i.e. me) she would be happy. Why did the car break down? Oh, it must be because I wet the bed last night. Why didn’t she want to be my friend today? Oh, it must be because I ate two helpings of dessert last night when I was only supposed to eat one.

Parents who apathetically deny their children any spiritual guidance other than what they may glean from mainstream commercial drivel, bequeath them an emptiness. The thirst to fill up this emptiness can result in disorder and diseases such as addiction, depression, greed, lack of empathy and criminality. In this sense, even a passionate atheist is preferable to someone who refuses to engage in any brand of spiritual discourse with his or her children.

For me, the idea of ‘magic’ is strongly linked with childhood. I learned early that things happen sometimes that have nothing to do with me. These things impact upon me, and those I love, but that’s not always my fault. I learned to acknowledge the mysterious and invite it into my life, and this is valuable for two reasons. Firstly, it makes life more interesting and secondly, it frees me from having to be right all the time.

Furthermore, an examination of the processes of life gives us access to some of the most intriguing mysteries any human being could want. Don’t scientists frequently devote large parts of their lives delving into such mysteries?

If you think about scientific processes, the ritual objects that are part of the ceremony of experimentation are no less occult to the general observer, than the ritual objects used by adherents of religions. The difference is that scientists generally seek to explain and enlighten, whereas the conventionally religious often prefer to maintain an air of impenetrable mystery. But the parallels are undeniable.
The Radio National episode against Steiner Education becoming part of public schools in Victoria used the examples of Daily Blessings and Candle lighting as rituals that are linked to the Occult.

Now really, what gives rise to such ALARM?

In a school, a Daily Blessing is a tool to gather and focus the attention of the class. This tool works to positively engage the children so that they are ready to work. If mention is made of Life, how is that damaging to children who naturally seek to know their place in a confusing and complex world?

And candles? As well might I ask why we light candles on birthday cakes and romantic dinner tables? Are these equally occult?

Pity the detractors to Steiner Education who would deny their children an experience of wholistic education – but do they also deny their children the everyday magic of family celebrations and rituals? My JW friend would no doubt inform me that as birthdays are not celebrated in the Bible nor should they be celebrated by people today. He might go further and tell me that celebrating birthdays goes directly against God.

Body Incorporate (i)

Body Incorporate (i)
(c) Melina Magdalena 2007

I suppose it’s when you have a lover that you really get in touch with what it means to have a body. At least that’s how it was with me. And when I was giving birth I remember everything else in the world faded to insignificance. I do use my body for other things – typing at the keyboard, digging in the garden, writing on the whiteboard, painting furniture …. But lately I’ve felt a curious disconnection between me and my body.

This is not the first time I’ve experienced such dislocation. It’s a fairly common sensation for anyone who has suffered physical trauma. And for those familiar with falling dreams, these happen when one’s wandering spirit is pulled firmly back into the body.

When I sat down to start this piece, I pulled up one of the handy online dictionaries and checked out the entries for corporate / incorporate and corporeal / incorporeal. It was immediately clear that all of these terms now relate to law, economics and the industrial world. Now who was it, in my distant past that harped on continuously about how a person was so much less powerful than a corporation? And how when it comes to holding an entity responsible for its behaviour, and making an entity accountable for its actions, it is well nigh impossible to treat a corporation in quite the same way that one can treat an individual human being.

I can’t recall who this was, but it is in any case a tangential train of thought… perhaps if I keep writing, my original intent will merge with this, and maybe not.

It was during my most recent conversation with my current PD – the one I would like to take home with me and make part of my family – that I caught a glimmer of something that intrigued me anew, in my meanderings of trying to puzzle out the why simultaneously with the whens, the whats, the whos and the whiches. I had sent him an email with my fantasy-idealised version of how I would like things to go between us in terms of making babies. I said in my email that I felt I was asking to have my cake and eat it too. His response was that since it’s my body, I ought to be able to do what I wanted with it, and that it wasn’t anyone’s business to tell me otherwise.
Now when he said this, I felt a distinct Jonathan Livingstone Seagull sensation, as though I were pulled from one plane onto another. There was a Zing! or a Click! or a StingPZZT! Everything was draped with a freshness and clarity that masked the bleary ordinariness of the previous moment.

Talk of the rights to do with my body what I want to do with it have entered my world from two directions
(a) reproductive rights, which to me have always felt like the right to access free and safe abortion, and
(b) reclaim the night and the right to be safe from sexual harassment and assault. The right to bear children independently of all the heterosexual legal romantic nonsensical rigmarole is something different again. The freedom I experienced at that moment was a removal of the shroud of secrecy, shame and self-doubt that has coloured my efforts to have another child until now.

One of the things that have happened to me in the last couple of months is an opening up of conversations about my intentions. Naturally, the more I talk and share, the more possible my intentions become. I understand this dynamic intimately, though understanding it does not remove the barrier of fear that stops me from making use thereof!

I received a phone call recently from one of the presenters of Aqueerium, a radio program here in Adelaide. It promotes itself as a program which “celebrates GLBTIQ culture in Adelaide and promotes equality throughout all of Australia and the world” (website accessed 19/8/2007).

The presenter called me after receiving a letter I distributed through my email channels, which was an appeal to sperm producers of Adelaide to engage in conversations about sperm donation and the creation of family. She wanted to interview me about my journey to have another child. She thought this would be an appropriate and interesting subject to address in her next show. Was I interested? Yes I was.

She checked out that I consider myself part of Adelaide’s queer community – clearly from my (anonymous) letter there was no indication of my sexual or gender orientation other than I didn’t produce my own sperm – and proceeded to question me about my partner. I explained that I am single, whereupon her attitude towards me took an abrupt u-turn.

“Well, that puts a very different spin on the whole issue, doesn’t it,” she said (or something like that). “I’m not really sure that’s where I want to go with the topic. Can you give me a few hours to think it over, and I’ll get back to you with a definite yes or no.”

What were a few hours to me when a few minutes previously I’d never heard of the woman?

She decided it wasn’t somewhere she wanted to go and I found myself floundering for a while, flagellating protazoa-like but with definite overtones of self-punishment verging on self-harm. How pathetically vulnerable I am to the judgment of others!

I have Lesbian_Parents_Australia to thank once again for supporting and encouraging me to find my feet again. This is part of what I posted:
It feels like my motivations are being questioned, as though I am some seedy, shady character who would rather form relationships with children, than with my peers. Someone who uses my children as my social group, instead of socialising with adults. Someone who is slightly off, because she is single. Someone clearly unacceptable as a candidate for sperm donation.

Further clarity also arrived via Sonja Vivienne’s Family Values website, where she writes of herself that
“I’m single. I’m queer. I’m a mum. For most of my life I’ve tried to ‘fit’ and because I can blend into the wallpaper, I’ve managed pretty well… Now I’d like to have another child… For the first time in a long time I’ll be visible…

Why this is me to a ‘T’, except that I vacillate between an intense need to be invisible and a strident need to be acknowledged and recognised as lesbian, jewish, single mum.

Anything wrong with that?

(more later)

Brazil Nuts and Iranian Dates

Brazil Nuts and Iranian Dates
(c) Melina Magdalena 2007

Well . . . after a two-month hiatus in blogging that I can scarcely begin to explain, I seem to have broken the habit and don't quite know what to say. A lot has been going on in my life, but that's nothing new. Maybe it all caught up with me and I was forced to deal, rather than just observe. I feel tired already, just thinking about it.

The last time I blogged was just prior to inviting yet another PD (prospective donor) to take a look at my blog. He is also a writer, and my thinking was to short-cut part of the getting-to-know-you ordeal. Alas, I have not heard from him since.

Perhaps what I have been experiencing is a little like culture shock. Or to put it more accurately, I am repeatedly experiencing mini-earthquakes. The aftershocks rock my world, forcing me further and further from my comfort zone. Is this all part of growing up, I wonder?

culture shock
n. disorientation and unhappiness caused by an inability to adapt to a culture which is different from one's own
(from The Macquarie Concise Dictionary, Third Edition)

... but I haven't been unhappy, and I have adapted to disorientation, disappointment and disillusion, by simply continuing to plant one foot in front of the other and keeping on keeping on.

I can at least elucidate on the title of this post!

Yesterday I had my 12-month fitness checkup at the University of South Australia. I have been taking part in a PhD program which is studying the effects of regular exercise on a sedentary population. To begin with 12 months ago, my fitness age was assessed as being in my 60s. This was terrifying! But I signed up, because they were offering me 40 days of free fitness classes three times per week. I knew this would be good for me. Since my dog died I had stopped going for walks. My joints were stiff, and I felt tired all the time. So after the inital 40 days, my fitness was monitored at 3 months, 6 months, and now 12 months.

The assessment is done after fasting, because as well as taking measurements of height, girth and skin folds, they look at blood glucose, cholesterol, lung function, reaction times, flexibility and heart rate during exercise.

So I was pretty hungry, when I arrived home after the assessment. Over 12 months I managed to lose about 2 kilograms, but gained a great deal more, including the confidence and motivation to exercise regularly.

I feasted on a handful of brazil nuts and pitted iranian dates, accompanied by my usual milky tea. Why is it that such simple foods taste so very good even after so short an abstinence?

Here is a short list of the culture shocks I am feeling just now.

- entering a world in which I am being paid substantially for the professional work I do
- spending a great deal of my time performing and being public
- learning how to mother young adults and build healthy family relationships upon this ever-changing lifescape
- listening to the tales of horror, atrocity and redemption that hover like spectral deathshrouds over the present lives of the students in my classes
- discovering at every moment how little I really understand about this world or any other
- trying to make my ideas and visions manifest in ways other than the written word

Although the idea of 'culture shock' may sound negative, I feel I am moving into an extraordinarily positive phase in my life. Opportunities for deep and abiding friendship, meaningful work and creativity are knocking on the doors and windows of my mind. I am overwhelmed by ideas and sensations, but I'm still grounded. It's a matter of recognising the choices as they present, and taking action when I so choose.

I feel blessed with good fortune. Funnily enough, I don't feel driven right now, to prosletyse. I am aware and I am communicating. Right here, right now, that is exactly where I am.

my propensity

my propensity
(c) Melina Magdalena 2007

Last night at Shabbat, I was sitting at the table with my parents and my children, enjoying peppermint tea and brownies that were still warm from the oven, and deliciously gooey. I mentioned that I had finally found out what happened to the official complaint I had made against my boss in my job that I left six months ago. As I talked about the email exchange in which I was informed that the substance of my complaint was never adequately dealt with because by the time the complaint had reached a stage in the process where it could be raised and discussed, I was no longer an employee of the institution whose Staff Complaints Policy had made it possible for me to make the complaint in the first place, I noticed that my son was making faces, had become tense, and was trying to find a crack in the wall of my verbosity, to chisel his way into the conversation.

"Let me guess", he said cynically, "what you did next. You wrote a letter..."

We all laughed. I was desperate to know where this would go, and tried to get him to tell me, but the others wanted me to finish my story first.

So I told them that indeed I had written a letter to express my valid dissatisfaction with this outcome; that the union to which both I and the person I whose behaviour I had complained about belonged to had opened up this devious method whereby the behaviour would neither be dealt with nor acknowledged, and that I hoped in my new career path that despite the certainty that I will come face-to-face with my ex-boss, I will have the professional strength and integrity not to be victimised again.

I received with a promptness that beggars belief, a most indignant response to my letter from the person who had been originally assigned to deal with my complaint and who has concertedly ignored my every effort over the past six months to ascertain what was being done about it. She suggested I am insensitive and inconsiderate; unable to understand the bereavement she has been going through, and that I ought to respect the need to keep certain things confidential.

I really don't agree that keeping things confidential assists in making the world a better place. I don't agree that not telling me what was going on was the right thing to do. I don't agree that seeking the loophole serves any purpose other than maintaining a shaky status quo.

SO THERE!!!

Finally, I was able to return to the subject of my son's attitude toward my propensity for letter writing. He was simultaneously reluctant and eager to tie me to the post above the flames that were already licking the bare soles of my feet.

"Well," he began, with a brittle tone to his voice, "You know that letter you said you didn't write?"

(which one, asked myself in a silent whisper)
"The one about the cricket trip to Malaysia?"
(Phew - I guessed correctly.)

"Well, that's why I got dropped from the First 11s."

My son, my son. He is crushed, he is proud, he is angry and he is defeated. All this at once. How can he possibly achieve what he wants to with a mother like me?

I pressed for more information. Sure enough, his coach, who previously had talked to me about the very real possibility that my son would be made captain of the team, unceremoniously, with no explanation omitted my son's name from the list of players on the team.

NOW THAT'S JUST NOT CRICKET, IS IT?

It's very clearly my fault, and I feel very badly about it. Why should my son suffer for his mother's big mouth? Especially since the letter I wrote on behalf of myself and the scared, silent parents of players who also could not afford to fund their son's trip to Malaysia to play elite cricket had such a prophetic quality. In the end, I was the only parent who stuck my neck out and said I simply could not condone the proposal on the grounds that it was inequitable. Other parents took a passive approach, pretended to go along with the scheme until the very last minute, when they were honest about their inability to pay for the trip. Their sons are still on the team. Mine is not.

My propensity for letter writing gets me into trouble. It's ironic that when I write letters to promote and protect those close to me, sometimes they get shot down in my place. I don't seek martydom for them, or for myself. But I do seek to stand up and speak out when it's necessary.

So as badly as I feel, and as angry as I am at the petty and unprofessional behaviour of this cricket coach, I don't think I will write to him again. Next time I see him, I shall attempt to have a face-to-face discussion with him about what happened. After all, when I tried to raise my concerns in the meetings that were called about the proposal to send the team to Malaysia, I was dismissed as though I were simply being negative or stingy.

I plan to make a card this weekend, for the Human Resources person whom I offended so greatly this week. It's high time I got my paints out again. I can sense where she's at. She's hurting, grieving deeply, casting about for the source of her distress. Poor thing. It's never easy to lose one's life partner, and I feel bad to be causing her more grief at this time. I'm certain she feels guilty for not being in a position to manoeuvre my complaint through a process that would have led to a more satisfactory outcome.

I make an easy target. After all, I'm getting on with my life and therefore should not be dwelling on the unpleasantness that led to me to my distress eight months ago. It's natural for her to take this out on me. I forgive her.