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.