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.