WOGDOM
Samantha makes it very clear.
“I’m a wog. I’m from a wog family. My entire life is based on wogdom.”
When I ask her to define a wog she pauses, struggling to give the concept words.
“A wog is my father. For example, when I cut my hair he denounced me. ‘I have two sons now’ he said. (She puts on the accent of an elderly Serbian man) ‘What have you done with my daughter?’.”
When I tell Samantha that her answer doesn’t really explain it to me. She smiles.
“I guess it doesn’t have words because it’s a way of being. My mother, even on the hottest day, will cook a full roast meal. We’re all sweating and complaining about the heat and no matter what we say she wouldn’t even consider having a salad and cold meat.”
“Or it’s the fact that we have our Easter in May and our Christmas in January. Maybe that’s what it means to be a wog – being completely unable to go with the flow of society. I mean I can’t see that it would kill them to move their Easter and Christmas so that we get a public holiday like everyone else.”
“It’s these entrenched ideas that simply won’t waver no matter how the world changes. God forbid I should consider moving out of home and living on my own. I mean, I’m 23 and I really want my own place but that’s not going to happen.”
Samantha shifts in her seat, raises her hands and begins waving them around wildly.
“No daughter of mine is going to be slutting it around town.” The imitation of her father is convincing. I can almost see the crinkled old man before me. “You stay at home, you get married, you have babies. That is the way it is. There is no other way.” She's almost screaming.
Samantha smiles to herself at, no doubt, what has been a life of such lectures about her place in society.
I ask if it bothers her.
“Not really. I haven’t known any other life. I mean when I was younger I took my dad at his word, now I realise it’s just funny. It’s unrealistic. But he’s not going to be around forever and I think he deserves the respect.”
We sit quietly for a while and then I ask if she thinks their way of seeing things is wrong.
“No, not at all. I just think it’s their way. It’s not mine but I’ll have my own kids to impose upon when the time comes. Until then...” She clears her throat and begins imitating her father again. "I'll stay home. Get married and have babies. It's just the way it is."
And she seems so at ease with her life.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
IGNORANCE
The warehouse has been quite of late. Few acquisitions have been added and I’ve missed having my place to hide.
I wrote once of how in the middle of the night I would slip through its door and rummage around, trying desperately not to disturb the dust. Ever hopeful that there would be a new, but oddly familiar and comfortable, artifact.
Of late I have found myself called there once again and I slip through the door only to find that not even the owners have been there to disturb the dust.
Not that I blame them. Life has a way of making us forget what were once our precious belongings. I’ve been doing that of late.
With Tom and the wedding and a life screaming ahead at full pace I have to admit that there is a lot of me that has been over looked.
TOOleS has suffered. My writing as a whole has suffered. The novel that was heading towards completion is now languishing unfinished in a corner.
Maybe it’s true that a poet needs the pain and now that I’m happy I’m seeing the world through rose coloured glasses. Or, more aptly, I’m not seeing the world at all.
No one’s to blame for these changes. They just happen. And just like the warehouse’s owners I will pick up where I’ve left off.
It’s coming back to me now and I’m confident that one day my happiness won’t blind me completely but offer a new way of seeing the world.
For now, barr the experience of being a step-mother, it’s all sunshine and puppies and little fuzzy bunnies.
Could you really blame me for wanting to be a little ignorant about what’s going on after living my first 30 years acutely aware of what was happing around me?
I think I’ve earned a little normalcy, no matter how ill the fit.
The warehouse has been quite of late. Few acquisitions have been added and I’ve missed having my place to hide.
I wrote once of how in the middle of the night I would slip through its door and rummage around, trying desperately not to disturb the dust. Ever hopeful that there would be a new, but oddly familiar and comfortable, artifact.
Of late I have found myself called there once again and I slip through the door only to find that not even the owners have been there to disturb the dust.
Not that I blame them. Life has a way of making us forget what were once our precious belongings. I’ve been doing that of late.
With Tom and the wedding and a life screaming ahead at full pace I have to admit that there is a lot of me that has been over looked.
TOOleS has suffered. My writing as a whole has suffered. The novel that was heading towards completion is now languishing unfinished in a corner.
Maybe it’s true that a poet needs the pain and now that I’m happy I’m seeing the world through rose coloured glasses. Or, more aptly, I’m not seeing the world at all.
No one’s to blame for these changes. They just happen. And just like the warehouse’s owners I will pick up where I’ve left off.
It’s coming back to me now and I’m confident that one day my happiness won’t blind me completely but offer a new way of seeing the world.
For now, barr the experience of being a step-mother, it’s all sunshine and puppies and little fuzzy bunnies.
Could you really blame me for wanting to be a little ignorant about what’s going on after living my first 30 years acutely aware of what was happing around me?
I think I’ve earned a little normalcy, no matter how ill the fit.
Monday, July 18, 2005
LATE SHIFT
"…talking in the air...."
She's got the lyrics wrong but her headphones are screaming and I don't know that she even knows that she's singing for the office to hear. God I love the late shift.
"…say it aloud. Say it is. You and me as the world as you hear."
It’s been a horrible couple of weeks but there has been one, oddly compelling, feature in my day. Work. Or more importantly, the late night cleaner.
She enters the office at 7pm and sings her way across the room.
“…So we open up a quarry between presents that last…”
Badly.
”..you sometimes see as fate it may have and new perceptive on a different date…”
But she had such joy in her voice that I don’t think I could stand to ask her to stop. No matter how frustrating it is to hear her butcher an otherwise easy song. There is something about the comfort that she has in her own skin that makes the broken music bearable.
“…I wasn’t there to mourn him when my father went away…”
At first I fight the urge to laugh. It’s simply absurd. But after a while I find myself listening intently, trying to unravel the song she’s singing.
Tonight it’s The Living Years by Mike and the Mechanics. I know this because of the tune she’s warbling as apposed to following the lyrics which she has reshaped by either mishearing or mispronunciation.
Tomorrow, it may be something different or as she has proven in the past she may very well do an encore performance. But I know for the next week she’s going to float into this room and float around this office.
There’s so much going on.
Terrorists creeping ever closer to what I once took for granted as a safe haven.
People so paranoid by the current threat that they’re quizzing couriers about their motives and resorting to burning books to make themselves feel safer.
Communities riddled with suspicion and fear that even the safest of streets people won’t go outside after dark – just in case.
The media does all it can to feed the fear. More fodder for its revenue generating pages.
And this woman still sings despite it all. Despite the terror. Despite the paranoia. Despite her horrible voice.
”Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It’s too late when we die
To admit we don’t see eye to eye.”
Some nights, I wish I was her.
"…talking in the air...."
She's got the lyrics wrong but her headphones are screaming and I don't know that she even knows that she's singing for the office to hear. God I love the late shift.
"…say it aloud. Say it is. You and me as the world as you hear."
It’s been a horrible couple of weeks but there has been one, oddly compelling, feature in my day. Work. Or more importantly, the late night cleaner.
She enters the office at 7pm and sings her way across the room.
“…So we open up a quarry between presents that last…”
Badly.
”..you sometimes see as fate it may have and new perceptive on a different date…”
But she had such joy in her voice that I don’t think I could stand to ask her to stop. No matter how frustrating it is to hear her butcher an otherwise easy song. There is something about the comfort that she has in her own skin that makes the broken music bearable.
“…I wasn’t there to mourn him when my father went away…”
At first I fight the urge to laugh. It’s simply absurd. But after a while I find myself listening intently, trying to unravel the song she’s singing.
Tonight it’s The Living Years by Mike and the Mechanics. I know this because of the tune she’s warbling as apposed to following the lyrics which she has reshaped by either mishearing or mispronunciation.
Tomorrow, it may be something different or as she has proven in the past she may very well do an encore performance. But I know for the next week she’s going to float into this room and float around this office.
There’s so much going on.
Terrorists creeping ever closer to what I once took for granted as a safe haven.
People so paranoid by the current threat that they’re quizzing couriers about their motives and resorting to burning books to make themselves feel safer.
Communities riddled with suspicion and fear that even the safest of streets people won’t go outside after dark – just in case.
The media does all it can to feed the fear. More fodder for its revenue generating pages.
And this woman still sings despite it all. Despite the terror. Despite the paranoia. Despite her horrible voice.
”Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It’s too late when we die
To admit we don’t see eye to eye.”
Some nights, I wish I was her.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
RED
Mr10’s face turned bright red. His eyes wide open and fat tears rolling down his cheeks.
“Spit it out,” I say casually, rolling my eyes in mockery at Mr10’s inability to realise the easiest course of action. I look away, my eyes following Tom who’s returning from the toilet.
Then I look back. Mr10’s shaking now. His cheeks are puffed out and I know for a fact the fresh batch of hot chips he’s shovelled into his gob are burning through the cheek lining and scalding his tongue.
“Spit it out,” now with more urgency. Still Mr10 doesn’t move. He’s frozen in time. His face getting redder. His eyes screaming in pain. Mr10’s cheeks are stained with long streaks of tears.
Tom hadn’t noticed, he’s watching the bowlers on a lane next to our table.
“Mr10 just spit it out.” There’s panic in my voice and Tom’s alerted to the situation. He puts a hand on Mr10’s shoulder and tells him to spit out the food with more force then I can muster.
Finally the weedy boy spits the mashed chips onto the plate. A much smaller ball then his puffed cheeks would have suggested.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats three times in higher and higher whines. “I’m sorry.” He snuffles and his face contorts as he begins to cry.
Tom consoles him but I’m just confused. What on earth would make a 10-year-old boy not spit out boiling hot food? Why would he subject himself to such pain over something so trivial?
My compassion lost in the sheer confusion. “Mate, crying’s not going to cool down your chips it’ll only make them soggy. Why didn’t you just spit it out?”
He snorts back the tears and won’t look up from the plate. He’s sitting on his hands and appears to be making himself into a small ball.
“Mummy screams at me when I spit out food that’s too hot.”
And I feel sick. I’m so angry I can’t seem to stop shaking.
“Well, you’re not with mummy,” Tom says calmly, as though the words haven’t shot him through as well. “Here, with us, you have permission to spit out your food if it’s burning your mouth and you won’t get into trouble.”
Mr10 snuffles.
“Wait,” I interject. As always trying to find some levity. Trying to pretend like I don’t want to cry myself. Trying desperately to hide my shaking hands. “You will get into trouble if you spit that food into your sister’s face.”
Mr10 coughs out a small laugh.
“Or if you spit it in dad’s face,” Ms7 throws in just for the sake of it.
“But what if it’s an accident,” it hasn’t worked. Mr10 is worried. His mind has weaved around the humour and found the most unlikely of possibilities - what if the food did hit someone in the face.
Mr10's always worried and always in tears over something which seems so trivial to me. But they’re not trivial to him. There’s so much more going on behind the scenes that I just can’t understand.
“Well,” it’s lame but the best I can do. “If it’s an accident then you’ll have to say sorry and get a cloth to clean up the mess.”
Mr10 eventually looks up and begins poking around his plate but he doesn’t eat anything. He sips slowly on his drink and thanks Tom a hundred times for getting it.
Tom jokes that the mass of half-chewed chips are his and that no matter how we beg we can’t have them. But then the matter is over and we move on.
I can’t.
I leave the bowling alley and move to a secluded area behind the building and cry.
Mr10’s face turned bright red. His eyes wide open and fat tears rolling down his cheeks.
“Spit it out,” I say casually, rolling my eyes in mockery at Mr10’s inability to realise the easiest course of action. I look away, my eyes following Tom who’s returning from the toilet.
Then I look back. Mr10’s shaking now. His cheeks are puffed out and I know for a fact the fresh batch of hot chips he’s shovelled into his gob are burning through the cheek lining and scalding his tongue.
“Spit it out,” now with more urgency. Still Mr10 doesn’t move. He’s frozen in time. His face getting redder. His eyes screaming in pain. Mr10’s cheeks are stained with long streaks of tears.
Tom hadn’t noticed, he’s watching the bowlers on a lane next to our table.
“Mr10 just spit it out.” There’s panic in my voice and Tom’s alerted to the situation. He puts a hand on Mr10’s shoulder and tells him to spit out the food with more force then I can muster.
Finally the weedy boy spits the mashed chips onto the plate. A much smaller ball then his puffed cheeks would have suggested.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats three times in higher and higher whines. “I’m sorry.” He snuffles and his face contorts as he begins to cry.
Tom consoles him but I’m just confused. What on earth would make a 10-year-old boy not spit out boiling hot food? Why would he subject himself to such pain over something so trivial?
My compassion lost in the sheer confusion. “Mate, crying’s not going to cool down your chips it’ll only make them soggy. Why didn’t you just spit it out?”
He snorts back the tears and won’t look up from the plate. He’s sitting on his hands and appears to be making himself into a small ball.
“Mummy screams at me when I spit out food that’s too hot.”
And I feel sick. I’m so angry I can’t seem to stop shaking.
“Well, you’re not with mummy,” Tom says calmly, as though the words haven’t shot him through as well. “Here, with us, you have permission to spit out your food if it’s burning your mouth and you won’t get into trouble.”
Mr10 snuffles.
“Wait,” I interject. As always trying to find some levity. Trying to pretend like I don’t want to cry myself. Trying desperately to hide my shaking hands. “You will get into trouble if you spit that food into your sister’s face.”
Mr10 coughs out a small laugh.
“Or if you spit it in dad’s face,” Ms7 throws in just for the sake of it.
“But what if it’s an accident,” it hasn’t worked. Mr10 is worried. His mind has weaved around the humour and found the most unlikely of possibilities - what if the food did hit someone in the face.
Mr10's always worried and always in tears over something which seems so trivial to me. But they’re not trivial to him. There’s so much more going on behind the scenes that I just can’t understand.
“Well,” it’s lame but the best I can do. “If it’s an accident then you’ll have to say sorry and get a cloth to clean up the mess.”
Mr10 eventually looks up and begins poking around his plate but he doesn’t eat anything. He sips slowly on his drink and thanks Tom a hundred times for getting it.
Tom jokes that the mass of half-chewed chips are his and that no matter how we beg we can’t have them. But then the matter is over and we move on.
I can’t.
I leave the bowling alley and move to a secluded area behind the building and cry.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
SILENCE
I wish I could be eloquent. I wish I could find the words. But for the past month I’ve been dealing with too many repetitive phrases to have an original thought.
Oddly enough, I don’t mind the silence.
tOOleS has been a little quite of late not through lack of interest but rather lack of words. I’m all talked out although I’m pretty convinced I haven’t said anything of worth.
Pregnancy disappointments. Step-kid dramas. Work over-load with the frantic end of year scramble. Friends are scattered but calling at regular intervals.
Even my dreams turn against me. Their aggression waking me with a start and making me cling pitifully to an unaware Tom.
Now things are beginning to quiet down and I’m beginning to pull myself together.
Still, the beast is doing its bit to keep a grip on my life. It’s bizarre that I can be this incredibly happy and still be miserable.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Tom smiled as I woke. He was already dressed and on his third run to wake me up in time for work.
“How did you know?”
The dream had Tom leaving me stranded at my nephew’s second birthday. It had me struggling with my brother’s uncooperative car and screaming at strangers that I had to go, that I had to find him. It was all too real for comfort and when I woke my fingers ached as though they’d been holding the steering wheel of the car for hours.
“You said you had a bad dream and I just wanted to reassure you. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thanks.”
I snuggle further into the blankets and try to resist getting up but Tom’s smiling face is hard to ignore.
Of late I’ve been felling a lot of emotions but they don’t have names. Everything seems mashed together.
I know that I’m happy. I know this because the days are passing altogether too quickly.
I know that I’m frustrated with my newly bestowed motherhood. But that’s an entry on its own. Probably some time this weekend.
I know that I’m content. Although at times my mind wanders to Canada when I least expect it but I have no desire to be there.
There is just this sense of anticipation that I can’t shake. I feel as though something is about to happen and it’s neither a good nor bad. It just is.
I’m girding my loins so to speak. Heaven only knows why.
I wish I could be eloquent. I wish I could find the words. But for the past month I’ve been dealing with too many repetitive phrases to have an original thought.
Oddly enough, I don’t mind the silence.
tOOleS has been a little quite of late not through lack of interest but rather lack of words. I’m all talked out although I’m pretty convinced I haven’t said anything of worth.
Pregnancy disappointments. Step-kid dramas. Work over-load with the frantic end of year scramble. Friends are scattered but calling at regular intervals.
Even my dreams turn against me. Their aggression waking me with a start and making me cling pitifully to an unaware Tom.
Now things are beginning to quiet down and I’m beginning to pull myself together.
Still, the beast is doing its bit to keep a grip on my life. It’s bizarre that I can be this incredibly happy and still be miserable.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Tom smiled as I woke. He was already dressed and on his third run to wake me up in time for work.
“How did you know?”
The dream had Tom leaving me stranded at my nephew’s second birthday. It had me struggling with my brother’s uncooperative car and screaming at strangers that I had to go, that I had to find him. It was all too real for comfort and when I woke my fingers ached as though they’d been holding the steering wheel of the car for hours.
“You said you had a bad dream and I just wanted to reassure you. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thanks.”
I snuggle further into the blankets and try to resist getting up but Tom’s smiling face is hard to ignore.
Of late I’ve been felling a lot of emotions but they don’t have names. Everything seems mashed together.
I know that I’m happy. I know this because the days are passing altogether too quickly.
I know that I’m frustrated with my newly bestowed motherhood. But that’s an entry on its own. Probably some time this weekend.
I know that I’m content. Although at times my mind wanders to Canada when I least expect it but I have no desire to be there.
There is just this sense of anticipation that I can’t shake. I feel as though something is about to happen and it’s neither a good nor bad. It just is.
I’m girding my loins so to speak. Heaven only knows why.
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