And again

Here:

Oh, don’t worry, our white privilege makes racial slurs against us impossible, so you shouldn’t be offended anyway. For real. We’re super privileged, you and me. (Oh, look, I just used an objective pronoun where I should have used a subjective pronoun, but nobody will call me a dumb whitey. It’s cuz I’m super privileged. Whee!)

 

I think I want a t-shirt.  A pink one.  And in sparkly silver writing, it’ll say ’super privileged’ in curly, girly writing…

Or maybe on the bum of my trackies.  Yeah… that’ll be hott…

What kind of blog is this, anyway?

A political one, apparently!

I found this post on whiteness, through feministe.

This is something I’ve been thinking about for a while.  What does it mean to be white?  What does it mean to me to be white?

We had a team meeting the other day where one of my colleagues, an Aboriginal woman, kept talking about ‘white society’.  It rankled.  I felt offended.  I couldn’t figure out why.  I mean… really?  I am offended that someone who deals with real racism, both emotionally real and materially real, every day, is calling me white?  I AM white!

Part of it is the privilege, as the science girlpointed out.  Privilege is a topic that’s come up in my life a lot, lately -at work, and in the blogosphere.  Part of privilege is not seeing your own privilege.  When Malcom Turnbull says he knows what it’s like to be poor because he grew up in a single-parent household, that’s privilege talking out of it’s special bits.  Privileged people are proud  of anything they can find in their past or present that makes them seem not privileged.  Just read stuff white people like- it’s full of examples of instances where white (read: privileged) people pretend to be poor by wearing vintage or pre-aged clothes.  Or pretend to be social un-privileged by reliving highschool geekery.  Or championing their similar-yet-different minority friends like a shield.  It makes them feel special.  It means that they can fend off attacks.  For instance, when people tell me I’m privileged, I automatically think about how tight money was when I was a kid.  Forget it.  nice try.  It might have been tight, but we never went without essentials.  If we had had to, we had family and friends who could have helped.  And a government that saw us as one of ‘them’.  And a media that fed me positive messages about people like me.

I am privileged.  I still am not sure what to do with that, but it’s a fact.

Another part of it, both of privilege and of the whiteness issue is this thing where everyone wants to be special, everyone thinks they’re different, which means that we don’t think that we are part of the ‘mainstream’ (whatever that might mean)

But it’s more than that.

I have a very culturally sensitive work environment.  And I sometimes jokingly say ‘no one ever respects MY culture’.  Of course, I am joking.  But I’m also kind of serious.

I’m not saying that I think I need special treatment (although, I wouldn’t say no… ok, maybe I would.  But only to seem self righteous).  I am not saying that I think my culture is more important than someone else’s culture.  I am just saying that, just because I’m white, doesn’t mean you know me.  Just like, just because you  are {insert label here} doesn’t mean I know you.  You know?  I am more than just some white girl. Ok, yes, I am  a white girl (so very, very white) but that’s not all I am.  I am a product of my personality and upbringing and age and environment and experience, and those things differ from other white people’s.  Sometimes to the extent that I might (gasp!) have more in common with (gasp!!) someone who is ethnically different (OMG GASP!!) but maybe the same age or sex or just plain old personality type as me.

I had a bit of an epiphany the other day.  I was talking to one of the more important people here about an image she wants me to make for a powerpoint she is doing for a conference about cultural diversity in the Health system.  She was talking about how CALD people (that’s Culturally and Linguistically Diverse.  Oh, yes, it sure is) are not compatible with the mainstream.

And I thought… I am.

Everyone has to deal with two cultures.  Maybe even three.  There’s your internal culture.  You know, the stuff you don’t even know about yourself because it just is, it hasn’t been expressed yet, but it’s part of you.  Then there’s your personal culture.  Family, friends, tradition, all that.  It’s different for every group, every group within a group.  Then there’s the mainstream.

The thing is, the mainstream is not my culture.  I despise many many things about it.  I take as little of it as I can on board.  But they are ultimately compatible.  And that is where I am privileged.

I almost had an argument with someone in the tea room last week.  We were talking about weddings, and wedding traditions.  One of our collegues’ son was about to propose to his girlfriend, and she was talking about how he was going about it, and what the wedding was likely to be like.  And F, who is Persian, kept going on about ‘in my culture’ and ‘traditionally’ and talking about which side of the family paid for things etc etc.  Well, quite frankly, traditionally, in my culture, the bridegroom’s family pays for everything, too.  Because the girl is supposed to have a dowry.  And if you are talking traditionally, then after the wedding ceremony but before the reception, everyone chucks the newly weds onto their bed and then locks them in the room until they have sex, so that they can display the bloodied sheet at the reception.  Is that common practice now?  No.  It have been dropped, along with other traditions which no longer suited our current way of life, like the bride’s father giving her away, because traditionally he owned her, and eh… oh, wait…

But it’s still part of my rich and varied culture.  If you’re going to make me associate with white culture, I’m going to do it all the way.  I don’t just get pop songs and chick flicks.  I also get Poe and Shakespeare and Queen Elizabeth and druids and Queen Mab and, I will admit, a really bad culinary tradition.

The Science Girl talked about how not seeing your whiteness is a sign of privilege.  How not acknowledging it buys into that.

When I was in China, I was reminded every day that I was different.  People stared, pointed, shouted, talked among themselves.  Some days you felt like a rock star, a hero, a god.  Some days it was hard to leave the house, because it was just too hard to fend it off, to be the centre of all attention when all you wanted to do was be yourself.  And that was the positive discrimination.  I cannot imagine what it must be like for people who face that every day – but with anger, fear and hate behind it.  I cannot imagine how strong you would have to be to function under that kind of pressure.

The hardest part of living in China was the culture shock.  People can tell you about it, you know what it’s going to be like, but nothing can prepare you.  Everything is different.  I mean EVERYTHING.  Things that you didn’t even know could be different.  What’s more, the rules are different – how you behave, what you say, how you get thigns done.  The script has changed and you don’t have one.  Everything is harder, takes more thought, more effort, more time, more energy.  You are no longer compatable with society.  Even when it is accomodating, the system is not for you anymore.  It is for someone else, and you ahve to work to fit it.

I have not taken my race for granted since China.  I work hard not to do so.  Sometimes I ignore it, as I try and ignore the race of others.  Not because it is irrelevant.  But because I wish it could be.  Because even though it is not possible to move past it, it is possible to try.

I don’t really know what it means to be white.  But I know what it means to be me, my age, living in my city, and liking the things I like.  I also know what it is to be privileged.  Who I am and what I stand for: my culture (undefined and amorphous as it is) and my whiteness.  They are intertwined oh, so closely.

But they are not the same.

I’ll name you later, post.

I am tired.  So tired.  I am pretty sure that whatever lurgy has been haunting me has finally caught up.  And I have to move tomorrow.  And I’m still not packed.  I can’t believe how not-packed I still am.  I mean, in reality, it’s about another 3 or so hours work.  I have to pack the kitchen stuff that’s been in immediate use – plates, mugs, etc, and the food.  oh, and some of my craft stuff, but that’s just a case of stuffing it into a bag.  The toughest part is all the little random things around the house that aren’t big enough for a box of their own, even as a category, but are thigns I use every day.  Lip balm.  Book I’m reading.  Needle sizer.  You know.

However.  I have been trying to squeeze in some introspection in between the freak outs.  I realised that today is the last day that I will walk out from my unit and catch the bus.  Thank God.  I am sick of looking at the same people every morning – way sicker than I thought you could be of something like that.

Which is to say, I thought of some more things I will and will not miss.

Will not miss:

:: The commute.  Packed bus, not long enough to do anything, too long to really be speedy.  If I catch the bus at a more reasonable time (ie, after it’s really crowded, and the traffic is terrible.  The bus driver often misses my stop – just drives right past it – leaving me to yell out from the back behind a crowd of disgruntled people.  Which makes the whole thing more of a drama than a 15 minute bus ride ought to be.

:: The car alarms.  Don’t get me started!

Things I will:

:: Whoever it is who has moved in upstairs and practices violin on Saturday mornings.  They’re really good.

:: The IKEA knife-magnet and bar with s-hooks on in the kitchen.  I will miss this a lot.

:: The constant cycle of hard rubbish out the front of the building, and out the back near the huge skips we have for rubbish.  Current count: out the front, someone’s pantry and an old washing machine.  out the back, the base of a mattress, a bed head, a coffee table, a beat up dressing table.  Keeps it interesting, you know?

I think it might be a two coffee day.  Kate it tired…

Obsession

Emma found me this

From Apartment Therapy WAAAAAAANT

I’ve been thinking about this mirror thing for quite some time, but I realised that part of the problem was that one of the houses I went to look at had this big mirror in the entry, and it really set me off.

It also had cool cupboards in the kitchen

Similarly shaped linen-type cupboard was behind me.  Actual linen cupboard out the back:

Check out that light streaming through!  Think of the things you could put in that cupboard!

But… that house was nice, but not as nice as MY house!  I went and signed the lease this morning, and went to the house to plug in the phone so they could activate it, and gloat a little.  I took some photos so my folks could see the house and also I’d have something to remember it new by.  They’re on my flickr if’n you want to see.  Some of them are a bit wonky – I was in a hurry…

It is a gorgeous day out!  I’m back in my concrete box now, but I can still feel the sun on my skin!  The house next door, and the one accross the road both have jasmine going crazy in their gardens, and the air was heavy with the smell.  Beautiful!  It’s my favourite smell ever.  In the history of everything.

The colour of these walls makes me so happy.  I don’t know why. 

That’s the sunprch area.  It’s a reasonable size – not large enough for permanant furniture, except maybe a cupboard or something at that end, but you could definitely hang out there.

Turn to the left and there’s this:

That’d be the kitchen.  That’s it.  No more cupboards.  but I have plenty of shelves etc.

That door on the left of the sunporch is this

Hello, bath…

On the kitchen wall:

Hooks!  Zomg!  I am thinking something like this.

Backyard, including cherry tree, garage, outdoor laundry (which my washing machine will for sure fit in – I measured.  twice) and shed

AND garden beds.  AND:

I am actually a bit worried by how excited I am about that washing line.

I have now hit my second moving-wind.

Bring on Saturday!

Stuff and things

I got some really nice responses to my last post.  That meant a lot.  And I had some interesting email conversations.  I still am not sure about the complicated ethics of the whole thing (next on Minority Fights!  Race vs. Diminished Capacity!!  Which is more Worthy!!!) but I do know that I am glad I spoke up.  I am usually never that person, and I am proud of myself that I was this time.  And amazed by the unanimous, supportive but non-aggresive response from the other passengers.  I am still astonished by how script-like it was.

 

Anyway.

My Interweave Knits came the other day.  I don’t mean last week.  It was… maybe Tuesday this week? 

 

How long has that thing been out?  I know it’s been in stores here for a while.  It always takes a while to come to subscribers here in Oz, but this one feels especially long.  But then I can’t really remember because my mental clock started from the sneak peek, which was before the mag came out at all, and also these last two weeks have been the loooooongest eeeeeeever.  Mostly because I was waiting.  To hear about the house.

 

Which I got.  Yaaay!  Now I am in the throes of organizing, signing things, breaking the lease at my current place, thinking about packing – no, I haven’t packed anything yet.  Shuddup.

 

Anyway, because of the time lag I wasn’t overly excited to get the magazine.  I actually thought ‘oh yeah.  I remember that’.  There are some gross patterns, and some nice patterns, and I am for sure going to knit the Sidelines Top, and maybe the Backstage Tweed Jacket, if I can think of a way to stop it from gaping like that.  A zip, maybe?  That might look weird.  But anyway, I already knew all that, you know?  So, excitement levels are low.

 

You know what, it must have come on Monday.  Because on Tuesday my IKEA catalogue turned up in my letterbox, and that got a squee.  Yes, yes, I know.  But I’m moving and all I can think about it nesting type things.  I am determined to be crafty about it, but I can’t knit a bar stool, y’all.

 

Also, I am obsessed with mirrors, currently.  I’ve had this plan in the back of my mind for a while to someday have a hallway with all mirrors of different sizes and shapes hanging along it.  I must have seen it on someone’s blog – probably Casa Pinka, I think.  Yup, here it is.  Perfect.  Sigh.  I want it to look exactly like this, but I’ll settle for this.  (also, did you know that there are a million billion squillion photos of the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles on flickr?  All from almost the same angle, too.)

When I bought my daybed and actual bed frame from the op shop (yes, my bed is from an opshop.  Is that gross?  I can’t tell.  The actual mattress is from IKEA, if that helps.  And the bedsheets, which I’ve decided that I hate.  Must do something about that.).  Long sentence.  When I bought them, there were two old mirrors, and I didn’t buy them because I had just bought two big things.  I wish I had.  I got rid of my huge heavy floor length mirror that I loved when I moved because it was huge and heavy and my apartment has built-ins with mirrored doors.  But there are no mirrored anythings in this new place.  So, I’m thinking a cheapy floorlength mirror, and then I’ll buy some nice hanging ones from IKEA and Freedom, and opshops if I can find any.

 

I remember being really obsessed with this beautiful, huge mirror, when I was in uni.  It was floor length, and wide, and framed in some luxurious dark wood.  It was $500, which was ridiculous money then (and now, really) and I had no reason to buy it and no where to put it, but I lusted after it like you wouldn’t believe.  I used to walk past it once a week, on my way somewhere, and I would dawdle and cast sidelong glances at it.  Sigh.  I hope whoever bought it really loves it.

 

So I am in this long, drawn out process of thinking about the new place (I’ll put the table here.  No wait, I’ll get the big old desk from my parent’s house and put my computer on that.  And then my little desk can be a dressing table.  Hmmm, it needs a mirror.  Gah!  Mirrors!  And then I can use this shelving unit as a pantry, since there isn’t one.  Or maybe that one, you can get doors for it.  Oh no, will my washing machine fit in the outside laundry?  What if it doesn’t!  Think about that later.  Should I bring my old, wrecked, got-for-free recliner chair thing?  Yeah, it can go in the shed thing, or under the patio.  Rabbits indoors or outdoors?  Outdoors, I think, but I’ll buy a run for them so they can go on the lawn.  Where will I buy it from?  Hmmmm.  And where will the daybed fit?  I need a chest of drawers.  Wait, I can use the drawers form the kitchen.  Omg I can’t wait to have a bath.  That’s the FIRST thing I am doing.  And then I’ll go sit outside in the sun.  On the lawn.  Aaaaaaaah.  I hope the washing machine fits.  Maybe I’ll put the table in the other room…)

 

And I am also busy saying goodbye to my flat.  I am sooooo done living there, but I know it will live in my memory as a haven.  Yesterday I flumped on the bed after work, and when I looked up, I could see the bathroom from where I was lying, and it just looked so pretty.  I don’t know.  And this morning there were two honey eater birds right outside my bedroom window having a conversation, as I had my breakfast.

 

Things I will miss:     

 

:: How it is mine and just mine and no one else’s.

:: The way the daybed is perfect under the window, and the fairy lights are perfect around the window and over the day bed.

:: The way when I sit there, I can eye off my stash and dream about future knitting.

:: The way the light slants in in the afternoon.

:: Being up high.

:: The views of the sunsets.

:: The hum of people around me.  The way the afternoon brings all the sounds flooding in, and it sounds like a family gathering, a community.  The kids are playing.  The parents are watching from the windows and doors.  The two old Italian guys are loitering by the letterboxes and talking in Italian (actually, I hate that.  I can’t check my mail and I feel creepy walking past them.)

:: The way that people are friendly and greet you when you pass on the stairs and offer to help you carry things up them.

:: How convenient it is to the supermarket.  That makes a huge difference when you don’t have a car.

:: How it is small.  It’s easy to clean, and hard to loose things in.  It’s taught me some good habits.   Hope I don’t forget them.

                                   

 

Things I won’t miss:  

 

:: Not being able to use the communal line because people nick things, and not being able to hang a line on my balcony because it’s against strata.  Which means sheets over the doors and a hanging rack over the back of the shower.  That way you get to eye off your smalls as you sit on the toilet.  Classy.  Everything always feels cluttered and crowded and temporary, and nothing gets aired properly and my quilt is dusty.

:: Not being able to sit on my balcony in the afternoon because of the group of guys who are always loitering on the balcony opposite.  It’s a public walkway, but they’re always out there having a smoke.  It’s creepy.  And they can see right into my living room unless I put the blind down, and who wants to do that on a sunny Saturday?

:: Not having a bath.

:: Not being able to open all the windows to get the air through, because if I do that then people walking past can see right in.  To the living room, and the bathroom.  Ick.

:: Those men who loiter by the letter boxes.

:: The way I’ve now run out of room, so I can’t even rearrange the furniture.  I am so ready for a change.  Any change.

:: The men downstairs who like to sit on their balcony and have Bogan conversations.

:: The people next door who like to watch action movies late at night.

:: The way there are about four hooks in the whole place, and they’re all in weird places. 

:: Not being able to sit on my balcony.  I really hate that.  I feel like the last year I’ve been stuck in a little concrete box.  And most of the time that’s fine.  But sometimes you just want to sit outside and listen to the world, you know?

:: Not having anywhere to hang my washing!  I hate that a lot, too.

 

Hmm, I thought that both lists would be longer.  I might have to update as I think of them.  Because I’m sure there are more.

 

Also, I hate packing.

Take that, cognitive dissonance!

I was on the bus tonight, going home from the city.  I was sitting in the fold down seats at the front, that face each other.  You know, the ones you shouldn’t sit in, in case a disabled person or mother with a pram gets on and needs you to fold them up so that can park their wheeled device.  Next to me was this old guy.  Opposite him, a black man.

About a minute in, the old man speaks to the black man:  “You’re from Africa, eh?”

The man nods and smiles that embarrassed smile you do when you don’t understand something, or would like to not understand something.

The old man goes again ‘What state are you from?”  He’s speaking in a loud, interrogative voice.  Something about it makes me think that maybe he is drunk, or perhaps… otherwise cognitively impaired.  He delivers all his lines in the way drunk people do – agree with me or else!

I hate this kind of thing.  I don’t want to be talked to by random people, and clearly neither does this man.  I start remembering all the times I have listened to people get earbashed.  I still carry the guilt of the time on the bus to uni a girl about my age then (very early twenties) was accosted by a very drunk Aboriginal man who was perfectly polite, but didn’t shut up for the whole half hour journey.  I sat there and read my book while she looked desperately around for a saviour.

His victim cannot understand him.  “State?”  He asks.

“State!! What STATE!!”

An embarrassed nod and smile.

I am tense.  I go hot.  Then cold.  My hands clench.  Why should this man have to put up with this?  Because he is different?  Is it OK because he doesn’t belong?  Or would the old man do this to anyone?  Probably.  I turn my ipod up.

The old man grins.  “You’re a real Nigger, aren’t you?”

HOT!  COLD!  CLENCH!!

I can’t say anything – my polite upbringing and general chickenheartedness are screaming at me to shut up.  I am tense.  The whole bus is tense.  He said the ‘N’ word!  I can’t say anything – my tongue feels heavy in my mouth.  I can’t not say anything!  I turn my ipod off, take my headphones out and glare at the man.  How dare he make me uncomfrotable… uh… wait…

“You’re a real Nigger, aren’t you!” says the old man.  “Why’re you here?  Why’re you in Australia?”

HOT!!! COLD!!!

“You make money here?  Ha!  A real Nigger!”

“excuse me” I say, in the smallest voice possible.  I didn’t realise I was going to say it until I did.  “Excuse me” I say louder.  He hasn’t heard me, he’s still grinning at the uncomfortable man opposite him.  I tap him on the shoulder and he turns around, startled.  “Um.  I don’t really think that’s appropriate” I hear myself quaver.

Ugh.  Can you say pathetic?  I feel stupid.  The man glares at me.  “What?!” he says.  What now, smartarse?  I think to myself.

“Why don’t you leave him alone?”  It’s a middle aged women, in the forward-facing seat opposite me.

“What?” he repeats “What have you got to do with it?”

“Yes, leave him alone.”  The chubby emo sitting to my left.  The old man starts to swear

“You’re being a prick, mate.”  Says the emo.  “Just leave him alone.”

“I’m just talking to him”

“Well, he doesn’t want to listen to you.”  A middle eastern looking man in the front-most seat turns around and glares down at him.

“And neither do we” I chip in.  Yeah, you tell him, Kate.  Real civil-rights activist you are, telling some possibly disabled guy to shut it.

“How many of you are there against me?!”

“Just keep it to yourself” says the polished looking young woman opposite me.  He splutters. 

After a short silence, the black man picks up his bag and moves further down the bus.  “Good idea” says the middle aged women to him, smiling, as he passes.  We all glare at the old man, and sink into silence.

I put my ipod back in my ears, but I don’t turn it on.  The woman opposite goes back to writing her message.  The middle aged woman stares straight ahead, the middle eastern guy turns back to the front, the emo slumps.

I feel still feel hot, no wait, I’m cold.  I’m tense.  I feel righteous.  And mean.  I feel part of a greater whole, and I feel isolated.  Was that a positive interaction, or a negative one?  Should I feel proud of us (mostly white people) for defending someone, or ashamed for being patriarchal?  Or for bullying some guy who was just trying to have a conversation?

Geez.  This self-awareness, cultural sensitivity thing is hard.  All I know is that I am glad I tapped him on the shoulder.  I can still feel the echo of the flannelette of his shirt against my finger.  It was only thirty seconds or so ago.

Two bus stops later, a student gets on the bus.  He’s wearing a school uniform – Mercedes, a good private school.  He has a full backpack and he’s got earphones in.  He sits opposite the old man. 

He’s black.

I put my head in my hands.  The emo sits up straight.  The woman opposite stops typing on her phone, although she’s still looking down at it.

The student is clearly enjoying his music, making little drumming actions and bobbing his head.  The old man leans forward.  We all tense.

“How was school?”

The student takes out his earphones and they proceed to have a long conversation, the kind you would have if you were any student with a broad Australian accent, randomly accosted on the bus by a man who seems to only have three lines of conversation.  They talk about how young the student is, and how old the man is.  About the student’s parents, and how he should lsiten to his mother.  About how old the man is (70!! He’s looking for a bucket to kick.  He mimes).  Does he like school?  He’s young, he should listen to his mother.  He is friendly and articulate and personable throughout – engaged and responsive, what every old person wishes that young people were, these days.

The middle aged woman and the black man get off at the same stop.  They smile at each other, and say something.  They look towards the front of the bus at the old man and the young one, smile and shake their heads.

I am reminded that life is not a story.  Or, maybe more accurately, it is many stories.  Today, I choose to believe that we did a good thing.  That we helped one man escape an uncomfortable situation.  We showed another man that his behaviour was not appropriate, and he modified it.  For a while we were united – but not in a scary, mob-like way.  A connection was made between ages.

You can pick your own story.  That’s mine, and I’m sticking to it.