The PM vs. Robbie Rotten

So last night we, like many Aussies, watched as the current Prime Minister and Opposition Leader ‘debated’ as is customary in the lead up to an election. They tried to outdo each other in a verbal dance around anything that is really important to our country and neither really inspired me to put a big tick inside the box next to their name.

While there are several topics in these debates that I’m actually interested in watching the pollies get tongue tied over, the big one I was keen for some eloquence on was marriage equality. When PM Kevin Rudd was last in the top job (before Julia Gillard knocked him off his perch and he then sauntered along and did the same in return) he was not keen on ‘gay marriage’.

Conveniently, while off the proverbial perch, he had an epiphany that gays aren’t that bad and should be allowed to have a ceremony and legal documentation akin to that of he and his wife.* Good. Thanks. Glad you’ve come around.

So last night when asked about this, he explained his changed position and the white computerized line on the bottom of the television screen (known as the ‘worm’) crept slowly upward. ‘Mark of decency’ was a phrase he used. He also said he would allow a conscience vote on the issue within his first 100 days in office. Snaps for Kevin.

When Opposition Leader, and full nincompoop, Tony Abbott was asked the same question, he essentially said he has a gay sister (which he’s made sure we know already) and then looked her, and each and every other gay audience member and home viewer, in the eye and said ‘equal rights, lol, you can’t have them.’

His closing remarks then mentioned something vague about making all Australians happy (I really don’t know what he said, I feel ill when he opens his mouth), but at this point I opened MY mouth and made some snide remark which ended in “…but he won’t let us get married.”

Everything heard on TV and in the lounge room had gone over the head of my 3 year old until then. She turned her head straight away and said “Why won’t he let us get married Mama?” and while my heart broke and I wished I could shove those simple words back into my mouth, I had to think of a suitable answer.

Cue Lazy Town.

Just a typical children’s television show with a good guy and a villain – Sporticus and Robbie Rotten (bet you can’t guess who is who). So I tried to word a jolly tale about how Kevin Rudd was Sporticus and Tony Abbott was Robbie Rotten and that Robbie wanted to be the boss of who can get married. We had a good laugh and she ended the conversation with a loud declaration that “Robbie Rotten is mean”. Yes. Yes he is.

And, just like that, I got away with it.

I got away with not having to give a full explanation that our beautiful family bothers some people and that we don’t have the same options, rights or assurances most other families do. She knows our family looks a little different to the ones on television and in many of her books. She knows that most of her friends have a Daddy and, thus far, she has been perfectly fine knowing this information. I just hope desperately that Australia, and whichever bumbling middle-aged man takes the seat, has its act together before she finds out the other implications of our ‘difference’.
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*I’m not fully confident that PM Kevin Rudd understands what the word ‘gay’ means  as he was once asked in a humorous TV interview “Who would you turn gay for?” and he answered rather quickly with “My wife.” Hmmm.

 

I Do?

“Do you want to go to New Zealand to get married?”

Well, it wasn’t exactly a proposal, but the sentiment was there.

Next February my girlfriend and I will have been together for 10 years. We actually started talking marriage after 12 months together and, at the time, I was the one to veto the idea.

Nine years ago I didn't feel that a ceremony which, in the eye of the law, would have only been a shadow of the ones my straight friends would have, was fitting.
I had spent my whole life feeling less. I felt less worthy, less loved, less valued and less respected because of my sexuality and I didn't want something which was supposed to be one of the biggest celebrations of my life to also be less.

A while back I read this post on Lucy Hallowell's blog, which was inspired by this piece by Trish Bendix. Lucy Hallowell writes about the feeling of always needing to be more than or better than to counteract the gay.

This is something I have always struggled with and it is never more obvious than in my work life. I am a yes person. When my colleagues put up their hand and say “No I won't/don't/can't take on more/do that thing/help that person", I say yes.

I say yes because I hate disappointing people and part of me will always be 17 and convinced I am a disappointment. Realistically, I know this to not be true and the energy and proficiency I bring to my regular workload, without having to go too far over and above, speaks for itself. I need to constantly remind myself of this.

So, feeling that we need to make up for our sexuality is what put me on the back foot when it came to marriage. I didn't just want to say “Yes, I'll take the watered down version, thanks”. I put my hand up and said “No. I deserve what everyone else has”.

I know many gay couples who have had fabulous weddings and I have felt incredibly privileged to be part of their beautiful ceremonies. I don't, for one moment, want invalidate their experiences.

When two people love each other enough to say “Let’s share this, let’s declare it to the world”, there is nothing more special. So, my issue is why is the piece of paper different? Those people made the same commitment and yet they are not permitted the same piece of paper as everyone else. This is where I draw the line. I'm used to feeling less, although the past 10 years have made me feel more in a way I never expected, so I want to wait until there is a balance and I can feel equal.

Five years ago my girlfriend and I registered our relationship after our State introduced some laws to offer financial protection to ‘alternative’ couples. The Significant Personal Relationships Register (or, as I like to call it, the Close Personal Friends List) ensures that if something happens to my girlfriend or me, we are able to have full access to the other’s superannuation fund. It’s also a must if you have children and wish to register both members of the couple as the parents of the newborn child.* The registration certificate (a copy of which I carry on me at all times) also allows us the peace of mind that, should an emergency situation occur, we are allowed by each other’s bedside in hospital where only blood relatives or spouses are given access.  

The thing is, though, straight people are more than welcome to register their relationships in the same way, but I don’t know any who have. Why would they choose second rate registration with second rate protections if they could get married and have all of the above covered on the right piece of paper?

So do I want to get married? Absolutely. Do I want to go to New Zealand to get married? Absolutely not. I love my country and my love for my home state is second only to my love for my family. This place is a part of me and while friends are going to other countries to get married and then touching back down in Australia where there union isn't recognized, I want to do it once and I want to do it here.

I don't know how long we'll have to wait, but my one hope is that it happens before my daughters find out that Australia rates us as less than.

My three year old recently said to me “We'll all get married one day, won't we Mama?” This makes me happy rather than filling me with concern. She said it in the same tone of voice she uses when the four of us are in the same room and she looks around and says “I love our family”.

I love our family. This is also something which my girlfriend and I say out loud regularly and whisper quietly to each other when our girls are asleep. Amid the chaos, which is having two young children, we have unexpected moments of calm and there's nothing I like more than looking up to see the same smile I have on my face, reflected on hers. A piece of paper will not affect that in any way. The type of paper and the wording will not change any part of this. It will not change the most beautiful part of my life, but we deserve the same piece of paper all the other families get.

On a day when America have declared it unconstitutional to deny same sex couples equal rights, Australia have put themselves in a position where ,by year's end, our government could well try to strip us of some of the gains we have made in recent years.

So on a day where I'm shaking my head at the state if my own country, another one has given me hope. If things don't start to look up, maybe I'll ask my girlfriend if she wants to go to American to get married because I've already been to New Zealand and if the same is available there before it is here, I might as well get a different stamp in my passport.

 

*The ‘Deemed Parenthood’ law in my state is pretty awesome. It allows both my girlfriend and I to be listed as the parents of our children, without specifying who gave birth to the child. It means gay couples do not need to adopt children born into an existing relationship.

Fractions Of Me: The Smallest Ounce Of Hope

“We don’t know what to do about you girls.” She said. “We’ve never had to deal with this before.”

She just nodded while Sister Katherine stared at her from across the room, on the other side of the school, where nobody would accidently walk in and find them ‘talking’. It felt like a lecture. She was in trouble for existing, and, on the worst day of her life.

“Brother Thomas is in talks with a priest at a school in Sydney who is dealing with the same problem there.” She delivered this as though it was meant to feel more like a comforting hug than the slap in the face it really was.
Who deals with teenagers, in any capacity, and has the temerity to refer to them as ‘the problem’?
She played the nun’s words through a second time in the ear splitting silence of the room, because the idea of entertaining thoughts of her own at that point was just too much.

…a priest at a school in Sydney…is dealing with the same [thing] there…
She turned this around because she had to. She needed something to hold onto that day. Through complete despair there seemed to be the smallest ounce of hope because somewhere, two States and several hours away by plane, there were two other girls like her.
When Sister Katherine let her leave the room the light outside stung her eyes, which were still sensitive from having cried all night and most of the day before. The bullying had ramped up again and her girlfriend was in hospital, having tried to kill herself for the second time, and her mother had insisted she go to school.
Walking from the dark, isolated space she headed to her art class feeling some sense of comfort in the fact that at least her art teacher was supportive. Really, she’d always thought she was and, mid lecture, Sister Katherine had told her to be grateful for teachers like Mrs Harrison, so she was.Wandering into the art room where everyone else was already at work and Amber’s station was empty, as it would be, she just wanted to cry. She tried to organise her supplies and find the piece she’d been working on before her world changed, earlier in the week, but she had nothing.Every time she looked to Amber’s corner, where her sculptures took up the entire space, she just wanted to walk out of the school and catch a bus to the hospital and sit beside her, where she knew she should be.When Mrs Harrison approached her, a smile would have been enough. A hug would have been the most support and affection any adult had shown her in months, and she needed that more than anything in that moment.

The reception she received was certainly unexpected.

“So is Amber ever going to be able to come back to this class now? To this school even, because of your…relationship?”

Mrs Harrison spat the last word at her and she just looked at her in disbelief. This was her one supportive adult. This was the person she was supposed to be showing gratitude towards.
“Amber is a very talented girl. She needs this class.” Mrs Harrison was her height and half her weight and probably survived on cigarettes and no food, but she’d always been her favourite teacher.
On the inside she was screaming at the older woman saying “Back the fuck off bitch, none of this is my fault.”

She wanted Mrs Harrison to know that she and Amber loved each other and that their relationship wasn’t the problem. She wanted her to know that it was the only decent thing in her life, but she had no words.
She stood looking at the woman for a long time. Mrs Harrison returned the stare, challenging her to say something back. She didn’t know what the woman wanted from her. She was already broken in every possible way. So her retort, her fuck you to the teacher, was to say nothing.

She looked her in the eye with none of the bravado and all of the hurt until the older woman decided to walk away.

Two Girls in Sydney

There is not one feeling in the world worse than that of being afraid of yourself. Being afraid of the truth which everyone around you seems to believe, but you are trying desperately to turn away from, can be truly terrifying.
Whilst being afraid of myself at the age of 15 and 16 and even 17, I was also afraid of being alone. Not just concerned about feeling lonely, but genuinely anxious about being completely left alone in my world if I admitted ‘the truth’. 
Logically, I now know that so many other people, the world over, were experiencing similar thoughts and fears, but at the time I was sure that it was just me. My Catholic school teachers informed me that they knew of ‘two girls in Sydney’ who were also gay but, strangely, this was of little reassurance.

Reading posts such as Going Back Again, by Lucy Hallowell, makes me want to go out into the yard and jump in my time machine and visit 15 year old Balexi and say “See!”
On the way home from 15, I’d stop off at 17 and tell that girl (and two unnamed and unknown girls from Sydney) that there were tonnes of us and more than just the four my Catholic school teachers led me to believe.

I read things like this with two completely separate streams of consciousness. I’m 15 and 31 and at the extremes I want to laugh and cry at the same time. The part of me which will always be 15 and afraid, that lives somewhere at the back of my mind, manages to take a deep breath and relax into a reassured smile because someone else felt that way too. The present me that has a thousand life experiences, a lot more perspective and has not been truly afraid for a very long time also smiles and thinks "Yes, exactly!"
Even though I still remember vividly what 15 and 16 and 17 felt like, the weight of the positive experiences I’ve had in the past 10 or so years has tipped the balance in the direction of happy.

Had I read even one commentary about survival in the face of self-loathing, fear or Catholic school guilt back then, I think my days would have been a little brighter. Even though the world is changing and, hopefully, support and advice is more readily accessible, we still need to tell these stories on the off chance that a girl living at the bottom of the world, or two girls in Sydney, need to hear it.

High Expectations

There are thousands of things I love about my job, which is not something too many people can say about the work they do. I get paid to spend my days with 450 kids who are going to be the very people shaping our world, for better or worse, in a few years. In some ways the responsibility, which comes with being one of the people to help them find the direction they’ll go in, is rather daunting. I could be the difference between a young person believing that they have nothing significant to contribute to the world or believing that anything is possible. Naturally, I hope to inspire the latter and, for the most part, I find this prospect really exciting.

The other adults I work with often have varying levels of love for the job and varying levels of commitment to it. I find it fascinating to sit back and watch the different interactions which occur between the adults and the young people in this environment and, often, how differently each behaves depending on who the other party is. Some adults have kids pegged from day one. There’s always the naughty one, the gifted one, the odd one and the nice one in every year group, but what some of my colleagues seem to forget is that, in the course of a year, these kids can change.

The changes I see in the kids I teach are usually my favourite part of the job. Sometimes life, either inside or outside of school, gets the better of them and the changes I witness in them are heartbreaking. For the most part, however, I am lucky enough to see them start to really figure out who they are over the course of 12 months. When they do change, the best thing the adults around them can do is acknowledge this change and begin to treat them like the person they are instead of the person they were.

One of the key drivers of positive change in young people is high expectations and I, and a lot of my colleagues over the years, have expected a lot. The 25-30 students I interact with directly, for an entire calendar year, learn very quickly that mediocre is unacceptable. They realise that I’m more than okay with them not knowing, but I am certainly not okay with them not trying. When young people realise effort isn’t optional, but is actually required, the vast majority of them tend to put more in.

This past week five classes of students have had the opportunity to write a creative response about the importance of writing. The major incentive for them to do so is an interstate trip, with representatives from other local schools, to a two day writing workshop. Of these five classes, only two saw every child encouraged to submit a response. From the other three classes, only one or two children were encouraged to be involved. I found it incredibly disappointing that three of my colleagues either didn’t believe the opportunity was significant enough to encourage all students, or didn’t have enough belief in the capabilities of the other students in their classes.

The work I received from my students this week was astounding. For the past few weeks my class has been humming with excitement over this opportunity and the students have been doing everything possible to convince me of their belief in the importance of writing and their desire to go on the trip. I could easily say that the written responses they submitted were the best pieces of writing I’ve seen from each of them, individually, all year. I received three page narratives, free verse poetry and letters, among the various submissions, and each of them showed creativity, individuality and a genuine belief that writing is important. When I expect the most from my students, they still manage to surprise me and manage to show they are capable of even more.

What happens, then, to the students who aren’t given a push or aren’t even encouraged to try? If the bar is continually set low, these kids have no way of reaching their full potential and realising that the possibilities for them in this world are endless. So many of our students come to school with a message from home that says school is just a place you have to go to. Many parents had terrible experiences, themselves, in school and are passing on the belief that its only purpose is to give you somewhere to be, Monday to Friday, 9am-3pm, between the ages of five and 17. It infuriates me when my colleagues do little to change this mentality. It also saddens to think that many of them love going home more than they enjoy actually being there.

Many of these people need to start setting far higher expectations for themselves or find a different job to not care about. Thank goodness for the kids who step up to the mark when so many of the adults are falling short.

A Note Amongst Change

Like so many LGBT folk, I have seemingly thousands of coming out stories. While some people are likely to have a particularly significant story, for better or worse, it is probably going to be just one of many.

I first realised I was probably gay when I decided at 15 that the crush I'd had on my best friend, for the best part of four years, was probably more than a crush. That girl was the first person I came out to, awkwardly and afraid to expressive exactly what was happening in my head and in my heart. Over the next two years I came out to a few friends, some family members and some strangers (via the 'safety' of internet chat rooms). Sandwiched in the middle of these stories, many of which had led to harsh words, anxiety and tears, is the story which still warms my heart almost 14 years later.

On Saturdays I worked at a great street market and would spend three hours covering the lunch rush at a stall which served an odd combination of quick and easy Asian takeaway dishes, hot chips, dagwood dogs and cinnamon donuts. I had been working at the market for almost a year when I started coming out to some of those closest to me and while, in their own way, some of these people possibly tried to be supportive, their words and facial expressions often said otherwise. At the time I had a girlfriend, who I was madly in love with, and when we were ‘outed’ at school our Monday to Friday life became quite unbearable.

For the three hours I worked at the market, on Saturdays, I was pretty happy. I literally watched the world go by, with tourists frequenting the area and people from all walks of life coming along to buy food, clothes, jewellery and crafts from the stalls around me. Over the time I worked there, I became familiar with many regular customers. It was a lovely feeling to be able to share a smile and a few words with a stranger as I fixed their order without them having to even ask, as time went on.

Two young women were among these regular customers and would often arrive at the stall holding hands or with their arms around each other and, as they became familiar, I spent every shift looking forward to their arrival. My girlfriend and I didn't know any other gay people, so the sight of these women outwardly showing affection for each other was wonderful to me. Some weeks they didn’t come by at all and on those weeks I would leave the market feeling a little dejected as though we’d had a standing arrangement and they had let me down. On the weeks they did arrive, I found myself looking at them and in my mind I would be screaming I’M GAY TOO and hoping desperately that they would hear me.

After a couple of particularly harrowing weeks at school, in which the bullies had formed new strategies and our supporters had further dwindled, I made a decision to write these women a letter. I can’t remember all of my words exactly, but I do remember describing the difficult time my girlfriend and I were experiencing and then writing 'I just want to know if it gets better'. Part-way through my shift I saw the women approaching our stall and they had a friend with them who I’d seen a few times before. I worked the stall with three other people, but hurried with the customers I was serving in order to ensure that I would be the one to serve the women.
They placed their usual order and, heart racing, I prepared their food. I handed one of the women the food, the other handed over some money and I’d never been so relieved to have to work out change. It meant they hadn’t just walked away. I dipped my hand into the coin drawer and then, holding it in my left, I reached my right hand into my pocket and pulled out the note.

“Can I just give you this too?” I'm sure my voice would have wavered as I spoke to her and offered out my hand, the change sitting with the note I had written.

I still recall the kind, but puzzled smile she offered me and the second smile I received as she glanced over her shoulder, sliding the note into the back pocket of her jeans as they walked away. I spent the next few minutes buzzing from the same anxious excitement I had felt after writing the note the night before. Glancing around the market trying to locate the women, my gaze soon caught them sitting under a tree in the distance. They were reading the letter as I watched. After a couple of minutes, the three stood up from their spot, the woman slipped the note back into her pocket and they walked away. I don’t know what I had expected them to do after reading the letter, but I felt somewhat disappointed that nothing had happened at all.

The following Saturday, the woman who I’d handed the note to came along by herself. She ordered the same food as she always did and, this time, when I handed her the change she handed me a note. I don’t know if the smile on my face was a big as it felt on the inside, but what I do know is that note burnt a hole in my pocket for the remainder of my shift. I couldn't wait to open it up and read her response.

The only things I now recall about her letter were her writing that she felt I was brave and providing her phone number. There was so much more in it, but those two things are the two which stood out. She was praising me for saying the words everyone else frowned upon, and she was offering her support. Those two things alone would be enough for this story to continue to warm my heart, but it gets better.

Over the following year, this woman and her girlfriend offered me, and my girlfriend, advice and support at every turn. They invited us into their home and allowed me to phone them when I needed someone to talk to. They put us in touch with other people and organisations which could offer support. They supported us when my girlfriend took too many pills, on purpose, and visited her in the psych ward at the hospital. They supported us the first time we broke up and the first time we got back together. Knowing we had the support of these two women was one of the only things that got me through my final year of Catholic school. The following year they moved interstate and I kept in touch with them sporadically over the next few years.

My rocky relationship with that girl ended about three years later. A couple of girlfriends and a lifetime of experiences after this, I found myself crossing paths with these women once again.

My ‘new’ girlfriend and I had been together for about six years and she was pregnant with our first child when I heard that the two women were moving back home. They were expecting their first child also and, as it turned out, the babies were due at the same time.

We arranged to catch up and, at 28, I felt almost as nervous as I had done after arranging to meet them for the first time years before. We had lunch together and they both got along wonderfully with my girlfriend, one of them sharing the highs and lows of pregnancy with her while myself and the her girlfriend shared similar thoughts from a partners perspective.

Our children were born three weeks apart, a girl for us and a boy for them, and we now consider them to be some of our closest friends. The two children are now three years old and just at the age where they are communicating and playing well together and we are able to sit back and watch them while passing the baby, our second daughter, between us.

Last week we were at the park together and marveling at how quickly the 3 year olds can now climb well and play independently and I shared a smile with the woman I had given my letter to all those years ago. The smile itself was nothing unusual, but in moments like that it is comforting to know that she is aware of how significant it is that we are in each other’s lives and I am living on the better side she promised me I would see.

At 30 I am able to look back to 1998 and smile at the image of the awkward, anxious teenager at the food stall who spent over an hour checking her pocket, feeling for the note which would bring about so much change. 

Other People's Kids

Not one day passes where I am not acutely aware of the enormous task which is being responsible for the emotional and physical safety of other people’s kids. For six hours each school day for the past nine years I have been required to have my eyes in at least 25 places at once and listen to almost as many conversations at any one time.

Working in a primary school and spending time with the same group of students day in and day out, for at least a year at a time, it is impossible not to form strong connections with many. Teachers are unable to do their jobs properly without knowing the backgrounds of their students, understanding what triggers their emotions and knowing their strengths and weaknesses. Parents trust us to be a substitute for them during the hours they are away from their children and this is a role we take on willingly, despite its magnitude.

On a daily basis teachers make hundreds of split second decisions in order to maintain a sense of order and balance in the school classrooms and playground. Largely, we try to protect students from each other, from hurtful words and painful blows. While we are unable to protect all students 100% of the time, the majority are handed back into the care of their parents, essentially unscathed, around 3pm each day.

In December last year when a gunman made a choice to walk into a US school and take the lives of 26 people, 20 of whom were children, we were all affected. In Australia we could try to distance ourselves emotionally, due to the illusion created by geography, but in reality no empathetic human being could be untouched by this event.

When America’s Fridays are our Saturdays, our teachers were at home with their families and wouldn’t see their students for two days. I spent a large proportion of these two days envisaging the plan of action my school could take should such a threat become a reality for us.

I considered the fact that our school is the same size as Sandy Hook Elementary. Our kindergarten area is closest to the entrance of our school. Our external doors lock from the outside. I would need to go out, first, before I was able to lock us all in. Our school is largely glass. Glass walls between rooms, large windows and glass doors. There are very limited places to hide. Four out of every six classrooms have store cupboards of various sizes. Two out of every six rooms have no store cupboards at all.

Watching Glee tackle the subject of school shootings, in Shooting Star (4x18) was a heart wrenching experience for many. I watched the episode, as many did, with dread weighing heavily in my chest and tears in my eyes. I could try to distance myself from these feelings by saying, ‘it’s only television’, ‘this is an American show’, ‘those kids are in high school’, but I spent the entire episode thinking about the students I teach every day.

The episode was written and directed surprisingly well (I’m completely ignoring the portion in which a love song was dedicated to an obese cat) and the actors proved themselves worthy of their titles. I am sceptical, however, about whether or not any of the content of this episode will appear at any time throughout the rest of the season. It is very Glee to pat themselves on the back and say ‘okay so, teen suicide, we’ve done that’, as though sandwiching it between a couple of good song and dance routines serves that topic well.

As a real teacher, in a real school, I am constantly astounded by the fact that this show offers very few of its characters adequate support in times of trial and crisis. The most disturbing example of this occurred when Sue Sylvester showed her ‘support’ for the emotionally distressed Becky Jackson by helping to sweep the problem under a Glee emblazoned rug.

For me the final scenes, in which Sue is walking out of the school with 20 years of teaching in a cardboard box, are as disturbing as the final scenes of the 1999 film Arlington Road. Shifting blame to an innocent character certainly calms the waters. It gives people a visual representation of a crime and allows them to feel safe that the ‘problem’ has gone away. What Sue did wasn’t noble. They wrote her as the ‘Finn Hudson’, the hero, but what they did was stupid. Nobody knows Becky Jackson thought a gun was the answer to her woes and if nobody knows, Becky Jackson doesn’t receive support.

This image, coupled with the footage Artie shot on his phone, when the Glee club were afraid they may not leave the choir room alive, sent chills down my spine. I want to say they did this well but too much of it doesn't sit right with me and when America’s Thursday is our Friday and I won’t see my students for another couple of days, I’ll spend the weekend trying to think of how I can hide 26 kids, who belong to other people, in a room with no store cupboards and glass walls.