All posts by Princess Sparkle

Short pieces – Vanida O’Brien

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Catherine Deveny told me to shut the fuck up and write
Grandad on his deathbed (talking to me more than he ever had).
He went into details of why he was brought into hospital. That his lungs were like deflated balloons and he had to come to get them filled up again. He was so frail and vulnerable. Then he was being fed by a nurse and I’m not sure what the feeling was; pity? When his bed cover fell and I saw more of him that I ever have or ever wanted to, something else shifted and I was sad. Because this was the most conversation we had ever had and he wasn’t coming out of that hospital. He died telling my cousin all these war stories that, to this day, haven’t been shared. “Too distressing” were my cousins words. I’m not sure I ever want to hear them. But I am sad that I was never his favourite, or ever even talked about. I guess he had too many grandchildren.
Getting dropped home to bed and dad leaving to go gambling with mum.
I think I am about ten years old and my dad drives me and my sister home very late at night. He thinks I am asleep so he takes my sister, puts her in the car and starts the engine. I don’t remember past the sound of the front door closing. I start to cry because I am alone. I think my brother is in the house but I know he doesn’t know I’m home, so he doesn’t care.
I am 19 and going out with a very tall, handsome German guy.
We are at a party and his skinhead friends tell him they ought to “teach him a lesson” about being with someone like me. He is angry, I think, but he doesn’t say anything. I wonder if he remembers that.
I don’t know if what I write is interesting. I just have to keep writing. I’m not sure it will make sense. I just know it makes me feel better.
Emo
What I had forgotten was how soothing the cube actually was. Apart from being a ritual after the deed, the smoothness of the colours and the jarring of the clacking shapes actually became a comfort to me over time. I watched her not moving in my rear view and kept flicking the squares in my pocket. I had never known whether or not I had ever gotten the puzzle correct; never pulled it out to see. I just knew it had to be with me and played with it after I did what I had to do. I dialled a number, gave coordinates and hung up. I drive away and a mere two minutes later, passed an ambulance. It was all falling into place. Hopefully she doesn’t die. That was never what I intended. I just wanted her to see me… really see me. The way I wanted to be seen.
The Japanese have a saying that an incomplete puzzle is a burdened life. I never wanted to complete the puzzle. I don’t even know if I was ever interested in it. It’s always just been the ritual of having it with me. The comfort that it was a part of what I had done. Every second day I drove past her running. It was the same dirt road every time. I always gave her the obligatory wave as I drove by; friendly and acknowledging.
When they were small they were given these presents. Each of the gifts insignificant to the adult and possibly already used. But it meant something to us children. Mine was the Rubik’s. And as each adult lay a fist on me, I made sure I was holding that cube in one hand. It reminded me of pain and sacrifice. Now I hold the cube in one hand and the other hand holds a mop. I lean on the doorway and stare at her in the hospital bed. She is ok. She will know deep down why I did this but she will never know it was me. She stirs and huskily croaks something- sounds like she needs water.
Next minute I am walking towards her. I nervously look around and bring a cup with a straw to her lips. She drinks gratefully and I feel like a mother cat with a kitten at her teet. Or something. It’s very satisfying; she needs me. She looks at me with questions. “I… I’m the one who called for help” I say. She cries silently. That’s enough for today. I walk out and pick up my mop from the wall outside the room. I pass a man looking like death; pale and almost see-through. He enters the room. He takes her he and and begs for forgiveness for not protecting her. “Who are you?” She asks. The man bursts into fresh tears at the revelation that his beloved wife doesn’t know him.
The next time he is in the room with her, she is still confused. He talks about every day things, presumably about their life together, which she doesn’t know about. She is so beautiful.
Until finally she is well enough to go home. She has almost become numb to this man who claims to be hers. Of course she has suffered a great trauma. Her mind isn’t right. It will take time to remember. He lifts her into the chair and wheels her out to the car. He puts her belongings in the back, makes sure she is comfortable and sets off for home. He takes the road she might remember running along but she makes not motion that she is reminded. He’s smiles and fingers the cube in his pocket.
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The Undone Knot – Diane Whiteley

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The undone knot is hanging down

Taunting like a circus clown

Take me up

Take me down

Make me smile

Make me frown

Hide your face and stop the show

Tie it up or let it go

Ring the bells

Sing the songs

The knot’s undone

But not for long

Take me where the flowers bloom

Take me from my darkened room

Pull the blinds and hug the cat

Run to the door

But get pulled back

The slumber is calling

Get back into bed

Turn off the light and pray to the dead

The knot is undone

The knot is undone

The knot is undone

Amen

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Tied up in a world of his own   – Kim Every

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

He died suddenly…, most likely a heart attack that caused him to fall and sustain a nasty bump on his head, Niles surmised, tapping the pencil he’d just probed the body with against his yellow, slightly protruding front teeth. Nathan averted his eyes from the train wreck of his superior strutting around like an oversized stuffed pigeon with the predictive powers of Nostradamus himself. Sir, with all due respect, do you really think it was sudden? The room looks to be completely disrupted which would indicate that perhaps a scuffle has taken place. And, sir, do you not think the presence of the orange ribbon binding his wrists … perhaps it wasn’t a heart attack but rather something more sinister?

Originally…, of course, I did think there may have been a more sinister reason for the gentleman’s demise. However, on closer inspection, I do believe he disrupted the room while writhing in pain. The ribbon was likely in his hands at the time and became wound about his wrists preventing him from reaching out and stopping his fall. Eyes almost bulging from his head in disbelief, Nathan boldly challenged his superior, But Sir! Clearly the orange ribbon is tied in a fashion that is impossible for one to administer to one’s own wrists. For Christ’s sake, he thought, the stupid old goat’s really lost the plot this time, clearly not wanting to make a fuss so he could get home for tea before it got dark.

What I had forgotten…to say, interrupted Niles, puffing out his scrawny chest even further if that was possible, is that the orange ribbon indicates that the gentleman was likely a narcissistic fellow, as many of these pompous old fools are. Nathan suppressed the urge to state that it took one to know one. The ribbon is distinctly burnt orange in colour. You will be interested to know that this is the colour associated with extreme self-centeredness, a fact you, my boy, would not be aware of due to your lack of training and experience. Turning his head toward the victim to prevent his superior noting his dramatic, but necessary to keep him sane eye roll, Nathan refused to be put off track by Nile’s usual idiocy. But, Sir, that really doesn’t explain who bound his wrists and, be it as it may, the colour may relate to the perpetrator being the narcissistic one, not the victim?

I found an enormous amount of money…stuffed inside the pianola lid, Niles suddenly blurted, ignoring Nathan’s interruption. Noticing Nathan’s look of confusion he continued on. Well, don’t you see? The gentleman was clearly counting his secret stash of money, which was obviously bound in the orange ribbon, when he was disturbed. Narcissistic people would take pleasure in such a habit and would not wish the cash to be discovered. He quickly hid the money, likely causing a bit of a mess in the room, and creating himself a lot of stress when he realised he still had the ribbon in his hands. Winding it about his wrists, he has become overwhelmed by his own anxiety, causing him to suffer a heart attack, and unable to break his own fall due to his bound hands, has hit his head on the credenza on the way down.

It was brilliant…,this innate ability he possessed that enabled him to deduce a clear outcome from the muddy facts presented , Niles proudly thought to himself. How easily did the young ones get distracted by irrelevancies, for instance a small insignificant piece of orange ribbon. Lucky I am a master of an investigator, none better, even if I do say so myself, he thought, completely oblivious of his long-held reputation of bungling the simplest of cases, completely misreading clues and coming to the most ridiculous conclusions which time and time again needed to be covered up by his junior staff. Nathan, however, was fully aware of his bosses reputation and had to, at times, physically restrain himself from creating a further murder case as a result of his sheer frustration of Nile’s complete lunacy.

What difference does it make… replied Niles when Nathan again queried how the victim had managed to tie the orange ribbon in a perfect knot around his own wrists. It is of no significance now he is dead, you are making a mountain out of a molehill boy. Niles stepped over the body to finally examine the victim’s head, which had clearly received an almighty blow, and in Nathan’s mind was most likely the cause of death. He glanced at the victim’s wrists, the orange ribbon and back around the room. It makes an insurmountable amount of difference Sir, if the victim died of natural causes or was killed. I feel the latter is more likely the case and this means there is a dangerous individual on the loose. A killer at large Sir!

Niles rolled his eyes but couldn’t help them again sweeping across the room. Well, I do suppose it is rather odd. I mean, you could say it is coincidental that the local haberdashery, located across town, in fact, the only haberdashery in town. It just so happens that the store does stock this very same ribbon, which you may be interested to know is spun from the threads of the very rare Panamanian silk worm and imported through Japan. Nathan stared blankly at his boss. Sir, I do not mean to be intrusive, but how do you happen to know this? Well, young man, my wife is a keen milliner. It just so happens that she purchased a length of this very same ribbon last Thursday. In fact, yesterday she took the ribbon with her to the Leopold hotel where she was meeting one of her milliner friends, Mr. Frederick Brown, to show him her purchase. Gathering momentum, Nathan butted in, Sir, did your wife return home with the ribbon? Well, no, she didn’t. The strangest thing happened. Mr Carter, the publican, visited me around 5pm to give me the message that Mildred, my wife, and Frederick had left the hotel around 3pm and arrived back around 4.30 to tell him she had received a disturbing phone call from her sister Millicent, who needed her to make an urgent trip to Karratha, which you know is an 18 hour trip by horse and buggy. She had to leave immediately, and Mr Brown had kindly offered to escort her to her destination. Nathan tried to keep his mouth from gaping open as Niles muttered…Such an inconvenience, I had to get my own tea for goodness sake…

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The Racist   – Mena Gilchrist

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Jeff was a bit of an arsehole. Some of the dogs on Fig Street thought he had a superiority complex, and the others knew it. On the arsehole-scale, with 1 being Lassy and 10 being the type of dog who commences eating their owner within minutes of suffering a major stroke on the toilet, Jeff sat around 9.5.

As a pure bred, Jeff knew he was above the rest. In fact, he actively sought to offend all neighbourhood pooches that came near by wearing a collar announcing him as a racist (yes, it said “I’m Racist”, not “I’m prone to racism”, or “I occasionally harbour racist thoughts”, just plain “I’m Racist”, no excuses offered. Look, you’re just going to have to trust me on this one).

After one particularly nasty incident, where his adopted half-breed sister Lucy-Loo died suddenly (choked on a lamb chop), Jeff didn’t so much as piss in her general direction, let alone actually help her!  Digging up her rotting corpse a few weeks later, he retrieved the lamp chop and set about making light work of it. He briefly considered burying it (which is like marinading for dogs) but then he thought perhaps Lucy-Loo had done that job for him.

So, as you can imagine, the Fig Street dog-gang were beside themselves with jubilance when they discovered that Jeff was having… well… a bit of a problem.  You see, originally, Jeff was a fast-paced canine. He had respectably fast heritage after all (not that he thought much of his largely absent parents). For the past 35 dog-years he had reigned supreme among the Fig Street dogs as being quick as a jet plane. Don’t get me wrong, Jeff was lazy as fuck, but when he really wanted to, he could chase down anything! Man or beast, there was nothing he couldn’t catch, and everybody knew it.

And so it happened. On a sunny Wednesday afternoon he was tested, as he had been many times before, but this time he was found wanting.  It was Stacey, that bitch cat at number 33. After years of walking delicately along the fence line, swinging those curvy hips in a ‘come-hither’ stride that attracted every cat-fucker with a pulse, Stacey finally mis-stepped. She landed with a thud. Jeff sprung to his feet, and with greed in his eyes and a smirk on his face, he dashed in her direction. Alas, at a pace somewhat less than lightening speed, he faceplanted the colourbond. At first he wasn’t sure whether the thump he heard was his head or his ego. He shot a look to the left, then to the right, before realising with horror that Stacy’s perky arse had cleared all 2.2 metres just nanoseconds earlier.

It was immediately the talk of Fig Street, but never under-estimate the power of a middle-age dog in desperate circumstances to side with denial.   Why yes, he’d missed Stacey on this one occasion.  One could be mistaken for thinking his speed was to blame, but really it was because he wasn’t trying at all. I mean, he had I full stomach…a big lunch… you know how it is? In any case, it had only happened this one time, and so what? Who really cares? It was a warning. Yes, he was letting Stacey off the hook on this occasion. A single incident, without cause. Discussion over.

Within days, Jeff had put it out of his mind and raucous excitement of the Fig street dog gang had mellowed to a few musings.   That was, until, a prancy-arse little Blue Wren appeared.

Who could believe it, this little chancer was actually pecking at Jeff’s leftover dog biscuits. First Jeff’s ears sprung to attention, and then his jaw lifted from its comfortable position upon his paws. What this little Blue Wren cunt had forgotten, Jeff Thought, was that while most dogs are content with only attacking cats, Jeff was a master bird-eater. No soon had this thought crossed his mind when his body lunged forward…. Just as….. well… THAT little Blue Wren took flight. But it wasn’t a scattered and scared kind of flight, it was more like a sarcastic hover.  He fluttered, then landed less than a metre away. Jeff lunged again. Another flutter, another land.  Lunge. Jump. Flutter. Land. Repeat.

Time and time again, that fucking Blue Wren taunted Jeff with its waggly tail and high-flying antics.  Briefly, Jeff recalled the time that Bill (the man that lives in his house) took him to the park. A fiver had flown from Bill’s pocket, and each time Bill stepped forward to grab it that fiver seemed to gain a life of its own, flying through the air, only to resettle just a few steps from Bill’s current position. Jeff had thought Bill was an embarrassing dickhead that day, and he was starting to think the Blue Wren was doing to him what the fiver had done to Bill! But what could he do? He couldn’t let this blue-arsed Nancy-boy eat his dog food. Hell, he couldn’t let him live after entering his domain. Doesn’t this Blue Wren know just who he is?  The saga continued for a humiliating 30 minutes before Jeff, exhausted, took himself and his shame under the house to hide.

Lying in the dark and burning with rage, Jeff wondered if perhaps, just maybe, the other dogs had missed the whole event.  It was a nice thought, but highly unlikely.  Those popular dogs had friends in high places. There was Cindy, a Cavoodle (Jeff hated the fancy names they gave half-breeds). He didn’t see Cindy in all the chaos, but he knew she would have had prime position atop the kids’ slide, perched high in her yard. There was also Max, a fucking mutt, who had a whole-of-neighbourhood view from his kids’ cubby house. On one hand Jeff loved that Bill didn’t have kids (Bill would rather ruin his carpet than ruin his life) but Jeff had to admit that he envied the opportunities that kids’ play equipment provided. While Jeff over-thought the whole situation, the Fig Street dogs enjoyed every moment of his suffering, telling and re-telling the story of that Blue Wren, their new hero.

It was on a rainy Wednesday morning that Jeff finally succumb to the lowest of lows. The nail in the coffin, so to speak.  While scratching his back on the gate to the veggie patch, Jeff noticed something small and brown dart across the yard.

And then, it happened again.

Is that?

Could that be?

No?

A rat!

Another rat!

And what the fuck? Another fucking rat!

Now the average non-dog reader might wonder what difference it makes, I mean really, he can no longer catch cats and birds, so what’s the problem with a rat?  Well firstly, this isn’t ONE rat, it’s a fucking rat infestation. Secondly, rats are vermin. Disgusting, pathetic flea ridden crawling swine that devour not only Jeff’s food, but Bill’s food too.  While Jeff only moderately tolerates Bill, he has developed a mildly concerning inclination to protect him from the numerous threats to which Bill seems oblivious. If Jeff can’t protect Bill from a rat plague then what the fuck does Bill need him for?

If Jeff was capable of conscious thought at this point, he would have used it. Alas, instinct dominated his impulses and he ran…and he lost. Time and time again the rats evaded him, and oh how the Fig Street dogs roared with laughter.  For days the dance persisted. A rat ran, Jeff chased, the ran won. Repeat.

By Sunday, Jeff was spent. Ready to give up on this world, he wandered to the dead side of the house where he was pretty sure he could not be seen. He wept.  Isolated, alone, and hearing only the hushed laughs of other dogs enjoying his misery, Jeff wallowed and wallowed all afternoon. Exhausted, Jeff drifted to sleep. Upon waking, Jeff noticed he was surrounded! Six rats at all angles were peering into his pathetic eyes. Jeff had lost the will to chase. One of the rats stepped forward. “We know you don’t have any friends” the rat said. “and we know you’re old and slow” he continued. “But we kind of like you. You’re an outsider, just like us! Perhaps we could all be friends?” the lead rat asked.

For a moment Jeff considered the proposition. He’d have others to talk to, people who actually liked him! For a moment, a brief moment, he let himself wonder. Then he replied on a racist’s instinct.

“No” said Jeff. “You are beneath me”. 

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Whatever Makes You Happy  – Emma Gregory

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Who are we when we drop the identity we have built around us?
We become self-conscious as we grow more and more attached to our identity. What if we could drop all that and see past to the raw materials as such?
What are our core emotions, where do these emotions come from?
Why do we project so much of who we are onto others and the world around us?
If I didn’t put first that I am a woman, a single mum, a teacher well who am I?

I am an individual who is compassionate and empathetic. I care when people hurt, not because of who they are or what they are but because they hurt and I don’t want that. I want everyone to have as much happiness as a human possibly can.
And I understand that we can’t be happy all of the time and I understand that is not even preferable. I find myself now in a very good place. I now know it is possible to feel happy a lot of the time, some of the time. So what might it be that is making me happy a lot of the time right now?

1.      I know that it’s okay not to be happy all the time. I don’t kick myself when I’m down.
2.      I honour my feelings. If I ignore them they fester and get septic and come out all ugly at the wrong people.
3.      Some stress is good for me but I have to manage it. Exercise can help a lot as it gets the endorphins flowing.
4.      Care. I’m not afraid to care and show that I care. I get misty eyed a lot and I get embarrassed by that but is it really something to be embarrassed of?
5.      I am unique. I am special and I bring to the world something no-one else has got and that is my ticket to a deserving place on this planet. It doesn’t matter what I’ve got. I’ve got it and no one else has.
6.      I express  myself. I just do it whenever I can. Throw some paint. Cook a meal with a weird combination of spices. Yodel. Model. Snorkel. I do what makes me happy in the moment to find my flow state.
7.      I trust myself. I don’t always need to ask others opinions sometimes I just know what is right for me.
8.      Set some boundaries. I might not be so good at this. I might feel mean sometimes for shutting people out but I try to remember this is really important for my sanity.
9.      I get angry sometimes. And that’s ok too.

 

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PRIVATE SCHOOL VALUES

COLUMNS

When in a position of privilege and authority, it pays to watch your grammar.

PRIVATE SCHOOL VALUES NUMBER ONE

Did you read about the boy who may lose hearing in one ear because a Melbourne Grammar boy threw an egg at him during a muck-up prank gone wrong? Did anyone else feel sickened but at the same time not at all surprised when the principal of Melbourne Grammar said in an interview: “[The injured boy’s mother] asked for help because . . . her son was not able to gain access to a surgeon. I was able to, through contacts, get him an appointment with a surgeon the very next day.”

Through contacts — those were the words that made me sick. Through contacts. How kind and noble it was for the important man from the privileged school to help the boy less fortunate through contacts.

What’s astonishing is the stunning lack of insight those two little words revealed. What does it say about a school when the principal brags about queue-jumping? Through contacts. Celebrating a two-tiered health system that leaves one person to wait in pain simply because they have less money.

What kind of values does a school have to acknowledge an inherently unjust system and brag they can rort it? What’s the school motto? “Who you know. Through contacts”, “Meeting the right people. Not those wrong people.” Perhaps its mission statement is: “It’s not through merit people will be rewarded, nor the society being one of equity we want to promote. We are committed to reinforcing discriminatory hereditary privilege and attracting insecure parents who tragically use the school their child attends as social currency. We suck in parents with fear, dazzle them with hype and comfort them with social apartheid, gender segregation and elitism.”

PRIVATE SCHOOL VALUES TWO

Last year I wrote about a private school contacting me to mentor one of its year nine students for its “year nines are privately mentored by professional writers” part of its sales platform.

When I asked what the fee was, they said I was the first to ask and they hadn’t thought about payment. (Their school values did not extend to paying people to increase their company’s profitability but did extend to attempting to covertly shame people for asking to be paid for what they do.) I explained I was happy to do charity for charities, but I couldn’t afford to work free for businesses. Long story, but in short I suggested a $200 donation to the Asylum Seekers Resource Centre as payment.

I mentored a student and it was fabulous.

The school approached me again this year and I agreed to the same terms. I had contact with the young lad, he was bright and keen, and we were looking forward to working together. Before we got down to work, I asked the school to send me confirmation of last year’s donation.

The contact stopped dead. Countless emails and phone calls and I haven’t heard from the school or the student since. That was three months ago. I called the Asylum Seekers Resource Centre. It had received no donation from the school. Ever. The school is now building a new wing that looks like a project by Denton Corker Marshall.

A high-profile Australian writer told me he was approached via his publisher by the same private school. When the publicist asked about a fee, the English co-ordinator responded: “I’ve not considered a payment, to be honest. The only person who has asked for payment in the past has been Catherine Deveny (GREEDY BITCH) and we (WE? YOU MEAN I) managed to come to a settlement involving a donation to charity.”

Gunnas Writing Masterclasses here. Mailing list here. Testimonials here.

 

 

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Private schools. We cannot work for you for free.

COLUMNS

HERE I was, the girl who went to Reservoir High, at the opening of the Melbourne Writers Festival, glass of champagne in hand, chatting to a couple of mates (one went to Croydon High, the other to Frankston High) about privilege. One of my mates reminded me of the email exchange that follows. This is a true story, although some of the names have been changed.

To: Catherine Deveny

From: Humphries, Henry

My name is Henry Humphries and I am the Head of English at Kingsley Methodist Grammar School, Melbourne. I’m looking for a group of professional writers to act as mentors for a class of year 10 students doing a writing course and I would love you to be one. Each student will have their own private mentor. Are you interested?

Regards, Henry

From: Catherine Deveny

Hey, Henry! Good to hear from you. Happy to mentor. What’s the fee? C

From: Humphries, Henry

Hi Catherine, Thanks for your enthusiasm. You’re the first person to ask about a fee. Henry

From: Catherine Deveny

Well, I can’t afford to work for free. Particularly for a business. C

From: Humphries, Henry

I think we can all afford to work for free when the aim is to help people. I’d like the students to see that writing can be inspirational, confrontational and thought-provoking and that it could one day lead to a professional career. Henry

From: Catherine Deveny

I agree! Tonight I am emceeing a free gig to help clothe disadvantaged women attempting to get back into the workforce. Next week I am doing a free debate for a non-profit magazine that raises issues about social justice and the plight of victims of war and discrimination. And I’m paying for a babysitter. Kingsley Grammar is not a charity. It’s a business. C

From: Humphries, Henry

Catherine, You seem to be missing my point. I’m asking you to help one kid get better at writing by offering some advice on one piece of their writing. I don’t see how this will help fill the coffers of Kingsley Methodist Grammar School. It’s one person helping another person. Henry

From: Catherine Deveny

I see exactly how it will help the coffers of Kingsley Grammar. “We have a pool, state of the art entertainment complex, manicured grounds and professional writers to personal mentor. That’s why you should spend your money at Kingsley Grammar.” It may not be on the website or in the pamphlets, but it’ll certainly get bragged about at the dinner parties and sleepover drop-offs. Pretty simple really.

I mentor plenty of secondary students, from both public and private schools. Ones who contact me. Passionate writers. Individuals. Not businesses. I have three little kids and, at the moment, I’m the primary earner for my family. I happily do charity work. For charity. C

From: Humphries, Henry

Wow! You really have thought about this a lot. What would you consider to be a reasonable fee? Henry

From: Catherine Deveny

My fee would be a $200 donation to the Asylum Seekers Resource Centre. C

THAT exchange happened over about 30 minutes. Contrary to what Henry writes, I hadn’t thought about it at all. I was just quickly responding to another request. What struck me was the extraordinary sense of entitlement. You scratch my back and — I’m sorry, what’s in it for me?

I get asked to speak at private and government schools regularly and I enjoy it. Almost every time I speak at a private school the head girl or boy presents me with flowers or a bottle of wine and a handwritten card at the end of my talk. I always say to the class, “What? So I’m not getting paid?” The kids and the teachers laugh. Then I say, “Seriously. Does this mean I’m not getting paid?” It’s very clear they want to give the students the illusion that I’m doing it for free. Because they are just so special. When I mentioned this bizarre practice to one of the private school teachers, she snipped: “It’s just good manners.”

I said: “So you present the gardener, the cleaner and the plumber that comes in to unblock the toilets a bottle of wine and a handwritten card when they’ve finished their work?”

PART TWO

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The Narcissism Of Motherhood

COLUMNS

I never wanted to ‘become a mother’ I decided to have a child.

It was 1994. I’d been living with Marz for a few years and someone asked if we were going to have children.

I was 26. It had never dawned on me.

So I said to him ‘We’ve been together for a few years but we’ve never discussed children.’

He said ‘I assume if you want one you’ll tell me.’

The subject didn’t come up again for another few years.

I was a comedian and writer home in Melbourne with our ridiculously huge dog Gus watching telly and eating cheese on toast for dinner. (I have a vague memory I’d watched ‘Evil Angels’, the biopic about Lindy Chamberlin starring Meryl Streep, the night before.) He was a photographer away interstate shooting on a job in Lightning Ridge.

We were on the phone downloading our day to each other the way people did before mobile phones, the internet, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and texting.

These days if you talk to people you haven’t seen for five hours as soon as you start talking they say ‘I already know. I saw it on Facebook.’

Mid sentence, unplanned, not at all pre meditated, I said ‘I think I’m ready to have a baby.

His immediate response was ‘Does that mean we have to buy a four door car?’

(He had a two door Alfa Romeo convertible and I had a two door mustard color Toyota Corolla.)

‘I suppose so.’

‘Where did that come from?’ he asked.

‘No idea’ I said far more surprised by what had come out of my mouth than he seemed.

I was unsettlingly calm.

Looking back now, our purchasing of a pup and a house, discussions with people I knew with babies and pondering with girlfriends the stability and enduring potential of the relationship I was in and the financial viability of my career clearly illustrates my sub conscious had been doing research for a while in an attempt to know as much as I could before the next adventure/project/journey/experiment; having a child.

It was not a romantic, spur of the moment in the heat of passion conception of a love child.

It was simply the next logical step that I went into hopefully, happily, knowingly, willingly and pragmatically.

My emotionally chaotic and financially stressed childhood taught me you should never have more children than you could raise on your own nor should you ever take on a mortgage you could not service solo.

A man is not a financial plan. Nor is the assumption of a happy ever after simply ‘because you deserve it’.

I needed to be sure I wanted to have children and wasn’t feeling forced or pressured.

I wanted to be certain I was having children not because I thought I should, or simply because I could or because it would please anyone but because I chose to.

I needed to be positive that what was informing my choice was my own desire. To please myself.

None of the mothers from my childhood saw having children as an option. They just did it because it was what you do. It was the done thing. It was seen as a sign of success (in the same way marriage (vomit) is still seen as a sign of success for many women. You know it is.)

In the early 70s if you couldn’t have children you adopted them and if you didn’t want to have children you became a nun or were labeled a freak. Or both.

You get married, you have children and you give up any independent life you may have had before that. That was how it appeared to me. Actually looking back that’s exactly how it was.

Like every default setting rite of passage and expectation of being female I’d encountered since I was 14, I examined having a child critically and rigorously. I put it under a microscope held it to the light and then dissected it in an attempt to work out what it was and whether it was what I wanted or what society manipulated me to think I wanted to keep me out of the way. Was having a child simply a rouse to occupy me with ‘women’s work’ so the men could have priority access to power, control, decision making leisure and money? Would pregnancy and childrearing result in me becoming a covert handmaiden of patriarchy? Did being female and having a baby result in me contributing to a world order that promoted and rewarded a certain construct of masculinity? A construct of masculinity that was homophobic, racist, misogynist, controlling, punishing and shaming. Would having a baby result in me being patted on the head for being a good girl to distract me from having my future career and financial rug being pulled out from under me at the same time?

No. I did not over think it. I thought it through. Most people, particularly women, under think having children. They make the decision emotionally and back it up rationally. Because cute! Because romance! Because happy families!

Having a baby is not rational.

I had children for the same reason every other woman with access to fertility control does. Selfish narcissism.

Yep. I wanted to have children for no other reason than I wanted to have children. Because I wanted to go on the ‘I am having a baby’ ride. The same reason everyone else has children. Despite what they may attempt to convince you and themselves of, that they have selfishlessly volunteered for some noble public service that they deserve a medal for.

Fuck that. No gun to your head love.

I didn’t know if I would like being a parent, or even like my child or children or like what my partner ‘turned into’ when he became a parent or whether he would like me as a parent. Or if I would like myself as a parent.

No one does.

This is the ultimate narcissism. “I will unconditionally love whatever I make purely and solely because I made it. Despite having no idea what this beast may be or how it corrodes my life in ways I could never expect.”

No one knows what being a parent is or having a child is until you have done it. In the same way you cannot know what running a marathon is like until you have done it. I’m not sure you ever really know what being a parent is because it keeps changing. Newborns to babies to toddlers to little kids to school kids to teens to young adults. You have one, two then three children and the parenting changes every time with the new addition. And again depending on the constantly changing dynamic between them. And you change, your partner changes, your relationship changes, the circumstances change.

Myself. A parent? Are they the same thing?

Or different?

Or a hybrid?

I was not one of those young women who always planned to have children and was looking for a Baby Daddy. Nor was I outspoken and bolshie about never wanting to have children.

I knew women who were adamant they were never having children. Staunch, vocal and bombastic. (All of them have since had children and fallen into very 1950s relationships. Beware Little Miss She Protesteth Too Much.)

I was less interested. I never declared proudly I refused to have children. Nor did I swear black and blue to never become a parent or have a baby.

The truth is, I didn’t think about it at all.

Which reminds me of that saying ‘the opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.’

I was indifferent.

Having children was something my mother, aunts and various grown up ladies did. Babies and children belonged to other people. I was their sister or cousin or baby sitter.

I have three children now. 12, 13 and 16 and still feel like that.

As a child I loved playing dolls, and adored having a baby brother and sister. I loved cuddling them and playing with them. I found them fascinating and hilarious and thought they were incredibly cute. I still do. Despite my sister having four children of her own and my brother being 36.

I wanted to experience what it was like to be pregnant, give birth and be part of the science project that is caring for a child from baby to independence. I want to eat up life and I don’t want to miss out on anything I consider important, meaningful or a rite of passage.

Fuck the rest of you.

I wanted to go back into a parent child relationship albeit in another role and see if I could experience it without the bad stuff, the wrong stuff, the mistakes, the things that had made my childhood unhappy. And re experience the parts of childhood I had loved. The things that had comforted me, made me happy.

I wanted to become a parent to see what was real. The confected Disney Sunday Night Movie, Partridge Family, Brady Bunch, Little House On The Prairie, Eight Is Enough families I had seen on television? The mythical perfect loving forgiving family? Or the broken, flawed, secretive, dysfunctional, bitter, exhausted examples I was surrounded by growing up.

There is an excessive narcissism in motherhood I find repellant. You know what I’m talking about. The competition and judging each other from labor to year 12 results to grandchildren.

I don’t find it all the time. But when I find it, it’s only between mothers.

And this assumption kids only want to be with their mum. Any other care or company is inferior.

Hello, setting up co dependence to deal with the mother’s abandonment issues!

(And don’t start me on attachment parenting…)

‘What fucking ego confusion,’ I constantly think as I hear mothers spend hours talking about their children in a way which is clearly in an attempt to win some non existent competition. Their children’s marks, their abilities, their achievements, their popularity, their looks, how much better their children are than their sister’s children. Blergh.

Feel free to get a life at any stage ladies.

I’m gob smacked by the breathtaking lack of insight some mothers have that as perfect and gifted and special they believe their own children are they have no inkling other parents could feel the same way about their own offspring. Nor can these sad insecure mothers who have nothing in their life to assert their success with comprehend others do not want to listen to them bang on about their sprog for hours on end.

It’s so revealing. You regularly see clumps of Mumzillas sitting around in coffee shops and if you listen in you will hear them comparing notes and competing about not only their own children but their sibling’s or friend’s children.

You know what I’m talking about.

Never ever do I hear men doing this.

I was listening to a podcast of This American Life and the host Ira Glass was talking to actress Molly Ringwald. She was discussing growing up in a family where her sister was considered the beautiful one, she was the creative one and her brother was the smart one.

When she was 10 years old or so she asked her mother if she was pretty. Her mother responded ‘You’re cute.’

Host Ira Glass, who is Jewish, was shocked. He said growing up he had a friend whose mum would tell her and her sister they were average.

‘You girls are average. Average, you know– like, you’re smart, but you’re average smart. And I was like, wow, you were not raised by Jews, man! That is not the message you get. I mean, in my experience, there’s a lot of, like, you’re so special. You’re the most special….”

Adequate. That’s what I am going to tell my children from now on they are. Good enough. Inspired by my 12 year old who refers to my food as ‘edible’.

I tell you what weirds me out.

This.

Me “I just had a great chat with your daughter. She’s an interesting kid.”

The Mum “Thank-you.”

Me “Wh…at? Why are you thanking me? I am talking about your daughter not you.”

That’s when I back away and talk to an actual grown up. Someone who does not think they are the same person as their child.

When people say positive things about my kids you know what I say? ‘I’ll tell them.’

(Actually, that’s not what I always say. If someone is blowing smoke up my children’s arse in an attempt to flatter I respond ‘My children are hideous’ or ‘actually, if you got to know him better you would find out he’s a bit of a cunt.’)

 I have never once told my children I am proud of them.

Am I the ONLY person who has a problem with people saying they are ‘proud’ of other people? Particularly their children. It infers a sense of ownership and propriety which exposes a feeding off other’s achievement and the bestowing of approval suggesting an inflated idea of what their opinion is worth.

This ‘proud of you’ thing has always given me the ick. ‘You are living your life in a way I approve of and I will award you by bestowing my blessing’. What is inferred is and ‘if you don’t live your life in a way I approve I won’t. And you will be sad. Because my approval and blessing is worth a great deal.’ The clutchy assertion of ownership is revolting too.

I never tell my kids I’m proud of them. If they achieve something I say I am thrilled their hard work has paid off. You can only be proud of yourself.

Embedded in the sentence ‘I am proud’ of you is a vanity and desire for behavioral control that is unhealthy. It’s social pressure to conform to ideas of what people should do and be delivered via carrot as opposed to stick.

Why do so many people confuse approval with love?

So often movies and narratives hinge on the ‘all I ever wanted was for my parents to tell me they were proud of me’. FUCKING WHY? Who cares? Live your life how you choose. If people live their lives hungering for approval from withholding parents they are not living their lives. They are living a life in a way they hope will get The Magical Tick Of Approval.

Based on what? What are these people’s credentials other than being the approval wanters parents.

People will often moan to me that they wished their parents approved of them or their choices. More often than not their parents are failures with rotten lives. I say ‘Why do you give a shit? Your parent’s life and choices are terrible. They have lived a horrible life and made bad choices. How is their opinion worth anything?’

The other side of the ‘I’m proud of you’ coin is this; when people say you’ve changed it means you are no longer living life their way.

The ‘proud’ thing is simply control. Praise trolling.

Here’s something else I don’t get.

Why do people call childless women selfish?

Seriously? How can you call not having children selfish? Having children is the most selfish thing you can possibly do. ‘I am going to inflict miniature versions of myself onto this already over populated world.’

And here’s the funny thing. They never call childless men selfish. I never see childless men being cornered at parties being told they are selfish, they are missing out or will regret it later.

I never hear men being asked how they expect to manage to balance children and a career. Men are never asked when they go to work ‘who’s looking after your children’. It is only men I hear respond to the question ‘What are you up to on Saturday?’ with ‘babysitting’ when they referring to CARING FOR THEIR OWN CHILDREN.

What’s with the group chanting to shame women who have chosen not to have children. Why? Simply because many parents feel they were sucked into/pressured/tricked or manipulated into having children. They resent it now and can’t bear to see others living a life that looks happier and more fun than their’s do.

There’s a kind of ‘if I had to, you have to to. So we are all the same and no one is happier than anyone else’ that comes from these chant groups.

Another thing I find repellant and oppressive is this ‘Being a mother is the most important job in the world’ bullshit.

It’s not. Being a mother is not the most important job in the world.

Firstly being a mother is not a job. It’s a relationship.

Secondly subscribing to this false and manipulative platitude oppresses women by appealing to their narcissism and internalized misogyny. It disregards the role and impact we all have caring for the youngsters around us. Whether we gave birth to them or not.

Thirdly if being a mother is that important, why aren’t all the highly paid men with stellar careers who keep telling us the job is so important not devoting their lives to raising children?

For any woman who uses ‘being a mother is the most important job in the world’ as a way to establish credibility, consider this: if this is meant to exalt motherhood, then why is it always being used to sell toilet cleaner?

The deification of mothers not only delegitimizes the relationship fathers, neighbors, friends, grand parents, partners, teachers, carers etc have with children but diminishes the immense worth and value of these relationships. (It also encourages co dependency and discourages independence. ‘You need your mum. Only your mum will do’) It also discourages other adults from being actively involved in children’s lives. Because, you know, it’s not as good as being a mother. Bollocks.

I’m also confused as to what makes you a mother. Is it the actual birth? Then foster, adoptive, stepmothers and full time grand mothers don’t count. Or if it’s the amount of time you spend with them why do childless women who work full time in childcare not get this honor bestowed on them?

Or is ‘a mother’ simply a term to describe an obligation and expectation to care for children without payment. Is this token, empty slogan used to compensate women for gouging holes from potential careers by spending years out of the workplace without recognition?

Buying into and enabling the ‘being a mother is the most important job in the world’ dogma devalues the unpaid labor of rearing children and other unpaid caring and domestic tasks almost as much as is strategically devalues women’s worth in the work place.

Being a mother is not a job. If it were a job there’d be a selection process, pay, holidays, a superior to report to, performance assessments, Friday drinks, meetings and you could resign from your job and get another one because you didn’t like the people you were working with.

Even if it were a job there is no way being a professional mother could be the hardest when compared to working 16 hours a day in a clothing factory in Bangladesh, making bricks in an Indian kiln, or being a Chinese miner. Nor could it ever be considered the most important job in comparison with a surgeon who saves lives, anyone running a nation or a judge deciding on people’s destinies.

If you believe the manipulative slogan and that mothers are better, smarter and more compassionate people for having children, all of them, you clearly haven’t met many mothers. Or met many extraordinary humans who have not made a human themselves.

People’s opinions and perspective on things change over the years. Mothers may have insight they didn’t have not because they’ve had children but because they’ve been around longer. This doesn’t make their insight more right or valid than anyone else’s – mother or not. Correlation does not equal causation.

Is the only way you can have the deepest most meaningful connection with life and humanity is to have a baby? Do I too have a unique and more profound understanding of everything in the entire world because I have given birth and care for children. No.

There is also a curious sliding scale to this ‘Being a mother is the most important job in the world.’ ‘Working’ ‘career’ mums are at the lower end and single stay at home mothers are highest echelons. With ascending increments for each child you have. The more hours of drudgery you endure the more of a mother you are and, therefore, the more important your job is. The more you outsource domestic labor and childcare and participate in the workforce the less of a mother you are and the less important your job is.

Wow! What a coincidence! The less agency you have and more undervalued your contribution is the more of a mother you are. And the more you enable the patriarchal structure via unpaid domestic labor the more ‘important’ your job is. Stockholm syndrome anyone?

This empty token slogan encourages mothers to stay socially and financially hobbled, alienates fathers, discourages other significant relationships between children and adults and allows men to continue to enjoy the privilege of heteronormative nuclear family roles (despite men sucked into this having their choices limited as well).

I have always said ‘anyone who starts a sentence with ‘as a mother’ is immediately disqualified from being taken seriously. On anything.’

‘As a mother’ is in the same basket as ‘I’m not a racist but’ ‘I can’t be misogynist I have daughters’ and ‘some of my best friends are gay’.

It’s fine to use “motherhood” as a credential if you’re talking about something related to actual motherhood (like vaginal tearing during birth-or breast feeding despite not all mothers experiencing either). But if you’re using “motherhood” to assert that someone cares more about humanity than the next person, if you’re using it as a shorthand to imply that a mother is a more compassionate person than the women and men standing around her, then I call bullshit.

I love having children. I love children in general and am lucky that I love mine. What makes me happy is not so much that I love my sons but that I like them so much. They are lovely people and a lot of fun. But sometimes cunts.

To be honest, having children has been much easier than I thought it would be. I had very low expectations and they have been well surpassed.

There’s a book called The Good Enough Parent.

I have never read the book but the title sums up my philosophy perfectly.

I will get things wrong, I will get things right. I will do my best, and sometimes that best is pretty shit. Sometimes it’s magnificent.

I want to set an example of a real life. I do not shield them from my sadness, grief, depression, sex, drugs, heartache or anger but try and explain it to them and talk about how I and other manage emotions that may pollute the communal space. I say ‘Your behavior is not your fault, but it is your responsibility. If someone smacks you in the face, that’s their responsibility, how you respond, that’s your’s.’

I never withhold either. I do not withold love, gratitude, praise or amazement.

But I never tell them that I am proud of them.

I do occasionally say ‘Wow! Are you proud of yourself? I would be.’

My parenting philosophy is simply this. All children need is to know that they are loved and all they want is to see their parents trying, not always succeeding but trying to get their shit together.

And it may surprise you to find that the only thing I would like to be remembered, as is a good mum. And the only people who decide that are my sons. And that is not what they say to others or attempt to flatter me with but what they feel in their hearts.

The heaviest burden a child carries is the unlived life of their parent – Carl Jung

You may also like Why I Am Against Step-Parenting  and Mothers Day Is Bullshit

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Monday nights  – Susan Levett

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

It’s Monday night again and it’s the usual routine. Arthur drives Margaret to Patricia’s house so they can plan for their next Brownies meeting. Margaret is Tawney Owl and Patricia is Brown Owl. That’s why we have so many damn owls in the house. Arthur is home again. Jeffrey, my older and only brother, goes into the bathroom to have his nightly bath. He alway# seems to take forever. It feels like his baths get longer and longer each week. It’s time. Again. Every week. Arthur says let’s go and leads me into my mum and dad’s bedroom. I am raped again. I hear the bath water starting to drain, which means the raping is over. Arthur goes to pick up my mother after rapin* me, his daughter. I hate my family.
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