On Teenagers

Adults need to stop asking young people what they want to do or be when they grow up or finish school, and instead, if they want to talk to a young person find our what they are doing or being NOW.

It’s lovely adults care but rather than focus on young people’s ‘future’ perhaps the best way adults could care is to let them know it’s normal not to know or be confused and not to worry about any of that stuff until they are 30.

This is not only because technology has us moving towards less jobs and a living wage.

Often adults ask young people about ‘what they are going to do’ in order to find a subject to talk about. The adult then goes on to approve or disapprove of the young person’s choice, to pigeonhole them or go into a rant about how the correct way the young person should go about their life.

This is not a conversation. This is a way adults create a social interaction so they can tell young people what to do and how to do it.

Teenagers need to focus on being teenagers. There is enough stuff to learn and to do than worry about the pressure to predict what a future self in a future world may want to do. I tell my sons 15, 17 and 20 everything I have needed to know I have learned from travel, living with people and working in hospitality. It’s important for boys and men in particular to be encouraged not to be defined by career or money.
I understand young people may have a desire to see themselves as something other than a kid or a student but I think it’s unwise for that definition to be a job, a profession, a course or a university. So many miserable grown ups have become that way because they have committed to a job/course/profession because of often well meaning people attempting to ‘encourage’ them. This usually manifests as the young person feeling pressure and not wanting to disappoint. Rather than demanding an answer from young people about what they want to do or be perhaps it’s wiser to focus on what they are doing and being and who they are and what they love.

When my kids fret about ‘the future’ I just say ‘You know what you have to focus on right now? Being a 14yo. That’s your only job. Be a 14yo.’

I understand the ‘Say something so adults will stop asking’ but I disagree strongly. There is nothing wrong with young people saying ‘no idea’, actually it’s a far better answer. Not only does a place holder answer put pressure on the young people to follow through but if they change their mind and don’t get the ATAR necessary it makes them feel even worse and as if they ‘failed’ seeing as though they ‘promised’. It also suggests that their present life is of no importance and just a holding pattern and the only thing worth having a conversation about is ‘the future’ when they are ‘an adult’.

It’s almost as if ‘well the only conversation worth having is with an adult or about being an adult’.

Focus on the sport they are into, their social lives, what music they’re listening to, what games they are playing, what YouTubes they are watching, who they are hanging out with, how they are finding their part time job etc. Most the young people I know are very, very interested in discussing politics and culture. They are often far more informed than I am about many things and it makes for a great chat.

Adults need to stop trying to help young people with their future and instead simply witness and encourage their present. Your ‘help’ often isn’t helping.

Another thing I have noticed is that almost all men and boys assume they are going to work full time for their entire lives, I assume to support a family and/or for status and identity. VERY FEW WOMEN HAVE EVER THOUGHT LIKE THIS. Women assume for many reasons they will work full time, part time and not at all due mostly to assuming they will have children and take time out of career to do that.

It’s bizarre that men and boys don’t think that way too. They should and it’s not only about encouraging men to be more involved in caring for their children it’s about encouraging boys and men to care for themselves and not simply see themselves as walking wallets or wage slaves. How many times have you heard women say they want ‘a rich man’ or men say ‘if I were wealthy that women would love me’?

Men need to have more balanced lives and be encouraged to be more rounded people. As men embrace this the added benefit will be giving women more flexibility and less excuses to be financially dependant on others and drop out of participation in and contributing to life outside their front door.

Women and girls need to stop thinking of themselves as being defined by their relationships with others but by who they themselves are, what they think and what they want.

‘What would you like to be when you grow up?’

‘An adult that can think of better things to ask teenagers ‘what do you want to be when you grow up?’

On ATAR Results

‘Alan’s leaving’ said my youngest son, ‘His parents are sending him to some private school. How can they afford a private school when they own a $2 shop? If everything is so cheap how can they make any money?’

‘So Alan’s starting year 8 there?’ I said.

‘No they couldn’t get him in when they wanted so he’ll be repeating year 7 next year.’

‘Is this Alan who does two hours tutoring every night?’

‘Yeah and his parents give him $10 a day for lunch but he’s only allowed to play 30 minutes computer games between his tutor and all the homework he gets. The only fun he has is at our school. And now he’s going to some private school because his parents want him to be a doctor.’

‘What about his brother’s and sisters? Is it the same for them?’ I asked.

‘He’s an only child. His family came to Australia three years ago.’

********

My eldest son got his VCE marks this time last year. It was a happy day. He was rapt with his ATAR score and delighted with his English mark. English was all he cared about. He’s dyslexic and wants to make a career from words, ideas and stories. Even though he wasn’t focused on a specific score, course or university he got well above the marks to enroll in the course he’s most likely to choose.

Watching my son go through the VCE experience made me understand why and precisely how our current year 12 system is unfair. The best we can hope for is that the VCErs are happy with their score and the felt it reflected their effort and/or ability.

I’ve always said to my kids ‘chose the subjects you love and your life will follow’. The ‘follow your passion’ and ‘do something you love and you’ll never work a day in your life’ encouragement has embedded it another pressure. The pressure to ‘find your passion’. And what if they don’t want to make a living from their passion for the fear it will lose it’s sparkle?

I have no interest in any of my three son’s marks unless they want to share their delight or disappointment. If they walk through the door and said ‘Guess what I got 89% on the test last week!’ I’d say ‘Well done! You must be rapt!’. If they walk through the door and said ‘I’m really pissed off I thought I’d done really well and only got 62% on the humanities essay’ I’d say ‘Well that sucks. Can I make you a milkshake? Would you like me to organize you some extra help? Let me know.’

I have never been focused on my children’s marks, only their behavior, effort and happiness. My hopes have been for them to be resilient and well rounded.

On the day the year 12 results roll in there is always a non stop media stream of spectacular high achievers punctuated by messages of news of how my mates kids and my son’s friends went. The day my eldest son got his ATAR the day dislodged something in me and I reflected deeply and widely.

There were rolling stories about teenagers getting near perfect scores. I wondered how this was even possible. As a dyslexic it’s impossible to conceive how anyone can rote learn or remember even the simplest things. I am 49 and still can’t tell my left from my right.

It was even more difficult for me to imagine wanting those kinds of marks in order to be accepted into the type of courses that required those marks, or even just wanting high marks for the sake of high marks. I’m a completionist not a perfectionist. Ps get degrees and all that.

I was happy for high achieving kids and their teachers. Everybody deserves celebration and recognition. They worked hard and have marks to prove it. But working hard is not guarantee a person will get a result that reflects it.

There would be kids who worked as hard if not harder and received far lower marks on ATAR Monday. Some students work hard, some have huge support, some have a natural ability to find academia effortless, many are blessed with a few of these.

How much of a success is it for a clever kid who finds school work easy and enjoyable with amazing support at school and home to get an excellent ATAR?

I couldn’t help wondering what the costs and the pressures were of those marks for those kids who had done exceptionally well.

I wondered what the high achieving kid’s motivation were. The pressures they were under and the expectations the people around them had of them. I wondered what those kids missed out on. I wondered how they would feel when the thrill of the high mark they received and the prestigious course they were accepted into faded. Would they be happy, relieved and relaxed? Would they feel daunted? Would they feel the approval from their parents was love? Would they be excited about studying an area they were passionate in? Would they be grateful for the incredible sacrifices and investment their parents made and the opportunities afforded them?

Or would they do what was expected of them regardless of their own personal interests. They, their parents, their teachers and school had invested such a huge amount would it seem wrong to ‘waste’ the marks they got and the doors those marks opened?

On the day the scores came out I wondered about the kids with the super high scores. I kept thinking suddenly the bar had been lifted so high for those kids and it was all down hill from here.

When you get an average or above average mark there is plenty of room to surprise or impress. Under promise over deliver. When you score an ATAR of 99.9 and get into medicine or law at Melbourne Uni the only way is down.

Would the parents of students who receive close to perfect ATAR scores feel vindicated by the investment they made in expensive schools and tutors? I’m sure some kids would have enjoyed the challenging ride. Others would have been panicked by the fear of disappointing their parents who had so much hanging on their outcome. Other kids would have failed their parent’s expectations.

Mostly I wondered about the cost. Not financial but human and emotional. Yes they got high marks and no matter how much effort a student, their parents and their teachers put in not all kids would be able to achieve these marks.

Around the time the VCE results came out I joined the biggest VCE Facebook page and lurked a little. After not giving this particular juncture in time any real thought I was suddenly fascinated by what a strange day the ATAR result day is. It means nothing and everything. As I scanned the page there was a mix of students satisfied, thrilled and disappointed. There is so much leading up to this day but so much more ahead for these young people.

The page was full of selfie videos of people getting their results. Some reacting to getting the ATAR they hoped for, some being shocked at a score much lower than they expected and some in disbelief when their expectations were exceeded.

This post broke my heart.

‘For the people think the Asian stereotype is a joke:
I got an atar of 91.65 and my parents weren’t exactly the happiest parents in the world. The first question I got out of them was how come you got such a low atar? What I can’t tell them is that leaving you 8000 miles away in a foreign country with a sister who constantly fights with you, whilst battling depression and constant anxiety weren’t exactly the best of circumstances.’

As the day progressed I thought about the many hundreds of people I knew who’s life’s had not in any way shape or formed turned out the way you would have predicted if you had simply judged it on their year 12 results.

A girl who is also dyslexic received a score well below what she had expected and hoped for. According to her mum she was ‘in shock’. I wanted to run to where ever she was and hug her and tell her it is okay, it’s was okay and it will be okay. The education system is crazy and does not reflect a people’s ability or effort unless you are a particular kind of person with a particular set of genetic and socio economic advantages.

I wanted to tell her an amazing ATAR does not insulate you from unhappiness, failure, self-hatred, abuse, addiction, grief, envy, depression, anxiety, sickness, bad luck or a broken heart.

The girl is fabulous and I can’t wait to see how her story will end, I can’t wait to see the world recalibrate and when she gets her moment to shine that will put this tiny insignificant blip into perspective.

On ATAR results day Facebook threw two articles into my feed back to back. The first article was about parents of 24-year-old twins with severe disabilities. It was a sobering read as the media was constantly updating the perfect scores of perfect kids by the minute. These parents are still parenting their adult children as if they were three years old. I wondered what their expectations for their children were? What would these parents consider an extraordinary achievement. Their daughters showering themselves, catching a bus or getting dressed?

The next article was about a Syrian refugee, Saad Al-Kassab who despite missing out on several years of schooling and only beginning learning English in 2014 received an ATAR of 96.65. He was disappointed. He was hoping for an ATAR score of 98. Saad is going to study medicine his mum wants him to be a doctor.

I can’t stop thinking about Alan who’s starting at ‘some private school’ next year. His parents arrived in this country three years ago and are giving him what they see as the best chance in life. Private school, tutors, high expectations, limited free time and the chance of a better life they never had.

Alan’s parents want him to be a doctor.

I wonder what Alan wants.

Alan is 12 years old.

“The greatest burden a child must bear is the unlived life of its parents.” Carl Jung

On Young People

Son: Don’t cook dinner for me tonight
Me: Where you off to?
Son: You know Milo Yiannopoulos?
Me: *heart sinks*
Son: We’re going to the city for this thing
Me: This thing? You’re going to hear him speak?
Son: No way! The lads and I are going to the protest
Me: *heart restarts*

When you teach your kids how to think not what to think you have many moments like this. Sometimes they will be curious about views you don’t share or endorse. In that case I always a take a very relaxed stance and say ‘I’ll be interested to hear what you make of that.’ When they tell me their take on it I nod and make noises.

I never ever try and ‘talk them out of it’ or say ‘that’s stupid you’re an idiot’. I have a lot of faith in all young people. Love them with an open hand.

If you are attempting to raise your child to think for themselves how could you be get angry when they do? Surely you should think ‘Fantastic, they think something I disagree with, clearly they have learned to think and not just mimic their parents.’

Let their intellectual, creative, social and political curiosity do it’s own thing untethered. If you take them on and try to argue with them or change their mind it can pull their own perfectly accurate instinct and moral compass off course. Muddling through to find out what they think is a complicated process as they separate from their parents, find out who they are and become fine young adults.

Another thing we can provide is a soft landing for when they fuck up. A non-judgmental place where they can catch their breath and lick their wounds.

It’s a parents’ job to become redundant.

******

You may also like… Tips for parents of Year 12s

I got 51% for HSC English. These days my writing is used on year 12 exams.  I also run Gunnas Writing Masterclass all over Australia and have had 6000 people attend since 2014. Yes we do vouchers. Love to see you.

I loathe the term ‘my ex’. It has a combination of rejection/repulsion/repelsion (I know, I couldn’t work out the nominalisation for repel so I made it up because fuck the police) and possession. ‘This person and I have rejected each other but we are bound together for eternity’.

I abhor the term ‘marital status’ and the demands that we answer the question even more. Not only is it irrelevant – contact person, yes, marital status, no – all status options are in relation to marriage. Married = yes, divorced = not any more, single = not yet, widowed = DON’T TOUCH ME I’M FINE, separated = fucked if I know what’s going on but I’m still up for flirting. Putting the status back into marital status. Anti-marriage people should ponder the ranking of relationships and how it enables homophobia by meditating on the term ‘marriage status’ just for a jiffy.

So my son’s dad and my former partner Marz turned 60 this year and this time last year he said ‘I’m thinking of taking the boys to Italy for my birthday.’ ‘Great idea!’ I said. I called him back a few minutes later and said ‘Hey, why don’t you take them to Italy and I’ll take them to Ireland?’ He loved the idea but hates organizing travel, luckily his partner and I both love it. So the idea was joked about, spoken about, decided upon and in the spirit of ‘we’re not a blended family we’re a splendid family’ the balls were in motion. Our kids, our partners and a couple of our partners’ kids.

First stop was to hook up in Rome, I’d hand over the boys (Marz and his partner had already been in Italy for a fortnight) we’d all hang out for a couple of days and then Bear and I would do our own thing for a few weeks and afterwards the boys would meet Bear and me in Berlin.

A few years ago the boys all got an overseas trip, The 19yo went on exchange to Japan as a 16yo, the 14yo travelled with Bear and me to London, Paris, Amsterdam and Singapore as an 11yo and the 16yo went to New York with Marz, his partner and her son a few days after his 15th birthday.

When Marz and I were together we travelled a lot in Asia with the boys when they were little. Bali, Lombok, Thailand, Vanuatu, Borneo, Vietnam. It was cheap, hot, there were pools, ice creams, animals and crazy modes of transport through dinky towns, bustling cities, muddy countrysides, rice fields and tropical forests. I was always keen to travel, Marz was keen too but would be the first to admit he’s not the most relaxed traveler.

A week before we all left to Rome the 14yo and I were talking about his highlights of the last European trip and he mentioned the night bike ride through Paris. We are all regular riders so I Googled bike tours in Rome, found REX Bike Tours. We locked in a Rome City night tour (all the sights) the night after we arrived and then the next morning a day tour along the Appian Way.

The weather was perfect and the eight of us rocked up to the Rex office at 5pm where we were met by two devastatingly handsome and charming German-Italian brothers Leopold and Massimo who run the outfit. We hopped on our bikes (under 18s had to wear helmets, for adults optional) and took off with our guide; the blonde, easygoing and informative, Arturo.

We hadn’t planned to do the night bike tour in Paris in 2014. When we landed our mate, Jess, who is a manager of a tour company in Paris suggested it. I always try to ride bikes wherever I am but I had never been on a tour. The night Paris tour with Fat Tire Tours – Paris was one of my all time travel highlights.

If you can ride a bike the first thing you should do when you rock up to a new city is to get on a bike tour. Nothing helps you orient a new city like a bike ride with a tour guide.

You whirl though the streets getting a feel for the layout of the city as you fly in 3D through the space. Buses and walking are too slow for me. I get isolated locations but they don’t really relate with each other. Bike riding is always my perfect speed to experience a new city. I don’t feel like I have ‘got’ the city till I have ridden its streets. Riding feels like a flipbook of the city. I imagine it’s a bit like speed-reading. You can get across the basics really fast and then you can tack back if you want more details.

We did over a dozen stops on those two hours, my ex, our kids, his partner, my partner and his partner’s son. It was a Sunday night so it was chockers but we wove our way in single file as if we were on a piece of string along cobblestone lanes, footpaths, piazzas and busy main roads.

It was a warm autumn Sunday night and the streets were packed with people sucking up the last of the rays of summer. We covered Piazza Navova, century-old back street frescos, a tiny church full of art that had three Caravaggios, the Pantheon, the Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps, the Coliseum… sing along if you know the words.

I can’t explain the euphoria of the warm night, the first day of travel, being in Rome, the relief of finally landing, successful navigation of the trip from home to another country and seeing your kids on bikes on the other side of the world gob-smacked, amazed and finally thinking the horrific 24 hour flight was worth it.

In the same way planning a trip is like circling in from up high, a bike tour where I don’t have to navigate is the reverse; it’s as if I am taking off from ground, slowly finding my feet, the directing of wind and absorbing the lay of the land.

We landed back at the bike tour office and split into the exhausted and jetlagged, who headed straight back home, and the full of beans people up for food. Bear, his son Roo, my 14yo and I ended up at a chaotic joint suggested by Arturo called Pizzeria Montecarlo. The place was jumping, the service was abrupt, the food was delicious and I was quite taken by the signs everywhere telling us we were forbidden to use mobile phones because it interfered with the pizza ovens.

We wandered home buzzing through the warm streets and flopped onto the bed grinning from ear to ear, smug as fuck and amazed at how much we had managed to cover in one day. We didn’t plan to chock it in but go with the flow. And so it flowed. Some days are like that.

I kept reflecting on how happy I was, how lucky we were and how I fucking loved travel. I was constantly aware how our health and fitness was a massive, massive part of the enjoyment of the day. Yes we look after ourselves but you can only do so much. No amount of wellness, self care and physical activity can guarantee being mobile, pain free and mentally well.

When I did the Trans-Siberian express as a 24yo I made a pact with myself to travel as much as I could while my body was able.

As exhilarated as I was by the food, weather, culture, history, exercise, food, laughs (Is this the Paris end of Rome?), all being together on the other side of the world, that sense of achievement you get from successfully accomplishing travel plans, exceeding your wildest expectations and our total lack of jetlag, it was breaking The Marcia Hines Record with my Fitbit total for the day of 38,735 steps (26.73 kilometres) was what had me declare day one on Rome my best travel day ever.

I’ll let Michael Lallo explain what the Marcia Hines Record is in the comments.

No sore feet but a little sunburn. We even managed a shag before we conked out.

Despite the fact I fucking love travel and it’s when I feel the most alive there are many moments the week before a trip like this I ask myself WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? The lead up was a week of constant grind; packing, sorting, cleaning and organising threaded through normal work and domestic stuff along with Hugo and Bear’s birthdays and the celebrations that go along with that. I love big projects, one woman shows, writing books, The Love Party etc and I know this is part of the project. When you find yourself saying WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING? you know you’re almost there.

Skiing is a perfect example of it. You’re up early, packed and have locked up the house. You get up the mountain which involves hours and an often chains, insane weather, traffic jams, car sickness, navigation rage and frayed nerves. You are then finally at ‘the snow’ which is the closest thing to being on the moon. You trudge to the ski gear hire place scratchy eyed, dry mouthed and in a room that smells of damp and foot odour you are fitted out with heavy cumbersome boots you lug back through the snow to where you are staying, balancing skis and poles over your shoulder and carrying what feels like 15 kilo boots in the other hand with the straps cutting into your fingers. After mashing the accoutrements/weapons/mobility aids into the locker and then wrestling yourself and sometimes children into layers of ski gear you then gather your stocks, skis, gloves, hats, lift passes, phone, goggles and money and finally jam and lock your feet and ankles into heavy boots with steel mouse traps on the soles. It’s at that point I am always huffing and puffing as I stand up facing the snow outside and feel sweat pouring down my back and I haven’t even hit the snow.

My self talk response to WHAT THE FUCK AM I THINKING? is looking around and seeing all the others who have endured the massive ordeal today, over history and to look around at the huge amount of infrastructure built for this ‘fun’ activity. I activate all my amazing memories of skiing and reassure myself no, I am not making them up. Ovary up, push forward and soldier on. And of course, it’s brilliant. After I have reached the Got My Money’s Worth moment the rest of the time I think about what a doddle it all is, wonder why more people don’t do it and start planning the next adventures.

Planning a one month trip involving five countries, ten destinations and 11 people is a little like spinning plates and herding cats while fucking a spider. You circle in from up high, decide to do it, pick the departure and arrival date, book the return ticket tossing up cost with ridiculous departure times, horrifying lay overs, and long flight times. You then slowly fill out the detail until you have flights, transport, accommodation, travel insurance, packing list, house and animals sorted, work on hold and ‘oh shit we probably should sort international drivers licences and FUCK are all our passports valid and JESUS I haven’t even checked if we need visas or not.’

I am an experienced traveller and chaos wrangler so I know not everything will go to plan. Ever. You’ll have good days, shit days, brilliant days and days where the wheels completely fall off and other days when magical things happen. Then there are the mercurial days when the mood flips on the head of a pin. A shit day comes good and an amazing day curdles. The more people involved and the longer the trip the more variables involved. Perhaps that’s why it makes me feel so alive. You can only manage and predict so much. Occasionally trips are shit. Very occasionally the whole trip is a total write off. I have been a very lucky traveller That’s why when I am at that WHAT THE FUCK AM I THINKING? place I remember the ‘I’ve got my money’s worth’ point. That’s the point when everything else is a bonus.

So we all arrived in Rome on Saturday night at 9.30pm. By 1.30pm Sunday I’d reached the I’ve Got My Money’s Worth. By 6pm Sunday I’d decided it was the best travel day of my life.

The motivation behind the trip I’ll explain later but the boys dad Marz picked us all up from the airport in a black Beyonce’s entourage van and after a drink and some antipasto with Marz and his lovely partner in their Airbnb Bear and I were installed in our little apartment over the road. I don’t know what the area was called but we were on Via Guiseppe Ferrari. Despite thinking as we were leaving for the airport from home at 1.30am that a 5am flight was one of my most bananas ideas it was indeed a flash of genius. We hit the sack, slept for 8 hours and woke rip roaring and ready to tear Rome a new one.

Coffee. We started to wander and we weren’t seeing anything I was crazy about but the more we walked the more we were gagging for it. I have a travel rule; never eat anywhere more than once and make every meal count. Bear points to a place with plastic chairs out the front, a bain marie inside and a drinks fridge behind the counter. ‘Here looks good’ to which I responded ‘No fucking way’. We got a whiff of wifi and found a few places nearby, one that had been named one of the top coffee bars in Rome. Sciascia Caffè. I used my patchy Italian to order coffee and a couple of toasted ham and cheese paninis. We absorbed our breakfast as the Romans wafted in and out and then we wandered the empty streets. I have been to Rome before but had forgotten or not realised how beautiful it is. I find the Italian soft air and soft light intoxicating. Rome has a smell too. I can’t describe it. History, coffee and cleaning products.

We wandered for hours through the relatively empty streets and down along the river inhaling the place. The weather was perfect. There was a marathon being run so there were there heaps of hot cops about. Also a LOT of hot young priests. At one stage a well dressed middle aged guy started yelling out of a moving car asking us if we knew where a florist was. He pulled up and we told him we weren’t Italian. He then regaled us with his terrible morning it was his wedding anniversary and his wife (she’s Tasmanian) cried because he hadn’t bought her flowers and the florist near the hotel wouldn’t take American Express and there was a marathon being run so he couldn’t get anywhere because the streets had been blocked off…

He said he was like a manager for Ferrari or something and asked if we had any cash on us. Keep in mind this guy was super well dressed and driving a fairly expensive car. ‘No Euros’ I said ‘just Australian dollars’. ‘Can you give me a hundred? I can go back to the florist she’ll take any cash and if you do I’ll give you this gift.’ He reached onto his passenger side and said ‘You can have this, but you have to promise not to sell it.’ In the padded box was a Ferrari watch, wallet, pen and torch. I had already decided to give the guy my last Australian $50 before he handed over the Ferrari gift box. He sped off telling us we were super nice. We laughed and laughed. There is NO chance this was a rort. Who would come up with such a far fetched scam where they drove up to strangers, asked for foreign currency and then gave them a Ferrari gift box with the word Fancy in gilded letters on the lid of the box.

We decided to go to the Vatican. Bear is a bit crazy for The Young Pope and sometimes he thinks he actually is the Pontiff and makes us call him Holy Father. I checked out what was on at the Vatican and low and behold the Pope was addressing the folks at noon. We rocked up to find, the whole of St Peter’s square surrounded by military and x ray machines. It was impossible to get into the square without the equivalent of an airport security check. Really? What’s with the security? Where’s your all powerful God? So your prayers aren’t working any more.

The square was packed. Il Pappa didn’t address from the usual balcony but from what appeared to be his bedroom with a maroon bath towel with gold letters emblazoned on it hanging out the window. Talk about can’t be fucked. The crowd went wild. I can speak a little Italian and could make out he talked about the sickness of the world a lot. At the end he did a shout out to certain groups in the crowd Romper Room Style ‘Hello to the Sisters Of The Saucepans From Colombia, to the Legion Of Mary from Boston, to the Parish Of The Holy Spirit from Galway….’ As you could imagine the groups he names fully lost their holy shit.

We walked away past the hawkers selling rosary beads, selfie sticks and shorts with the statue of David’s cock printed on them, the beggars and the tour groups. I looked back at the religious metropolis and thought ‘What a fucking rort’.

We passed one of the free drinking fountains you find all over the streets of Rome. I had been hanging out to drink the water. The last time I was in in Rome was 1994 and drinking it was like a magical elixir. Dear god it’s the sweetest water I have ever tasted. We wandered around trying to find a place to lunch. We passed a guy shooting up and dead rat as we raved to each other about how magical and beautiful Rome was.

The place our mate suggested to eat wasn’t open but we stumbled onto a gorgeous very traditional trattoria full of Italian families. We passed tables groaning with food sat down and ordered from a slightly dishevelled waiter our age who managed to understand my pigeon Italian. We were staving. The food and wine arrived and as I demolished the most perfect meal I could have wished for I felt like crying with joy. It was at that moment I thought ‘I’ve got my money’s worth.’

We were wandering back home though the bustling streets full of happy people and sunshine for a nap and a shag when Bear’s son Reuben, his partner and her sister messaged us, told us they were at a place near the Spanish Steps and to come and have a drink. They’d only arrived the day before, so we stumbled in to them in the back streets sitting out the front of a cantina. There was hugs, kisses and little shrieks. Bear was thrilled beyond measure. The joy of having a drink with one of your grown up children who was now a traveller and just rocks up to Rome by their steam when they hear you’re in town.

I have always told my sons everything i have learned has been from travel, working in catering and living with people.

LESSON NUMBER ONE

Beware of anyone using the words ‘respect’, ‘traditional’, ‘family values’, ‘honour’, ‘unacceptable’, ‘morality’, ‘uncalled for’, ‘inappropriate’, ‘unnecessary’ or ‘offensive’.
Particularly beware of the word offensive.

It’s code for ‘Pipe down princess, back in your box’.

Offence is taken not given and more harm is created by taking offence than giving it.

Offence is subjective.
Just because you are offended does not mean you are right. You’re offended? Block, unfriend, change the channel, switch stations, turn the page, talk to someone else or call the wahmbulance. No one has the right not to be offended.

Offence is used as a mode of social control. Do not be oppressed by feeling you’re supposed to lie down in some chalk outline drawn for you by a society that once upon a time would have burned you at the stake for such unladylike behaviour. Now all they can do is accuse you of transgressing some social norm constructed by the patriarchy to put you in your place. And the reason you have to be put or kept in your place is in order to fortify their place. And their place would be the one with disproportionate access to power, control, decisions, leisure, money and the ability to control women’s bodies.

Watch language. Language is a friend to joint destroyers. Men have opinions, women are opinionated; men speak, women are outspoken; men are passionate, women rant; men have mouths, women are mouthy; and when was the last time you heard a man called feisty, bitter, sassy or shrill?

As Laurel Thatcher Ulrich said, Well-behaved women seldom make history.

LESSON NUMBER TWO

You are not imagining it. You are not overreacting. Women are not being listened to, and when they are heard they are told they are dominating. Not only are they discouraged from speaking, when a woman does speak and is not enabling the patriarchy, she is used as a human piñata to set an example for others and keep them in their place.

Twenty years ago I came across a cartoon, which I have kept in front of my desk ever since. And it is as true now as it was then. The scene is a boardroom table. Five balding men in suits. One woman. The caption? ‘That’s an excellent suggestion, Miss Triggs. Perhaps one of the men here would like to make it.’ I’ve always said I wished there was a scientific way to prove that women who colour outside the lines cop a thousand times more vitriol and it’s a thousand times more vicious. There is. I appeared on Q&A in 2012 with Anglican archbishop, Peter Jensen, and copped a bucket load. Academic, historian and writer Chrys Stevenson undertook a detailed study into that particular episode.

‘According to comments on the #qanda Twitter stream, Deveny is: an ugly, extremist, stupid, unintelligent, idiotic, thoughtless, self-righteous, self-centred, self-absorbed, nasty, confused, frustrated, bitter, twisted, humourless, unfunny, unreasonable, unrespectable, disrespectful, sarcastic, mocking, catty, hateful, boorish, blustering, bullying bitch.

‘What’s more, she is: combative, vicious, shouty, loud- mouthed, arrogant, aggressive, angry, abrasive, childish, silly, garbled, inarticulate, intolerant, hypocritical, pathetic, disgraceful, disgusting, rude, condescending, bigoted, preachy, patronising, dogmatic, offensive, immoral, discriminatory and “up herself”.’

According to the mob, which included everything from private messages to national broadsheet newspaper editorials, I ‘rudely talked over fellow panellists, shouted, yelled and dominated the conversation’.

Stevenson not only found Peter Jensen spoke twice the amount of words as I did (his 36% to my 17%) but we both interjected/interrupted four times each, host Tony Jones only asked me to speak four times and asked Jensen eight, and I was asked twice to ‘keep it brief’.

Stevenson consulted an audio engineer, who found my voice was at the same consistent level as the other panellists and the host. And she ascertained my contributions were argued eloquently, politely, passionately and tolerantly.

So what was my crime? Until recently, the Powers That Be, the Masters of the Universe, the Captains of Industry and The Gatekeepers of Information have been able to control who says what, how and where. And it seems us Joint Destroyers are really taking the jam out of their donuts. Keep in mind they are still the ones with the donuts.

LESSON NUMBER THREE

Collect statistics. Keep statistics. Use statistics. Spread statistics.
The following week on Q&A, Liberal MP Christopher Pyne interrupted the host and other panellists a total of 34 times. And no one, apart from Chrys Stevenson, mentioned it, which is the only reason I know how many times the mincing poodle ejaculated into the show.

Dale Spender coined the ‘one third rule’ in her book Man- Made Language. As soon as women are: more than one third of the speakers at a conference; more than one third of the members of the house; more than a third of the authors on the review pages of the papers; or one-third the contribution to the conversations the impression is – for both genders – that women are taking over.1

In late 2012, Chrys Stevenson completed research into how women are represented in Australian newspapers and found, by her comprehensive byline count and content analysis, the percentage of stories written by women with women as the subject, quoting women or using women as an expert or in the photo is between 20% and 30%, similar to findings from separate investigations all over the world.

LESSON NUMBER FOUR

It is about numbers. Be aware of the Gender Adjusted Representation Scale.

Here’s part of a piece I wrote for International Women’s Day for The Age newspaper in 2009:

This newspaper itself reflects the ingrained gender imbalance in media. It’s not uncommon for the opinion page to feature a middle-aged, middle-class white man in a suit, followed by another middle-aged, middle-class white man in a suit, followed by another middle-aged, middle-class white man in a suit, followed by Peter Costello. Of the last 69 opinion pieces published by The Age newspaper, only thirteen have been written by women. Four from The New York Times’ Maureen Dowd and of the nine left, only three had opinions. The other six were just ‘sharing experiences’. And why, with the ratio of 56 men’s voices to every thirteen women’s on the page, is it not called ‘A Men’s Page’. Because if you inverted the numbers and it was thirteen men’s voices and 56 women’s I can guarantee it would be called ‘A Women’s Page’.

Time and time again when a typical television show, opinion page, radio station, court bench, ballot paper, board table, conference or church altar has a line-up of 80%, 90%, sometimes 100% middle-aged middle-class rich white straight (or acting), god-fearing (or pretending) men I ask people to subvert the gender balance to the same ratio of women. It then becomes clear that if this really were the case it would be considered a women’s show, newspaper, radio station, political party, company board or religion. Why are people so blind and/or accepting and consequently enabling of such discrimination?

If aliens came down they would take one look around and have no other choice but to make the assumption rich old white men were the smartest people on the planet.

Panel shows are perfect microcosms of the accepted gender bias. The ratio is about one woman to every four men. The one female gives an illusion of equality, which shows how accustomed we are to the token nod. One woman, it seems, is equal to four men, if you’re lucky. I call it the Gender Adjusted Representation Scale.

You call it when you see it, Destroyers.

LESSON NUMBER FIVE

Don’t just look at numbers look at the culture.
The all-women morning show The Circle used to regularly get mentioned when gender representation and women’s voices come up. People held it up like proof there is equality.

Of course, The Circle was axed. Why?

Again, beware the Gender Adjusted Representation Scale.

OK, The Circle. One show. From the hundreds on air every week. On at nine in the morning. The female presenters were expected to be bubbly, pleasant and not at all controversial. The show was promoted as a little bit opinionated on a few inconsequential topics. But it was mostly, ‘Later in the show we’ll be talking to Marina Prior about her workout tips and after the break we will be cooking cupcakes for our audience of pregnant mummies!’

What? From Egypt?

The Circle was promoted as smart and relevant, the Australian version of The View. Which it most certainly was not. But it was most certainly smarter and more relevant than any ‘women’s show’ in Australian television history and its foreseeable future. The Circle was a good house in a bad street.

The show’s marketing spin told us the women were smart, opinionated and funky. The reality is they are far, far more fabulous off screen. If the presenters were allowed to be themselves on screen the show would have been called ‘provocative, controversial and offensive’ and, let’s face it, wouldn’t have made it to air. The choice of women and the limited versions of themselves they were permitted to show is a perfect example of the Smurfette Principle and goes part of the way to illustrate how women are less likely to support each other professionally because of the perception there are only a few spots for a female and only certain kinds of women need apply.

If there is only one ‘women’s show’ on television (which, if one show is described as a ‘women’s show’ the rest are, therefore by default, ‘men’s shows’), why these women? And why this show? And even more curious, why when there is only one ‘women’s show’ on Australian television, when one presenter goes on maternity leave (Gorgi Coghlan) they have a guy (Colin Lane) fill in?

So The Circle was axed late 2012 because, despite its popularity, Network Ten had to cut costs and it was cheaper axing the whole show than getting out of a six-figure contract with unpopular breakfast host Paul Henry. An amount they never would have agreed to pay a woman.

Having The Circle was fine. We just need as much variety and diversity of women’s shows and women on television as men and ‘men’s’ shows.

But don’t just count the women, look at how they are expected to be, look, act and respond. How integral are they? I recently did a presentation on Women in Australian Television. The title was ‘Garnish’. That’s what women in Australian television are. Not the meal, the garnish.

LESSON NUMBER SIX

What all women should be encouraged to achieve is FOS: Fuck Off Status.
When I was nineteen, I met a woman called Patricia O’Donnell, who I am still buddies with today. O’Donnell is a successful restaurateur, businesswoman and all-round brilliant. When I was nineteen, she didn’t know me. But I was sitting at the bar of her establishment, The Queenscliff, waiting for some of my mates, her staff. She said to me, apropos of nothing, ‘You know what you need, young lady? You need Fuck Off Status. You need to have your house, and your business and be able to tell anyone you don’t want to deal with to fuck off.’

Best advice I have ever been given. We need to encourage all women and girls to aim for Fuck Off Status – not to dream of just marrying a footballer – and encourage all men and boys to enable and support it.

Women are 50% of the population, do two thirds of the work, earn 10% of the money and own 1% of the land. What do we want? Fuck Off Status! When do we want it? Yesterday!

And while we are on tips, I am often asked what tip I would give women wanting to be successful, so here they are:

1. Stand for something.
2. Never have any more children or any larger mortgagethan you could manage on your own.
3. Use public schools, public healthcare and supportpublic housing and affordable, accessible, high-quality childcare and the rights of carers and the disabled. All these things enable number 4.
4. Aim for Fuck Off Status. I got mine in December 2012, aged 44, when I finally had a mortgage and a house title in my name alone.

LESSON NUMBER SEVEN

Don’t buy the argument that women have less because we live in a meritocracy.
We don’t. It’s sexism.

I can’t walk out my door without tripping over a woman who has something to say. And could – brilliantly, passionately, articulately and repetitively in print, on telly, or on the radio. No problem. Given the chance. Or lead in government, corporations, the law or religion. Given the chance. So why aren’t they given the chance? Because they’re women.

It’s not a meritocracy. It’s sexism.

LESSON NUMBER EIGHT

Don’t placate strangers.

Women out alone attract a huge amount of unwanted attention. If there is a drunk, nutter, pissed bogan or sleaze, they will hassle the woman on her own. They will walk past the group of tradies, the bunch of old women, the couple on the bench, the young man in a suit, and pester or inflict themselves in ways that always appear to be random and spontaneous outbursts.

You don’t have to feel sorry for any drunk, nutter, pissed bogan or sleaze, or be kind to them or nice to them or excuse them as pissed, old or deranged. You do not have to give directions to, have a conversation with, tell the time to anyone, if you don’t want to. You do not have to be kind or nice if you don’t want to. Why do we so often override our own unease only to find ourselves in a vulnerable position?

If a stranger walks up to you and wants the time, directions, spare change or a chat and you don’t want to interact, don’t.

You never have to engage with strangers. It’s another form of harassment.

Here’s how to avoid finding yourself involved in unwanted conversations, even those that begin harmlessly enough: always have a line up your sleeve to nip unwanted intrusions in the bud. Don’t let them escalate into annoyances or into huge liberties taken by a stranger – or worse.

Here’s mine: ‘Sorry brother, I’m in a hurry.’
And just keep walking.
If they persist I just tell them in a deep and low voice to fuck off.

I know we shouldn’t have to need to do this but how many times have we been nice and kind – our default setting – and finding ourselves in an unpleasant, annoying or unsafe place with a total fucking stranger.

I am very friendly. I see men as brothers not predators, I routinely give directions, spare change, a loan of my phone and even the odd dink to guys I don’t know. But I use my instinct, which, like a muscle that gets flexed, is very strong.

Don’t feel sorry for them if you don’t want to. Let someone else. If these random guys really are losers, drunks or nutters, why are they always so able to contain their unwanted attention until when they come across a woman on her own?

Fuck that.

LESSON NUMBER NINE

Do not assume a woman in a powerful position is automatically a feminist.
And do not assume a male in a powerful position is necessarily a misogynist.

I have had as many males as females support me in my life and career and as many females as males be obstructive.

Where did the assumption come from that patriarchy advantages all men and disadvantages all women? Plenty of women – many of whom present themselves as champions of women, see editors of women’s magazines for further examples – are actually utter chauvinists and sexist creeps bursting with internalised misogyny and being rewarded for it. These women have joined what they consider the only game in town in an attempt to get power, position and privilege.

According to Germaine Greer: ‘The present condition of men is nothing to aspire to.’ Greer also asserts feminism is the last great revolution and reckons the women’s liberation movement hasn’t even begun.

Patriarchy damages us all and the axis of evil – patriarchy, religion and the state – is being dismantled, dissolved and detonated at an unprecedented rate by the holy trinity of atheism, feminism and the internet. But the axis of evil is still putting up quite a fight. It was never going to be easy.

The truth is, there is not one feminism, but many feminisms. And just because you are pro women does not mean you are anti men. In fact, I think one of the main reasons I am a feminist is because I love boys and men so much and I have hated the way society has expected them to live, love and be. Feminism is not anti men. It’s anti arseholes, misogynists, pricks, creeps, thugs and bigots.

LESSON NUMBER TEN

Clothes don’t turn women and girls into sluts. We do.

The most dangerous place for a woman is in her own home and she is most likely to be injured, abused, raped or killed by a man she is related or married to.

Babies get raped; old ladies get raped; boys get raped; men get raped.

Clothes have nothing to do with it.
There is only one cause of rape. And that’s rapists.
If anyone tells you not to walk the streets alone or take care or to be scared or to get a man to walk you to your car, you say, ‘Don’t tell me not to walk my streets. Tell people not to rape me.’

What is a slut? I’d like to get a series of pictures of a female from birth to old age: a baby, toddler, school girl, teenager, young adult, pregnant, with her children, mature, aging, each wearing the normal transition of clothing, and ask people to point to pictures in which she looks like a slut.

What is a slut? A woman who likes sex? Wants sex? Has had a lot of sex? Who dresses in short skirts, high heels and low-cut tops? What is the definition of a lot, short, high and low?

So what if we could all agree on the universal definition of the word slut and we could accurately identify a slut? So what? Women should be able to do what they want and expect not to be judged, shamed or punished for it. And if they are, they need to speak out.

Women have the right to wear what they want, enjoy sex and have sex with as many people as they like.

There is nothing wrong with being a slut. Whatever that is.

Clothes are not safe or unsafe. People are.

When I asked my boyfriend if he was coming to Slutwalk with me, he said, ‘Sure. ’Cause you’re not allowed to rape sluts either.’ Couldn’t have said it better myself.

BONUS LESSON

Listen to the gospel according to Gloria.

The truth will set you free. But first, it will piss you off.

Gloria Steinem

Any woman who chooses to behave like a full human being should be warned that the armies of the status quo will treat her as something of a dirty joke. That’s their natural and first weapon. She will need her sisterhood.

Gloria Steinem

I’ve yet to be on a campus where most women aren’t worrying about some aspect of combining marriage, children and a career. I’ve yet to find one where many men were worrying about the same thing.

Gloria Steinem

LESSON NUMBER ELEVEN

Loving your body exactly the way it is is an act of civil disobedience. Do it.
Sometimes I think people are most offended by my confidence in who I am and how I look. The fact I am not just happy but thrilled with who I am. The absence of self-deprecation and apology for not fitting into their idea of who I should be. And how I should feel about it.

Someone out there would kill to have your body. Seriously, they would. And the owner of the body that you would kill to have is probably as dissatisfied with their body as you are with yours. Same goes with level of health, amount of money, value of assets you own, troubles you have.

Let’s stage a coup on dissatisfaction. The constant portrayal of the skinny, teenage, heterosexual, white and able body as the ‘only’ desirable body is unfair and untrue. I’m furious with people who manipulate the world to make women feel not good enough. And even more furious with women for being sucked in to it.

It’s a choice between fear and love. A choice. You choose.

I watch people look at old photos of themselves and exclaim, ‘I looked so slim, so young and so gorgeous! No wonder the fellas were gagging for me back then! I had no idea at the time how beautiful I was. I wished I’d known and just enjoyed it. I hated my ankles and thought my skin was too blotchy and my body too fat.’

Women seem to go through life always thinking they are not good enough. There will be a moment in our lives when we will be the prettiest, the thinnest and the happiest we’ll ever be, but we will never know when it is.

I was in a supermarket once and I saw this skinny, withered old woman, maybe 75, flicking through a magazine called Slimmers, and I wanted to tap her on the shoulder and say, ‘When are you going to stop worrying? You are good enough.’

I have only been thin twice in my life, when I had cancer and when I was suffering severe depression. It was awful. I would have paid a million bucks to be twenty kilos bigger and happier.

Stop buying those women’s magazines – they are self- loathing manuals. Buy clothes you love, that you look and feel great in and surround yourself with images of diverse body shapes.

Loving your body is about feeling well and healthy.

LESSON NUMBER TWELVE

Who we should remember and how we should try to be remembered.

Hi Catherine,

I don’t know if you remember the end of an International Women’s Day lunch you did at Monash University a couple of years ago, where a young lady at the end asked a question about ‘what was going to happen to me?’ etc., etc. I was that chick. At the time I was working part time, trying to finish my thesis, and looking after a baby (and in a shit relationship) – the works. I actually wasn’t even attending the lunch – technically I was working, handing out sandwiches.

You answered my question so well, quoting Winston Churchill (‘when you find yourself in hell, just keep going’). And you gave me the flowers that were presented to you after giving your talk.

I thought I’d drop you a line to let you know I’ve just finished my PhD thesis – the bound copies are on my desk now. After I submit them to the Chair of Examiners I’ll be well and truly done with it.

Thank you for those words that day. I did keep going and things did get better. Hope everything in your work and life is truly good.

I can’t say how much that unexpected little interaction turned things around for me – I felt very brave that afternoon. I’m so happy I’ve had this opportunity to thank you.

Warmest wishes,

Jane.

I have written many of these letters myself and also received a few. When I met Patricia O’Donnell again for the first time twenty years after meeting her when I was nineteen, I opened my greeting with ‘you probably don’t remember me but you told me to aim for Fuck Off Status’.

She didn’t remember me. But her words made such a huge impact on my life.

We have to support each other, brothers and sisters. Start where you are, do what you can, with what you have. When you don’t know what to do, do anything.

Don’t ask for your rights. That suggests someone else has the power to grant them.

Demand your rights.