We were in Chelsea yesterday, visiting ![[profile]](http://s.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fire_wuff's family for Xmas lunch. It was horrendously humid, although the Bureau of Meteorology was vaguely promising a thunderstorm for the evening. That was something to look forward to, I thought.
Yes, well.
As we left, it was just starting to rain. We thought we'd timed it pretty well - the rain had probably moved on from home and we'd have a good run. I pause for howls of derision in the light of hindsight.
Driving back along Eastlink, we got some fairly spectacular views of the two stormfronts that ... wait. Two?? Yep - one north-east, one west of us. We were in a weird little corridor of relatively clear sky between lightning on one side and a rain band that looked like an actual wall on the other. Still, running the gauntlet didn't seem like such a bad idea. And the scenery was fascinating.
But of course, roads wind, don't they? And suddenly we were no longer driving parallel to the storms, but right into one of them. At which point our scenic trip home turned into ... an adventure.
There was thunder cracking right overhead. There were lightning strikes everywhere, sometimes hitting simultaneously from all around us. And there was rain. Ye gods, was there rain.
Traffic on the freeway slowed to a crawl, but - Melbourne drivers being psychotically devoid of either awareness of others or a sense of self-preservation - it wasn't because visibility was reduced to approximately two inches beyond the windscreen. Oh, no. People were as impatient and dangerous as ever in that respect. No, it was the flash flood on the Eastern Freeway just past Doncaster Road. Aha, we thought, we'll just pop out onto Manningham Road. Cunning, no?
Except Manningham Road was also flooded.
So we eventually took a detour through Balwyn and Bulleen before inevitably meeting up with the traffic snarl in Heidelberg, and inched home. Meanwhile the skies merrily went about lending an air of apocalypse to the afternoon's festivities. There was some truly bedraggled tinsel hanging off the streetlights in Burgundy Street, I can tell you. But, hey, not to worry, the rain was slacking off. We'd come out the other side of the storm front.
You'd think we'd know better. The universe is perverse, and never more so than we hapless mortals like us figure we've got it all worked out.
We turned a corner - and ran into what I can only describe as a wall of rain. The downpour made the earlier storm look like a light sunshower by comparison. The wipers at full speed did little more than slosh around the water smashing into it and cascading off the roof. Then the hail started, and it seemed pretty much inevitable that we were about to lose our windscreen. The drains overflowed, and it seemed like only seconds before the dips in the road started flooding. Again with the thunder and lightning, adding to the incredible din of the hail and rain hitting the car. We started aqua-planing around corners. Right about then I became fast friends with the 'jesus handle' above the passenger door, and hung on for dear life.
Wuff, of course, was laughing like a maniac. And so were Lilygirl and Meglet.
We weren't driving fast, but with everything happening, it felt like we were hurtling through Reservoir, crashing through puddles up to nearly a metre deep and barely keeping our tyres on the road. All to the music of Lady Gaga.
Eventually we got home, and the rain slackened - to be greeted by possibly the most bedraggled, pathetic cat in existence. She was mightily miffed at us, and only just consented to let me towel her dry. Lilygirl and Meglet, of course, decided that it was exactly the right time to change into their swimmers and go puddle-jumping.
Which, I'm sure, was fun. And apparently was even more fun when the heavens opened again a few minutes later.
Wuff was apparently unable to resist the siren song of an utter drenching and raced out to join them.
Me? I stayed inside.
But we made it home safely, and the worst damage we sustained was when a rusted drain pipe fell off the garage wall and shattered. Oh, and the disgruntled sensibilities of our cat. We got lucky, apparently - there were plenty of pictures of broken windscreens and holed verandah canopies this morning, as well as the odd submerged taxi. It was a hell of an adrenaline ride, but we survived.
... And, being a glutton for punishment, Wuff decided to walk to the shop today and took a detour via Merri Creek. From this picture of the debris line, it looks like the creek levels got to over a metre above the path.
And on its way through, the water took out at least one tree:
Which was all very interesting, but I could have done without Wuff - who got soaked again in the relatively light rain - sharing the experience by rubbing his wet head all over me.
He's thoughtful, that way.
Meglet is convinced that this was the best Christmas ever. What worries me is that she'll now expect us to top this next year.
I'm not sure the planet would survive.
fire_wuff's family for Xmas lunch. It was horrendously humid, although the Bureau of Meteorology was vaguely promising a thunderstorm for the evening. That was something to look forward to, I thought.Yes, well.
As we left, it was just starting to rain. We thought we'd timed it pretty well - the rain had probably moved on from home and we'd have a good run. I pause for howls of derision in the light of hindsight.
Driving back along Eastlink, we got some fairly spectacular views of the two stormfronts that ... wait. Two?? Yep - one north-east, one west of us. We were in a weird little corridor of relatively clear sky between lightning on one side and a rain band that looked like an actual wall on the other. Still, running the gauntlet didn't seem like such a bad idea. And the scenery was fascinating.
But of course, roads wind, don't they? And suddenly we were no longer driving parallel to the storms, but right into one of them. At which point our scenic trip home turned into ... an adventure.
There was thunder cracking right overhead. There were lightning strikes everywhere, sometimes hitting simultaneously from all around us. And there was rain. Ye gods, was there rain.
Traffic on the freeway slowed to a crawl, but - Melbourne drivers being psychotically devoid of either awareness of others or a sense of self-preservation - it wasn't because visibility was reduced to approximately two inches beyond the windscreen. Oh, no. People were as impatient and dangerous as ever in that respect. No, it was the flash flood on the Eastern Freeway just past Doncaster Road. Aha, we thought, we'll just pop out onto Manningham Road. Cunning, no?
Except Manningham Road was also flooded.
So we eventually took a detour through Balwyn and Bulleen before inevitably meeting up with the traffic snarl in Heidelberg, and inched home. Meanwhile the skies merrily went about lending an air of apocalypse to the afternoon's festivities. There was some truly bedraggled tinsel hanging off the streetlights in Burgundy Street, I can tell you. But, hey, not to worry, the rain was slacking off. We'd come out the other side of the storm front.
You'd think we'd know better. The universe is perverse, and never more so than we hapless mortals like us figure we've got it all worked out.
We turned a corner - and ran into what I can only describe as a wall of rain. The downpour made the earlier storm look like a light sunshower by comparison. The wipers at full speed did little more than slosh around the water smashing into it and cascading off the roof. Then the hail started, and it seemed pretty much inevitable that we were about to lose our windscreen. The drains overflowed, and it seemed like only seconds before the dips in the road started flooding. Again with the thunder and lightning, adding to the incredible din of the hail and rain hitting the car. We started aqua-planing around corners. Right about then I became fast friends with the 'jesus handle' above the passenger door, and hung on for dear life.
Wuff, of course, was laughing like a maniac. And so were Lilygirl and Meglet.
We weren't driving fast, but with everything happening, it felt like we were hurtling through Reservoir, crashing through puddles up to nearly a metre deep and barely keeping our tyres on the road. All to the music of Lady Gaga.
Eventually we got home, and the rain slackened - to be greeted by possibly the most bedraggled, pathetic cat in existence. She was mightily miffed at us, and only just consented to let me towel her dry. Lilygirl and Meglet, of course, decided that it was exactly the right time to change into their swimmers and go puddle-jumping.
Which, I'm sure, was fun. And apparently was even more fun when the heavens opened again a few minutes later.
Wuff was apparently unable to resist the siren song of an utter drenching and raced out to join them.
Me? I stayed inside.
But we made it home safely, and the worst damage we sustained was when a rusted drain pipe fell off the garage wall and shattered. Oh, and the disgruntled sensibilities of our cat. We got lucky, apparently - there were plenty of pictures of broken windscreens and holed verandah canopies this morning, as well as the odd submerged taxi. It was a hell of an adrenaline ride, but we survived.
... And, being a glutton for punishment, Wuff decided to walk to the shop today and took a detour via Merri Creek. From this picture of the debris line, it looks like the creek levels got to over a metre above the path.
And on its way through, the water took out at least one tree:
Which was all very interesting, but I could have done without Wuff - who got soaked again in the relatively light rain - sharing the experience by rubbing his wet head all over me.
He's thoughtful, that way.
Meglet is convinced that this was the best Christmas ever. What worries me is that she'll now expect us to top this next year.
I'm not sure the planet would survive.
there goes *that* idea
Dec. 16th, 2011 03:35 pmSo, even though I'd already secured supervisors for both the creative and research components of my proposed thesis, I received an email today telling me that their workloads had 'changed'. Therefore, not able to supervise me anymore. Therefore, no offer of candidature for PhD, and no possibility of close work with a poet I respect to help me develop my book.
To say I'm both pissed off and gutted is putting it mildly.
I have the option of finishing my Grad Dip. At this point, the only available subject next semester is Writing Autobiography. Those of you who've followed this journal for a while now might understand why I'm not at all enthusiastic about that idea.
Merry fucking Xmas.
To say I'm both pissed off and gutted is putting it mildly.
I have the option of finishing my Grad Dip. At this point, the only available subject next semester is Writing Autobiography. Those of you who've followed this journal for a while now might understand why I'm not at all enthusiastic about that idea.
Merry fucking Xmas.
This week is National Adoption Awareness Week. I'm guessing most of you didn't know that. After all, it's not like it was widely publicised. There was a bit of a headline grab from Deborra-Lee Furness, who spoke at the National Press Club on the difficulties of adopting children from overseas, mind you. It made for a thoughtful human interest piece. All these children, in terrible circumstances all over the world, and all these prospective parents just waiting to take them into their homes - and yet it's so hard to adopt them under Australia's laws.
I watched Furness at the Press Club, and saw an interview with her on Sky News. There's no doubt she believed passionately in her cause - it wasn't just a way to get some good publicity by cashing in on the apparent fad in Hollywood for adopting kids from third world countries. But it got me thinking. All this focus on adopting from overseas obscures the utter heart-breaking mess that are Australia's domestic adoption laws.
For a start, every State has its own set of legislation and guidelines. In some states, adoptions are done the old-fashioned way: the birth parent never knows who's bringing up their child, and never sees them again unless that child wants to track them down after their 18th birthday via a private registry. In Victoria, so-called 'open' adoption is the rule: the birth parent sets out their preferred criteria in adoptive parents, meets with them beforehand, and has regular access with the child. That sounds much more compassionate all round, but it's a deeply flawed system.
I speak from experience.
My older children, triplets, were adopted out when they were just under 12 months old. This came after a cascade of intervention from the Department of Human Services which was so streamlined that, in retrospect, I wondered if there was a checklist being followed by the caseworkers. First an offer of respite care, then a weekend's respite, then a week with a foster family, then a couple of months with my family. Then came the ultimatum. Take them back in the next 24 hours, regardless of my living circumstances or health, agree to have them adopted, or have them taken away and never see them again.
I opted for what seemed to be the best choice at the time - adoption under Victoria's 'open adoption' scheme. A new case-worker came on board, to help me fill out a form listing my preferred criteria for the children's new family - their religious belief, their location, their attitude towards queer sexuality, etc. I tried to balance my concerns with fairness - asking for an open mind on all religions, an accepting attitude towards queer sexualities, living in the greater Melbourne area, that sort of thing. The case-worker took that form away and came back with three families. Not one fulfilled the majority of my preferred criteria. For example, two were practising Christian families, and one lived in rural north-west Victoria. When I rejected them, I was told that they were my only choices, decided by DHS, and that if I didn't select one, the choice would be made for me. No further investigation would be done.
Again, I chose the best outcome out of a group of bad choices. I met with the prospective parents, who seemed friendly and enthusiastic about the open adoption scheme. They agreed to my visiting four times a year, and exchanging letters and photos. DHS informed me that the first few visits would be supervised, but then the Department would step out and the family and I would work together in the future.
That was the plan. The reality was very different.
Trying to arrange access was always a fraught process. I was forced to rely entirely on the DHS worker, who often did not pass on to the family my requests for a visit. Actually being with the family was nothing short of distressing, as we struggled to adjust to the situation. No counselling was ever offered to me, though the adoptive family were given a great deal of support.
And then things took a turn for the worse. The family started to make excuse to deny me access. Though I had insisted on visits being part of the legal adoption order, I was unable to enforce that order. In four years, I saw my children twice. My complaints to DHS were met with declarations of impotence - there was nothing the worker could do, apparently. Consulting a solicitor didn't help, either. The laws were in such a sorry state that there was little way of enforcing that legal order.
As the years wore on, it got worse and worse. The family refused to allow me direct contact - everything had to be done with DHS as an intermediary. The access stopped altogether, and for months the DHS worker would not even return my calls. Finally, the worker and her supervisor turned up on my doorstep, and informed me that the family had 'relinquished' two of the children, who had been placed in foster care. Two months ago. I hadn't been told because - despite legal orders - I didn't have the 'right' to know if the family explicitly said they didn't want me to be told.
My parents immediately offered to have the two children - now nearly 11 - stay with them, as I had neither space nor the financial ability to care for them myself. We went to court for that, where the Magistrate repeatedly stressed the ridiculous and confusing nature of the laws - which, even now, allowed the adoptive parents a say in what happened to these children that they had told DHS were effectively 'orphaned'. We won that court date, but I'll never forget the Magistrate's puzzlement and frustration.
The two who went to live with my parents started talking - and they unfolded a tale of emotional and physical abuse that horrified me. This was a family that had supposedly been vetted thoroughly by DHS, who were presented to me as an ideal choice - and I'd taken the Department at its word. I immediately contacted DHS, and told them I was worried about the third child. The Department's response was that, unless contacted by someone 'in the child's life', they could not do anything other than request to see the child. The parents were free to refuse - and they did.
I fought for two years to even see my child, while my other two were under care of counsellors. In the end, that child took matters into their own hands, and ran away to be with their siblings. We informed DHS and the police that my parents were happy to care for all of them, and for once, the parents didn't fight.
But in all of this, there was nothing I could do. I could pass on the terrible stories of the abuse meted out by these adoptive parents. I could plead with DHS to intervene, to at least contact the teachers at their school. I could write letters begging the adoptive parents to let me have access, or at least to let the DHS worker in the door. I did all of those things, and they were all utterly useless. The adoptive parents were aided and abetted by the system.
My children are now healthy adults with their own lives. Our family are committed to each other, even though we are thousands of miles apart. All of this is not because of Victoria's adoption system, but despite it. And we all have scars.
Looking back now, it seems as though the decision to institute 'open adoption' was little more than someone's thought bubble. In theory, the idea that a child can have access to both birth and adoptive parents has much to recommend it. The reality is that there is no support for birth parents, that court orders are not worth the paper they're written on, and the screening process for adoptive parents is sorely in need of a complete overhaul. And that's just for a start.
Children deserve to be protected by the State, not allowed to suffer abuse while it turns a blind eye or throws up its hands in defeat.
This is only my story. I know it's happened to others, who have contacted me in the past, but it's not my place to tell their stories here. But in National Adoption Awareness Week, I wanted to tell my story. While we think about how to make it easier for people to adopt children from overseas, we also need to make sure that our laws are uniform across the States, compassionate - and above all, that they work.
I watched Furness at the Press Club, and saw an interview with her on Sky News. There's no doubt she believed passionately in her cause - it wasn't just a way to get some good publicity by cashing in on the apparent fad in Hollywood for adopting kids from third world countries. But it got me thinking. All this focus on adopting from overseas obscures the utter heart-breaking mess that are Australia's domestic adoption laws.
For a start, every State has its own set of legislation and guidelines. In some states, adoptions are done the old-fashioned way: the birth parent never knows who's bringing up their child, and never sees them again unless that child wants to track them down after their 18th birthday via a private registry. In Victoria, so-called 'open' adoption is the rule: the birth parent sets out their preferred criteria in adoptive parents, meets with them beforehand, and has regular access with the child. That sounds much more compassionate all round, but it's a deeply flawed system.
I speak from experience.
My older children, triplets, were adopted out when they were just under 12 months old. This came after a cascade of intervention from the Department of Human Services which was so streamlined that, in retrospect, I wondered if there was a checklist being followed by the caseworkers. First an offer of respite care, then a weekend's respite, then a week with a foster family, then a couple of months with my family. Then came the ultimatum. Take them back in the next 24 hours, regardless of my living circumstances or health, agree to have them adopted, or have them taken away and never see them again.
I opted for what seemed to be the best choice at the time - adoption under Victoria's 'open adoption' scheme. A new case-worker came on board, to help me fill out a form listing my preferred criteria for the children's new family - their religious belief, their location, their attitude towards queer sexuality, etc. I tried to balance my concerns with fairness - asking for an open mind on all religions, an accepting attitude towards queer sexualities, living in the greater Melbourne area, that sort of thing. The case-worker took that form away and came back with three families. Not one fulfilled the majority of my preferred criteria. For example, two were practising Christian families, and one lived in rural north-west Victoria. When I rejected them, I was told that they were my only choices, decided by DHS, and that if I didn't select one, the choice would be made for me. No further investigation would be done.
Again, I chose the best outcome out of a group of bad choices. I met with the prospective parents, who seemed friendly and enthusiastic about the open adoption scheme. They agreed to my visiting four times a year, and exchanging letters and photos. DHS informed me that the first few visits would be supervised, but then the Department would step out and the family and I would work together in the future.
That was the plan. The reality was very different.
Trying to arrange access was always a fraught process. I was forced to rely entirely on the DHS worker, who often did not pass on to the family my requests for a visit. Actually being with the family was nothing short of distressing, as we struggled to adjust to the situation. No counselling was ever offered to me, though the adoptive family were given a great deal of support.
And then things took a turn for the worse. The family started to make excuse to deny me access. Though I had insisted on visits being part of the legal adoption order, I was unable to enforce that order. In four years, I saw my children twice. My complaints to DHS were met with declarations of impotence - there was nothing the worker could do, apparently. Consulting a solicitor didn't help, either. The laws were in such a sorry state that there was little way of enforcing that legal order.
As the years wore on, it got worse and worse. The family refused to allow me direct contact - everything had to be done with DHS as an intermediary. The access stopped altogether, and for months the DHS worker would not even return my calls. Finally, the worker and her supervisor turned up on my doorstep, and informed me that the family had 'relinquished' two of the children, who had been placed in foster care. Two months ago. I hadn't been told because - despite legal orders - I didn't have the 'right' to know if the family explicitly said they didn't want me to be told.
My parents immediately offered to have the two children - now nearly 11 - stay with them, as I had neither space nor the financial ability to care for them myself. We went to court for that, where the Magistrate repeatedly stressed the ridiculous and confusing nature of the laws - which, even now, allowed the adoptive parents a say in what happened to these children that they had told DHS were effectively 'orphaned'. We won that court date, but I'll never forget the Magistrate's puzzlement and frustration.
The two who went to live with my parents started talking - and they unfolded a tale of emotional and physical abuse that horrified me. This was a family that had supposedly been vetted thoroughly by DHS, who were presented to me as an ideal choice - and I'd taken the Department at its word. I immediately contacted DHS, and told them I was worried about the third child. The Department's response was that, unless contacted by someone 'in the child's life', they could not do anything other than request to see the child. The parents were free to refuse - and they did.
I fought for two years to even see my child, while my other two were under care of counsellors. In the end, that child took matters into their own hands, and ran away to be with their siblings. We informed DHS and the police that my parents were happy to care for all of them, and for once, the parents didn't fight.
But in all of this, there was nothing I could do. I could pass on the terrible stories of the abuse meted out by these adoptive parents. I could plead with DHS to intervene, to at least contact the teachers at their school. I could write letters begging the adoptive parents to let me have access, or at least to let the DHS worker in the door. I did all of those things, and they were all utterly useless. The adoptive parents were aided and abetted by the system.
My children are now healthy adults with their own lives. Our family are committed to each other, even though we are thousands of miles apart. All of this is not because of Victoria's adoption system, but despite it. And we all have scars.
Looking back now, it seems as though the decision to institute 'open adoption' was little more than someone's thought bubble. In theory, the idea that a child can have access to both birth and adoptive parents has much to recommend it. The reality is that there is no support for birth parents, that court orders are not worth the paper they're written on, and the screening process for adoptive parents is sorely in need of a complete overhaul. And that's just for a start.
Children deserve to be protected by the State, not allowed to suffer abuse while it turns a blind eye or throws up its hands in defeat.
This is only my story. I know it's happened to others, who have contacted me in the past, but it's not my place to tell their stories here. But in National Adoption Awareness Week, I wanted to tell my story. While we think about how to make it easier for people to adopt children from overseas, we also need to make sure that our laws are uniform across the States, compassionate - and above all, that they work.
Dear Uterus,
I'd like to take a moment of your time to have a few words with you.
What's that? You're busy? You have all this stabbing pain to inflict, and can't spare the time?
TAKE TIME. SIT THE FUCK DOWN AND LISTEN.
Oh, and while we're at it ... you. Yes, you, Ovaries. You can stop hiding behind those other organs and join Uterus for a moment. For that matter, all of you - the whole reproductive system. Get over here.
RIGHT.
Now, look. I don't think I treat you all that badly. I haven't played macrame with you, Fallopian Tubes. I'm not dosing myself up with hormones to make you dance to my tune, Menstrual Cycle. I'm not interfering with your natural functions at all. You can go about your business. That's fair, yes?
Okay.
So ... why? Why, oh why, oh why, do you all seem to take such delight in torturing me? I mean, really - do you get a kick out of inflicting muscle-tearing spasms, flooding at the most inconvenient and embarrassing of times, and generally behaving like a room full of three year old psychopaths jazzed up on red cordial?
It's not even like you can get it together enough to be even a little bit orderly about it, either. One month you're on strike, Uterus - and the next you're working around the clock. And don't you snigger, Ovaries. You're even worse.
Now, look. It's not that I'm ungrateful. You do the whole hormone thing, and there are benefits to that. Yes, Breasts, I'm looking at you. You're great at cleavage, and grabbing admiring glances - but what's with the immediate cramps when you get touched? Honestly, anyone would think you're just pissy at getting a bit of attention.
What's that, Uterus? What was that you just muttered to the others?
I got pregnant? I grew babies in you? I made you stretch and grow a placenta and play host to squirming kicking entities?
News flash. THAT'S YOUR JOB. You've got responsibilities here, so quit whining when you have to step up and do something.
And just by the way, it's not like it was my idea to pack five babies into two pregnancies, oh no. That was all you lot. So drop the blame game, okay?
It's no good getting that sulky look on your face Fallopian Tubes. Yes, I know you don't control the ovulation, but let's face it, you helped, didn't you? Admit it - you were the go-between.
Okay, okay. I know we're all getting on a bit, and it's been a pretty rough road at times. But c'mon ... is this really the time to turn on each other? Really, let's just work together and get through this period, and then you can have a long rest. What's that? No, I promise, no HRT. I'll respect the retirement age. Deal?
Wait, don't answer right away. Have a good, long think and get back to me later today. This is a big decision, and I want to give you time to talk amongst yourselves.
Thanks for listening, everyone. I feel that we've established a good rapport here. We'll talk later.
... Oh, and everyone? Make the right decision. I'd hate to have to take drastic action.
I'd like to take a moment of your time to have a few words with you.
What's that? You're busy? You have all this stabbing pain to inflict, and can't spare the time?
TAKE TIME. SIT THE FUCK DOWN AND LISTEN.
Oh, and while we're at it ... you. Yes, you, Ovaries. You can stop hiding behind those other organs and join Uterus for a moment. For that matter, all of you - the whole reproductive system. Get over here.
RIGHT.
Now, look. I don't think I treat you all that badly. I haven't played macrame with you, Fallopian Tubes. I'm not dosing myself up with hormones to make you dance to my tune, Menstrual Cycle. I'm not interfering with your natural functions at all. You can go about your business. That's fair, yes?
Okay.
So ... why? Why, oh why, oh why, do you all seem to take such delight in torturing me? I mean, really - do you get a kick out of inflicting muscle-tearing spasms, flooding at the most inconvenient and embarrassing of times, and generally behaving like a room full of three year old psychopaths jazzed up on red cordial?
It's not even like you can get it together enough to be even a little bit orderly about it, either. One month you're on strike, Uterus - and the next you're working around the clock. And don't you snigger, Ovaries. You're even worse.
Now, look. It's not that I'm ungrateful. You do the whole hormone thing, and there are benefits to that. Yes, Breasts, I'm looking at you. You're great at cleavage, and grabbing admiring glances - but what's with the immediate cramps when you get touched? Honestly, anyone would think you're just pissy at getting a bit of attention.
What's that, Uterus? What was that you just muttered to the others?
I got pregnant? I grew babies in you? I made you stretch and grow a placenta and play host to squirming kicking entities?
News flash. THAT'S YOUR JOB. You've got responsibilities here, so quit whining when you have to step up and do something.
And just by the way, it's not like it was my idea to pack five babies into two pregnancies, oh no. That was all you lot. So drop the blame game, okay?
It's no good getting that sulky look on your face Fallopian Tubes. Yes, I know you don't control the ovulation, but let's face it, you helped, didn't you? Admit it - you were the go-between.
Okay, okay. I know we're all getting on a bit, and it's been a pretty rough road at times. But c'mon ... is this really the time to turn on each other? Really, let's just work together and get through this period, and then you can have a long rest. What's that? No, I promise, no HRT. I'll respect the retirement age. Deal?
Wait, don't answer right away. Have a good, long think and get back to me later today. This is a big decision, and I want to give you time to talk amongst yourselves.
Thanks for listening, everyone. I feel that we've established a good rapport here. We'll talk later.
... Oh, and everyone? Make the right decision. I'd hate to have to take drastic action.
‘Tales from the I Corps’ is a collection of poetry written by veterans of the Vietnam War (and one by the daughter of a veteran who suffered from chronic Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder). The poems themselves speak directly to the experience of the writers, both ‘in country’ and after the war, as they tried to settle back into their old lives.
Each poet’s signature contains both his name and his division assignment, underscoring their common background and experiences. Some also include their military nicknames (‘Doc’, ‘the Greek’, and so on).
The poems are self-published, and there’s little evidence of an editing process at work. As such, they suffer technically at times. The rawness of the poetry, however, lends a directness of communication that can be missing from more polished works. The reader is constantly reminded that these are real experiences, written by those who lived through violence and trauma. The poets’ struggle with language, form and rhyme can be read as part of their struggle to fully articulate ‘the anguish of just living or trying to stay alive in the midst of combat and the pitiful conditions of life in a war torn country that was thousands of miles away from home’ to those who remained in their home countries.
Each poet brings a distinctive voice. ‘Another Good Morning from Vietnam’, by Paul Cameron (1st Inf. Div.) is full of wry humour, marrying the banalities of a DJ’s patter with the almost offhand observation that ‘It’s been raining rockets all week up in Lai Khe’. In ‘We Regret to Inform You’, that same flippant tone is dramatically undercut in the last stanza, where the poet speaks directly and bitterly to those veterans who survived:
‘Dear combat comrades of these dear fallen men
We regret to inform you that your memories never end
The sights and sounds of their death keep pounding away
Their names carved on a wall as you kneel down to pray’.
Ken Hornbeck (D/1/501)’s ‘Black Panther in Ambush’ tells the chilling story, delivered in a matter-of-fact tone, of a veteran so haunted by the war that he turns his own backyard into a battlefield. The short poems of Mark Regan (B/1/501) serve as snapshots that place the reader firmly in the physical reality of Vietnam – narrowly avoiding being bitten by a green bamboo snake (‘Reprieve’), looking up at a single cloud in the sky and wondering if it portends anything (‘Omen’), and lying alone in a foxhole remembering a loved one (‘End of July’). Each short sketch has a restrained quality to it, often featuring objects in the natural world; these evoke echoes of Asian poetry, especially Japanese haiku and Classical Chinese ‘Beyond the Borders’ verse.
The raw power of these poems is perhaps best illustrated in ‘After Nam’ by Pete ‘Doc’ Fraser (3/187):
‘After Nam
it took me a long time to realise
that every time it thundered
someone did not have to die’.
Confessional poetry of any kind walks a fine line; it’s all too easy to tip over into dramatically overblown descriptions of pain, alienating the reader. Conversely, a reader can be left without empathy for the poem if it is too restrained. Many of these poems manage that balance beautifully, adding only enough detail to fully ‘place’ the reader, and trusting that fewer words can convey more than a whole stanza dedicated entirely to ‘feelings’. Often the poems lack a visible narrator; this absence, far from undermining the impact, actually heightens the emotional tension.
The collator of ‘Tales from the I Corps’, Mark Regan, urges the reader: ‘Don't read this stuff fast... it needs to be thunk about’ (sic). He’s right, of course – but one of the beauties of this collection is that we can’t help but think about it. The poems stay with us long after we navigate away from the web page, giving us both perspective and empathy for those who lived through the Vietnam War, and who still carry it with them.
Rating: 4 stars
This has been pinging around in my head for a while, after a few unpleasant events ... and I've finally reached the point of needing to write another Shit List.
Begin rant.
( Those words? I do not think they mean what you think they mean. )
Begin rant.
( Those words? I do not think they mean what you think they mean. )
Me on 'The Contrarians'
Sep. 19th, 2011 01:38 pmHey all,
Just a shameless plug (or possibly a masochistic streak) to let you know that Sky News now has video available of my appearance last Friday on the political comment show, 'The Contrarians'. It should be up for about a week.
I'll just be over here cringing about my mannerisms and my apparent inability to sit still ...
Just a shameless plug (or possibly a masochistic streak) to let you know that Sky News now has video available of my appearance last Friday on the political comment show, 'The Contrarians'. It should be up for about a week.
I'll just be over here cringing about my mannerisms and my apparent inability to sit still ...
'Political correctness'. When I hear those two words it's likely to trigger a fit of near-uncontrollable rage. I'm sick to death of hearing people bleat about how terrible it is to be 'politically correct', and how oppressed they are and how outrageous it is that they can't have 'free speech'.
And by 'free speech', they mean the right to say anything they like, no matter how racist, sexist, homophobic or otherwise insulting, and not be called on it. They mean the right to tell jokes that cut others deeply, or even sting a little, and no one is allowed to object to that. Their rights are all-important, and how dare anyone say otherwise?
Well, you know what? Sure, you have the 'right' to say what you like. And I have the right to call you out for being an unfeeling, vicious asshat. I have the right to cry 'Shame on you!' when you hide your callousness behind laughter, and then have the temerity to mutter that people 'can't take a joke' when someone is offended by what you say.
I have the right to refuse to listen to you generalise about people based on their gender or sexual orientation, and the right to subject you to withering scorn and ferocious argument for your casual racism when you claim you're 'only calling it how you see it'.
I have the right to name your speech for what it is - hatred.
'But I don't hate gays/women/Aboriginals/Muslims ... some of my best friends are ... I've got a friend who is (insert stereotype here) and he doesn't care if I say those things ...'
Et fucking cetera.
These people never stop to think that the 'best friend' who doesn't object to the racist jokes, or the gay stereotyping, or the casual sexism, might be keeping silent. They don't consider that behind that smile might be hurt, or regret, or shame. And they apparently don't realise that even if one person does find their bigotry acceptable, that person doesn't speak for everyone.
So yes, I will call you out when you make a disgusting, racist joke. I will object when you resort to stereotyping and hurt someone for whom I care deeply. I will make a point of forcing you to confront the damage you do. And when you decide you want to poke 'fun' at someone who's called you on that behaviour by attacking them where they're most vulnerable, I will, by god, rip you up one side and down the other.
And if you want to whine about how fucking oppressed you are, or flounce around proclaiming your superiority because you have 'more important things to worry about than someone's precious feelings'? You had better not do it near me.
Because I will enumerate, point by point, every single time you've been hurt and come crying to me or gone whining on Facebook or LJ about the unfairness of others ... every time you've cried because someone's attacked you for simply being a particular race, or religion, or gender ... every time you've demanded your right not to be stereotyped by a television show ... and I will explain to you in minute detail how far you are responsible for perpetuating a world in which that can happen.
Don't cry to me if someone attacks you about being mentally ill if you're the type of person who makes casually racist jokes.
Don't complain that someone has discriminated against you for being a pagan when you've denied others a place in your circles because of their gender.
Don't try and engage my sympathy when you refuse to exercise even a shred of empathy or integrity because you think you have a 'right' ... or worse, because you're just too fucking lazy to think about other people before you flap your mouth.
It's not 'political correctness' to refuse to perpetuate a harmful stereotype ... to excise racist words from your vocabulary ... to show a little goddamn care.
It's being a decent human being. And it really isn't that hard.
(Oh, and for the record ... if you hear/see me saying something racist, homophobic, etc? Call me on it. Tell me what I've done. Because I know damn well I'm not entirely free from this behaviour - but I want to be.
And if I've offended or hurt you because of that? Then I'll damn well apologise unreservedly. And try like hell never to do it again.)
And by 'free speech', they mean the right to say anything they like, no matter how racist, sexist, homophobic or otherwise insulting, and not be called on it. They mean the right to tell jokes that cut others deeply, or even sting a little, and no one is allowed to object to that. Their rights are all-important, and how dare anyone say otherwise?
Well, you know what? Sure, you have the 'right' to say what you like. And I have the right to call you out for being an unfeeling, vicious asshat. I have the right to cry 'Shame on you!' when you hide your callousness behind laughter, and then have the temerity to mutter that people 'can't take a joke' when someone is offended by what you say.
I have the right to refuse to listen to you generalise about people based on their gender or sexual orientation, and the right to subject you to withering scorn and ferocious argument for your casual racism when you claim you're 'only calling it how you see it'.
I have the right to name your speech for what it is - hatred.
'But I don't hate gays/women/Aboriginals/Muslims ... some of my best friends are ... I've got a friend who is (insert stereotype here) and he doesn't care if I say those things ...'
Et fucking cetera.
These people never stop to think that the 'best friend' who doesn't object to the racist jokes, or the gay stereotyping, or the casual sexism, might be keeping silent. They don't consider that behind that smile might be hurt, or regret, or shame. And they apparently don't realise that even if one person does find their bigotry acceptable, that person doesn't speak for everyone.
So yes, I will call you out when you make a disgusting, racist joke. I will object when you resort to stereotyping and hurt someone for whom I care deeply. I will make a point of forcing you to confront the damage you do. And when you decide you want to poke 'fun' at someone who's called you on that behaviour by attacking them where they're most vulnerable, I will, by god, rip you up one side and down the other.
And if you want to whine about how fucking oppressed you are, or flounce around proclaiming your superiority because you have 'more important things to worry about than someone's precious feelings'? You had better not do it near me.
Because I will enumerate, point by point, every single time you've been hurt and come crying to me or gone whining on Facebook or LJ about the unfairness of others ... every time you've cried because someone's attacked you for simply being a particular race, or religion, or gender ... every time you've demanded your right not to be stereotyped by a television show ... and I will explain to you in minute detail how far you are responsible for perpetuating a world in which that can happen.
Don't cry to me if someone attacks you about being mentally ill if you're the type of person who makes casually racist jokes.
Don't complain that someone has discriminated against you for being a pagan when you've denied others a place in your circles because of their gender.
Don't try and engage my sympathy when you refuse to exercise even a shred of empathy or integrity because you think you have a 'right' ... or worse, because you're just too fucking lazy to think about other people before you flap your mouth.
It's not 'political correctness' to refuse to perpetuate a harmful stereotype ... to excise racist words from your vocabulary ... to show a little goddamn care.
It's being a decent human being. And it really isn't that hard.
(Oh, and for the record ... if you hear/see me saying something racist, homophobic, etc? Call me on it. Tell me what I've done. Because I know damn well I'm not entirely free from this behaviour - but I want to be.
And if I've offended or hurt you because of that? Then I'll damn well apologise unreservedly. And try like hell never to do it again.)
