Other People

I envy people with awards. With trophy cabinets and framed bits of paper.

I imagine them being acclaimed scientists or sports people. I imagine them opening up their trophy cabinets or standing in front of their mantels when even a morsel of self-doubt enters their minds, and reaffirming that they are brilliant. So brilliant that people gave them bits of paper and statues of people stuck on miniature platforms to congratulate them on it.

But I know that this is not how it works. Self-doubt negotiates with anyone. There is no one who is immune.

The awards turn against the people who have won them, convincing someone that they were never brilliant or that they have fallen from the brilliance they once had. Or that they could have done so much more if only they had worked harder, or sacrificed more, or been a more adequate human being.

Awards can be a representation of our limits just as much as our achievements.

And I get that. It’s just that maybe it would be easier to doubt my achievements than the fundamentals of my personhood.

But then again, I don’t have a mantel.


I imagine myself without a mantel in my adult years. I see myself at thirty-five waking up and regretting all of my tattoos, and my decisions, and not spending money while I had it, or not saving money while I had it. I imagine her staring at her empty walls, and cabinets full of things that aren’t trophies. This future version of myself has forgotten what it felt like to be me now, has forgotten why she did all these things.

She no longer likes the bus, and is stuck in a job she can’t leave because she’s forgotten how to move. She failed to travel like she said she would. She lives inland in a place she doesn’t like, and she’s stopped cooking. She’s forgotten how to speak, how to change, or think. She lives with her shoulders hooped from spending twenty years carrying around her regret and frustration.

She is stagnant water, but she doesn’t miss the ocean like she used to do.


Do you think that a lion likes to run? That a bird enjoys flying? You’d think that they would.


In England, it’s hard to look out of windows when you’re in the back seat of a car. In Australia you can see in all directions. In the English countryside there are hedges. I rode in the back seat in England, and was vexed by this.

We stayed in Braishfield, and I missed home. Homesickness wrapped itself around my heart, and nearly equaled my fascination with the world. I missed the cliffs and my little town, and the headlands, and the coast. I’d spent so much time before we left wearing long sleeves in the summer, and talking about how I loved the cold. And the moment inland hit me, I wanted expanse. When we came back it was like reuniting with an old friend. We came down the coastal road, over the bridge and back to the Pacific Ocean, blue and white and endless and it felt like home.

It was just getting to be late spring when we got back and I watched the summer roll in like a sandstorm and embraced it when it came.


We read this poem in English class at one of those critical moments, and I read it over and over again because I thought it was beautiful and I listened to my peers read it over and over again because it said something I needed to hear. “Go for it,” this poem whispered like it was speaking directly to me, “Go and see what’s out there, go for it.” I sat there in English class listening to this voice, and imagined myself going for it.

Later I started to imagine the woman who regrets, but in the beginning all I had to dream of was a person that I loved, the person I had cultivated and cared for over the previous months. The part of me that had missed the ocean, that had loved the summer when it came; the part of me that had noticed when the buds began to bloom and missed California and was fueled by hope and determination. Sitting in English class I imagined her flourishing.

And she was happy; she was the person brewing in me.

All I am looking for is a space where she can grow; where she can learn how to be a real person, and I can learn how to let her. The woman who regrets and the woman who hopes are nothing alike, and I’ve got to start making investments in the woman who hopes.




Under a Bridge Pt. 2

I am going to end up under a bridge. I am going to end up under a bridge.

And there’s a part of me that hasn’t accepted that yet, that wants to argue; that wants to explain. And that part of me that is so hurt that it feels it has to. That part of me is in such pain that that could be thought of me. But it’s not worth it. It’s not worth it to avoid this pain, to stop this being thought of me because there really is only one way. This pain is okay, and I will come to embrace it and the rage that it generates in time.

And I don’t need to argue with anyone about this, I don’t need to explain, because I know I cannot win. Because to any logical person it is always better to be safe than sorry.

“But you get an ATAR so that you can go to university.”

“But I don’t want to go to university.”

“But you might.”

“And if I do, there are other means.”

“Don’t you want to make it easier?”

“For who? That person doesn’t even exist.”

There is no point that I can come up with that cannot be rebuffed; that cannot be counteracted. No argument is ever going to be good enough. And I’m still learning how to be okay with that, learning how to see the pros and cons list and knowing that it’s still not what I want. And I just have to keep thinking that.

This is not what I want.

This is not what I want.

This is not what I want.

I don’t want to go to university, I don’t want an ATAR, and I don’t want to spend a year getting one. I don’t want this.


I let it slip that I didn’t want an ATAR this morning in front of my sister. She told me immediately not to make this decision at sixteen. But there is literally no other time that I can make it. Twenty-two year old me is not going to give a fuck. And so whether I like it or not, this is a decision that I have to make at sixteen, and a decision not to change is still a decision.


I have an image of myself swan diving off the figurative, invisible cliff I’ve been told about, a choir of angels singing “fuck it”, the school population watching me go.

But that’s not what’s happening here, and I’m trying really hard not to state my intentions like it is. Because “fuck it” is so much easier to explain than a complex, researched decision prompted by realization that this is not what I want and there is something I think I’ve always wanted instead.

And that’s already the assumption. I don’t need to back it up. I hate school, and I’ve been very open about that. I don’t need to describe the swan dive because whoever I am telling is already picturing it.

But I’m still not swan diving; I’m just taking the stairs.

And I think that my sister is right, a little bit. I am sixteen and given time, I won’t be anymore. I will change. But I’ll still be changing at thirty-six, and fifty-six and eighty-six. And we’re all just taking bets on the things that won’t change. And I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know where I’m going, I know who I want to be and I know what I want.

And I’ll take bets on that.

Giving the Finger to the Feeling

When I was in year five, I moved schools. To a school on a cliff to the north with sixty three kids. There were three classes, three classrooms, a library, a toilet block, a playing field, trees, and a playground. And it was good, because there were so few. And I loved it, because most of the time, I was in charge. I felt new there, surrounded by these strangers, like I could recreate myself, and I recreated myself to be assertive.

And I was allowed that. I didn’t know that then, but I realize that now. I was allowed leadership, I was allowed time to refine those skills I had never used before, my recreation was nurtured and cultivated. Opportunities of leadership were offered in that school of sixty-three and it instilled in me a sense of equality. Nobody has power over me, these grown ups and I are equals.


But it was such a small school.

If one person didn’t want to do something, suddenly there weren’t enough people for anybody to do it. So you had to do it. And I played a lot of sport that I didn’t want to because of that. And it didn’t make me any better at it, and it didn’t make me like it. But I had an understanding that it was my responsibility, because I couldn’t just go making other people’s lives worse because I didn’t like to run. That was a lesson I had to learn.

They gave me an award the year I left, a principal’s award. It hangs in the corner of my mirror and it says “For Outstanding Contribution In All Aspects Of School Life” and I’m still proud of it, because it’s the only award I’ve ever gotten that I think I deserved.

In the later half of the last term of last year’s school year, I took to skipping. Exams were over; the reports were in, there was nothing for me there but the company, and the company wasn’t always worth going all the way to school and the six hours there and all the way back. It was a three-day a week sort of not-structure structure. Sometimes I would go, sit in for one or two subjects doing meaningless things, and then I would leave. Easy as walking out the gate. There was no trick to it. The threat of prosecution was a gun with no bullets.

And I liked that, I liked the walking out, the freedom of it. Somehow it was better than just not showing up at all, though I did that plenty too.

Once, when I was in year eight, a girl in my year was busted for going to MacDonald’s during a PE period, allegedly. It was a rumor about a rumor about a rumor and I didn’t know her that well, so I didn’t ask. But it was enough. It scared me enough to do only minor things wrong, and it scared the people around me into not doing anything at all.

It was a theoretical threat of discipline. There was nothing that could actually be done that would have any lasting effect.

But somewhere there is that feeling, the feeling that you’re doing something wrong. It’s a feeling of fear, of retribution mimg_4775aybe? Maybe shame, or disappointment. But it is a feeling of power, that someone has power over you and that someone is telling you what to do and you have to do it. But you don’t. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Just because you are responsible for the consequences, doesn’t mean that you can’t do it. A teacher is just a grown up, and authority is a given thing.

And you don’t have to give it to anyone if you don’t want to.

And part of the fun of skipping, I think, is giving the finger to that feeling that tells you that you can’t because a teacher told you not to.

I think I am going to miss that the most next year, when I resume the five day week regime. The walking out. The deciding where to go next. I didn’t have to go home, but I couldn’t stay there.

I am a supporter of mandatory schooling, because I understand that sometimes that is the only incentive there is. But I am not in support of mandatory things, and I have a great hope for a people that has a yearning for knowledge and an economy that can support that.

I have spent my whole high school career not wearing the right uniform and whether that is in protest or just because I don’t want to, it doesn’t matter, it is just that uniform is not that fucking important.

Nobody should care what sort of clothes I wear, and I should hardly have my time taken away for it. That doesn’t mean that I think a uniform is a bad thing, I simply support my right not to wear one if I don’t want to. But I don’t think that the uniform is a part of my education, I think that it is a part of how I and my peers are convinced that other people have power over us, that we are not in charge, and we are not leaders, we are the led and we must remember that.

But I still believe that the most important part of schooling is the schooling, and how I choose to go about that ought to only be my business.


(Inspired by The Return of School Discipline – why children should be free, shown to me by Liz Morrish)

The Train

“Think about this,” the question is prompted, “two pairs of tracks run parallel, on the left are two workers, and on the right are four. You are standing beside the lever that can change the course of a train incoming from the right to the left. A train is coming on the right, too fast to stop, if it continues it will kill the four men working on the track. Do you choose to change the train from the right to the left or leave it be?”

There is silence. And for a moment I thinkL'Arrivée_d'un_train_en_gare_de_La_Ciotat.jpeg about the outcomes, which I would prefer. My stomach aches, anxiety. But that’s what the question was designed to do.

In a rush, other options are suggested. The question curves around them to stop them from flying out of the court.

“I would yell.”

“They’re too far away.”

“I would warn them from the loud speaker.”

“The loud speaker is broken.”

The question has none of the variables of real life, because the scenario is a scenario. The point of it is to make you choose, or at least expose the fact that you can’t.

Do the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few?

Only with trains.

And, to be honest, I don’t know. I’ve never known and I don’t know anyone who does. And I couldn’t answer that question about the men and the train, but I’m very suddenly aware of it, and that is the only development. All it teaches you is to stay away from train stations.

But the point is if you’re questioning if the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, then you’re already fucked. The train is already speeding towards you and you have reached the point of no return. Nobody talks about the train, because the train is posed like a force of nature. But it’s not, it’s a train, and something has had to go very wrong for us to have come to this point.


I wanted Hillary to win.

But that doesn’t mean I liked her pantsuits.

I liked the way that she was a woman, I liked that she was unyielding in the face of her opponent; I liked that skit she did with SNL. I liked her daughter, and her dignity. I even liked the way she holds her chin a little bit higher when she listens to something she doesn’t agree with even though I hate it when people do that to me. I liked the way that she stood. But I didn’t like her when she spoke, when she made her speeches. I thought she smirked too often and her smile was too thin. There were issues. When she made speeches she had arrogance, she spoke like she had it in the bag.

The only speech I liked was the one after she lost, she didn’t smirk in that speech, and her smiles seemed a little lighter. She spoke with dignity, with grace. She could have ignored the fact that she had lost, or named it unjust or corrupt. But she didn’t, she accepted her loss and she said that she was sorry, and that she was glad that she had had a chance. She looked like she was finished with that; done with that person who she was when she made speeches before that.

And I knew that Hillary would win.

We watched the election, mum and I, in an attic in Brooklyn, and I knew she would win. We ate Lebanese pizza from down the road, and chips and artisanal donuts, and drank beer. We watched the election like you watch a fixed game. It was nice. And I knew she would win. I went to sleep when Hillary was winning like I knew she would, and when I woke up again she hadn’t won and suddenly I didn’t know that she would win anymore because she hadn’t.

And it took a little while for that to sink in.

And the next morning we mourned that, that thing that we had known.

And there were fewer people on the subway that day, and weeping gay men in Union Square holding up signs and I spent the day wondering why I didn’t know anymore.


This afternoon, I exercised self-restraint and didn’t buy a coffee when I really wanted to, so that I would have the money to buy sweetened condensed milk, so that tomorrow I can make caramel. After doing that, I’m going to go to Harper’s speech, and after that I’m going to go to the doctor. And I’m not going to save or damn anyone.

At most I’m going to walk a lot.

Because it’s not my call.

I don’t know if we’re better together, or even what the specifics of “we” are, but I know that one person yelling at the sky is pointless, but a thousand make a protest. And nothing is united entirely, but trying has had some results.

Because it was not just one weeping gay man in union square.

And it wasn’t just one that protested outside Trump tower.

And it wasn’t just one person that voted against this outcome.

But here we are, Donald Trump is the president elect and respecting democracy means accepting that, because we’re here now.

And he’s driving the train now.

And in the metaphor, there is option A or B, the lives of the many, the lives of the few. But this is the real world, and in the real world we cannot allow ourselves to be drawn into the victim role, because there will always be loud speakers, and there will always be other factors and sometimes, we are going to have to yell.

Over the Bridge


In my town, the town with “no war” written on the sidewalk, the town with the school that Harper still attends, the railway bisects the main street. It cuts right through the hill that separates the town into two bits. The road climbs, is briefly a bridge, and then descends back into shops and day-trippers and toddlers in prams.

But there is a street that doubles back on the hill, sliding around from where the road just levels out to reach the football field and the railway station. On one side it has a barren building that used to have trees, but doesn’t anymore, and the Catholic primary school. On the other side, there is a great wall that is the distance from wsydney_gong044here the road slopes down to the level ground.

When I was a kid there was graffiti, and I never did learn whether it was a designated area for graffiti or not, but it always felt organic. Not revolutionary, or political or even comprehensible, but it still felt like it was an individual doing it. That it was a human communicating to me through this wall. I loved it. I thought it was great. That our little coastal town was doing this thing, this thing that I had always interpreted as revolutionary.

And then they painted over it.screen-shot-2016-11-04-at-6-35-46-amIt’s worse than what you think. It would have been better if they had just painted it some beige color. But they didn’t. They painted it with commissioned graffiti artists. Made this huge, intertwining design that had been designed in committee I suppose.

And I hated it.

Because this wasn’t revolutionary, this was compliancy in masquerade. This was everything I now loathe, trying to act like it was a rebellious force.


I argued against cultural appropriation for a long time before I understood what it was, and why it hurt people. I asked my sister about it at one point, because she is political, and she has curly hair and darker skin and she knows what’s what. So I asked her. And she probably gave a good explanation, but I didn’t understand it. She showed me that video of that girl from the hunger games, and she probably gave a better explanation still. But all I could latch onto was that I was being restricted, that there were things that people didn’t want me to do. And all I understood was that bit, because that was the bit of the explanation that had me in it.

Everything else, the conservation of culture, the protectiveness over something nearly stolen, I couldn’t understand what that was about. The sun blinks at me, and I burn. My hair is straight. Never in the whole of history have people who have looked like me been culturally oppressed; not once. I will never fully comprehend what it is to be stripped of a culture; I will never understand what it is to have my whole race tyrannized. I will never know what it is to not be allowed to speak my native language because I was born speaking a borrowed one.

So I couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t understand why people could be offended by a fad among young, white people. I just didn’t get why it was so bad that a white girl was going to get braids in her hair. All I could understand was that I wasn’t allowed to do some things because they were not mine to do.

And I hated that, but I had to respect it.


We’re walking down the street, chatting, its been a good day, we’re heading home. I’m taking the train; she’s getting picked up. Somehow the conversation comes up, I don’t remember how it was introduced, whether it was by her or me, but the picture of the white girl with braids in her hair in the window of a shop inspired it. I try to explain it to her; she doesn’t think it’s a thing.

But Dora explained this to me, people I trust have faith in it, people I trust know this is a thing.

But I flounder. Because I’m not sure. I’m sure that it’s a thing, I’m sure that it harms people, but I’m not sure why. I didn’t understand the explanation that Dora gave me, and I didn’t pay enough attention to the video she showed me. But I know that it harms people, so I have to fight for it. I have to explain it. I think that it’s my job.

Because the people I trust took the time to try and explain it to me. But I think that they knew what they were talking about. And I don’t. And she can see that, and she takes my lack of comprehension as an assertion of her point. She asserts dominance over my struggle to explain it.

I wish I was able to go back to that moment, I wish that I could go back and tell her that it wasn’t my job to explain it to her, and it wasn’t her job to understand. I wish that I were able to tell her that it’s not my job to pick apart this complex, delicate, political and personal issue on her behalf. I wish in that moment that I was able to swallow my pride and tell her that I didn’t know enough or comprehend it the way I ought to have done to explain it to her, and she should look it up.

Because maybe then, she might have left the conversation with a little more curiosity.


imChill out.


Chill out.

What safety are you giving? Is this advice going to help? Are you wounded by the thought that maybe there are people who would like to think that there are good aspects of bad things? Does it hurt you? Do you realize that what you just said is “tough it out”? “Suck it up”? This isn’t constructive. Chill out.

And what generation?

You are attacking people, be specific. Do you mean the one you are in? The current one? And if so, which one is current? What is the application process for this generation, what are its parameters?

I don’t think that your annoyance can be so powerful that it hurts you to view some softhearted sentiment. Chill out. Remember that you are speaking to the world, whoever you are. You are addressing the universe; and there are people who will see this and have a sick feeling in their stomach because they know it’s them you’re complaining about. Yes, complaining. You are complaining. Be your own hero about it.

And what evidence do you have to back up your claims? Have you conducted research on this matter? Taken surveys? Interviews? Anything? Do you use the scenario of being found in a bookstore reading Bukowski as an anecdote or a literal event? Are you saying that if I were reading Hemingway that I would be more likely to be found? Explain yourself.

Is it easier for you to make generalizations about people in “this generation” than to weaken your argument by mentioning that obviously this does not account for everybody? Does that suggest to you, perhaps, that your argument is not quite strong enough if it cannot seem to take that blow?

Chill out.


“Now what did we say about generations?”

At first there is the sting of being reprimanded, and then the shame of having to be. But that’s the point. She makes me aware. I rephrase my statement, whatever it is. The bite of my point blunted by her interjection, but it reinforces the ones that will come when it’s not needed. It’s a process. She and I have been though it before.

I don’t remember what she said when she first said what we say about generations. Something smart. She explained it to me because I didn’t know; I didn’t know I had to know. I’m still young; my not knowing to know is not fatal. And she told me what we say about generations, about the ways that they don’t exist, about the ways that a “generation” is just a term used to separate people. The young people, the old people. The people who aren’t the same, and we suspect its because of how old they are.

I wonder if the person who wrote this open complaint is young, I wonder if they feel annoyed when generalizations are made about them and their generation. I wonder if they have made the connection.


“People from this generation are so impersonal. Look at you, all on your phones,” my history teacher laughs. We glance at each other. He doesn’t seem to need a response and continues his lesson, laughing to himself. It’s kubrick-subway-newspapershard to tell if he’s being ironic or sincere. I text mum:

The mall at 3:30?

I wait for a response, impersonal as I am. Before too long there comes a reply; a plethora of thumbs up emojis appears with a soft wvop. The girl who sits across the room and wrote “free the nipple” on the wall of one of the bathroom stalls sends me a photo she found on the internet and winks at me from across the room. I wink back.



You’re so fucking sick of this generation’s mentality?

Back up.

You don’t get make declarations about me and you don’t speak on my behalf. Whether you have assumed yourself part of a generation of people and attempted to observe from the inside or otherwise. You don’t get to say these things. You don’t get to pronounce a mentality, or a trait.

The variables to a person’s life are infinite, and when you declare these things you undermine all of them. You strip a person of their characteristics and individuality.

And you don’t get to do that.

(Also, don’t complain about other people on the Internet without being specific. And if it bugs you that much, avoid it, its not hurting you.)



I remember the grass between my toes, I remember that it was so cold that it stung my feet and the concrete scraped at my heels, and I remember how the grass and the dirt would stick with the dew, and I would trail the debris back into the house. I remember4853039972_f5a5d405b0_o the sound of the cling wrap being pulled back; I remember thinking that the grass from my feet would come off on the sheets. I remember the birds and the smell of coffee and lying flat in the space between their pillows. I remember the feeling of not having enough attention paid to me.

I am still not being paid enough attention.

There is no paper anymore, we stopped having it delivered, and I stopped going to get it years before that. I still lie in the space between their pillows, though now I’m supported by one of the stripy pillows. For the longest time there weren’t any pillows beside theirs, just the place between them. I think it was because they were so used to babies, and babies don’t do pillows.

They still read each other things, even now that the paper is gone, and I don’t go out to get it. They find each other beautiful things on their phones and read them to each other. And they still don’t pay enough attention to me. It’s fun and chatty when you first crawl into bed. But the mornings are for company and recapping what has happened in the world since the 6 ‘o’ clock news.

It has taken me years to accept this.


My roll call teacher doesn’t like me. And that’s okay; I don’t like her either. She thinks I’m arrogant and I know because she told me so.

First day of year eight: she points out everything wrong with my uniform.

Second day of year eight: I am dressed the same and she tells me that I’m arrogant.

I tried to retort with something I thought was clever. It probably solidified her views. But I’m not sure that anyone can be judged for their year eight selves, and my year eight self had just heard the news that what I had hoped would come across as stoic came across as arrogant.

Our relationship has not improved from this point.

Sometimes she’ll walk around the classroom and interrogates us. When we aren’t paying attention she asks, “Are you plugged in?” We’ve figured out that what she means when she says this is “Are you listening to music?” She is mocked for this saying in the quiet whispers of her math classes. And I think she knows it.

She thinks that we are dependent on our phones. She thinks that if she allows this to continue, bad things will happen. I think that she thinks that she is saving us from ourselves, like the mother of a drug addict sending her child to rehab. And I think that she resents us for it.

I can understand her anxiety on one level, her worry that interaction with our fellow human beings will transfer entirely to our virtual lives, that when she speaks within her classroom their will be no one to listen. She fears our dependence.

But it is too late. Dependence is here, and has been since long before the iPhone 5.


I am dependent.

I broke my phone in P.E the other day; I was at odds with myself for the rest of the afternoon. I had no option but to remain “unplugged”. But a new day comes and I adapt, because I am a human being, and human beings do that. I started listening to music on my laptop, and communicated by other means. I found peace in other places. And my parents found their information in other places.

Life as we live it is hard enough; there is no need to patronize people for taking the easier road. The human race will not grow weaker with the release of every new social network, IPhone, or album. We will not love our families any less every time we get as IOS update. We will not stop appreciating the beauty of the world every time a fifteen year old posts a selfie.

And you don’t get to decide what dependencies are harmful.