Sunday, August 23, 2009

Loss, Grief & Faith

You may have heard about the horrific car accident on the Sunshine Coast motorway that happened on Wednesday, certainly if you live on the Coast you couldn't have missed it. It's been a consistent headline act for the Sunshine Coast Daily* over the last few days, not only for how horrendous the circumstances of the accident were, but also because the couple who were killed - Kari and Allan Taylor – were well known and much loved amongst the substantial Christian community on the Coast. As the many tributes and comments testify, they were abundantly generous, life-affirming people and they will leave a 'massive hole'. One woman described Kari 'as pure sunshine' and anyone who knew her would readily agree to this description.

In Australia, a country free of violent political conflict, war atrocities and acts of terrorism, it doesn't get much worse than seeing your parents slammed between the front of a four-wheel drive and the back of another vehicle. This is the stuff of night-terrors and post-traumatic stress, yet that's what Kari and Allan's 22 year old daughter, Ashleah, witnessed. The Sunshine Coast Daily (a petri-dish for hacks if ever there was one) ran this interview Ashleah yesterday.

Since a good girlfriend of mine that I went to school with first rang and told me of the accident Wednesday night, I have been unable to think of much else except the Taylors. In particular, how Ashleah and her younger brother, Kallan, have been coping. I only knew Ashleah as toddler, around the time that Kari was my ballet teacher and Allan was the school pastor, when I was a senior at Sunshine Coast Christian College. Allan was our Christian Living teacher. I had enough attitude to service three teenagers at that time, but Allan – being the good hearted, reasonably tolerant man that he was – always took me in his stride. Once, just to goad him and not because I was actually interested in the answer, I asked him, in one of our many abstinence themed Christian Living lessons (one that I didn't wag, as was my habit) whether 'oral sex counted as sex?', within the whole 'don't have sex before you're married' scheme of things. I related to Kari better. 'Our group' – myself and three best friends – all did ballet and modern dance classes with Kari. In fact, we were amongst her original pupils when she first started up her own dance school. Kari had that lovely way of being an adult but also being a young girl at heart. She could talk openly about things like her own body acceptance issues, which, when you're at an age when that kind of thing takes up a lot of thinking space, was reassuring in an adult. She was a gifted dancer and teacher and an altogether lovely, lovely person. I know for a fact I gave her the shits big time on a few occasions, but like Allan she was always bigger than that. Kari' son, Kallan, is the same age as my daughter and being pregnant at the same time as her was something I took pleasure in, even though she was considerably older than me. As Christians of the Holy Spirit anointed, true believer kind they practiced what they preached - which finally brings me around to the point of this post.

In spite of my upbringing and education at an Evangelical, Pentecostal Christian School - or maybe because of it – I am an atheist. I don't go all Richard Dawkins on people about it, especially as I still have friends and close family who are committed Christians, and I believe they are entitled to their faith in the same way as I am entitled to reject it. If I were to suffer the kind of loss that Ashleah and Kallan are now facing – losing my daughter, for example - I'm not sure where I would find anything (bar an oil tanker of alcohol) that could take the serated edges off my grief. Ashleah & Kallan, along with Kari and Allan's family, and their many friends and acquaintances, however, have found comfort in their faith. Wrongly or rightly – meaning whether or not Christianity is the greatest hoax of the last two millennia or not – the absolute, non-negotiable belief these people have in Jesus as their Lord and Saviour has given them a rainbow's end to deal with the tragic, tragic loss of these two people – who, if there was a God, would surely not have been on his hit list in the first place. And I can't say I'm sorry they have that comfort. If Ashleah believes 'her parents will be having an absolute blast up there' and if that's the thing that makes her pain bearable and gets her through this, then who would want to take that away from her? Not that anyone would have any chance of shaking her belief system in the first place. These people are not token, name only Christians. They live and breathe Jesus Christ as a way of life.

I would have assumed that, like me, a lot of people who were educated in the same manner as I and whose parents were regular church goers, would have assimilated themselves into the secular world, gone to uni, read lots, met different, non-believing people and eventually moved away from – what I now believe – are the dubious teachings of the Bible. To put this in perspective – and I am getting a little of track here – my senior Biology text book was essentially a 'how to guide' for arguing creationism over evolution. This was back in the days where they didn't even have the nous to call it 'intelligent design'. There was no middle ground and in case you're wondering how the fossil record came about, well that was the doing of the flood of Noah and his ark fame. This is black and white stuff and my parents paid for this 'education'. In point of fact, for January 2010, I have booked an 8 day cruise of the Galapagos Islands off the coast of Ecuador – the birth place of Darwin's Theory of Evolution - hardly a hallmark destination for the average creationist. Facebook has revealed a different story where many of my old classmates are concerned. The majority are still Christians and actively practicing ones. I'm the exception, not the rule, and to be honest I'm both puzzled by it and a little disdainful at the same time.

But back to the point, this from 'SomeOneSmarter in Buderim (whose grammar would suggest anything but)…

I know of a person who has been a God-hating atheist** all their life (a dichotomy I know), and told me yesterday is a brief conversation: that seeing how these people lived; the love that others had for them; the depth of their understanding and peace that you display and know, has cut them deep and for the first time in their life they have thought that there may just be something more to life and faith because this reaction is not 'humanly possible' and it has really shaken them.

Excruciating syntax aside, I think the point is an interesting one. Personally, no, happy as I am that Ashleah and Kallan's faith has given them something to pull themselves through the deep dark depths of grieving that are ahead, I am not about to renounce my hard earned atheism because I'm impressed by their faith – or forgiveness. Atheistic humanists are just as capable of forgiveness and acts of altruism***. If you have been brought up in an environment where every second word is 'Jesus' then of course you believe your dearly departed will be waiting for you in heaven. And if it's not true, well you'll be dead anyway and won't know any different. You could add at this juncture 'so no harm done', but we all know the harm organised religion has inflicted on the human race, so it's not really as pat as all that either.

I don't really know how I want to sum all this up. Perhaps, it's just a way of working through my own grief over the deaths of two people who had a substantial impact on me at an impressionable time of my life, but whose religious beliefs I ultimately rejected as I grew away from the church and school that I grew up in. Although that's not the whole of it either, most the tears I have shed since Wednesday have been because I've been dwelling on Ashleah & Kallan's pain and loss. It was the same when Morgan Innes – the 14 year old ice skater – drowned after a terrible boat accident on Sydney Harbour. My daughter used to train at the same rink as Morgan and they were on the same synchronised skating team. Naturally, I knew Morgan's parents and I cried buckets in the days after Morgan's death as I felt overwhelming grief for her parents and what they must be going through. They, too, were lovely, lovely people and another example of karma getting its wires crossed.

Our 30th school reunion is in October and I've been tossing up whether to go for months, especially now I'm living back in the stomping ground, as it were. Only the other week I had the thought that 'Kari & Allan will definitely be there and it would be nice to see them'. I imagine the overpriced ($55, alcohol not included) school reunion will have a very different tone now. The funeral will be standing room only, but I will go to that, even though there will be more 'amens' than in the New Testament itself. I may be a non-believer, but I still want the chance to grieve and pay my respects to these two wonderful people who gave so much of themselves to others - even lippy, 'tude filled teenagers.


** I think perhaps 'someonesmarter' meant an oxymoron not a dichotomy. Hmmmm, I'll buy a religion-hating atheist, but it's difficult to hate something you don't believe in.


Saturday, August 01, 2009

Dark Places by Kate Grenville

I don't intend to write a review of Kate Grenville's well known and much praised follow up to 'Lillian Story', but as one of my resolutions, now I'm not working full-time, is to get a little more 'literary' and scribble down a few thoughts about the books I read, I want to put to something on the page.


 

I had to keep reminding myself that this book was written by a woman. Albion Gidley Singer is so repulsive, so odious in his pompousness - his hatred towards women and their bodies is truly grotesque – yet the book, that is, the voice of AGS is so compelling. I don't often equate literary fiction with 'page turning' as an attribute (For example, I got off to a flying start with Debra Falconer's 'In the Service of Clouds', but ended up putting it down a third of the way through and haven't found the compulsion to pick it up since. When it gets a bit hard yakka and you stop caring what's going to happen, well, why bother? And don't even get me started on 'A.B. Byatt's 'Possession'. ) So anyway, it surprised me that I devoured 'Dark Places' in much the same way as I would a Marian Keyes. That's not to say I didn't savour Grenville's way with a sentence or her brilliant, concise descriptions of people, places and events. I most certainly did, but I was also in hurry to get to the climax. How could a reading experience be any more perfect? I suppose I was drawn to the conclusion already knowing the 'taboo' that the book has staked its reputation on, but I didn't realise that the whole story – Albion's childhood, marriage and family life – led to this one final, despicable act. Perhaps I was expecting a story that dipped in and out of ritual sexual abuse and incest from the get-go, but no, I should have expected more of Grenville as an author. She is truly a master at what she does and she refuses to deal in clichés, too.


 

It's reading a book like 'Dark Places' that really brings home to me the power of fiction and its ability to illuminate lives, past and present, that non-fiction or bare historical facts cannot hope to plummet the depth of. 'Love in the time of Cholera' resonated with me in the same way. The only similarity between the two is that they expose and reflect on male arrogance in the face of rampant (apparently) female desire around the turn of the last century, but it's probably more to do the with brutal honesty of the central character, the attention to detail and the authenticity of characters and setting that support the narrative that brings me to compare the two books in the first place. But that is what brilliant authors do and I don't believe 'literary fiction' should be lauded in the way it is if it fails to meet these simple criteria. I didn't intend to get all soap boxy about it, but some 'literary' novels are a god damn borefest and somehow, if you can't through them, you end up berating yourself for not being 'literary' enough, or even, possibly stupid for 'not getting it'. When Grenville writes, when Gabriel Garcia Marquez writes (even in translation), hell, when Tolstoy writes, 'I get it' – so I don't think I'm a literary slouch – and I therefore fail to see why we can't hold other 'brilliant' writers to the same kind of accountability. That is, do I want to read the next page or has your ponderous, laborious, adjective stew sent me into a coma?

Saturday, June 27, 2009

I'd rather be...

I'd rather be an author than anything else in the world, I've worked out, come to the realisation, discovered about myself over the past five rotations of the earth around the sun. A journey that took me to Sydney to break it as an actor after graduating from the NIDA of Queensland (Queensland University of Technology's Acting Program - 3 years where your soul in the custody of the devil) - and found myself very,very - without question or doubt of any kind - unemployed in the profession which I'm still paying good HECS to make a go of. Luckily, as the devil took possession of my soul at QUT, the actual process of discovering that acting is a vocation that chooses you and you not it, particularly for a woman who didn't graduate from acting school until she was 30, wasn't as soul shredding as it might have been. Anyhoo, rather than stand demoralised and scorned upon in the Centrelink queue at Bondi Junction on a fortnightly basis, I found myself back in the profession I was desperately, desperately hoping to get out of - primary school teaching. Casual teaching pays better than most other average drudge jobs - waitressing, bar tending, retail. Perhaps not hooking, which I did seriously consider at one stage - at the higher, well-paying end of the scale - but a small tattoo on my right ankle put paid to taking that idea too seriously.

Instead, with the encouragement of a very, very dear friend who was much older, male and whose job makes him a 'someone', I started to write. Two months later my first novel had an underwhelming beginning, stuff in the middle and an end. It needed an editor who could sift gold from gravel - which my aforementioned friend was - but the upshot was, I could write - and research, part of the story is set during World War II in Sydney and I did my homework - lots and lots of it.

Unpublished novels - even published ones sometimes, I've been told - don't pay bills and so the odd casual teaching day turned into a week block here, a three week block there and then, inevitably, a whole year and then another one, etc. Like all wage slaves, I became accustomed - addicted even - to a regular paycheck, especially the holiday ones and some how, even though I didn't want it to be that way, the writing wasn't being made a priority any more. Sure, I managed to get myself a respected Sydney author's agent and put my poor, distressed novel through a few more serious edits at her behest (after the five I'd already subjected it to), but in the end it amounted to the same result: unpublished. Why? Because I refuse to turn it into a novel that will be shelved in the 'romance' section at Borders for that very particular, non-too-discerning, demographic of women who read 'romance novels'. There comes a point, people, where integrity must take a stand. Essentially, I was told, the modern story was 'too grating' against the historical, World War II story (written in diary form). That's kind of the point, but I didn't point that out to my agent. Now, here's the funny thing. Of the 7 or 8 women I gave my manuscript to, to read (including the niece of my agent*) - all of whom are plum in the middle of the very demographic of which my book is pitched too - they loved, related too, really got the main, modern day story and its central character - the just a bit cynical, single, 33 yr old Emily Pridmore. The World War II stuff was nice and the little points of commonality between the two stories were great, but it was the contemporary narrative that rang bells and raised smiles. Not so the publishers. World War II story is great, lovely, just expand it and turn that into a book in its own right, was the latest feedback I got from my agent. My market research says otherwise and so do I. Put simply, after having a professional editor (chosen & paid for my agent) take a nit comb to my novel, and then having taken his rather blunt criticisms on board and having made the adjustments he suggested, I am not prepared, now, to fundamentally change the whole premise of the book and thus alter the genesis upon which I wrote it in the first place. Like I said, integrity. I'm not a person possessed with buckets full of self-belief, but I do believe I got this book right - at least after draft nine - and sometimes publishers don't know best. Cue urban legend of J.K. Rowling's record number of rejections before HP found a publisher and out sold the Bible.

So that's that. I'm not overly hung up about my first novel not making it to a book store near you - plenty of first attempts (the majority, probably) don't end up with a snazzy cover design and a sticker saying it's part of 3 for 2 deal at Borders - I'm OK with that**. But it does mean I have to write another book if I ever want the grail of a publishing deal. That book took root in my head almost 4 years ago. Ten thousand words of it have been resting peacefully in My Documents even since.

And so I have thrown caution - that is, financial security - to the gods and their wind and have upheavalled myself and my life to actually go write the bloody thing, just get it out of my system, if, for nothing else, to prove that the first one wasn't a fluke.

Fate may have thrown me a dismembered hand in the form of getting sacked from my appointment at a posh private boys' school in Sydney (a tedious story for another day - and no, I didn't do anything wrong, just not enough right, apparently - well, no, it was dodgier than that...), but never-the-less, I like a sign (and preferably a bright, colourful neon one) and this one said 'Blakkat, it's time you made some big changes and go after the life you actually want, get a day job you can abide and write that God damn book you only started four years ago and have been threatening to write ever since'. A couple of the bulbs were out, but I got the message.

So here I am, back in the Sunshine State, on the Sunshine Coast and in my mother's spare room. Officially living back at home like the typical Gen Xer I'm touted to be. Or maybe that's Gen Y, which is evidence of even more short-comings and certain amount of immaturity on my behalf. I'm jobless and most of my friends are still in Sydney, including my boyfriend who still doesn't know whether he's coming or going (to Colombia) and where he stands with the Immigration Department and I've had to defer my Masters of Cultural Studies at Sydney University. The upside is, I am much closer to my daughter and will now be in her life on a just about full-time basis and I have all the Queensland time I need - and a brand new second-hand desk - to write that God damn book. As a large majority of the God damn book is set on the Sunshine Coast Hinterland, it's also handy from a research POV, too.

And I won't pretend that it's not torture either. There are days when every tap of the key board feels like the letters are made of lead and when I do finally get something resembling a paragraph, it's either trundled off down cliche avenue or it's so obviously trying to be word smart and clever it just ends up killing the narrative (and are so obviously not clever to anyone who's even semi-literate). They are the moments I hate writing almost as much as I love it, but, I am the kind of person who sticks at something once I say I'm going to do it and the thought of not doing it, that is, not achieving what I've completely rearranged my life to do, is not something I can entertain right now.

I'm off travelling in South America for three months from the beginning of December, so there's a natural deadline in it as well.

* It was the niece, and now a good friend of mine (GF of a good mate that I went to acting school with) who read, loved and praised my book so effusively she passed it onto her aunt in the first place - that's how I got an agent.

** We're not talking a Miles Franklin contender here - what I wrote was a little left of chic lit, but it does have its own charms. The next one is very, very different in style and what may be loosely termed 'literary' ,if it ever makes it that far.



Thursday, May 14, 2009

Footballers & Sexual Misconduct - The story that never goes away

Yes, I've been absent (and cultivating an air of mystery) from this blog for some time and plenty has happened in the intervening months, but I'll get to that one day, probably this weekend, in fact. I thought, instead, as the 'Claire' gangbang revelations on the Four Corners Program and Matty Johns subsequent sacking from Channel Nine are hot topic right now, I would post an essay I wrote last year as part of my Master of Cultural Studies on this very subject. Admittedly, I have focused on AFL as a code, but the issue - that is the lack of respect for women by men who play football for a living, whatever the code - is the same. Please note, that this material is copyright and any passages lifted from this article must be cited and credited to the author (me, that is. For my full name please email me at blakkatlass@hotmail.com).

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Since allegations were first sniffed out by the media in 2004, Footballers & Sexual Assault has retained the sort of word-pair association power usually reserved for couplings like salt & pepper, ebony & ivory or Columbians & cocaine. As with this last example, the partnership is certainly not applicable in the majority of cases, but there is never-the-less more than a line of truth in it and, for the rest, the taint remains by affiliation. An affiliation with violence against women is something the AFL - as a corporate entity (in collaboration with other institutions) – has developed a player-training program¹, an interactive educational DVD² and a ‘Respect and Responsibility Policy’3 in a bid to rid of. The development of these player-centred strategies to curb what the media-eating public perceives as a big, sordid problem has kept university faculties4, the Victorian Government and Police, women’s groups and assorted committees well occupied, but it remains to be seen whether all or any of these measures will create actual institutionalised change in a sporting culture where misogyny is as molded into the fabric as tight shorts and revelled in like Mad Monday.

In his article, Football, Culture and Sexual Assault (2005) - a lengthy, intelligent and reasoned dissertation on the subject – Ian Warren highlights this particular problem by saying, “Greater education for young, naïve athletes, emphasising the value of women in football beyond their exploitation as tools of recreational enjoyment, juxtaposes problems of male group culture and female temptresses” (2005: 140). In fact, most public discourse on the subject over the last four years, which has spanned the spectrum of television, online and print medias, has failed to move much past the problem of ‘female temptresses’ at all. Quoting Warren again, “Masculinity, fame, athleticism, and notoriety feed discussions of female attraction to football. Innuendo highlights ‘loose women’ and groupies compiling records of sexual conquest like kicks on Melbourne Cricket Ground wing” (2005:135). Discussions on ‘female attraction to football’ themselves, however, are worth examining for the ways in which they put up reasoned arguments for deflecting responsibility for the sometimes brutal and abhorrent sexual practices of individual players and how they fail to recognise that these young men - under the influence of culturally entrenched hyper-masculinity (and alcohol) – become versed in misogyny and willingly participate in practices conceived to humiliate or degrade those whom they negotiate sexual relations with.

Never at a loss for a bad word, The Sunday Mail recently - and blatantly - headlined, ‘Sexual attacks blamed on fans’ (Oct 10, 2008). Citing a Deakin University study, co-authored by Dr Kim Toffoletti and Dr Peter Mewett, it was found and put into tabloid speak, that ‘Female football supporters blame predatory fans for seducing high profile players accused of sexual misconduct’ (Oct 10, 2008). The research, dubbed as ‘startling’ by reporter Clair Weaver, revealed ‘groupies who “throw themselves” at footballers in nightclubs are viewed as responsible for inciting alleged rapes and sexual assaults’ (Oct 10, 2008). What the study also revealed, which The Sunday Mail omitted, was that “female fans held complex, often contradictory, views about sexual misconduct by footballers” (Sept 30, 2008) so that while, as Dr Toffoletti explained, female football supporters did perceive that “a victim could be complicit in their own abuse… players were also seen to be part of the problem” (Sept 30, 2008). The reasons offered by the women interviewed ranged from elite footballers believing ‘they were entitled to women and could do whatever they liked’ with alcohol and team bonding seen as prime factors in ‘cultivating this behaviour’. Other contributors included, such behaviours being ‘part of the man’s biological make up’ as well as being a by-product of ‘team pressure’. Not so surprisingly, the study also found that, “Fans believed that club culture also plays a part, suggesting that initiatives that address player attitudes toward women are a step in the right direction” (Sept 30, 2008).

As band wagons go, The Sunday Mail’s alacrity to highlight the conundrum of ‘loose’, predatory women as being at the root of all sexual misconduct by men is tired one, albeit with a long, seemingly logical and credentialed history. ‘Hell hath no fury like a groupie scorned’ (June 15, 2006) opines – and scorns – sports journalist Jaqueline Magnay from The Sydney Morning Herald. Barely concealing her contempt for this subset of her own sex, that is, girls “who shamelessly describe themselves as groupies”, Magnay says, “Their unrelenting quest is to bed a football hunk, preferably one of those higher up the desirability scale, to have their own status fly sky-high... These women”, Magnay generalizes, “ - usually in their 20s, pampered and indulged – are used to getting their own way.” The scathing continues further on, “Despite all the evidence showing that the blokes rarely enter a permanent relationship with a groupie – preferring links with women met at school or through friends – their aggressive efforts to be the chosen one continue unabated. To progress from a footy chick to a footy wife is to achieve instant fabulousness, and win the golden award for perseverance along the way” (June 15, 2008). It is precisely these arguments - dished up as popular opinion with the added appeal to reason - however, that can’t move past groupies being the augmenters of their own fates and rapes and in doing so fail to hold individual players as being accountable for their own decisions. The fact is ‘these women’ never stood a chance in a culture that systematically compartmentalises and demeans women for the purpose of servicing men’s egos. “There is a notion,” feminist and social commentators Deborah Hindley and Tara ‘sorry-I-curve-there’ Brabazon write, “that if women are involved in the footballing codes – rugby league, soccer or AFL in particular – they must be groupies, consenting to sex with their celebrity sporting heroes. Women’s roles in sport are written for them before they pull out the pom poms or paint their faces: supportive Brownlow wives, soccer mums or sexually available flakes” (2004, May 4).

Even groupies come in all shapes, cup-sizes and motivations and it is unlikely that the woman who willingly offers an orifice as a victory cup to be passed around from player to player sees herself as the next Rebecca Twigley – Chris Judd’s lithe lady in red at the 2006 Brownlows. Arguments involving low self-esteem, father issues and previous sexual abuse might well be valid for explaining a girl’s willingness to bed an entire football team, but if that was her intention and she enjoyed the experience, then there is little room for condemnation, however distasteful the serial monogamist majority might find it. If she is aware of how little she matters as a person during a team-bonding group sex exercise, she may simply not care - the visceral experience, thrill of sexual association, groupie credibility and, possibly, even actual sexual pleasure are probably more than enough reasons to justify the multiple encounter. For it is a gifted lady, indeed, who has the stamina (and the stomach) to offer the whole bevy commiserative blowjobs after a grand final loss, but that, according to one ex-player - who denied participation but still begged not to be name - is exactly what happened in 1996. Around 15 players were consoled accordingly and perhaps learned something about staying power at the same time.

Less titillating, yet still illustrative, the same ex-player offered accounts of ‘away from home’ girls who could be counted on with the summons of a text message and others who willingly extended invitations to team mates merely passing by the bedroom door. The only story to which the player admitted personal involvement – perhaps because of his own perceived blamelessness, even though he was married at the time – was the night a fellow teammate came back to their shared hotel room (the player himself having already gone to bed) with two girls and proclaimed, “Hey *****, I’ve got something for you.” The extraneous girl then got into bed with the player and they did what came naturally. He knew neither her name or, through not turning the lights on, what she looked like. The generic nature of these off-field shenanigans would suggest that these seemingly sexually savvy women, or the majority there of - ‘who throw themselves at players’ and who could not consent more if they charged an admission fee - are only bringing the sexual conduct of players to the attention of the police, the media and the public when it is warranted. As a group though, they are certainly marking their fair share for the unpalatable, sometimes criminal, behaviour of some players and, in the most venerable of misogynist traditions, are being blamed for leading otherwise good men astray. The trick, of course, to blaming and shaming these women - or any homogenous group we like to vilify - is to metaphorically keep the lights off and not give these women a face, a name or any distinguishing personality features beyond being a stupid slut.

The 2006 documentary, Footy Chicks, was an attempt to put a face to a groupie and shed some personalising limelight on these women, that is, girls – with names like Erika and Christine - who seek out sexual liaisons with football players. In terms of what one would expect from such a documentary, Footy Chicks pretty much covered the whole ground: there were in-depth interviews with two groupies, one NRL - Erika, the other AFL - Christine, and an NRL cheerleader - Hayley; as well as professional sound bites from a former player, David Millwood; Gender Studies lecturers, Dr Clifton Evers and Dr Catherine Lumby and Karen Willis from the rape crisis centre. There was no demonising or moralising and the girls were shown to be equal parts sexually ambitious and vulnerable – that is, not always emotionally blasé about their pursuit of footballer booty. In contrast to the popular media, the documentary seems to align itself with an orthodox feminist view, which says if a girl likes having sex with lots of men – footballers or no – then why shouldn’t she? Just make sure you use protection and pay no mind to the ‘pig on a spit’ and ‘mattress-back’ labels. The problem is, as Dr Lumby points out in Footy Chicks, “women who enjoy sex are seen as lesser human beings”. A little simplified, given the general popularity of sex – even for its own sake - amongst women. The clause I would add is, women who enjoy having sex with many or multiple partners are seen as lesser human beings.

Not all feminists, however, are willing to toe the ‘if it’s good for the goose, why shouldn’t the gander?’ line. Largely because when it comes to footballers and sex, women and men are playing on a very lopsided field to begin with and when sex is as available as oxygen, the sexual veneration most women enjoy amongst ordinary species of men becomes virtually null and void in the skewed sphere of elite football. Germaine Greer has no compunctions using the term ‘rape fodder’ to describe women who “climb through ventilators to get into toilets” and who “will perform any sexual service no matter how debasing” (March 23, 2004). Greer in ‘Grubby sex has just become a bit nosier’5 (March 23, 2004) - which was published in the Fairfax media only days after St Kilda’s Steven Milne and Leigh Montagna6 were named in sexual assault allegations – argues that footballers behaving badly is inevitable and immutable. “One of the most important mechanisms for binding any company of men involves shared transgression and mutual guilt… there is nothing new about “roasting”, the sharing out of eager women between sportsmen, nothing new about the women feeling humiliated and used, nothing new about the contempt and hostility that sportsmen who are abusing complaisant women express (March 23, 2004)”. What seemed to be lost on many who read the article and blogged their outrage accordingly, is that Greer was not expressing her contempt for ‘these desperate creatures’, she is rather highlighting, in the most demeaning terms, the way these girls are viewed by the men who use and abuse them: a point that was glossed over, or deliberately side-stepped, in Footy Chicks.

Although the contribution of alcohol was rightly considered in Footy Chicks as was the murkiness of what can constitute consent, what was missed when it comes to actual sexual assault – and is absent from most media debates on the subject – was the issue of naivety on the part of some young woman who find themselves in the company of, and simultaneously celebrity struck, by young, virile football players (who can be as equally naïve). Not every groupie is a wizened good time gal and not every woman who fancies good height and tight buns in a team jersey is prepared to join parts in a sexual factory line or is wanting to tick off another team number on her ‘to do’ list. More often than is credited by the groupie-sneering media, naïve girls give their alcohol-induced consent, which is predicated on the hope of something more than a one-night stand with a good-looking footballer. She may have already decided what colour gown she fantatises about wearing to the Brownlows, or she may not, but if she doesn’t know the deal with footballers then she may find herself in deeper – by two or three players, sometimes – than she knows how to deal with. And it is by this stage, or perhaps in the aftermath of it all, that the humiliation sets in for the girl who now realises she was no more than a sperm extractor and Johnny Football is no more interested in her as a person than he is in learning how to crochet.

Consider the case of a woman who agreed to accompany a player to his hotel room and have sex with him. The sex having been had, the player told the woman he was going to out to get something and would be back shortly. The player never returned. What ensued was a charge of sexual assault – not because the woman was raped or subjected to a particular act she didn’t consent to – but because she felt used and humiliated. An emotionally fuelled over-reaction, yes, – the charges were quickly dismissed - but it is demonstrative of the way women, even when physical violence does not become part of the agenda, are regarded and treated by a large subset of elite footballers. The presence of actual sexual assault or violence is just a far more obvious and insidious demonstration of the objectification of women in this context and the lack of empathy and respect women garner from their sporting idols.

In 2004 – the season of footballers and sexual assault allegations – following on the heels of the Milne and Montagna scandal, another woman came forward, alleging she was gang raped by two AFL players in an Adelaide park in 2002. The Bulletin (March 30, 2004) – quoting Melbourne’s Herald Sun – reported that a $200,000 payout was made to the woman, who said “she was drugged, then raped and sexually assaulted, by two AFL players.” Some insider hearsay, by an elite former player (who is in no way was connected to the case) but who claims to be privy ‘to what really happened’ spins the story another way. The woman in question consented to sex (with at least one player) and both she and the player convened to a nearby park. Alcohol was involved, naturally, as was the great outdoors, two other players - who were, for the time being at least, relegated to spectatorship - and the cover of darkness. What she didn’t consent to, so the story was retold, was intercourse via another portal, which the player chose to use anyway. The truth, of course, is as allusive as anal sex to garden-variety heterosexual men, but the case itself is a can of worms whichever sorry tale you choose to accept. Worm 1, being the wriggly line of what was consented to and what wasn’t; Worm 2, was this sexual assault or humiliation after the fact or both? (with the comfort of possible monetary compensation?); and Worm 3, shouldn’t these players know better and are they stupid or what?

No, they don’t know better - unless they’re explicitly told otherwise - is the professional opinion of Michael Hall, a former policeman of 23 years and now a behavioural consultant whom The Bulletin (2004, March 30) credits with informing “just about every NRL and AFL player” on sexual assault and who has, reiterates The Daily Telegraph, “lectured thousands of professional football players from all codes on acceptable forms of behaviour” (Sept 17, 2008). Writing for TDT, with their feel for the inflammatory, Hall says, “When it comes to sexual assault, footballers can be misunderstood – and anyone who thinks differently must be living a very sheltered life. Now hear me out…” While making sure not to excuse violence against women, Hall is of the ‘rotten apple’ school of thought and is quick to reassure us all that, “… there is nothing overly offensive or shocking about football players. They are no worse than anyone else of that age group when it comes to alcohol, drugs and sexual assault…” (Sept 17, 2008). Building a career out of lecturing elite footballers on the ins & outs of sexual assault, however, would appear to flatly contradict this claim. Micheal Moller, researcher (NRL and attitudes toward women) and gender studies lecturer at The University of Sydney, claims “A great deal of critical and popular material on male athletes, sexual violence and their attitudes towards women holds that professional team-sport athletes are more likely to act violently towards women than the general population of young men” (2008: 16). As to why this is, Messner (2005), an American sociologist, writes “There is no single factor that explains how male athletes come to assault women… Rather, a combination of several group-based factors create a context that makes violence likely: misogynist and homophobic dominance bonding, a learned suppression of empathy for others, a “culture of silence” within the group, and an institutional environment that valorizes and rewards the successful utilization of violence against others” (2005: 318).

Without those conditions then and without the ample opportunities available to them - particularly those ‘in which females are willing to accommodate numerous men at the same time’ (Sept 17, 2008) as Hall puts it - footballers probably ‘are no worse than anyone else of that age group’. Focusing purely on the opportunistic then, Hall sees his role as instructing these guys on ‘Where do you draw the line?’. “In terms of sexual behaviour, I teach them exactly what rape is, what sexual penetration is and what indecent assault is. I give them instances and examples of each of those and give them practical advice, tell them how to avoid finding themselves in those circumstances, and if they are, how to make a quick exit.” What advice would Hall give his pupils in regards to video footage that was circulating depicting a 17 year old girl who had been urged into role-playing various pornographic scenarios with multiple players/partners? Upon receiving a copy of his team mates’ amateur filmmaking efforts, the ex-player who related this questionable venture, advised the player who passed it on to him to get rid of it on the pronto. The girl, now in her mid 20s, recently contacted (via Facebook) the former footballer who disclosed this story, to express her gratitude to him for never treating her or using her like the other players did. There is so much more to this problem than just consent.

As Hall is working in a forward position his work is commendable, however, he is primarily focusing on behaviour management, that is, the outward manifestations of football players treating women as sexual accessories. Hall is about player self-preservation, he’s not calling into the question the first-place premise of women being considered objects or property by elite sportsmen, the ways in which women are characterised within these settings and the attitudes that stem from these fundamental assumptions.

Sport sociologist, Dr Drummond (2008) makes a similar point in regards to the AFL’s recent ‘interactive DVD’ release which has been ‘designed to improve player attitudes to women’ (Feb 2008). While he supports the idea, and commends the AFL for being serious about the matter, he says that, “it needs to be part of a more comprehensive and ongoing approach” and “a change in the overall culture of AFL clubs is paramount and leadership must come from senior players within the clubs… a simple DVD in isolation is too easy to walk away from; there are 17 -18 year old boys who are likely to giggle and laugh about it and then just walk away… What we want to do is create young men who are understanding and respectful in all different forms” (Feb 2008). The producer of Footy Chicks, Michaela Perske, in an interview for The 7.30 Report (2006, June 13) doesn’t see change being that instantaneous either, saying “I think it will take about another one to two generations to actually see that change because you’ve also got to get rid of a whole lot of deadwood… it takes sort of two or three generations to change a culture.”

It also takes an all hands on deck approach to change a culture. “Extensive collaboration,” Warren (2005) concludes in his own work on the subject, “between the leagues, players’ associations and various federal, state and local organizations are leading to detailed codes of conduct over this problematic issue.” (2005: 142). Since 2005, the AFL has certainly made a genuine show of wanting to implement long term change in the actual attitudes of players towards women. Chief Executive Officer of the AFL, Andrew Demetriou, is most confident in the measures the AFL is taking – particularly as regards its ‘Responsibility and Respect Policy’3, of which he says, “The Policy’s strength lies in its recognition that real change will depend on tackling the culture at a number of levels. In particular it will be about changing attitudes… and will include educating all of our players, executives, coaches, support staff and board members about respect – respect for themselves, for their relationships and respect for the women (and men) around them” (2006-08:1).

When asked, the same former player - who generously and candidly offered his most lurid and confidential anecdotes for this paper - did believe that the player education that has been implemented so far ‘has been effective’ and that with the penalties being so severe, that is, the threat of suspensions, fines and dismissals, it ‘is more trouble than what it’s worth’. “Heavy fines, victim compensation orders, mandatory deregistration, and compulsory player educational programs” (2005: 142), are all being employed to tackle the problem head-on, but – to quote Warren again because he puts it so succinctly - “The impact of these measures in preventing future cases of sexual assault and related anti-social behavior remains to be seen and is best evaluated with ongoing informed critical research” (2005: 142). However, there is certainly enough interest, initiative, public awareness and actual groundwork (much of it from academics in Gender Studies departments) being done to be optimistic about long-term change within this particular sporting culture and salt & pepper don’t have to go together, either.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Notes
¹ A media release on March 23, 2005 from the Minister for Women’s Affairs in Victoria announced that the State Government, Victoria Police and the AFL had developed a training program for AFL players, which was aimed to improve ‘understanding of sexual violence and encouraging respectful behaviours’. The initiative was endorsed by the minister for women’s affair, Mary Delahunty.
² In February 2008 the AFL also released an ‘interactive DVD’ aimed at improving player attitudes to women.
3 The Respect and Responsibility Policy which the AFL established with VicHealth can be accessed via the official AFL website under ‘Women & Girls’ which in turn is accessed via the ‘Development’ tab. According to the site, ‘The Respect & Responsibility Policy’ represents the Australian Football League’s commitment to addressing violence against women and to work towards creating safe, supportive and inclusive environments for women across the football industry as well as in the broader community.’ The 6 key components of the program are:-
1. The introduction of model anti-sexual harassment and anti-sexual discrimination procedures across the AFL and its 16 Clubs
2. The development of organisational policies and procedures to ensure a safe, supportive and inclusive environment for women
3. Changes to AFL rules relating to ‘Conduct Unbecoming’ which cover the specific context of allegations of sexual assault
4. Education of AFL players and other club officials with avenues for dissemination of the program to the community level being explored
5. The dissemination of model policies and procedures at the community club level; and,
6. The development of a public education campaign.

The site also explains the aims and means of the player education program with links to several PDF documents available for download, including the ‘Practical Education Respect and Responsibility booklet’ which is has been designed specifically for clubs and players.

The Respect and Responsibility Program also includes as 48 page document entitled ‘Building cultures of respect & non-violence’ prepared by Drs Sue Dyson & Micheal Flood from La Trobe University, which reviews the literature available, outside of football cultures, that deals with anti-violence initiatives and violence prevention programs already in place throughout the wider community.
4 A Working Group on Sexual Assault and Football convened by Professor Jenny Morgan from The University Melbourne Law Faculty, for example, drafted a 12 page ‘Discussion document re development of AFL response to the issue of violence against women’. Much of the measures outlined in the document mirror those in set out by the AFL in their Respect and Responsibility Program, but it is unclear whether the UM discussion document or the UM Law Faculty were officially involved in the development of the R&R Policy.
5 Greer’s central point in ‘Grubby sex has just become noisier’ is that the only thing that has changed in terms of footballers and ‘grubby sex’ is that women are more willing to speak out now and are less ashamed of admitting they consented to sex with one player, but not necessarily another. She credits this trend to the ‘indecent amounts of money’ that are ‘sloshing around’ and that is available for redress in cases of sexual assault, where often the law fails.
5 Stephen Milne and Leigh Montagna from the St Kilda football club were accused of sexual assault by two women who had gone to one of the player’s home. The allegations came only weeks after the NRL Canterbury Bulldogs were embroiled in a gang rape scandal, but were eventually dropped. The St Kilda football club took the unusual step of naming the players involved (in contrast to the NRL and its code of silence surrounding players named in sexual assault allegations).







Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Part 3

Part 3 explains my prolonged absence from this blog. Part 3 was the 'happily financially solvent' ending to the saga in which I got the job. A taxi happened to pull up on the opposite side of the street just as I was placing a phone call to convey to the same poor woman who set up the interview my distress at housemate's starter motor (we found out later) not doing what it's supposed to do - namely start the ute. So one convenient taxi, not a moment too late, and an hour and a half interview later and I must have said something right or showed just the right amount of leg in that satiny side-splitted skirt to get the job. A job that happened to come with a $27 000/per annum pay rise, I found out later.

There was a catch (or catches, rather) to the $27 000 pay rise, which I discovered soon enough. A 27 000% increase in what's expected of you, workload wise. What a manic little kingdom of elitist education this place is. Drive to Bowral and back in a day for a Saturday 'morning' cricket match for 10 year old boys? Yep, that'd be the catch right there. 7am cricket training on a Tuesday morning where my only role is to mark the roll? Yep, there's another catch. Surprise 'Professional Development' meetings every other week after 3pm. Another catch. A curriculum programme so convoluted and groaning under the weight of its own jargon that no one in the whole bloody school can get their head around it, let alone us 5 new junior school teachers (high staff turnover ring any alarms?). So far, I've had about 8 parent interviews (usually at 7:30am) and it's not even official parent interview time. They just want to let me know 'what their concerns are' and what I am doing about them after only 4 weeks in the job. BUT, I've only had one meltdown, so far, and only one bout with the CFS this month, so all-in-all, I'm staying on top of things. And today I ordered a handbag online that I'd never in my wildest ever imagined I'd ever spend that much money on a vanity item on (excluding dresses and shoes, that is). It was still on sale though - half price. If you're in the market for handbags, btw, I'd recommend Urban Originals. And I can still do this and not be down to my last $10 the day before payday anymore. So like all slaves to the wage, I'm justifying my slapped up marriage to the job and my newborn workaholic tendencies on terms like 'financial security' and 'at least I can get a bit of moolah together now' and 'finally, I'll be able to save for that extended holiday to South America'. And donate a little bit more than $2 to the bushfire appeal. Stuff like that.

So pros go something like this: money, fantastic, friendly colleagues, money, view of Harbour Bridge and iconic Sydney landmarks from staffroom (staffroom with a view), money, sounds good when I say 'I'm a teacher at ....' (in a snooty Eastern suburbs way, that is), lunch provided everyday, and ah, money. Cons: Boys, all boys, no girls, expectations of teaching superpowers from parents with average to below average boys who are paying the GDP of a small Pacific nation to send their said average boy to snooty private boys school, the aforementioned crazy curriculum and the school's bid to be officially 'authorised' this year in crazy curriculum method (actually, it is a very, very good teaching methodology/
curriculum/programme - but by God, there will be carnage on the path to authorisation. Another teacher down, sir.) Oh, and the cricket thing. Especially as I don't own a car and I'm supposed to go to Parramatta for the game this weekend. But we all forge on and, oh that's right, the money. Have I mentioned the pay rise? Yeah, so stop bloody whinging then. I even had my wallet stolen a couple of weeks ago - in Coles (You'll love Coles!*) - with $250 in it and I could still afford to eat, even after that set back. Once upon a public school job, a loss of $250 would have meant a diet of baked beans (Coles brand, no less) for a month. Of course, I couldn't get any money out of my account for a week afterwards because I was sans ATM cards and was dependent on the kindness of housemates for a fittie dollar loan or two, but just knowing there was money in the bank, well, I'm still adjusting to the novelty of it. And no guilt trips please about current world economic crises etc because she works damn hard for the money...

* You'll love Coles! I love the way I put $100 worth of groceries through the checkout, then put my hand in my crappy $10 handbag and discover someone else has already put their hand in my crappy $10 handbag and nicked my Emily Strange (with blackcats) wallet with all its personal & monetary contents and the guy at the checkout says to me, by way of being helpful, 'Just leave the trolley there'. Blakkat, pissed-off and upset former Coles customer

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Part 2

Wednesday – Oh yes, I was struggling to keep some semblance of composure at 9am when the bell rang, after having been subjected to some work place bullying, ahem, I meant constructive criticism. Without success. I went out to the assembly area, clearly not in possession of my usual fake cheery disposition. My colleague and fellow Year One teacher noticed that something was amiss and promptly organised for my cherubs and her cherubs to go with the other remaining Year One teacher and his cherubs to watch a DVD or whatever you do when you suddenly find yourself in charge of around seventy 6-7 yr olds. Back in my classroom, I outlined what the problem was and she offered to go and talk to the principal and do a bit of leg work for me. Legwork having been done, she came back with the bad news that asking my AP to be a referee was probably not going to yield the sort glowing recommendation that one would hope for when trying to present your best side for a new job. I knew it.

In the meantime, I rang my direct supervisor and another AP at home (being that she was sick) and told her what was going on. Between sobs, I asked if she would mind being a referee and a positive one at that – she was happy (in a reserved way) to do that, but she did think that I should probably go and ask the other AP anyway. I told her that I’d been at Where-did-that-knife-come-from? Public School long enough to know that even if said AP said she would say the right thing she couldn’t actually be trusted to do so, to which my direct supervisor agreed. When I say this other AP is known as the Witch of WPS, there is a reason and I am certainly not the only one in the history of WPS to have felt the full force of her irrational vindictiveness. With little else to do about it, I went over to the Year One demountable and retrieved my share of kiddie-winks to take them back to the goldfish bowl. Children don’t miss much and it was inevitable that they would ask me what was wrong. I told them my grandmother died. When? How? Why? They asked.

I honestly couldn’t see any way around the problem. I simply had no choice – I rang the lady who set up the interview in the first place to tell her I couldn’t go to the interview this afternoon. She didn’t answer, so I left a message asking her to call me back. She did, but unfortunately I was in the middle of doing a maths lesson (a last minute scramble to finish some odd pages in the Year One maths textbook). It wasn’t until about noon that I managed to get a hold of her and explain the situation to her. She had other ideas about me not going to the interview, however. Who else could I ask to be a referee?, she asked. Plenty of people, I replied. Well go and ask them, she said.

So that’s what I resolved to do. Only problem was that this was the designated day for the annual P&C lunch for the teachers that is held at one of the very well-to-do parents’ house just across the way from the school. I’d already decided that I wouldn’t be partaking this year, as I just didn’t think I could bear it and as much as I’d usually contemplate swimming through shark invested waters and then running through a burning building for smoked salmon, today I was quite happy to give it miss. But in order to go and ask who I needed to ask to be a referee, I would have to go over there anyway.

I tapped her on the shoulder and asked if I could speak to her. We retreated to one of the bedrooms and I told her the story. Being a friend as well as a colleague she was not only more than happy to be a referee, she rang the other lady on the spot and proceeded to say many nice things about working with me and my work ethic. Crisis averted, I had two referees now. Now I just had to get through the Kris Kringle thing after school, pull myself together and head to the interview at 4:30pm.

For the afternoon session I stuck on a DVD so I could distribute all the kids’ books and put them into piles for them to take home. The TD had already sorted most of their other booklets for me, so it wouldn’t take too long. At 2:45, I was gearing up to hand out all the neat little piles of books I’d made in an orderly fashion, when a small group of my mothers walked in – the mothers who have supported me through out the whole year and whose daughters love me, incidentally. They came bearing gifts, which I opened in front of the kids - some exquisite body scrub and matching bath tea leaves, a Myer gift voucher and a Swarovski Crystal red apple pendant on a leather necklace – to match my tattoo. Very, very touched, I was - as if the day hadn’t been emotional enough already.


This goes with...

...this (I can feel an ad jingle coming on)


The kids having fled, the ESL teacher came and dragged me into the staffroom for the Kris Kringle gig. I was hoping my absence would go unnoticed. She had other ideas, especially as she was my not-so-Secret Santa and she’d chosen my present with love and care. It was perfect – she not only got the size right, she got the colour right, too, bless her heart. I excused myself just before 4pm to get myself ready for the interview.

I had borrowed my housemate’s ute, as he was away, so I didn’t have to do the public transport thing. Only problem was, the ute was as dead as my figurative grandmother and no amount of key turning and foot-pumping on the accelerator was going to change that…

Friday, January 16, 2009

A syndrome by any other name

At least now I have a name for and a medically certified excuse for not giving a rodent's backside about keeping this blog humming. There's even a syndrome for it - being chronically fatigued and terminally tired, that is. CFS or Myalgic Encephalomyelitis as it goes by now. More pronounceably - 'Yuppie flu'. Whatever you call it, it's really not very pleasant and extremely demotivating. Given the year I just dragged myself through, it's not particularly surprising that I've obtained a syndrome that feels like you're stuck in a Groundhog day of coming down with the flu - sore throat, muscle pain, enlarged lymph nodes, headaches and debilitating exhaustion included.

On a whim I went to the Sunshine Coast and got really busy doing nothing. Nothing except letting the big blue ocean crash over me everyday, reading the Dexter series of books and hanging with the TD (teenage daughter). Exercise must now be taken in moderation. No more body attack/pump doubles. Classes must only be taken one at a time. When I have the energy to do so, that is. Some miscommunicaton between me and Jetstar means I missed my flight last night and I must resign myself to a whole lot more nothing until I can fly home on Monday now. Dang.

The Colombian man-boy didn't speak to me for two weeks. He thought I was being rude to him. I tried to explain that I was being very sick, not being very rude, that night at his place, two weeks ago. Just because I waved feebly and smiled instead of SAYING 'Good Morning' does not mean I was 'treating him like a dog'. Apparently he thought I was lying about being sick so I wouldn't have to tell him I was going to Queensland. He didn't call for over a week -that was the week I decided to go to Qld. He says I'm passive-aggressive. Maybe, but he's the master at it.

My best friend - or one of them, a male one - came up to see me from Brisbane. We took the TD down to Mooloolaba and lunched on the Esplanade as you do when time and sunshine are on your side. We laid under that sun, over looking that big blue ocean again and he told me, not for the first time, that he loved me. Loved me in the meaning of marriage and babies, that is, not just as a friend of almost 10 years standing. I always tell him it's just because he's lonely and he hasn't had any for a while. He says that's not it and why am I denying it? Our destiny, that is. He's likes that kind of thing - destiny, the spirit, feelings. An incurable romantic. What else would you expect from an actor who is the product of a Catholic missionary mother (and artist) and a Torres Straight Islander father? But yes, love him, I do. It makes beautiful sense on paper, but I've just never put him in that frame. We're risking our friendship, is my standard response to his persistent overtures. We look good together, he points out. He is a majestic looking man - tall, dark and dignified, but I still don't see it. He would have to give up smoking for starters. He asks when I'm going to give up the Latino toy boy. He has a point and maybe it is over - it's not like the toy boy has bothered to call. But I guess you wouldn't call to see how your girlfriend was feeling if you thought she was making it up in the first place.

I will stay at his place Sunday night in Brisbane before my rescheduled flight on Monday. Past experience tells me this is risky - he likes to 'cuddle', but I'll do it anyway. The Colombian man-boy is speaking to me again, but I'm growing tired of his adolescent ways and I'm just bloody tired in general, so it's likely I won't give a sweet stuff pretty soon whether he speaks to me again or not, in English or Spanish.

Wednesday, January 07, 2009

Fare thee well 2008 and don't bother coming back - Part 1

I wrote this one three weeks ago, but ran out of steam to finish it - some gentle urging by Lad Litter however, has inspired me to post it - as is. So let's call this post, Part 1 and I'll get to working on Part 2 right away...


2008, by gawd, let it rest in pieces. You know you sometimes have one of those years that lurch from chaotic, to tragic, to hell and all the way back again to purgatory. It was one of those years. Not that it sucked in its entirety, but still, I will be v. gleeful to see the arse-end of 2008 out through a blur of alcohol, high voltage tunes and chemical mood enhancers on NYE. In chronological order then these would be reasons why 2008 will be the year I'd be happy never to remember:-

NYE 2007 - sodden, rain-soaked, tent-drenched, mud-smeared NYE at Woodford Folk Festival abandoned. Early night sharing bed with teenage daughter in campervan at Dad's house considered a better - by virtue of its dryness - option. Auspicious start, to be sure.

January 2008 - start work on a Year 1 class at Where-did-that-knife-come-from? Public School or WPS for short. Principal says I'll only be there 3 weeks. Principal is certified, long term of 60 plus years standing a-hole.

Living in cramped, slanty floored apartment in Coogee. Flatmate/friend announces he's moving to Brisbane, after reassuring me he'd be around until at least March. Never mind. Advertise for new flatty. Find sun-shiny, blonde, wide-eyed 18 yr old girl. She's cute and happy and will out most nights dancing salsa. Perfect.

February,March, April 2008 - Three weeks turns into a term. Still not offered contract. Therefore no sick pay, no holiday pay and no recognition of service to count towards any future pay rises.

May, June 2008 - Back for round two. Finally offered contract, but only for term 2. New student arrives in my class. Newly arrived from NZ, she was originally placed in a Year 2 but it was soon apparent that she was not academically or socially ready to be in Year 2. Child quickly starts displaying frequent and concerning anti-social behaviours. Child referred to school counsellor by me. Am given another new child. Not a behaviour problem, but essentially can't read and is an ESL child. All part of the job.


Salsa dancing 18 yr old flatmate with an aversion to dishwashing liquid announces she's moving back to Canberra because she misses her boyfriend too much. Have to find new flatty or move out. Opt to move into house with friends. Find wicked, affordable house in Bondi (good thing). Move house. Moving is stressful, even if the destination is entirely worth it.


Start seeing Spanish teacher - the Colombian man-boy. Nothing too complicated, but he does like to bite. Ouch.


July 2008 - Term 3 begins. Finally offered contract for the rest of the year. Yay, some holiday pay and some paid mental health days, should I need. Another new kid. This one is bright but it soon becomes apparent that he, too, 'does not play well with others'. Three other boys are also exhibiting a wide range of 'difficult' and 'challenging' behaviours. Suspect at least one, maybe two, might be hovering down the aspergers end of the autism spectrum. Symptoms are v. suspicious at any rate. The feeling of hating my job is starting to creep up on me.

Start my Master of Cultural Studies as Syd uni. I know it will be extra yakka, but at least it will harden up the mush my brain has turned into teaching Year One and there won't be a 6 yr old in sight.


August, September 2008 - Class is getting harder and harder to control. It's rare that I actually don't like a child but the girl with the bogan-spelled name from Auckland, NZ is the most unlikeable child I've encountered in 14 years of teaching. How does a 7 yr old become an A-grade bitch? This thing has got bullying down pat. She name calls, she teases, she hits, she lies, she says sexually inappropriate things, she's manipulative, she swears, she kicks, she pushes. She's a fucking nightmare and I'm stressed to sleep-deprived eyeballs.


Teenage daughter has another bout of vomiting and diarrhoea that goes on for three days. The third one is as many months. Father & I converse and crinkle brows alike over offspring's condition. Doctor is at a loss.

Another new arrival, a bit later in the term. A big, strapping Polish boy with not a word of English. Family has taken up residency at the Polish consulate down the road. He cries and throws tantrums for a week. I can't move him off the couch. And then the culture shock wears off and I've got the daddy of all behaviour problems on my hand. I've already got 4 of them on individual behaviour programs, with a fifth one pending, but this one makes the others look like amateurs. A creative child, he easily turns hat stands, chairs, rulers and mobilo into bazookas and other assorted violent arsenal. He may not know any English but he knows the sound an AK-47 makes. I catch him shooting his 'bazooka' at a child he has sitting on chair in front of him, execution style. I blame Nintendo. He's loud, aggressive and big. There is a 10 fold increase in childhood injuries just in the vicinity of my classroom. Bogan devil-spawn or bitchface, as I've come to refer to her as, is just as unrelenting. Tears are never far away as the refrain of 'B*********** called me a poo-face/bitch/dickhead' become par for gruelling course. 'Just ignore it' is my slogan of the term.


I've exhausted every behaviour management technique in the book. Success has been limited. The only thing that really works is a bit of old fashioned yelling and screaming. I hate doing it - it's not my style - but it's all I've got. Naturally, there are a few parents who don't like it and being that my classroom is a goldfish bowl, my every move is scrutinised and criticised. I'd like to see them try it. I am clearly NOT COPING.


But, luckily I have boyfriend now, so at least I'm getting a bit to take the edge off things. A trip to the doctor for a quick STI check and maybe I'll get a prescription for the pill while I'm at it. Slightly concerned by lateness of period, but not overly. I mean surely not. My fertility, according to those who say they know, was supposed to plummet like the global economy the day I turned 34. They were wrong. My fertility system obviously doesn't know I'm 35 yet because all its parts are in perfect working order. Brief fantasies of mid-30s motherhood cloud my better judgement for a week or two, but reality wins in the end and I discover that there is a discreet little clinic on Devonshire Street in Surrey Hills for just such matters. Colombian man-boy's half-cocked plan to take our ill-gotten offspring back to Colombia to be raised without me is averted at the first minute. During my grand total of three days off - one for unrelenting morning sickness, one for the deed itself and one for recuperation - I work on a seminar presentation that I have to give the following week for uni and a job application for a position at the ABC. Dull, never.


October 2008 - It's official. I hate my job, quite passionately. When I have the energy to do so, that is. But there is a two week respite on the golden horizon. Two weeks in order to finish off an assignment for my TESOL qualification and do my research project for uni. I intend to immerse myself in the world of AFL footballers and their sex lives. Anything is preferable to being at work.


Go back for the fourth and final round, not exactly refreshed and ready, but resolved to stay on top of things and not let it turn into a trainwreck. I will be the behaviour management queen. We're off to a hectic start - I'm up first to do an assembly presentation. This means putting together a short item for the kids to perform in less than a week. Creative genius that I am, I put something together and we start practicing. Bitchface is back in fine form from the word go. I send her to my AP's room on at least 3 occasions in the first week. The first week comes to an end. The kids did a fine job of their assembly presentation and I reward them with some free play in the afternoon. Bitchface calls another child a dickhead, again. Child dobs. I'm over it. I call her over, tell her she's lost her freeplay privileges and tell her to go to timeout. Bitchface turns around and says 'My Mum and Dad have called Ms *********** to complain about you'. Whatever.


Following Monday morning, Bitchface is not at school. Revel in brief respite. Meantime, stepfather (who is a live-in funeral director in a nearby suburb and the reason the bogan family are able to send their bogan devil-spawn to a school in an area that is far, far and above their breeding, class, education and manners) rings school saying Bitchface is home today because I assaulted her on the Friday previous. Nutshell - a formal three page complaint is drafted cataloguing a list of my sins. Things I have said are taken out of context and twisted to suit their agenda. My initial referral to the counsellor is questioned under the premise that they can't see what the problem is with their bogan devil-spawn and I must be making it up. And then the allegation of assault. I pushed her over they claim and then I didn't even say sorry. The fact that I never touched the little shit and she is a serial liar was obviously never taken into consideration. This is a child who has come to school claiming her own stepfather has hit/pushed her, I might add. A claim that I dismissed as a lie at the time. A formal investigation ensues with the deputy principal nominated as the investigating officer. I sit through a formal interview process and address every single claim in the letter. A wonderful colleague sits with and metaphorically holds my hand. I then have to write a letter of response. My research assignment for uni is only due in less that two weeks, but never mind, I've still got time to write a 7 page response. It's scathing, logical and articulate. On the upside the offending child is moved to another Year One class. It's almost worth it to be rid of her. Investigation ends with an 'insubstantial evidence' conclusion. Parents are informed and also told that a DOCS report has been filed against them relating to Bitchface's claims of assault against her stepfather and the troubling sexual comments she makes to other children. A small victory, but it's taken its toll.

TD's bouts of vomiting and diarrhoea are becoming more frequent - at least once a week. She has taken a lot of days off school. Father & I continue to worry ourselves sick. She has referral to a paediatric gastrologist but the waiting list is three months.


November 2008 - The end is coming but there is a shit load to do between now and the end of term. I hand in my final research project for uni, which I think is pretty damn OK. Kids are still challenging but I'm coping and I've got the ESL teacher in the room most afternoons to help me manage the Polish brute. Another parent starts complaining about me. The usual 'my child's gifted & talented' etc and I'm not doing anything about it. I've got this boy on a behaviour book because he has the social skills of a blowfly round a pavlova. Reports are written and handed over to supervisor. It's just a matter of hanging in there now. We are asked to put in our preferences for next year. As much as I'd like to just walk away, I still need a job. Stupidly, crazily, I nominate Year One again. Really, what was I thinking.

Father of TD opts to take her to a private gastrologist instead as she is continuing to get worse. It's expensive, but at least he's thorough. He performs tests for food intolerances, he does X-rays, he even does a pregnancy test (unbeknownst to TD who I know is still in possession of her big V).

December 2008 - A few weeks later the principal comes to see me. They 'can't accommodate' me next year. I'm given some blatant bullshit story and start to worry about how I'm going to pay my rent next year. An email is sent to all the staff with the the classes everyone will be on next year. My position, that is, the Year One position in my classroom is 'TBA'. Humiliating is the only word I've got, but the outrage and support from other staff members/friends was overwhelming. Not one of my supervisors comes to see me about it or explain to me what has happened. Hung. Out. To. Dry. Decide just to keep my head up and just keep doing the job I'm still being paid to do.


Second last week of school - Make the decision not to apply for any permanent positions in other schools nearby that are going for next year. If I've learnt anything this year, it's that I don't want to be a primary school teacher and the rest of my life doing I job I despise is a bloody long time and a waste of a good life. Action plan - finish bloody TESOL qualification and get a job teaching English to adults, here or OS, it doesn't matter as long as the students are of an age where they can vote and/or drink and don't have proclivities towards rolling on the floor, yelling, grunting, farting and throwing pencils out the window. I will also pick up another subject on my Masters and do a bit of casual teaching in the interim. A lovely teacher - a casual who is not getting the arse - gives me the number of a woman who supplies private schools in the area with casuals. I update my resume and send it to this lady. That's about as proactive as it gets. Not the soundest of financial plans, but I don't care. In the meantime, another casual who is also getting the arse from WPS has been busy applying for jobs all over the place. I admire her chutzpah, but I have no desire to compete. Her efforts pay off - she is offered a year's contract at an exclusive boys private school and a permanent one in a public school. She wants permanent and accepts the later. I haven't spoken to my AP in three weeks. We were once good friends. She was the one who acted as a referee when I punched a policeman. I know she's the reason I no longer have a job.

Last week of school
Monday - Still hanging in there. 'Celebrations Assembly'. Year One perform Maypole dance. V. Cute. Parents suitably impressed. Tension between self & AP is palatable. Classroom is a bomb, but TD* is around to help me sort, chuck, recycle, rip-up and pack-up. Darling child. Lady who I sent CV to last week contacts me Monday night. Am I interested in position at v. expensive private boys school that my friend/colleague turned down? No. No way. Don't want a full time job next year. Just think about it tonight, she says, and get back to me in the morning. I do think about it. Better pay, muchly. Impressive addition to CV - get me a job in an international school OS. Facilities and resources to die for. Plenty of support staff. Treated like a professional. Potentially meet filthy rich Eastern suburbs divorcee/father who wants to marry me and I'll never have to work again. I'm not really seeing a downside here.

Tuesday - Ring lady first thing in morning to express my interest in going for the job. She's thrilled. Arrange to meet at 6pm that night for an interview. Make it through to 3pm, head into Syd uni to pick up my research assignment. Have coffee at Broadway & read lecturer's comments on essay. Got a high distinction, which means I got a HD for the whole subject. Suitably stoked. Time to head to interview. Meet with lady. Goes very well, we get along like proverbial house in flames. As I'm driving home, the head of junior school at v. expensive, private boys school contacts me. Can I come for an interview at 4:30pm the next day? Oh, and he needs two referees from WPS. Yeah, no problem, I say. Brace myself to face up to AP to ask if she'll be a referee. Surely, even if she was behind my arsing from WPS, she'd do the right thing to help me get another job? Surely.

Wednesday - Start the day with 6:30am body attack class as I won't be able to do my usual Wednesday afternoon pump/attack double. At school by 8:15, finish putting on make-up in staff bathroom. Teacher w/ permanent squeezed lemon expression comes past & we make chit-chat. She's asks me about me plans next year & I casually comment that I have an interview this afternoon for v. expensive boys school. Lemon face makes comments about my 'behaviour management' skills or apparent lack there of and it being the reason why I don't have a job at WPS next year. Yeah, that's just the sort of morale boost I need before a job interview. Bitch. Manage to hold it together for 5 minutes until she leaves. Promptly burst into tears & realise that I haven't a chance in hell of getting a positive rap from AP as her & lemon face are on the same side in the political warfare that is the culture of WPS.

Log in soon(ish) for Part 2...