Snoskred – Life in the Country

Many Australians read this blog and I’d love for them to come over and comment on this post and give me their insights or perhaps make a post of their own. Does anyone else feel like they don’t belong here in this country, or is it just me? The Hump Day Hmmm topic this week is – Race, Society and the Internet. We Aussies have a unique view on this topic, I think.

Australia is a multi cultural land. I have been raised to appreciate and respect other cultures, traditions, beliefs – and I do. We have people from many lands who have come here. The Australian Census in 2006 lists over 30 different countries of birth for the current residents of this country – and one of those categories was “other”, so the real truth is difficult to know.

If you ask an Australian what does multi-cultural mean, they will generally mention food. Yes we have many different foods here in this country but it is about so much more. Language. Religion. Beliefs. Genetics. Art. All of that plus a lot more – right down to how the homes smell and whether you take your shoes off at the door or not.

Where I grew up was a fairly typical Australian neighbourhood. Across the road lived people from Sweden. They spoke Swedish and taught me some Swedish. They had a REAL pine Christmas tree. They had exotic names. Next door to them were people from Poland. They were stand offish. They decorated their Easter Eggs in the traditional Polish Pisanka style. Next door to them were people from Italy. Oh, the food. They took me to Midnight Mass and I adored it.

At primary (grade) school, my first best friend was Ellen. She was Chinese and just as much of an outcast at school as I was, which was why we got along so well. We both had a crush on Iva Davies from Icehouse. In year 7 there was a school camp, and Ellen was the only person whose parents would not allow her to go. In solidarity, I refused to go, and the two of us stayed behind, the only two out of almost 100 students. Her parents had a Chinese restaurant and we would go there after school, folding napkins, eating chicken and sweet corn soup, spring rolls and prawn crackers and drinking Coke. I still find it hard to drink anything else with Chinese food. The two are forever associated for me.

My second best friend was Leila. She was from Iraq. Her home smelt mystical. I cannot describe it other than to say incense sticks and spicy food. She had arrived in Australia very recently and there was a lot of fear and concern for family and friends left behind. She had the most beautiful exotic clothes and gorgeous dark curly hair and this accent which seemed to be to be sent from Heaven. I wanted to talk like her.

My third best friend was Rachel. She lived three doors up. Her parents were second generation Australian, from English stock. Her mother had this major thing about naphthalene flakes and moths. She would sprinkle naphthalene flakes on the floor and vacuum them. The smell was impregnated into Rachel’s clothes and some of the kids teased her about it. Me personally I liked the smell from a distance but going into the house was difficult, you almost needed a gas mask to survive it.

We were the four – inseparable. We came as a package. When primary school ended, none of my three best friends went to my high school. I arrived there and I was the outcast. I was not stick thin. There were 500+ people in my year level. The only people who would accept me into their group were the “nerds”. Mostly I retreated within myself because people were so rude and nasty to me. I began to hate school and look forward to the weekends when I could see my old friends from primary school. By the end of that year the four became people I saw less and less often. They’d got involved with their own school lives – but where did that leave me?

I ended up going to church to seek out people I could be friends with. There I met my new best friend who was my best friend for all of high school and quite a few years after. She was second generation Australian, her parents were from the Isle of Man in the UK. She went to a different school than me, but she was an outcast there – she was also overweight like me and she was a diabetic. She spent a lot of time in the hospital which was near to me, and I spent a lot of time there with her. I’d walk to the hospital after school and stay there until my parents picked me up about 9pm.

Around this time next door to us on the right side a new neighbour moved in from Malaysia. He was a later addition to the neighbourhood, arriving in the late 80′s. He was not too much older than me and his parents had sent him and his brother out here to go to school. I had a major crush on him but I never said a word, feeling he would be terrified by it. Instead we became very close friends. He would go back to Malaysia for several weeks over Christmas and his absence was like a gaping hole. You took your shoes off at the door. Often Leonard would find large huntsmen spiders in his shoes and say maybe this custom was not a good idea in Australia.

The majority of the population here are not “native” Australians. I was born and raised here and no matter how much I might want to be, I will never be considered a “native” Australian, just like many Americans will never be considered “native” Americans – though I don’t think Americans feel it in the same way I do (do ya’all?). I do not have any Aboriginal blood running through my veins. Many Australians would consider that to be a good thing – I personally wish there was, for many reasons. First and foremost is I want to be considered a “native” Australian. I was born here. This is my country. To be told I am not native to my own country is honestly one of the most irritating feelings.. it seems petty and pedantic but it really stings and this annoys me more the older I get.

I don’t actually know very much about my ancestors or how they got here but I do know there’s Scottish blood on my Mother’s side and English blood on my Father’s side. Maybe that’s why I’m so attracted to men in kilts. I have never seen Braveheart and I don’t understand much about Scottish traditions. I am hugely attracted to Aboriginal Art. Something about it speaks loudly to me. When I first started doing art I kept seeing dot paintings in my head.

I’m no master in Australian History or anything, but over 200 years ago the English used to send their convicts here. People who stole a loaf of bread would be shipped out to Australia as a punishment. Whoever thought up that idea had obviously never been here. The place has amazing natural beauty. Aborigines have been treated very badly in this country since about the time the convict settlers arrived. There is a lot of anger on both sides – everyone is angry, actually. It’s not my intention to go back over the history and explain why people are angry and to be honest what is in the past should be able to stay in the past. Let’s live in the now, not the past. Right?

Of course things never work that way. The major issue is, somebody introduced the Aborigines to alcohol, drugs, and petrol sniffing. Some people tried to do good things and built houses for the Aborigines to live in, perhaps they thought it would help to make them “civilised”. They were quite offended when many of the Aborigines pulled out the floor and took off the roof – they need to feel the dirt under their feet and see the stars above their heads. Oh, and some people stole a bunch of their children, claiming those kids weren’t being looked after. In fact an entire generation of Aboriginal children were stolen out of their homes. The Other Half’s own Mother was one of this stolen generation. She wasn’t wearing shoes in her backyard. That is why she and her brother were taken away.

Aha – did you pick up on that? The Other Half has Aboriginal blood in his ancestry. Oh, he’s pretty white. You can’t tell by his skin color. We believe he has two generations of white blood, though nobody can be sure, that whole stolen generation thing gets in the way of the family tree, and his Mother did not truly embrace being Aboriginal because of being stolen. It was something mentioned in a whisper. He does have a lot of the typical Aboriginal genetic traits – a thick skull, a wider, flatter, sort of squished onto his face nose, curly dark hair. To me The Other Half looks a little bit like Guy Sebastian, except without the groomed eyebrows.

Guy is a fairly unusual Australian Idol – he was not born here. Guy Sebastian was born in Klang, Malaysia to a Sri Lankan and Malaysian father, and a mother of Portuguese and English descent who had been raised in India.

If you were to look at The Other Half chances are you would guess he is from the middle east – since September 11, he cannot get through security at the airport without being vacuumed to see if he is carrying explosives. People are always surprised when *I* tell them he is Aboriginal and their initial reaction is “I thought he was from (middle east country). He does not tell people. He doesn’t mind me telling them, but to him it’s not important. It is also not a part of him because he was not raised in that culture.

To me, who values the fact that he can call himself a “native” Australian, this is pure blasphemy. On one hand I can see why – some people have a stereotypical view of Aborigines – that they are drunk homeless people. It’s not true for the majority of Aborigines, but it *is* true for a small group of them. Of course that small group are the more noticeable ones when you’re walking through the park they are drinking in. If I had the smallest amount of Aboriginal blood in me, I would rejoice and embrace the culture with open arms, because at least then I would feel like I belong here.

Because they were treated so badly in the past, like America there is now the politically correct non discrimination thing going on. Some jobs are advertised with “Must be of Aboriginal descent”. The Other Half would never apply for one of those kinds of jobs, because he does not think it is fair to anyone. He does not want to be someone’s “token” Aboriginal. There’s also a large range of free services he would have access to if he chose to identify himself as being of Aboriginal descent. He won’t do it. He says it is because he has no proof that he is Aboriginal other than what his mother has told him, and what are they going to want, DNA samples? I say the same thing about those jobs where people have to be of Aboriginal descent – do you have to take along some proof?

I sit here in a land of many cultures, and I feel completely lost. I don’t have my own culture. I mentioned before when I was growing up in primary school my best friend Ellen was Chinese. That had such enormous meaning to me. She had a language of her own, her parents ran a Chinese restaurant, when you went to her house it was filled with traditional items from her parents homeland. My house seemed empty in comparison – full of love, but no cultural history. If you asked Ellen – what is your culture – I am sure she would have a list of things as long as her arm. If you ask me – what is my culture? I don’t feel like I have one. I don’t belong here. I am here, but I don’t BELONG.

To counteract this feeling of not belonging I have begun to carve out my own culture. I take pieces from other cultures that I like, and I adopt them as my own. I have a real pine Christmas tree. I cook Italian comfort food when I feel unhappy. I eat Chinese once a week and when I feel sick I cook chicken and sweet corn soup. I love Feng Shui, aromatherapy, incense sticks, Geisha dolls, midnight mass, the Norwegian language because it speaks to me on a level I don’t even understand, beaches and Aboriginal art.

None of these small, stolen traditions will ever fill that hole I feel. It will never make me belong the way I see people from minorities belong. I don’t have my own language – and when I do type the language I know, Australian English, I am accused of not knowing how to spell. Not just by people reading my own blog but by my OWN WEB BROWSER!!! Here we use ou – favourite, colour, etc. Words that I was taught to spell in school show up with a red line under them in Firefox.

Australians, I believe our biggest challenge is still to come. We now face a new religion arriving on our shores. It’s been here for a while but now it is beginning to make its presence known. I have never been more uncomfortable. I do not like some aspects of this religion at all, in particular the Hijab and Halal. Cugat once said something very intelligent to me about Halal and I hope he repeats it in the comments – about the origins of it.

I find myself offended by what seems to me to be a religion where women are considered lesser creatures. Of course I could be wrong but that is how it looks on the face of it. I believe I may be beginning to develop a prejudice against this religion and this means I am going to have to learn more about it.

Despite the same Qur’anic obligations being issued for men and women, rules regarding dress developed so that men were to cover from their navels to their knees, whereas a women were to cover all their bodies except what was essential, that is, the hands and face.

What offends me the most is Halal. The one thing I do consider truly Australian is the Aussie Hamburger – we put everything on there we can think of. Beetroot, egg, bacon, lettuce, tomato, onion, pineapple, avocado. Now some places you can no longer get bacon because they are Halal. I wrote this post – Hang on a minute – on that topic back in November and also – Another non-religious post – as yet my views on that have not changed. I need to remember to look deeply to find the similarities between myself and people who follow this religion or else there’s a chance I might not accept them. That’s difficult when you feel offended as a woman by such a religion – how can I reconcile the woman I am to the women who follow something which seems to be oppressive to women?

I leave you with Guy Sebastian. People not from Australia, and people who didn’t watch the first season of Australian Idol might not understand why Australia chose him. I believe watching this clip makes it fairly obvious.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference

Back in the days before the reality tv show Temptation Island existed, I met with a man who can only be described as a powerful force – a cyclone perhaps – of temptation in my life. He was tall, blonde, devastatingly handsome in an Aussie Bloke kind of way and he possessed a set of legs the likes of which I have never seen since. He also enjoyed wearing the shortest of short football shorts and Rexona musk deodorant which on him took on a new fragrance I cannot describe at all other than to say it made my brain turn into complete spaghetti.

When *not* in his presence, I was happy to admit that he was financially a nightmare – he spent money like water. I spent money like water. The two of us together would have spent our way into a large financial black hole. He was also emotionally damaged and drifting through life without purpose, having been the driver of his car one evening on the way home from a function where he had not been drinking but the roads were wet and he was in a ute and the back end spun out when it hit some loose gravel. The passenger side of his car ended up wrapped around a tree. Sitting in the passenger seat at the time was the love of his life. He woke up having been thrown from the vehicle with two broken legs and was trying to make his way back to the car when help arrived, at which point he passed out. Some hours later when he regained consciousness in hospital, they told him that his girlfriend had died. He would not let ANYONE sit in the front seat of his car from that day forward – male or female.

I met him at work. He came in to buy something. He bought it from my boyfriend at the time, who I worked with. As well as the rest of my family – both parents, sister, uncles and aunts. At the time I felt completely trapped, like life was moving forward at such a fast rate of knots and I had no power over anything. I really didn’t know what I wanted in life. But from day one there was something between us and neither of us were sure exactly what that something was.

So, we all got to be pretty good friends. This was back in the days when I had a huge group of friends. He would visit the share house we all lived in (a story for another time) fairly often, but so did a lot of people. I used to cook the dinners in the share house and all the boys would be out working on cars or something, but he would come in and chat to me while I was working. I thought it was just me, that I was the only one who felt anything until one day and I can’t remember how or where or anything except he told me that if I wasn’t with a good friend of his.. I can’t remember the words really, I just remember thinking wow, this is heavy stuff. What do I do now?

Logically we talked about it. We discussed the complete explosion that would be created if we did get together. We discussed the fact that he was not comfortable making any kind of move while I was still with my boyfriend, and neither was I. We discussed the fact that I was not comfortable breaking up with my boyfriend without knowing more or having some kind of future plan. We discussed the fact that he did not like future plans. We discussed the fact that he and I were both financially irresponsible. And, we discussed the fact that we were both just plain crazy about each other. Endlessly. And at the end of all the discussion, we decided the most responsible thing to do was to do nothing – other than accept we weren’t going to be together because neither of us (me especially) were prepared to turn our lives upside down for something we knew nothing about.

As time went on and it got closer and closer to my wedding day, he told he he thought I was doing the wrong thing getting married, and I agreed with him. I didn’t know how to get out of the situation I’d put myself in. He didn’t know how to help me. Underneath it all for me was this feeling that I was meant to be with him. However the wedding was a like a Japanese Bullet Train and I didn’t know how to stop it – and I thought if I tried, I might just get run over by it.

I could just end the story there, but that isn’t where it ended. One night, weeks before getting married, myself and a few girlfriends had gone on a girls night out. The boys had all gone on a night out of their own. Adelaide was a small town and we were having our respective nights out in Hindley Street. So that increased the chances the boys and girls would meet up at some point.

I was young and I also drank a fair bit, back in those days. By the time we met, in a nightclub I cannot remember the name of, I was fairly drunk. He was also drinking but nowhere near as drunk as I was. What I’m about to tell you might change your opinion of me, I’m hoping not, but I’m taking a risk here telling you.

I have no idea now how it happened. I cannot tell you how we got from inside the nightclub to outside the nightclub. I cannot tell you how we ended up in each others arms. I can tell you that waking up the next morning to see him lying next to me, I felt terrible, but not for the reason you might think.

You see, after we’d decided to get a taxi back to his place, he’d gone back inside. My husband to be’s brother had spotted us outside, and cornered him to discuss what was going on. Said brother was very drunk and didn’t remember anything later, but at the time he’d threatened to punch my temptation island’s head in if he touched me again.

By the time we got back to his place, he’d already decided not to let anything further happen. I was still fairly drunk, but he’d told me what the brother said, and put me to bed where I promptly fell asleep. When I woke up I was panicked. Would brother remember seeing us? Would this mean the wedding was off? But at the same time, I *hoped* he would remember. Because I was hoping for salvation from this doomed wedding train.

No salvation came to me as a surprise, and a few weeks later I got married. My temptation island was there. He danced with me, and we both brushed tears of regret away while we danced. I have not seen him in many years but I wonder where is is now.

I often wonder about the choices I have made in my life. Would I have ended up here if I had chosen differently? I’m happy where I am now, I’m glad I’m with The Other Half – who is financially responsible (well, more than I am, he loves his gadgets but it isn’t bankrupting us). who is happy to make future plans, and we’re crazy about each other. I know that this is where I am meant to be – I just wonder, would I still have got here if the brother had remembered?

The topic today is meant to be too much of a good thing, I’m not sure this fits – it might be not enough of a good thing but the other post I wrote ended up getting too personal for me, and I’m mentally drained after going there.

This is a post I wrote some time ago but did not post, I felt it was too personal. However reading it over today having just written a much more personal post I’m feeling ok with it.

Every Wednesday Julie Pippert from The Ravin Picture Maven holds a round table discussion. This week the topic is Political Correctness. I’m mentioning it up front in case anyone would like to give this topic a poke with a sharp stick themselves.

I would say my mother is the absolute queen of political correctness. Go along to get along. Let things go off your back like water off a duck. Don’t rock the boat, especially if you’re sitting in it. Don’t speak about how you feel. Don’t tell anyone your real thoughts. Keep up appearances at all costs. If someone is being a bitch, don’t call them on it. Take the high road. Rise above it. Blah, blah, blah.

She has been like this as long as I have known her. I wish I knew what earth shattering event caused her to shut down and install roller blinds over her real thoughts – but it was probably nothing more than someone disagreeing with her when she expressed an opinion, and she felt uncomfortable, so she decided the easiest way out is just.. shut up. She hates confrontation and will do anything to avoid it – unless she’s one on one with someone like me, who has never once barked at her when she’s told me what she thinks. Sure, I have disagreed, but somehow we manage to deal with that.

Due to growing up watching this in action, I am pretty much the complete opposite. I like to *think* I am, anyway. But when I look back and think about it, I have not always stood up for myself when I could have. Sometimes there were fights I just could not win. Sometimes the fight was not worth the effort. Sometimes it is easier to just turn away and close your eyes.

Some people have chosen NOT to participate in this topic this week – it’s a busy week for many getting ready to go to Blogher and meet their fellow bloggers. If it was politically correct to do so, I’d say there may be some who chose not to speak because they did not want to face the potential repercussions of speaking their mind on such a topic. I don’t know, but that is a possibility. It’s a shame because I would have liked to read their thoughts.

I don’t have a great many myself.. I’m not feeling particularly inspired today – in fact I am feeling a pull to the DVD player. In there is DVD #3 of season 2 of Desperate Housewives – hello, my name is Snoskred, and I am a Desperate Housewives addict. This show is one of the most politically incorrect that I can recall in recent history – it is actually a dark and twisted type of comedy. People are often surprised to find that out – I know my first impression of the show was that it was just another soap opera, but no! I wonder if maybe that is why people are so drawn to it. They like to see people saying what they really think – in particular I am thinking of the Edie character who never sugar coats things. My favourite character is Bree. The shot above is taken from an episode where her recently dumped fiancee turns up while she is serving dinner to guests with a karaoke machine. He’s determined to sing her back into his arms. Bree goes outside and tells him to can it, but he won’t. So she goes inside, grabs a shotgun, and shoots the speakers off the top of the van.

Maybe that is another reason why people are drawn to the show – we love to dream of what we *could* do, what we *could* say, if only our hands weren’t tied by this PC nonsense. If only we could be REAL instead of NICE.

I read an article a couple of days ago which I’m going to link to here, it gives an interesting perspective on a new phenomenon soon to shut us up more.. I had it put aside for the wrap up but it suits todays topic. A Weak Me Too Why being the real you on the internet might not be the best of ideas..

I’m off to the shops. I might not be around much tomorrow, we have to go someplace, but I’ll be back with photos before the day is out..

I have a very good friend who likes to wallow in – well, various things. The dark hole of depression, feeling sorry for yourself, mediocrity.. the comfort zone of sabotaging yourself and setting yourself up for failure, receiving all kinds of good advice, nodding and smiling and never taking any of it.

Now I’m a very supportive friend, but there comes a time when between two good friends you have to be honest with each other, and that time came eight months ago. I spoke to this person honestly – and politely – here’s what you need to do to get yourself out of this hole. I know how to get out of these holes, having been in them myself many times.

So, I then shut up and let them get to work – at the end of the conversation I said I wouldn’t bring it up but if they wanted to chat about it they could always raise the topic. Of course, they never did. A couple of months later this person was feeling sorry for themselves again and told me so, and a pattern began to appear. I’d say all the right things – here’s how to get out of this hole. They would nod and smile and promise faithfully that they would try it. A month or two later, it would happen again. The last couple of times, I haven’t been quite so polite about it. In fact I told them they needed to get off their rear end and get to work and I pointed out this pattern which I saw clearly.

Then just a couple of hours ago this person arrived on my Skype and from the moment they said hello I knew the deal – they were down and feeling sorry for themselves, and they were waiting for me to do my usual there there, here’s how to fix it, pump you up with positives, you can do it, ra ra.

There comes a time in any relationship where you have to draw a line. You have to let go. I’ve been propping you up for far too long now. I know you can do it. I can’t do it for you. Nobody can do it for you. I can make positive changes in my own life, and I do it regularly. But I CANNOT WAVE A MAGIC WAND AND FIX YOU – though you know I would if I could. It takes hard work, and you have to do the majority of it yourself.

The major reason for setting a goal is for what it makes of you to accomplish it. What it makes of you will always be the far greater value than what you get. – Jim Rohn

I’m a huge goal setter. I’ve spoken before about my depression and the combat strategies I used, some of them were goals that I set for myself. I set goals all the time – even silly stuff like playing a game on my computer – I’ll want to get to a certain score or achievement before I quit the game.

This past couple of weeks, I have set myself a really unusual goal – to drink more water. I mentioned an article I had read in one of my weekly wrap ups and said I was implementing this change – 9 Great Reasons to Drink Water, and How to Form the Water Habit – but what I did not mention is.. I dislike water. I always have. I would prefer to drink soft drinks, coffee or fruit juice. I used to drink one can of real Coke each day with my main meal but there came a time when I really didn’t feel like it, so I would drink fruit juice instead. Before I read that article, I had begun to substitute water every third day, instead of Coke or fruit juice, mainly because the meal I was having didn’t go with either of those drinks.

So with a goal like this, it helps to break it down. The guy who wrote the article (Leo Babauta) actually did that for me – thanks! – by saying – “Best is to form a routine: drink a glass when you wake up, a glass with each meal, a glass in between meals, and be sure to drink before, during and after exercise.” This is my new religion. I have these plastic cups which hold 250ml (just over 8oz) and a chart where I gleefully tick off each cup I drink. I’m up to 8 a day. A huge change from one every 3 days.

Can you believe that after just two weeks, I would rather reach for water than anything else?

So what I know is, anything I want to achieve, I can set a goal, break that down into smaller chunks, and then set out to achieve it. If I can do it, anyone can. Me who is not very good at self discipline and who isn’t the most organised person in the world.

Sometimes it seems easier to stay in your comfort zone, to keep sabotaging yourself to stay there. The fear of the unknown, the fear of what comes next. It is no different to jumping out of a plane for the first time – except you’re basically jumping out of the plane for the first time over and over, heading towards a bigger unknown than you have ever faced before. Yes, it is scary. It can be terrifying. Who will I be without my depression? At the moment that is what defines you. That’s all you know. You’re gripping on to the doors of that plane so tight your knuckles are white.

You have to let go and jump out of that plane.. or else you will stay in that hole of depression forever, and I can’t be your friend if that’s where you want to be. You see, I dug my way out of that hole with my fingernails. When my nails were all gone, I didn’t stop digging. I used my fingertips. I was so desperate to get out of there my fingers were bloody nubs by the time I managed to climb out of there – but I made it. I’m baffled that you *want* to stay there. I can’t imagine why you would want to. It’s a horrible place to be.

If you’re willing to get out, I’ll help you. I’ll do everything I can. Except keep going round in circles like this, it is pointless and useless. I’m not going to keep enabling you to feel better every now and then – I want to enable you to feel better all the time.

Have you ever heard the Meatloaf song “I’ll do anything for love but I won’t do that”? So many people speculate about what the thing he won’t do is. The thing I won’t do is allow myself to be dragged back to that hole and pushed / pulled into it – not by *anyone* – because I know how hard it was to get out of there, how much it cost me, how much effort it took every day. I said in a previous post about depression -

Normal people who have never been depressed will not understand the effort required to do just simple every day tasks when you’re down. Just to get up out of bed and have a shower seems like something impossible. The effort involved, to me it always seemed like someone had tied weights to my arms and legs, and it was difficult to move them. Probably most people who have been down will understand that.

I’m not going back there. It’s not until you get out of there that you realize how bad it was. Please, my friend, *please* let go of thinking your dark damp hole of depression is where you should stay. It’s either that, or let go of me, because you’re dragging me to a place I WILL NOT go.