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I come from a country too young to have formed any real racial boundaries. Oh, they exist, but I’m not part of them. They do not affect me in my world, and therefore they do not exist. So don’t tell me about cultural displacement. And lost language. Art. The disintegration of the Whanau. Poverty. Unemployment. Stolen generations? Don’t make me laugh. Get off your lazy choose-your-choice-of–coloured arse. Work your way out. And up. Educate yourself. You had no written language until we gave you one. Use it. I don’t want to hear how you lost something you never had. Perhaps, then, it was never strong enough to keep?
And don’t tell me you can’t go to school because you have to work for money to pay for food. I had to, too. I worked all my school holidays, I know what it’s like. I’ve worked in a factory. I’ve been there. We had no tv when I was kid. Used to go round to the neighbours to watch it, sometimes just stand outside their window looking in, trying to make out the words on tv-stars’ lips, hoping the people inside didn’t see me and tell me to go away before the program finished.
Don’t bother telling me your father beats your mother. Don’t tell me he beats you. Is that an excuse? I had hidings, plenty of them. Behave. Bet you’ve got enough money for booze though, eh? Enough for some smoke too. Bet you got a tv or two, haven’t you bro. Probably one of mine, too. Don’t tell me about poverty, because I already know.
But maybe it’s not your fault, after all, you’re constrained by your identity, indelibly bound to a culture that you can trace back further than my ancestry. You are not lucky like me, my friend, for I’m not from a racial minority therefore I can have no culture. I can assimilate anything I choose. Be anyone. Be anything. I can select from a menu the philosophy of my choice. Whet my appetite with cultural fingerfood, and wash it all down with a glass of the finest blend of religion. But only the choicest cuts, only what is considered most fashionable. The here and now. I am not limited in the way that you define yourself, your history, your culture.
Oh yes, there is freedom in my world, my indigenous friend. My world, not yours. It is my oyster. And that’s why I choose McDonalds.
Tags: white trash, writing
Current Music: Samuel Scott Flynn "The Hunt Brings Us Life" (2006)
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Taken from Sean William's blog: There's an email going around from Dymocks to subscribers to its Booklovers program. It's calling for people to sign a petition encouraging the Productivity Commission to lift restrictions on book imports into Australia. If you think (like me) that this will cripple the Australian book industry and marginalise Australian writers even further than they already are, and if you're discomfited (like me) by the thought of protests occurring outside Dymocks stores (holding innocent staff accountable for decisions made much higher up the chain), can I suggest you unsubscribe from Booklovers program instead (if you're a member) and perhaps send an email explaining why? If subscribers drop by a significant amount, the bosses will recognise the loss of goodwill for what it is (a potential loss of sales) and may feel the pinch more directly. Spread the meme. This is important. (If you don't know what on Earth I'm talking about, have a gander at the Australian Society of Authors site. It'll fill you in.) ETA: the email to direct your protest regarding the mailout is members (at) dymocks.com.au. Tags: asa, reading, writing
Current Music: The Church "Pangaea" (2009)
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