The Cerebral Mum

Magneto Bold Too summed up today - the day that Australian PM, Kevin Rudd, made a parliamentary apology to the Stolen Generations - very well…

“About fucking time.”

For my overseas readers, the Stolen Generations are those indigenous children the “white” Australians literally tore from the arms of their parents over decades, never to be returned. They were clothed, and fed, and “educated”. And stripped of their family, their heritage, their language and their culture. For their own protection. The fact that at least 17% of the girls and 8% of the boys experienced sex crimes while in the care of the government and the churches and “charitable” white families gives us a very clear picture of the quality of that “protection”.

Of course, it wasn’t just the children who were stolen, and had something stolen from them: Entire peoples were victims of this abuse.

Yes. I’m comfortable calling it what it was: Racist abuse.

I’m not interested in the arguments made about “good intentions”. (Brendan Nelson: You made a grave error of judgement.) The nature of those intentions are evident in the acts and the results of those acts, whether they were committed in ignorance or not. For some things, ignorance is not an excuse. And it cannot be claimed as one on a scale such as this.

I cannot tell their stories for them. I do not have the right and they have been doing that for themselves for a long time now, most of it without being heard. Most of it while being ignored or subjected to attacks from those unwilling to accept the faults of the past, adding more and more failures of humanity to our history.

Today, Kevin Rudd called it a “stain upon our souls”.

I don’t know what a soul is supposed to be, but I feel it as a stain, even though I was not born here, even though I was born after these crimes “officially” ended. I have felt ashamed of our history since I learned of it. I have felt ashamed that it is something I learned only as an adult. And while John Howard was in power, I am proud to say that I was ashamed to be an Australian.

I’m not very old but while I was being educated in Australian schools, Australian history consisted of the First Fleet and bushrangers and Federation and diggers. These dark facts were not given to me until I went to university and I was very aware that meant many others who went on to study in other fields were never told the truth by those who had a responsibility to do so.

As a child and a teenager, I had a strong social conscience. I carried around a tattered copy of “I have a dream…”; I had anti-apartheid posters on my walls. And all that time, I never knew what had happened in my own backyard, not just during the period of the Stolen Generations, but since settlement.

When I learned of it, I was appalled, and furious at the education system which had failed me. I can only hope that the curriculum has improved since then. I do not want my son raised in the same self-satisfied and blinded atmosphere I was. A past so heinous needs to be addressed, if not by those who created it, then by those who are its inheritors.

So this was me in the 90s, wearing my reconciliation armband; the armband which sold out within a day of appearing on the shelves at The Body Shop because I was not alone in my sentiments. Below me was Nicole Kidman, a “glamorous activist” fighting for the same thing I was. I marched for Land Rights, for The Wik Decision, for the Amendment to the Native Title Act. I read and I watched and I argued and I cried.

In the scheme of things, did that mean anything?

I look at it now and see a white girl who came to this country and was granted all the rights of a citizen without question. I look at it and see a white girl who will never be able comprehend the enormity of the pain that was caused to the people she wanted to stand up for. I look at it now and see a pretty white girl in the newspaper when faces other than hers should have been seen, when voices other than hers should have been heard.

But I cried today when that symbolic act took place. I cried to hear, finally, an official apology which was unequivocal and made no excuses. I cried to see someone stand up and speak the truth on behalf of all of us who have wanted it spoken for so long. Not because it expatiates our history’s wrongs, not because it absolves us of our guilt, but simply because, as Cathy Freeman said, “It is the right thing to do.”

I’m very sure that for some members of the Stolen Generations, and some of those effected by the policies of successive Australian governments and the behaviour of generations of white settlers, the words spoken today will mean little. And that’s fine. Victims of abuse are not required to forgive and forget. For others, they might find a little peace in finally hearing words of acknowledgement which have been so long in coming and I am glad of that.

But the shame of our county’s past, and the stain upon my “soul”, will not be washed away until our indigenous children stop dying, until our indigenous people live long and full lives, until our indigenous people have the same access to the healthcare and education and services we enjoy and they are free to make their own choices about using them, not just in law but in fact.

This apology which is so long overdue… It’s a beginning.

What Others Are Saying…

• Dances To The Beet Of Her Own Drum: Sorry
• A Roaming Aussie Mum: Sorry
• Magneto Too Bold: Sorry
• Miscellaneous Adventures of an Aussie Mum: Apology Day
• Even In A Little Thing: 13th February
• All For Women: Sorry
• Pomgirl: Sorry
• SnakyPoet: Sorry Day
• Multifarious Mushrooms: Sorry day in Australia, 13th February, 2008
• Chris Barnes: Sorry
• Occasional Vague Ramblings: Sorry
• Booked Inn: Preparing For Sorry
• Random Thoughts & Images: Saying Sorry
• Stuff With Thing: Sorry
• Beware the Creeper: Sorry
• The Museum of Vestigial Office Technology: Sorry
• The Stopped Clock: Sorry
• World Con Cavalcade: Sorry
• Despite All The Rage I Am Still Just A Rat In A Cage: Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word
• Girlie Jones: Today We Are Sorry
• Corporate Engagement: A wonderful day in Australia, I come to bury John Howard
• Penguin Unearthed: Sorry
• Personal Political: The Apology”
• Sorrow At Sills Bend: They said it
• Creativity/Machine: After the Apology
• Shelf Life: Sorry
• Get Shouty: Sorry Day
• Servant Of Chaos: Sorry
• Joh Blogs: The Apology
• What Are We Doing Today, Brain?: Sorry
• Scarlet Words: I’m Sorry
• SultanaBlog: The Apology
• Filtered: The day when “sorry” mattered
• The Body Shop Activist: A New Beginning
• Public Polity: This Whole Sorry Business
• My Big World of Crap: Sorry
• Imaginif: Chalk pathways to community healing for stolen Aboriginal children

Anyone who I have missed, please leave a link to your post about the apology in the comments or send it to me via my contact form and I will add it to the list.

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I have a confession to make: In spite of the fact that I’m a hard-ass (Yes, I am a hard-ass!), I’m a sucker for romantic comedies.

Today we went to the video store, something I haven’t done in a long time, and while Caspar played on the slide with Big Sis (Yes, my video store has play equipment!), I wandered around and selected a couple of $2.95 overnighters. I like watching brainless movies on lazy days and this afternoon, while Cas slept for 2 hours (That’s right, 2 hours!), I curled up on my living room bed and watched Music and Lyrics.

I know. It’s fluff.

It’s entirely ridiculous and the storyline is thin to say the least. And I loathe pop music. And I loathe pop culture. In fact, I loathe everything formulaic so it could easily be described as 84 minutes of my life that I will never get back. But I enjoyed every one of those minutes and they left me gooey and smiling, blissfully immune to the realities of the world.

Of course, it helps that Drew Barrymore is, well… Drew Barrymore and that Hugh Grant, although sometimes a twat, occasionally displays the self-deprecating charm the English do so well.

(Which, incidentally, is another thing I’m a sucker for. Witness Exhibit A.)

I’m not sure why I like Rom Coms so much. It’s out of character. I’m not a sappy type and I don’t understand fussing over Valentine’s Day or anniversaries. I don’t understand candlelight dinners or flowers or chocolate. In fact, I don’t even like chocolate, especially when it’s heart-shaped. Basically, all the behaviours stereotypically associated with “romance” make me want to heave.

Even when I’m in love.

Of course, this one suckered me with a little nostalgia, having stayed up nights writing lyrics with more than one boyfriend myself, spent time standing in the sidelines while friends or lovers played, even having once dated a has-been. (I’ll stress again here, before you follow that link: That post is fictional. It might contain some biographical elements, but you’ll never know which parts.)

But in the film when Sophie (Drew Barrymore) asks her sister how you know when someone is passionate, her sister says, “When they do something extraordinary.” Perhaps that is the appeal these movies have for me.

Life is large. Life should be large. I feel largely.

And expect the extraordinary.

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This isn’t a rant, because it doesn’t piss me off. It’s just something about human beings which boggles my mind.

I had a great day out today. It was my friend’s birthday and we met for lunch, in the suburb I most consider “home” which I don’t see enough of these days. It was sunny. Caspar didn’t sleep all day but behaved like the angel he is because he was out and everything was interesting. I’m proud that he only says one word, and that he said it to the waiter who brought him his babycino.

“Taa.”

So we walk to the train station to go back to the suburb we actually live in. It’s sardine peak hour and I have a pram. I check one door then the next and think there’s no way I’ll be squeezing in, even though I know the next train will be just the same. Then I see a young man waving at me from the next carriage. He very politely rearranges the people inside and squeezes me in, and then goes to another carriage to find space for himself. Phenomenal. I love him.

And, obviously, he’s not the man I have a problem with.

So there’s this man in a suit standing next to me. I’m jammed up against the door, the handle pressing into my spine, only able to reach Cas by stretching over the top of the stroller. And that’s fine. Because despite his exhaustion and slight crankiness, Caspar is a beautifully behaved child and he doesn’t cry and screech about being strapped in with no one to talk to.

So the people thin out and the man goes and takes a seat. Now that I have room, I squat beside the pram, silently playing peek-a-boo because I am considerate of the passengers and there is only so much you can expect, even from an angel, when the train journey is an hour long.

And this tosser sits there in his navy blue uniform like the stuffed shirt he is, giving me dirty looks and sneering, and whispering to the person sitting across from him.

WTF? So I’m running through my head what on earth he thinks he can disrespect me for. What? I made sure Cas didn’t bother anyone. I was a smiling and happy, attentive mother. Caspar didn’t have a pooey nappy. Does he think that parents and children don’t have a right to go where they want whenever they want? Be on public transport when “working people” are? Did he not like the fact that I was wearing a low cut top? What?

Like I said, not a rant. I’ll never have any idea what his issue is. But what makes the human mind think however he was thinking? What judgements did he make, based on standing next to me, silently, as commuters do, for half an hour? What the fuck does he think he knows?

I just don’t get people.

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What a difference a (night) makes!  I honestly can’t believe it.  This morning I woke at my usual time (I’ve been well trained by my human alarm) to silence.  Cas was awake when I went in to pick him up, standing and waiting, but perfectly happy.  And I was happy. 

Because I wasn’t woken up by god-awful screeching.

You guys were such a great help and I can’t believe this idea had never occurred to me.  I was completely trapped in this "impossible" mindset.  But I did something even more radical than putting a camping mattress in the lounge.  I broke down the bed altogether and cleared the room.  This doesn’t just solve my sleep problem: It solves the major problem of mess.

The house has been full of half packed boxes, lining the hallway and cluttering up the living space.  Trying to clear it up with Cas running around a pulling everything out of boxes has been a Sisyphean task, always depressingly one step forward and two steps back.  Cas is a fantastic, easy boy but I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in the experience of cleaning everything up only to have the place looking like a disaster area again not an hour later.

Now the boxes and things to be sorted out are stacked neatly against the wall in the bedroom, where I can close the door.  It’s not entirely sorted out yet but I feel like I’m getting somewhere.  Who knows, I might escape the suburbs after all.

Today, I even had the opportunity to take an afternoon nap.  Big Sis was out with the boyfriend, and the mattress was lying there waiting for me.  I didn’t use it: I got caught up in some of the usual Internet things.  But I could have and that was a really nice feeling.

I still have a sleep deficit and I won’t be out of the red any time soon.  By about 5pm I was tired and cranky, and then of course wide awake and passed the point of sleep by the time Caspar went to bed.

But I don’t feel hopeless anymore and I don’t feel trapped by the situation.  Such an easy fix. So here’s to another good night’s sleep!

(Whenever I decide to go to bed.)

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Because I’m exhausted.

Caspar and I share a room.  That’s a necessity, living in my sister’s house.  But he’s getting too big to share a room with now.  I guess he’s no longer a baby and he no longer sleeps like one.  He wakes when I go to bed, and he wakes me up unpleasantly in the morning, leaving me drained.

I’ve been slack lately, too tired to deal with him crying so I get him up when I should be falling asleep; so I give him cuddles and let him sleep with me.  But I’m not good at sleeping so by the time he settles, I’m stuck in my insomniac state again and it feels like I never get a chance for natural rest.  It’s driving me batty and it’s making me extraordinarily cranky in the mornings which isn’t nice for anyone.

Last night I went to bed very early, 10pm, to try and catch up.  It was a waste of time, which is what led to those bitter tears this morning. I really need a good night’s sleep; one where I go to bed when I’m ready, read until my eyes are closing of their own accord and wake up slowly, snoozing a little more if I want to and rising when I feel refreshed.

Refreshed.

Yeah.

That’s not a feeling I’m familiar with at the moment.  It’s my own fault because I pick him up and I know that I should really let him cry himself back to sleep.  I also know that he’s a very good sleeper and that makes it all the more frustrating.  But it’s much easier to let your child cry when you’re not right there in the room, when he’s not crying directly at you, just a metre away from where you’re trying to sleep.  It’s not like I can hide.  Just me being there in his line of sight is enough to wake him up more fully and make him more insistent.

I love him dearly, I even love the midnight snuggles, but while I don’t require a lot of sleep, right now I’m at breaking point.  I know I need to let him scream at me in order for him to get back his ability to soothe himself, in order to break his habit of waking which I’m actually encouraging with the "reward" of cuddles and snuggles.

And isn’t it always the way that you have to do the hardest things when you have the least ability to do them?

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I looked at the date today. Did you know that it was February already? It’s less than two weeks to my birthday so…

This is my wish list…

(Otherwise known as the things I really want that nobody will buy for me.)

Photo Credit: Hugo90	I Need Wheels I really do need a car. You know, so I could have a life. I don’t have high standards. Small and cute will do. I’m kind of kitsch and like old things. Maybe a Hillman like my mother had. Oh, and look, there’s one for sale. It’s got a Roadworthy Certificate. And even better than the RWC, it’s got red leather seats. Now that is a perfect gift! Do you love me $4,500…
Available from: vaginaisforlovers.com	I Love This T-Shirt! I discovered it when I first started blogging and it has since been made available to buy. It’s not as expensive as the car, but it would make me really, really happy! And I know my mother isn’t going to buy it for me. Mother’s are strange that way. And yes, I want the pink one! (PS: If nobody buys me this brilliant present, I’ll continue waiting anxiously for the day I can afford it for myself.)
Designed by Jun Takashi	If I Only Had A Brain (Bag) Could you think of a better gift for a Cerebral Mum? Apparently the cool people discovered it at Boing Boing, but I never said I was cool. Actually, I think my source (Neurophilosophy) has far more caché. Unfortunately, nobody can buy this for me because only one was made. But it’s hand knitted so a particularly crafty admirer might be able to replicate it.
Available from: Amazon	The 7 Inches The Asus Eee 2G Surf 7″ Yes, it’s tiny but oh, so adorable. It’s memory and RAM isn’t exactly gigantic either, but it would be fantastic now that I’m a student again. I could sit in the university cafe, sipping my macchiato, organising my notes and writing my essays. And the price is so plausible. Who thought you could by a laptop for $303.92?
Available from: Made With Molecules	Molecular Bling I’m depressed, remember? I could use a little chemical help. That’s what it is, by the way: The molecular structure of serotonin. I love all the jewellery from Made With Molecules and they come gorgeously boxed with a little explanation. There’s some for chocolate, caffeine, and even oestrogen. Isn’t bling better that HRT?

Of course, I shouldn’t be greedy because I’ve already received 2 gifts, courtesy of Leigh at All For Women who crunches the numbers and maintains the Top 100 Australian Women’s Blogs list. Thank you, Leigh!

And Happy Birthday to Me! (Almost)

The Cerebral Mum #68 Blogging Personal #77

Edited to add: And the lovely Karen over at Miscellaneous Adventures of an Aussie Mum has awarded me an E for Excellence. It must be my month!

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Yesterday, I installed Windows Live Writer. After a few recommendations from the guys over at the Aussie Bloggers Forum, I thought I would give it a try. And tonight, I had plans. I had things to do. Writing a post for The Cerebral Mum was one of them.

But my stupid ISP, or my stupid network, or my stupid computer is screwing me around again. Seriously?! Seriously?! Yes, I watch Grey’s Anatomy too much but I have had more downtime in the last month than I have had in the last year and it’s driving me batty.

Yet here I am, offline, writing my post and when I get reconnected all I need to do is press publish from my desktop. I don’t need to cut and paste a text file, or upload or sign in or anything. In theory, anyway.

And now that I’ll be writing for 4 blogs (possibly 5 soon), I think this is going to be a very handy tool. I’ve set it up to publish here, at Blogging Personal, and at Aussie Bloggers. Once WinterWarm is taken off maintenance mode, I’ll add that too.

Incidentally, I’ve finally added a 3rd post over at Blogging Personal and my first Aussie Blogger’s guest post is up so if you’ve got nothing better to do… Oh, and I’ve started a tumble log as well, but be warned: It isn’t pretty yet.

Anyway. This is probably not interesting. But looks like evil Microsoft might indeed have made me happy.

Seriously!

And look at that! Now it’s time to see what this puppy can do. (I hope I don’t send it to the wrong blog.) Testing, testing…

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