Know your place

So I’m chatting with this racist the other day and he goes “you can’t call me racist, just because I am white. That’s racist”.

And I was like, “nah bro, it was because you said some racist things”. 

But then he called his mate over “this is Joel the white knight” he says. 

So now I knew that I was in trouble. Joel gave me a good talking to about how aggressive it is to call someone a racist. “That’s some scary stuff coming from your keyboard” he said. “I didn’t see any racism,” he told me, “and my wife is a person of colour”. 

So everyone knows that if you have a black friend or if your wife is a person of colour then you can’t be a racist. Like how captain cook kidnapped and raped Indigenous children. That wasn’t racist. 

So I’m a bit of a numbers guy. I count the likes on comments to see where I stand in the court of public opinion. And I will be honest, I was definitely in the wrong. I learned my lesson about calling people racist. Trust me my friends. You don’t want to do it. 

Adam Goodes can attest. Remember him. He got booed for years after doing it. Better to be a racist than to call someone a racist I reckon. 

We don’t seem to learn though do we. Suckers for punishment I guess. 

Yumi Stynes can attest. Remember her. When KAK told us that Indigenous people didn’t deserve any justice because their communities had crime. “You’re sounding quite racist,” said Yumi. Once again the court decided in favour of the offending person, KAK. You can’t just call people racist you see. This is the lesson. It is worse to call someone a racist than it is to be a racist. 

But maybe beyond the court of social opinion, maybe the actual courts could hold justice for all? In 1991 a royal commission into Aboriginal deaths in custody published their report. During the next 29 years there would be over 400 more Aboriginal deaths in custody. There would also be zero justice for families of the deceased. Over 400 times the government would tell Indigenous Australians that there is no justice to be had for you. 

When I saw the murder of George Floyd I wept. This was the face of my Father, my Brothers, my Uncles, my Cousins. This was a gentle face. And the message was clear. We can kill you and yours and society does not have the mechanisms for you to seek justice. Besides, “the deceased had a criminal record and does not deserve to be treated like a human”. An Australian Senator told me this last week. Well not directly, but a lot of my friends told me that she said it. 

When I was in high school a group of three older boys beat and kicked me into submission. I was a cheeky young boy, and I hadn’t yet learned my place. Three of my best friends watched me take that beating. I didn’t think anything of that until years later when I told my father about it. “Some people just won’t have your back,” he said. That was another really important lesson. 

It has been two years since my battle with the white knight. And I know the energy that battle took from me. I am not yet fully recovered. But I promised myself that when my friends are being kicked and beaten I would step in. I told myself that I would not be a coward.

And I am terrified. Because I tell myself that I don’t care what any of you think but that is a lie. I say that I don’t care that you don’t have my back. I say that I don’t need your help. I am a god among men. A titan. I am Tāwhirimatea himself and I bear the winds of change at my back. And I rage and I howl to the heavens for justice. Knowing that I am alone, and scared, and that I will be beaten and kicked again. 

But what kind of man am I that does not stand beside his friends. So even though I am not a god or a titan, even though I am scarred and old and my back is broken, I lend my voice to the others.

Because I don’t know my place yet. Why don’t you tell me.

To Speak

“An aborigine walks into a bar wearing one shoe…” she said.

Flame-light flickered on the faces of my closest friends.
Sand beneath our feet, a salty wind blowing up from the sea.
Laughter from our friends, one man and I shared a look across the fire.
I didn’t see anger or rage in his face.
I saw pain.
Wretched, raw, suppressed.
And I felt it too, but something else as well.
Guilt.
And a terrible shame as I sat silent.

If you and I are ever in a group setting together, know that I have counted the number of brown people in the room. There is safety in those faces. They are aware of me and I of them. We exist in white spaces. Often, if there are two of us, we won’t have to hear jokes about Indigenous people with one shoe. And just as I have looked for safety in every group and every room, a friend once looked to me. And I didn’t have the words, or the courage, to say anything.

“An aborigine walks into a bar wearing one shoe…” she said.

Flame-light flickered on the faces of my friends.
Land beneath our feet, memories blowing up from the sea.
Laughter from our friends, one man and I shared a look across the fire.

Those terrifying words would not come.
“That is racist” I didn’t say.
And so one joke became many, and my silence gave them courage.
We are taught that to call something racist is the worst thing you can do.
Not the saying of racist things. That is just having a laugh. We should get a sense of humour.

So this white guy walks into a bar wearing one shoe.
He plants a flag and declares that this bar belongs to him because all the patrons were just passing through and he calls the bar the white-Australia-policy. He kills the bar tender, enslaves the children, and encourages breeding out the black. He gets wealthy, grows old, and dies. He passes his house on to his kids. Meanwhile those stolen and enslaved children, they have grown up too. Sure, they are mad about their father being killed, but what they’d really like is for the white kids who all have two shoes to stop kicking them. “At least we aren’t killing you” say the white kids who all have two shoes. “You should be grateful.” But eventually the white kids who all have two shoes see that it is wrong to kick people and so the kicking stops. “There” they say. “I am sorry that I kicked you continuously for such a very long time. You have equality now.” But the stolen and enslaved children don’t seem grateful enough. They just lie there catching their breath, their blood running into the sand. So the white kids who all have two shoes each give one more kick to the bleeding stolen and enslaved children, then they go to the bar.
“Hey” says one to another. “Did you lose a shoe?”
“Have I got a joke for you” she replies.

Flame-light flickers on the faces of people I once knew.
Blood beneath our feet, a raging storm blowing up from the sea.
Laughter from the pack, one man and I share a look across the fire.

“That is racist” I don’t say.
I am terrified of the consequences.
These comments silence me.
The price is so high.

“An aborigine walks into a bar wearing one shoe…” she says.

And you might feel pain or shame for it but you know the punch line.

Sorry, my son

Dear son.

The enemy has a pale face and wears a red hat.
He will tell you that you are less than him.
He will tear you in to fractions to diminish your voice.
The circle of his kindness is small.

I am sorry my son,
I have hidden my voice from the enemy.
Sometimes he was my teacher, my colleague, or my boss,
Sometimes my friend and sometimes my family.
And I sacrificed a piece of who I am for the knowledge he held ransom.

I thought that I could make him see me as his equal.
As a boy I won his races and his games.
Later I served his country.
Then I studied at his university.
Nothing would change his mind.
Not strength, not service, not smarts.
And if all these things did not make me his equal,
then fuck the pale faced man in the red hat.
The problem is him and not me.

So I will not be quiet any more my son.
I will drive his hatred of me into the light.
For my brothers and my sisters, but especially for you my son,
I will fight this new old enemy of ours.
With hope that you might not have to.
Because I know who he is now.
The enemy has a pale face and wears a red hat.

 

Don’t go to Australia

“Don’t go to Australia” he said.
We sat on the classroom steps. Tane was there. He was the other “Maori” at school and we were immediate friends. Lucas was the one who spoke though. He was cheeky too – always my favourite quality,- cheekiness, tempered with kindness.
“They’re all racists apparently.”
I didn’t have a choice of course. 9 year olds rarely get the deciding vote on whether to leave the country or not. And so we left
for the land of the racists.

On February 13th 2008 the Prime Minister of Australia said sorry. I was Twenty four. Fifteen years an immigrant, Seven years a citizen, Four years a soldier, and I had fallen in love with this big flat red rock. And I was proud to have served.

“God that’s an ugly head,” he said looking me over with the old classic, stereotypical, 1000-yard stare. Corporal Bald-Whitey was the perfection of army stereotypes, all bald and white.
“You got a nickname recruit A-piranha?”
“No corporal?”
“How about ‘Ears’?” he grinned.
My ears have always been non-symmetrical which actually bothered me a lot.
“You know who the ugliest people are though?” he continued, scanning the rest of the team, 9 recruits in total. “None of you are Aboriginal are you?…”
But the other recruits had no time for that. I was big and I could carry the heavy things, and I could walk long distances, and I could help my mates and they could help me. And the team could get shit done. And this was not the land of the racists. But a few of them are in power.

On February 13th 2008 the Prime Minister of Australia said sorry. Two Hundred years of oppression, One Hundred years of Child Abduction, and Forty years of being considered to be humans, and I got to say sorry.

“Don’t fucking touch me” he screamed. “That bitch can’t cut me off.”
The to-and-fro had continued for a good few minutes and the two drinking buddies were very adamant about finishing their drinks. Working the Door can be a thankless job. No-one loves to be told “she’s the manager mate.” and “That’s it for the night.”
But “you can’t just sit there insulting the staff sir. You’re gonna have to call it a night.”
“Don’t you fucking touch me. How would you like acid thrown in your face? I know the Banditos.”
It’s pretty common that an intoxicated and aggressive bloke will try to get a rise out of you. But the good guards are pretty tough to bait.
“We’ll come back and level this place. You fucking n*gger.”
But the staff had no time for that. I was kind and I was friendly, and the team had my back. And this isn’t the land of the racists.
But a few of them make me feel unsafe.

 

In the shower

If they come in through the front door
That soap dish would make a nice weapon.

But what if they have a gun?

Well I could duck behind the cabinet,
throw the dish for a distraction,
Close in quick.

A cabinet’s not gonna stop a bullet.

Might stop a 9mm pistol?
Definitely not a Steyr though. 5.56mm.
Muzzle velocity…

You don’t even remember. So say you do get to the first guy, what about his partner?

Well if there’s a second guy you’ve gotta finish it quick.
Hit him in the kill buttons. Throat. Nose. A nice tap on the jaw.
Then you’ve got his gun.

So you’re a Ninja then?

Hey who’s daydream is this?

Ok so you’ve got the gun but now the other bad guy has a gun to your girls head.

Well then you’ve gotta act all nervous.
Get him talking.
Be all like, “what do you want? I’ll give you…”
Boom! “A bullet between the eyes.”

Not the smoothest catch phrase.

I guess I can work on it.
I’m more of a heat of the moment kinda guy.

A day at the beach

When you go beneath the surface
I hold my breath with you
I calm my mind
I relax my body
And I feel my heart
Beat

And my mind wanders
across the ocean
The kids go missing
Or so they say
The boys for working
The girls for
working
And I feel my heart
Beat

When you rise
I catch my breath
And smile relief
And I feel my heart
Beat

And across the water
The kids go missing
The strong could be saving
But am I still strong
And I feel my heart
Beat

Coffee with kids

Coffee was $4.50 so I have a fiver burning a hole in my pocket as I pass the pokie room. Lady At The Races is my favourite machine but a kid has her foot on the seat. She moves it without much hassle and I sit down with my usual oh-what-an-interesting-contraption-which-I-have-never-seen-or-used-ever-before look. My $5 is accepted on the first go which I take as a lucky sign and proceed to drop 20 cents a spin like a gangsta.
The girl, obviously put out by my taking her footrest, continues to look at me with some mixture of annoyance and boredom, which I feel is draining my aforementioned good luck. Thankfully her mother notices and, reaching across, she feeds a crisp red lobster into the girls machine. It’s that Indian Dreaming one, my second favourite.

“There ya go darl. Press the buttons,” says mum returning to her Lucky Leprechauns.

This damn feature is so elusive. If you get three money bags all the bells and whistles go nuts, and you get a bunch of free games. 

Two money bags. So close.

Two money bags again. Now you’re just teasing me lady. And I’ve only got a dollar left. I can’t keep rollin with the big spinners for much longer so I down my bets to 10 cents and lose my gangsta status. The little girl is looking at me again. She knows.

She’s bored again, and now I am too. Not much fun losing your lunch money. She should probably be at school or something I reckon, not making blokes feel bad for playing pokies on a friday morning. Anyhoo, I’m off home for some sultana bran and a bit of PS3. No such luck for the kid though, mum still has a bunch of twenties burning holes in her pocket.

That girl just looked at my junk

That girl just looked at my junk. Do I have a hole in my pants? Flashback to that time in high school when I had a hole in my pants and red undies on and that cute girl was all like “gross dude.” Upon inspection there are no holes in my current pants. Relieved, I continue on my merry way.

Maybe she was checking me out. Do chicks do that? It wasn’t the classic “up and down.” More localised to the frontal crotch region. How do I feel about all this? She wasn’t ugly. Bit of a good sort actually. Should that matter?

Another girl. Not a stare but definitely a glance, and definitely right at the junk. Maybe I’m having one of my good looking days. Anyhow, I’m feeling self conscious now. Must find bathroom with sufficient mirror tech.

Finally, a restroom. No stains or rips, everything is in order. It must just be the shorts I’m wearing, “flattering in the crotchal region” Ron Burgundy might say. And would you look at that, red undies.

That dude just looked at my junk.

A wingman for the zombie apocalypse

Wanted.

Wingman (or woman) for the zombie apocalypse.

Position title: Wingman
Application close: 20 December 2012
Commences: 21 December 2012
Employment type: Full time
Remuneration/ Pay rate: All the twinkies you can find/carry
Location: Beginning in Brisbane with many opportunities to travel

Details

As another doomsday approaches scientists and non-scientists alike have attempted to identify the type of apocalypse we will be facing. Topping the 2012 stevieapples list of likely causes for Armageddon are:

1. Zombie apocalypse
2. Alien invasion
3. Nuclear War
4. Four horsemen
5. Asteroid collision with earth

Happily, it seems that the most likely of these is also (potentially) the most enjoyable. As such, in addition to wrapping my head in aluminium foil, building a fully stocked fallout bunker, and repenting for all my sins, I am searching for an appropriate wingman for the impending battle with zombies.

The ideal applicant will:

• work well in a team
• pay strong attention to detail, (20/20 vision for spottin’ zombies)
• have seen (or be willing to watch) all episodes of Scrubs in order to appreciate my many quote-based witticisms

Candidates with excellent storytelling skills are encouraged to apply.  I am easily bored and  would like to be regaled with bawdy tales as we hideout in abandoned shopping centres and on the roofs of gun stores.

Please send expressions of interest to stevieapples@wordpress.com

Applicants who leave zombie-kill one-liners in the comment section will be given priority.

Reading Hemingway in public

I have found a particularly comfortable bench seat in a particularly busy thoroughfare in the middle of the university. Different groups attempt to sell their particular ideas to uninterested students, but thankfully they ignore me.

I bring my new book out on display. “Hemingway” the cover pronounces, and I sit the book on my lap with deliberate nonchalance, allowing passers by to notice.

What are you doing? Says Conscience.

He isn’t impressed. Conscience is the one who calls me on things. He’s the annoying friend you don’t want to hang with but can’t seem to get rid of.

You don’t read any other books in public, He continues.

This is different though. Hemingway is cool and I want people to think I’m well read.

You haven’t even read it.

I’ve read the first few chapters. None of the epic heroes and sword fights that are my usual fare but the writing is brilliant.

You don’t like it.

I do like it. Hemingway is a literary genius.

Admit it. You watched a movie, fell in love with a character, and now you’re going through a Hemingway phase. 

Conscience can be a bit of a dick sometimes, but I put the book away. I can smell sausages sizzling.

Get up, Stomach yells. We need two of those bad boys immediately.

I’m already moving when Conscience chimes in again. Just one ok?

Stomach grumbles and I chuckle, Conscience never beats Stomach.