Excuse the vague title. I figured if I had called this blog post “Magical Realism is a Eurocentric Theory and an Indigenous Ideological Perspective” then people might not click on it. Oh well, you’re here now… let’s get this show on the road.
First of all, I think it’s important to define a couple of key terms:
Magical Realism – The blending of fantasy or supernatural elements into otherwise realistic texts, representing these elements as normal and natural.
Postcolonialism – The study of the ongoing impacts of colonialism. In part, it’s about challenging Eurocentric narratives and promoting marginalised voices in order to foster a deeper understanding of the realities and struggles of Indigenous peoples.
Note, these are my definitions and they probably lack nuance. This understanding frames the argument I’m going to make.
According to this website, “Western knowledge tends to be broken into disciplines. Mathematics and linguistics are emphasized, as are logic, rationality, objectivity and the measurement of observable phenomenon.” That doesn’t leave a lot of room for the possibility of the supernatural or spiritual. As such, it isn’t compatible with Indigenous ways of thinking where the metaphysical has great significance.
So, what does this have to do with Indigenous Literature?
Well, texts like Kim Scott’s True Country resonate with some of the ideas in this article by Stephen Slemon, especially the notion that “the badge of magic realism has signified a kind of uniqueness or difference from mainstream culture… and this gives the concept the stamp of cultural authority”. This seems to sit nicely with my definition of Postcolonialism above. Add to this, this comment from a journal article that says, “It is in Scott’s True Country that such magic realism—a poco strategization of ‘Dreamtime’—is employed to evoke the feel of a ‘true story’, a phrase consciously repeated to differentiate the white documented history from the cautiously preserved world views of the Karnama people.”
In other words, magical realism allows postcolonial authors an opportunity to engage with cultural and historical truth as they rewrite the narrative about their peoples.
In one of the opening chapters, the narrator describes “… a basketball tossed up to begin a game.”
But what if the basketball were to continue rising… right up past one returning aeroplane? It would startle the pilot, that’s for sure… What would you see now, so removed and high above, up there with that basketball?” (22)
While this doesn’t seem to hold much cultural or historical significance, it does establish a tone. The welcoming mood and use of direct address connect the narrator to the reader, and asks the reader to see things as an objective witness “removed” from their own cultural trappings.
This naturalisation of the supernatural can also be seen in the plain-stated comment, “My little boy, you know Cecil? He plays with a ghost. My sister I think. She died…” (123) Western readers might be perplexed at the lack of shock or surprise in the dialogue. What this shows, then, is that these sorts of things are normal for the people of Karnama.
As individual comments, these quotes might not seem overly important. More significant are the references to the “Old days” and the melancholy tone in which the narrator claims “people could make magic. That’s true. That’s no story, it’s true story.” (79) The suggestion is that the more watered down their culture has become – as we see them mimicking American movies, get corrupted by alcohol and live in bungalows “not altogether appropriate to the climate or inhabitants” (89) – the less connection they have to their spiritual selves.
The character who seems most attune to his spirituality is Walanguh, an elder. He is spoken about with reverence. One story told of him is of his kidnapping by Djilina, men with “long beards and hair”:
“Djilina… He [Walanguh] was taken by them when he was little, and they grow him up. And he has power, you know? Like magic.” (134)
This story is retold later, along with one where “The whale swam fast with that Walanguh man up on its back.” (168) . Walanguh is isolated for much of the narrative and this solitude is possibly what prevents his spirituality from diminishing. By avoiding the Western ideologies influencing his community, he is able to maintain his connection to his own culture.
It is Walanguh’s connection to the metaphysical world that allows him to sense the death of his sister and, through this, his familial relationship to protagonist, Billy. Walanguh also appears in a dream sequence when he passes away. In this, Billy sees himself “stood among all the people of Karnama” looking up at “the old man, fat like a balloon, drifting along in the sunlight” (170).
Walanguh’s death is significant as it is the catalyst for Beatrice’s transformation from sweet, enthusiastic youth to troubled child. A cultural practice is not observed and the omniscient narrator mourns not just the loss of an important person but the loss of customs and traditions:
“People not believing, people not trusting, people not caring. All falling down, all asking to fall down.”
In adopting Western ways of life, the indigenous population lose faith in the old ways. The narrator links “People not believing” to “asking to fall down”, suggesting that individual ruin comes from abandoning the belief system of the people. Beatrice stands as evidence of this. After the funeral she becomes mentally and physically ill, with Western medicine unable to cure her. She is eventually “SAVED BY BLACK RITUALS” but she is never the same again, the “little spirit inside her, it pass away… She was small now.” (218-219)
So, what do I (as a white Australian) take away from this?
I know the tragic history of our Indigenous population. I am on my own path towards cultural responsiveness. I can’t change the past nor is it my responsibility to apologise. It is my responsibility, however, to learn more about the peoples who have occupied this land the longest. While magical realism may blend fact with fiction, it is still a valuable tool for expression and understanding.
On the screen I see myself stalking and killing, stalking and killing. I look down at my heavily booted foot, at my roughly gloved hand, and at the violence and desecration that I have caused. I see Alice, knowing that she will be my next intended victim, and I invite her to look at me. As I approach the mirror that is the screen through her eyes, I am in shock. I am not the strong, rugged man I imagined myself to be. I am Mrs Voorhees, a middle aged woman.
The above scenario, based on the plot of Friday the Thirteenth, depicts how the Horror film (especially that of the slasher variety) throws away contemporary views of gender, and creates a world where sex is life, but gender is theatre. In this respect, the statement that “Representations of men are always about power” is essentially incorrect. Power is a sign of masculinity, not men, and as such the statement should read that representations of masculinity are always about power, regardless of what sex portrays it.
O’Shaughnessy states that the dominant perception of masculinity is that it is achieved through physical and/or social power. This view is epitomised in “stars such as (Arnold) Schwarzenegger and Clint Eastwood, both of whom represent ideals of strength, toughness, coolness, attractiveness, heterosexuality, and Whiteness” (p. 200). However, due to the very nature of the horror movie, were either of these stars to step out of their actions and their westerns and onto a horror set, they would be rendered useless and probably killed within the first hour.
One theorist of masculinity comes close to describing the place of gender in the horror film, but ultimately falls down at the post. He states that, “In a sense, horror has deconstructed both genders: the rationality of the male has been peeled away, revealing a core of psychotic destructiveness; the archaic sexual threat posed by woman has been partially replaced by a sense of female power” (Horrocks, p. 88). Where Horrocks’ fault lies, is in his inability to scratch beneath the surface instead of just taking things at face value. Yes, the villain of the horror film is predominantly a psychotic male killer, and yes, the hero is usually a female. However, what they represent goes beyond their sex, and that is what I will attempt to prove in what is to follow.
It has long been believed that the first true perception of gender was an essentialist one. Jung’s theories of an anima and an animus proposed that “the biological sex of people (whether they are men or women) is said to define who they are: it determines their characteristics (masculine or feminine) and hence their social roles” (O’Shaughnessy, p. 152). However, prior to this train of thought, there existed a one-sex theory of the world. The one-sex theory construed the “sexes as inside versus outside versions of a single genital/reproductive system” (Clover, p. 13) and was evident in Ancient Greek and Roman societies where homosexuality was commonplace. This is partly due to the fact that the ‘one sex’ was, of course, male, with women being viewed upon as ‘inverted’, and therefore, less perfect men. In this theory, sex proceeds from gender. In the horror movie, this is seen as such: “A figure does not cry and cower because she is a woman; she is a woman because she cries and cowers. And a figure is not a psychokiller because he is a man; he is a man because he is a psychokiller” (Clover, p. 13). In this sense, sex is life, but gender is a social construction.
Certain directors of slashers and teeny-kill pictures (as they have come to be known due to the high amount of doped-up, over-sexed teenagers that are regular victims), must be aware of at least some aspects of gender theory and criticism, as Clover states that she received comments from at least three directors following the first publication of her essay (p. 232n). It is then fair to assume, that these directors recognise that gender is a state of the mind, not of the body. That it is “less a wall than a permeable membrane” (Clover, p. 46). This is observable, by watching the typical audience of one of these movies. Predominantly teenage males, they will identify against their age and sex as they cheer on the killer as he attacks a number of their own kind, and later, with renewed enthusiasm, cheer the girl who takes him down.
Clover refers to this role as the Final Girl who, following the success of Jamie Lee Curtis as Laurie, has been an integral part of the slasher formula since Halloween was released in 1978. While spending the first half of the movie watching from the killers point of view, it is the Final Girl’s view with which we will eventually be aligned with and accept as our own. If we are to accept that point of view is equal to identification, then when the Final Girl accepts the active, investigative gaze it is the final process of her masculinization.
The first stage is evident from the onset. “Her smartness, gravity, competence in mechanical and other practical matters, and sexual reluctance set her apart from the other girls and ally her, ironically, with the very boys she fears and rejects… Lest we miss the point, it is spelled out in her name: Stevie, Marti, Terry, Laurie, Stretch, Will, Joey, Max” (Clover, p 40). Her boyishness becomes ‘manliness’ as she adopts the I-gaze, traditionally belonging to the male. The Final Girl then actively seeks out the killer, realising that the only way to survive is to fight back, and eventually brings him down using the same phallic symbols (knife, machete, knitting needle, and so on) that he used on her and her friends. Even in non-horror films this trend has become evident. In the 1991 hit Thelma and Louise, the two women use several phallic symbols in their bid to escape their oppressors (in this case, patriarchal society). Firstly, there is the Thunderbird convertible which they use to escape, the gun that kills the rapist, and the symbolic castration of the truck-driver by exploding his tanker (itself a phallic symbol).
However, Clover states that “The Final Girl has not just manned herself; she specifically unmans an oppressor whose masculinity was in question to begin with” (p. 49). This refers to the tendency of the male killer in horror movies to be socially lacking in some way, whether they are a virgin, sexually inert, spiritually divided, a transvestite or transsexual, or even equipped with female sex organs. So while the Final Girl emerges from the feminine to become the dominant masculine, the killer has his questionable masculinity exposed. As he becomes the victim, he becomes a woman. In one particular film (I Spit On Your Grave), the lead female cuts off the penis and testicles of her attacker, so that his castration is both physical and emotional, and in another (Videodrome) a male victim develops a vagina like gash, into which his killer inserts a deadly video tape (see Figures 1 & 2).
The setting also plays a large part in the gender construction of the modern horror film. Dark and often damp, the setting of the killer’s most terrifying attacks are decidedly intrauterine in nature. In this respect, it is interesting to not that Freud states in “The ‘Uncanny’” that: “neurotic men declare that they feel there is something uncanny about the female genital organs. This unheimlich place, however, is an entrance to the former Heim [home] of all human beings, to the place where each of us lived once upon a time and in the beginning…. In this case too then, the unheimlich is what once was heimisch, familiar; the prefix un [un-] is the token of repression” (cited in Clover, p. 48).
It is in these dank recesses that the Final Girl must inevitable face and defeat her foe. And once the killer is no longer a threat, neither is the ‘uterine’ setting, darkness gives way to light, and the physical closeness of the area yields to the open expanses of the outside world. Put simply, “The moment at which the Final Girl is effectively phallicized is the moment that the plot halts and horror ceases. Day breaks, and the community returns to its normal order” (Clover, p. 50). The most obvious example of this is in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre II, when Stretch, murky and bloody, emerges form the underground, ‘intrauterine’ tunnel into the open air. This is the symbolic birth of her new found masculinity.
Even the possession film (The Exorcist, Witchboard), which would seem to be based on tales of women and exploited femininity are essentially based in the power of masculinity. In both the movies listed above, the possessed female becomes more and more masculine as the possession strengthens. Regan (The Exorcist) begins to swear compulsively and develops incredible strength, whereas Linda (Witchboard) even takes to wielding an axe and wearing the clothes of her male invader. Clover notes that, “From biblical times on, the invading devil or dybbuk has been construed as a male being, and the possessed woman as hence subject to masculinization from the inside out… (That) Malevolent spirits appear to be conceived as masculine despite the fact that women figure among the improperly buried…sexual difference as we know it exists only among living humans in the here and now” (p. 103 & 103n). This is consistent with one-sex thinking
Therefore despite the perception of differing sexes during their lifetime, all people assume a masculine role after death. Combined with images of women as the possessed, and the word vulva related to valve (the Latin description of a door or entry into the body), and pushing this towards a metaphor for the ultimate portal, the Pearly Gates, death can therefore be an equal to sex. Heaven would thus be the perfect opening, and Hell, with its ‘fire’ can be seen as a menstruating female. To perceive pitchforks as a phallic representation, the equation then lends itself to a menstruating female = a male hell. Thus, in the overall scheme of things, sex and death is the same thing, which is why there is no need in horror for the victim to be subjected to both by the killer. The killer’s threat is purely physical, and the “archaic sexual threat posed by woman” has no effect on a figure who views them both as the same thing. This is the reason why the Final Girl must adopt a more masculine approach.
On the topic of menstruation, as the female body is still a mystery to the average male, it serves in the occult or possession film as a sign of hidden power. Conversations of, or actual menstruation predominantly precede the onset of possession. Creed (as cited in Clover) argues that in Lacanian terms, because the female protagonists lack the Phallus, both physically and symbolically, their bodies seek expression in other ways. “Indeed, the flow [menstruation] contained by the constraints of the Father, their physical and bloody ‘rage’ is an apocalyptic feminine explosion of the frustrated desire to ‘speak’” (p. 78). In the slasher, Regan and Linda would have simply adopted the Phallus through a variety of deadly, phallic symbols and attacked their oppressors.
However, the slasher is not the only variety of horror film that promotes cross sex identification. Carrie, a horror tale of a telekinetic girl who strikes out against her bullying peers is, on the surface of things, concerned with prom queens, menstruation, tampons, make-up, clothes and other stereotypical ‘girly’ interests. However, its author – Stephen King – based the character on one of the strongest-ever mythological beings, that of Samson, who was bound, shorn and blinded before demolishing an entire temple with his bare hands. King states that Carrie’s success stems from the fact that her revenge is something that any student (King uses the term his, highlighting, the male-ness of this girly movie) who has been bullied can relate to. As Clover states, King seems to be saying that the boy who is threatened and humiliated, “is a boy who recognises himself in a girl who finds herself bleeding from her crotch in the gym shower, pelted with tampons, and sloshed with pig’s blood at the senior prom” (p. 5).
Assuming that the horror film follows a basic trend based on heroic myth and legend, a reasonable assumption following Stephen King’s analogy of Carrie as Samson, then it is interesting to note that Teresa de Lauretis argues that the two functions of myth, “the mobile heroic function and the immobile obstacle function-are gendered masculine and feminine and hence naturally represented by males and females respectively” (cited in Clover, p. 100). Once again this discourse does not sit well with the standard slasher plot, however, where females are the dominant hero character and males play the obstacle.
It is fair to say then, that it is representations of masculinity, not men, that always focus on power. By analysing the films of the horror genre, it becomes evident that sex is life, but gender is theatre. Masculinity is construction of society that bears with it all the power of the Phallus. Men are but the usual procurers of this power.
How in the world does a man engage in a 20-year relationship with someone and not realise that his lover is actually a man disguised as a woman?
I don’t know the exact details of the real life story (well, I do, but it’s still a complete WTF moment) but I can see how it happens in David Henry Hwang’s M Butterfly.
Hwang’s play would have been quite shocking at the time, although some members of the audience could have known the true story on which it was based. Certainly, his decision to abandon the working title, Monsieur Butterfly, would have helped with the surprise. But, you only need to look at the characters and the way they interact to know that something was up.
GALLIMARD
The literary representative of French diplomat Bernard Boursicot is emasculated and feminised from the outset. Gallimard’s masculinity is constantly framed alongside his high school chum, Marc, and the fictional Pinkerton (from Puccini’s opera, Madame Butterfly) and the juxtaposition does him no favours.
While Marc is flirting with the audience with some Deadpool-style fourth wall breaking, Gallimard is repeatedly shown as inept and impotent when around women. When a pinup girl reveals herself to him he claims his “penis is soft” and he “can’t do a thing.” When Renee, a student who uses words like “weenie”, offers herself to him, he claims she is “too uninhibited, too willing, so as to seem almost too… masculine.” Like, he finds himself outmanned by a girl who exhibits typically masculine traits of assertiveness and confidence. Hwang also alludes to the fact that Marc might have paid for, or at least organised for, Gallimard to lose his virginity.
In fact, the first time he feels confident with a woman in his whole life is when he meets Song. After agreeing to see her perform a traditional Chinese opera, he claims that he, “normally can’t talk to [women]. But tonight, I held up my end of the conversation.” That should have sent his alarm bells ringing. Even before that, Song responds to a compliment from him, questioning how Song could possible be convincing “As a Japanese woman”. This is kind of hidden, implied that it’s more about race and the confusion between Japanese and Chinese people BUT Song is also essentially asking how they could be convincing as a woman. Surely, as a cultured French man working extensively in China, Gallimard should have known that Chinese theatre was filled by men playing the roles of women, much like European theatre back in Shakespeare’s day. Gallimard should have know she was a dan. But, as he says, “Happiness is so rare that our mind can turn somersaults to protect it.”
It does help that Gallimard is so self-deprecating, constantly referring to how ugly and pathetic he is. It also helps that he’s enamoured with Puccini’s opera to the extent that he revels in this opportunity to self-insert himself into its plot.
So deep is this desire to be Pinkerton that he “picks up a picture in a frame, studies it” and yet can’t admit to himself that the picture is actually of his lover out of costume and makeup. This isn’t explicitly stated, and Song does claim “That is my father”, but is it? Is it?
SONG
Speaking of Song, our titular Butterfly, the one whose M could stand for madame or monsieur, clever readers should pick up a few things they’re putting down before we get to the point where they have to undress to prove which genitalia they possess.
Anyway, there’s the dan bit I mentioned before. Gallimard should have known but Western audiences might not be aware of the nuances of Chinese theatre. Regardless, Song still demonstrates numerous masculine traits. Look at the way they talk to Gallimard, criticising the fantasy of the “submissive Oriental woman and the cruel white man.” I mean, the guy is trying to flirt with them and they straight up call him out on his racist ideologies and his desired toxic masculinity – that takes some balls.
Song also drops in some casual swearing, talking of the “shitty excuse” for underpaying artists. I know swearing isn’t unique to men but this level of crassness is just one of the many red flags that Gallimard was colour-blind to. The biggest one of these was obviously the first night they got intimate. Song ‘resists’ and their dialogue is filled with ellipses. This might hint at some hesitancy that comes from nervous but it was more likely to be a stalling tactic while they thought of an excuse – they are an actor, after all, and their improv skill had to be on point. Song begs to be allowed to “keep my clothes” and for Gallimard to “Turn off the lights” to allow for greater deceit. They also drop quotes from Madame Butterfly into their foreplay to distract Gallimard and have him fulfilling that self-insert fantasy I mentioned before. It’s calculated stuff.
Let’s not forget that Song has already demonstrated a high level of intelligence, with Gallimard remarking that they “must’ve been educated in the West” as their “French is very good” and they “sing in Italian.”
To make it obvious for the audience, Hwang drops in some dialogue in Act Two, Scene Four for those a little slow on the uptake. Gallimard is still claiming ignorance so it works on some level of dramatic irony, but in a little vignette Chin asks song why they are always “wearing a dress” and reminds them that there’s “no homosexuality in China!” For an audience member, this is possibly the worst time to disappear for a bathroom break. Well, this and when “Song drops his briefs. He is naked.” Miss those bits and you miss the point of the whole play.
SO WHAT?
After The Crying Game, Ace Ventura and one of the Naked Gun movies, the idea of a male being a *shock-horror plot-twist* female is nothing new. That’s why Hwang did a rewrite in 2017. Likewise, our understanding of gender, sexuality and sexual identity has evolved since the play was first written. That doesn’t mean that the play shouldn’t be studied today. In fact, it offers a portrayal of identity that is invaluable to contemporary readers – so we can all ask: How in the world does a man engage in a 20-year relationship with someone and not realise that his lover is actually a man disguised as a woman?
The problem with classroom walkthroughs and similar processes is that they feel like a sprung trap. Teachers walk around on tenterhooks expecting to be caught out on the next thing they say or do. Or, at least, that’s been my experience. Regardless of how they’ve been sold, classroom walkthroughs have felt like an accountability measure.
And now I’m leading them.
I’m not officially part of any of the leadership teams at school. I’m not admin or exec or any of those types. I’m hoping that helps.
I’ll try not to convey it at work, but I am incredibly nervous about it all.
I’m anticipating resistance. While it’s not a new practice, it is a new direction for the school. Anything new will be met with trepidation by some. We’re also a high performing school that is under intense scrutiny from the outside – people will question why we need to do this at all. But, for me, that reason is one of the main reasons we should be doing it.
We have a school filled with highly talented educators at all ends of the spectrum when it comes to experience. There’s so much we could gain from each other.
I want to treat this like shopping. I imagine walking into various buildings across the campus as like entering different shops at a mall. In some rooms I might just window shop; look around, see things that are nice and leave it at that. In others, I might pop a few strategies and practices into my trolley to take back to my classroom. In others, I might stack the trolley to the top.
I want to take others shopping with me. I want to be able to talk about what we’re looking for on the way in and then to have conversations afterwards that are the pedagogical equivalent of “oh my god, did you see that? That would look so good on you.”
Once I’ve established that practice, I anticipate that it might evolve. Even then, I don’t want people engaged in the process because they ‘have to’. I want them to ask for a Queer Eye or Kitchen Nightmares experience, to invite people in for feedback, encouragement and advice – and, to know that they can choose to adopt these recommendations or ignore them.
Mostly, I’m hoping to generate a buzz. I want people to be energized by seeing others weave their magic, and to feel proud about the quality of the work they do. I want this to be a process of celebration not criticism.
Growing up, I always had the sense that it was either The Rolling Stones or The Beatles – you could never like both. My parents were big on the Stones and, especially as a teenager, I thought they were the rougher, grungier of the two and therefore more socially acceptable among my adolescent peers. In those angsty years, it certainly seemed more appropriate to “Let it Bleed” than “Let it Be”. Obviously, these thoughts were part of my social conditioning, a seed planted by my parents and watered by their friendship group and mine. After all, John Lennon died the year I was born – these bands and their members weren’t exactly prominent throughout my development, certainly not compared to earlier years.
As an adult, I’ve come to appreciate the Beatles more and more. The notion of them being clean cut boppers singing “Love Me Do” and the like became less concrete. My eyes opened to their larrikin behaviour and experimental music. As I evolved, I saw too that so did their style. With my blinkers removed, I became aware of their talent. And what talent! I’ve bought albums now, streamed their music, been to see tribute bands. I even sat through the 8 hours of drivel that was Get Back. I mean, Peter Jackson isn’t exactly known for his brevity but so much of that documentary felt unnecessary. Amid the repetition and nonsense, however, were moments of inspiration. Notably, I was struck by how they wrote songs.
In the vision, Paul McCartney idly strums away until he falls upon a rhythm and melody he likes. He sings the spaces where the words will go, like a jazz musician singing scat, filling those moments with nonsense words and improvised phrases. Stumbling upon a lyric, he repeats that and uses it as a launching pad to find the rest of the words. A Google search of his writing process reveals several interviews where he intimates that this was, and still is, the method he used to write songs.
“If I was to sit down and write a song, now, I’d use my usual method: I’d either sit down with a guitar or at the piano and just look for melodies, chord shapes, musical phrases, some words, a thought just to get started with. And then I just sit with it to work it out, like I’m writing an essay or doing a crossword puzzle…” Paul McCartney[1]
Often, one of John or Paul would go through this process and then share it with the other who would fill in any gaps or improve it in some way or another. Sometimes that would take it to producer George Martin for assistance in finding the sound they were looking for. Ringo didn’t write much for the band (reportedly only 2 songs) but George Harrison did and Get Back shows how “I Me Mine” was written in a similar manner to above – George brought in the bones of the song and Ringo and Paul helped flesh it out.
Collaborative partnership
So, I want to try this. Poetry is so often insular. Here is me with my pen bleeding onto the page. Here is my angst, here are my insecurities, they fall like tears into my words. Here my verse stands as naked and vulnerable as I was at my birth. Here my confidence is as frail as I may one day become. So, first and foremost, I wanted to reach out and find the John Lennon to my Paul McCartney. I reached out on Instagram, asked people to rewrite an existing poem of mine or to take a poem I haven’t managed to get published and to help improve it to a standard that might be accepted in a literary journal.
It was really interesting seeing how people interacted with the post and the prompt. A number of people followed through and actually wrote something based on my words or rewrote some of my verse. Although the number of people who said they’d write something is greater than the number of people who actually followed through with it.
Three responses, in particular, really piqued my interest. @nicole444_fallenangel turned a short poem of mine, built on the bare bones of an idea to develop into a seven stanza epic. @beautifulmesspoetess turned a 100 word story I’d written into a blackout poem, condensing the ideas of the original into something less than 20% of its length.
The third person whose approach to the challenge took me by surprise was a writer who goes by the handle @ianwilliaml. He’s someone whose poetry is often beautifully presented but, beyond that, he’s someone whose poetry is beautiful. His way with words is phenomenal.
Ian took two short poems of mine that I’d collated in a post and captured their essence in a single piece. He said he was “drawn to the weight held in balance” of my words and “sought to maintain that sense of balance… using a mirroring structure to realign it horizontally.”
So what began as:
Why is it that
when you place all of
your words and actions
on a scale,
the negatives
outweigh the positives?
and
My words are both bricks
and wrecking balls
but I fear I will be remembered
more for what I have destroyed
than what I have built.
Became:
Hearts
we hold to
scale are blind
to bonds of lightness
nor the masonry of words
bind our shape that
we cannot
change.
He wrote of the “bindings we place on ourselves” and how we can be our own worst enemy. Those anxieties are clear in my own writing. And my thoughts attached to what I’ve written. The post that @ianwilliaml shared had my handle (@teacher2poet) added to it as a collaborator. Within days it became one of my most liked posts for the year. In fact, it pips an older poem of mine for my most liked post ever. But what are they liking? Are the people engaging with the post responding to both slides, to both sets of words? Or are they simply liking Ian’s take on my original upload? As he has 500 more followers than I do and a more active Instagram presence, my head tells me they’re not double-tapping their phone screens for me.
I also look at the final product and see it as something that exists outside of me. To borrow from cinematic parlance, what he created was a reboot. Sure, I created the characters and wrote the script but that was for the old version. This is a new actor with new villains, a different take for a different audience. I’ve engaged in more traditional collaborations before and @ianwilliaml has offered to go down that path in future but I don’t feel like we reached Lennon/McCartney levels of craftmanship here. Perhaps this was because of the medium and the approach. In Get Back, when Paul introduces John and the other Beatles to a song he’s working on, his involvement doesn’t stop. Because of their intimate friendship and the fact they occupy the same space, their collaboration goes back and forth. Part of me couldn’t engage that way. Even though I’d asked people to write or rewrite based on my ideas, I didn’t feel like we had an established rapport where I could comment on whatever they wrote back. Perhaps this is where Ian and I will get to in the future. After all, the Beatles had years of working together. Whatever was created in the pre-Beatles days of The Quarrymen (John Lennon’s original band which Paul and George later joined) was probably done so without the level of collaboration shown in Get Back.
What this told me is that, for now at least, I had to take a different approach. Sir Paul McCartney is a lyrical genius and that goes well beyond his work with The Beatles. So maybe I didn’t need a collaborator, maybe I just needed a process…
Dah de dum de da
The question was, could I take a process that had the benefit of music to create a particular mood and apply it to a text type that relies solely on what is written or said? I also wanted to link thematically or stylistically to the content of The Beatles’ lyrics. However, with such an extensive repertoire it’d be impossible to do this wholesale, so I leaned on particular songs for inspiration. “Eleanor Rigby” was an obvious choice considering McCartney once said, “Allen Ginsberg told me it was a great poem”[2]. “Paperback Writer” was another where McCartney’s characters came alive. I hope I captured the “capacity to render a fully rounded character from what might otherwise be merely a thumbnail sketch” that Paul Muldoon said is prominent in McCartney’s lyrics[3].
A rhythm, a character. Beyond that, mixing the unexpected with the expected, making the ordinary seem extraordinary. Observation, and a reflection of what haunts us. Those are the ingredients I was working with.
So I started with “Eleanor Rigby” and “Paperback Writer”, added “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds” and “Get Back”, “Come Together” and “Octopus’s Garden”. I mapped the shape of each song from the lyrics alone, counting syllables as they’re written as opposed to how they’re sung. Superficially, they are nothing alike. While two of the songs are nothing but quatrains, the others alternate between sestets, quintains, quatrains, couplets, and monostiches. Some were strict on the syllable count, some were looser (probably relying on the singer to extend a word here or there). Using basic maths to tally up the types of stanzas, I decided to use sestets, quatrains and monostiches but I didn’t set out with any predetermined order or length to them – I was hoping that would come out organically in the construction of the poem.
I looked at what was happening around me.
There’s a homeless man, Richard, who is often at the train station near my work. I talk to him all the time but a number of people deliberately avert their eyes or look in his general direction the way you might look at objects in someone else’s front yard. He became inspiration for the first stanza but I’ve taken a lot of liberties when it comes to the description given.
Speaking of my workplace, the two most senior members of our administration (both female) are currently suspended. We’re in the middle of an investigation and, for a while, we seemed to be in the newspaper quite a lot. This chaos forms the inspiration for the second stanza.
Nothing concrete informed the remainder of the poem. There’s a general observation about the 9-5 lifestyle most of us live and some common phrases. Otherwise, I just went with the words that felt right. The first stanza dictated the syllables for the other two sestets and the monostich and quatrains are repeated where desired.
It’s certainly a departure from my normal narrative flow. It’s a lot more stripped back and the different stanza lengths give it a rhythm not found in my other poems. It reads as follows:
Portrait of a Population
Invisible man
sits alone at the station,
a sign so there’s no need to speak.
Frail and weak,
starving for attention
but still they all walk on.
Rats in a race, scurrying toward the city.
Queen in her tower,
throne made of a paper mâché.
A leader with no head or heart,
it falls apart;
hopes someone will save her
but still they all walk on.
No need for exterminators,
the pests are all controlled.
Put away the bible, dear,
their souls have all been sold.
Suits and pencil skirts,
days dictated by the clock.
Making a living, so they say;
throw life away
for a home and contents
and still they all walk on.
Rats in a race, scurrying toward the city.
No need for exterminators,
the pests are all controlled.
Put away the bible, dear,
their souls have all been sold.
Rats in a race, scurrying toward the city.
Rats in a race, scurrying toward the city.
Rats in a race, scurrying.
Rats in the city.
I think the inspirations are obvious. If you know the songs I used as a jumping off point then you’ll see some resemblance in the cadence and rhythm of this piece. Probably. I know I tend to read the opening lines of the verses to the tune of “Eleanor Rigby” even though that wasn’t intentional when writing it. I’d taken a mathematical approach and still ended up with something that feels inspired by the music and lyrics.
So what I have so far are two failed approaches. Not failed in the sense that the final products are bad, I don’t think that’s the case. Failed in that the intent or the imagined direction seem vastly different to what I feel I have down on paper.
One more round
I thought I’d try my hand at one more Beatles inspired method of writing before wrapping this up. I went to the library and borrowed Steve Turner’s The Complete Beatles Songs: The stories behind every track written by the Fab Four. It’s a fascinating book filled with great insight collected from a variety of sources. In the introduction it divides their song-writing into four clear eras. The first is pre-1964 where the pop songs about love helped form that mindset I mentioned at the start of this essay. From 1964 they became more serious. They were inspired by art and literature and began experimenting with different sounds and recording techniques. It was then, too, that their lyrics told of more developed characters and emotional experiences. This took them into their third era where their experimentation went into the realms of meditation and drug use. During this time, John found his confidence battered and became less prominent in the song-writing process. The final era started in 1968 and signalled the end of The Beatles. Life outside of the band was pulling them in different directions and their music returned to a simplicity reminiscent of the style produced when they were first starting out.
Now, I’m not in the position to be experimenting with drugs nor do I have any interest in sacrificing family and friends for the sake of my art. No, what I thought I’d do is read through the book and see where inspiration hits. Part of what’s written within its pages tells of how various Beatles songs were written in response to newspaper headlines, photographs or other media that they’d stumbled across. I was hoping to stumble into a spark.
I didn’t read as you normally would. I didn’t turn from page to page reading word after word. I treated it as more of a Choose Your Own Adventure story but without the instructions at the bottom of the page. I read, flipped a random number of pages forward, read, flipped back a few pages, read, flipped forward and so on.
I landed on a page that had a picture that reminded me of an event from my childhood. That, I decided, would be my muse. The photograph shows Paul, Ringo and George with a cardboard cut-out of John ala Yellow Submarine (a similar photo is posted below[4]). John also happens to be the name of my stepdad and, one time, my family in Adelaide threw a party and had cardboard copies of John, Mum and I (also below).
And so, this ekphrastic poem was born.
Poor John (Rah rah rah)
It’s a going away party
but he’s already gone,
a cardboard effigy takes his place.
His clothes are coloured in
and they’ve drawn a smile on his face
(to show he’s having a good time).
They’re keeping track of all their chats,
they’ve got a tape recorder on
Everyone’s got a lot to say
except for John.
He’s probably got a mouthful
of his cardboard cut-out drink
that they pose him with in photos
(so that people think
he’s having a good time).
He’s got a cigarette
but it’s a fake one too,
they all know the damage
a real cigarette could do.
At the end of the night
when they’re all heading out the door
they leave poor John
flat out on the floor
(he had such a good time).
Final thoughts
And here’s the pinch. I look back on anything created in this endeavour and I do so with trepidation and awkwardness. I’ve read recently that people tend to look at their own work with an overly critical eye because it is the product of their own imagination and workmanship. That, regardless of how good it is, we will always tend to view it as inadequate because we don’t see our own worth. This is especially true for amateurs who discredit their work because it wasn’t made by a ‘real’ artist (regardless of what artform we work in).
In McCartney 3, 2, 1, Paul says that he can now be a fan of The Beatles[5]. At the time when he was writing music with John, George and Ringo, he was too invested. Time has allowed him now to return to that music, almost as an outsider looking in. It has allowed him to appreciate his own work.
Perhaps, one day, I will be in the same space. In the distant future I might look back at my body of work and be proud of what I’ve accomplished, not in a material sense but a metaphysical one. As a part-time writer, I am already proud of the quantity of poems I have had published. I hope to one day be equally proud of their quality.
The worksheet linked through here is phenomenal. I often use TED and TEDx talks as part of the classroom – I can’t wait to use the advice here to supplement what I already do.
I say whirlwind because it’s been roughly 7 months since I actually gave it. Since March, there have been a number of setbacks behind the scenes. I’m not privy to all of them, but it’s fair to say that it made me quite anxious at times.
None of that matters now though. It’s out, and it racked up nearly 3k worth of views in just a few days.
Please do check it out. And, while you’re there, watch the other talks from TEDxMandurah.
** This story originally appeared in Tincture Journal, Issue 3 **
The Set-up
The author sat down to type up a short story when he/I thought it was weird to talk about himself/myself in the third person – so I stopped. I wanted my story to mean something, for people to think it worthwhile. I thought that if my protagonist had a common name like Jack or Ben or Hans then more people would identify with him. In the end I decided to call him The Man – I would like to point out at this time that he is not “the man” like “Let’s stick it to the man” but the man as in a generic everyman. Anyway…
The Story
The night was dark and foreboding (in the story, not where I was writing the story). The Man walked the lonely streets while Nature planned its attack. In every alley and laneway pockets of wind lay in waiting. Storm clouds bulging with heavy rain lurked behind the tall skyscrapers. Blinding mists silently stalked their prey.
The Man continued on oblivious.
Several events occurred between this point and the next but as they were not essential to plot or character development they were omitted.
On the train the man sat alone. He watched the homeward bound crowd. Among them the Zombies lounged in their school uniform. They chewed gum, communicated in monosyllabic grunts and, to The Man at least, appeared in dire need of brains. He sat quietly so as not to alert the Zombies to his presence and prayed to the absence of God that they wouldn’t get off at his station.
An Aside
I cringed a little when I re-read the remark about God or the lack thereof. It’s like it needs a disclaimer stressing that the comments presented are not necessarily those of the publisher – like you get with commentaries on DVDs. I also disappointed myself when I made the Zombies a metaphor. Literal zombies are so much fun! Imagine the different similes I could have used to describe the decomposing, disfigured masses. I read a story once where a zombie’s entrails hung (hanged?) from above him so that he resembled a marionette. But I digress…
The Bit in the Story Where The Man Walks Home and Finds Someone in His House
Neither Zombie nor Nature attacked The Man on his way home (although now I’ve introduced them, I could have either play the chief antagonist – but I won’t). From the train station it was a short walk to his street, where all of the houses were cut from the same mold. His curiosity was roused when his sensor light failed to detect his presence and piqued when he noticed his door was ajar. Unaware of the cries that came (are coming?) from an audience that have seen enough horror movies to know better, The Man cautiously entered his house.
“Hello,” he called, alerting The Intruder to his exact location. “Is anyone there?”
“No,” came the reply.
“That’s a relief.” The Man, feeling more relaxed now that he knew he was alone, went into the kitchen to make himself a hot drink.
The phone rang. The Intruder answered it. The Man sipped his coffee.
“Hey. Howdy. Hi. You must be the guy. Why don’t you reply? Are you too shy?”
The Intruder was taken aback by the voice on the other end of the line. When he’d woken up that morning he had his whole day planned out. He had envisioned doing a bit of shopping and catching up with his mum before breaking into The Man’s house and killing him upon his return from work. At no point did he expect to be harassed by a salesman of the Dr. Seuss variety.
“I’m sorry.”
“Word to the wise – don’t apologise. Just listen to my lies, you’ll be…”
The Intruder hung up and walked away from the phone and toward the kitchen. He cradled the carving knife that he had liberated from there earlier and, turning it over in his hands, he slowly, silently crept to where the man sipped his coffee.
A Realisation
At this point I’ve realised two things. 1 – The Intruder’s mother is the first confirmed female within the story and yet, at this stage, she has only received a passing mention. 2 – The Intruder seems to have taken over the protagonist role from The Man; an interesting development. Perhaps we should explore these two characters further.
Lunch (as a reference to the rough time period not the actual eating of a meal)
Mother sat in front of the television and counted down the hours until her death. She cared neither for knitting nor bingo and so she spent her twilight years alone watching a seemingly endless stream of soap operas. She heard the soft jingle of keys at the front door.
“You’re late,” she called.
“I didn’t even tell you I was coming,” The Intruder replied.
“It’s been thirty seven days since your last visit. Regardless of the time, you are late. Are you still a disappointment to me?”
The Intruder contemplated the ramifications of each potential response to the question and decided instead to change the subject. “Have you read any good books lately?” Was what he meant to ask. Instead, he asked “Have you bred any good rooks lately?”
Mother was not amused. “Why can’t you be more like your brother?”
The Intruder left, The Man would finish work soon and the element of surprise would be lost if he did not beat him home.
Time
This pause is so that I can return to the time period from the beginning of the story after that sojourn into the past. Interestingly, I am writing this in the present which will be the past when you read it in the future.
The End?
The Man sipped his coffee with his back facing the opening from which The Intruder came. Unbeknownst to either of them, The Man had spilled some coffee on the floor. The Intruder slipped on this and fell upon the knife he intended to kill The Man with. With his busy work schedule, The Man failed to notice The Intruder’s body for several weeks. By this time the body had decomposed somewhat and had also proved a tasty snack for the house-mice, ants and other assorted beasties. It was no surprise then, that The Man did not recognise The Intruder despite their sibling relationship.
It’s currently 2021 and I’m about to walk on stage for the inaugural TEDxMandurah. I’m the first speaker, first cab off the rank. The nerves are pretty high but there’s a calmness there too, a serenity under the surface.
I’m prepared for this. I’ve written my talk, made modifications, rehearsed, received feedback, rewritten bits, rehearsed and rehearsed some more. I’m ready. I just need to remind myself of this.
Flashback 9 years. It’s 2012. That time, I wasn’t speaking. That time, I was coordinating a TEDx event. With the help of a good mate, we ran a TEDx event in a public school. We did it again the following year, and I did it again a few years later.
I made mistakes as part of this process. I failed to recognise the quality of the brand and sought not to present the best talks but to present as many talks as I could. My mission was to provide students with the opportunity. We were denied further licenses.
Flash forward to now and I am so glad to be able to take part in another TEDx experience. I’m hoping I rock this.
A number of people have put a whole lot of effort into ensuring this day runs as smoothly as possible. I’m hoping I reach a quality that rewards their faith in me. I’m hoping I reach a quality that justifies the hours they have sacrificed to make this event possible.
** the talk **
It went well. If you’re interested, you can read the script here. Not that I stuck to it fully.
I can’t wait for the videos to be uploaded so I can share it with people who couldn’t attend today.
I’d also like to take a moment to say that I paint a picture of my childhood which might be taken poorly. What I list in my talk are facts, beyond those particular experiences I felt nothing but loved and supported.
** more thoughts, less me **
I’m going to try to encapsulate some of the other speaker’s talks here. I know, however, that whatever I write will not truly reflect how awesome they are. Please watch the videos once they’re uploaded.
Tom spoke after me. He is an awesome advocate for autistic people and recounted some truly alarming stories about the injustice some autistic people face. The statistics he gave point to a need to revise the way the judicial system processes cases, and the need for counselling and education to be the preferred option over incarceration.
His TEDx journey has been filled with uplifting moments and, in the process of writing and rehearsing his talk, he has been an inspiration to autistic youngsters as well as some people who weren’t diagnosed until later in life.
Nerida spoke just before morning tea. Honestly, it’s remarkable that she was even able to take the stage after being hospitalised in the lead up to the day. She is one of many speakers I’m in absolute awe of. Hers was a personal story about physical and mental health, the sacrifices we make, and the need to appreciate the people who see us for who we truly are.
Ella graced the stage after the first break. She is one of the four speakers under 21 years of age – along with Tom, Lily and Xanthe. Listening to their achievements is jaw-dropping. I am twice their age and haven’t done as much as they have. Ella spoke about the science and ethics of genetically modified organisms. She presented some alarming statistics about pesticides and the number of people worldwide who suffer from undernutrition.
Following her was the first Michelle of the day. Hers is the only talk that a friend of mine took notes from. It makes sense. Hers was a talk that was relevant for everyone and came with practical advice.
Michelle is a practised speaker and she seems so comfortable on the stage. Part of this comfort and confidence comes from the fact that she knows her stuff. So when she gives you 3 tips to sleep (and live) better, you listen.
Just before lunch was Rebecca, a fellow writer. She spoke about the rare condition that plagued her brother, her own bipolar and her son’s autism. While the talk got very serious and very emotional at points, the takeaway was one of hope.
After lunch was Claire. Her talk was part science, part creativity. But, when you’ve got a personality like Claire’s then you know the creativity is the bigger of the two parts. She finished her talk with some experimental music made mostly from leaves and toys.
Candice, the waste tragic, was next. I’m not big on garbage – I try to make sure things get in the recycling bin but, ultimately, I’m pretty naive when it comes to waste management. That said, Candice’s talk was about more than that. It’s not just about where things go when we dispose of them, it’s the water and electricity and so on that goes in to making those products.
Then Wongy came on. I think she was a bit surprised that the majority of the crowd seemed somewhat willing to do a burpee. Somewhat. I still think most of us were happy that she was the only person to actually do one.
She’s passionate about educational reform, specifically the need to acknowledge and accommodate the learning difficulties that impact on students’ ability to sit inside of the box of traditional schooling. More so, she spoke of the benefits of physical movement on our ability to think.
Lilijana was the first speaker of the final session. Anyone who is concerned about today’s youth needs to look at Lily (and our other young speakers) and they will see the future is in good hands. I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to meet and stand alongside such a fantastic and inspiring young human. Plus, I’ve been teaching for over 16 years yet Lil taught me something about the education system that I didn’t even know.
The remarkable Sue Edge was next. She is the Bobblehead Nanna. Sue is another inspirational person – and so funny too! Her talk was emotional, but uplifting, and her delivery would’ve been at home at a comedy gala. Sue’s PD has had plenty of negative effects, and her medical plan sounds onerous, but she has found many positives have come from her diagnosis – mostly, it has opened up her creative processes and abilities.
Finally, Xanthe spoke. She is unconventional, to say the least. With that, though, comes confidence and composure from years of having to think for herself. Being unschooled has provided her with opportunities many young people never get. And, an opportunity is what this was – Xanthe was a last minute call up to replace one of the original speakers. She spoke incredibly well despite the fact she needed her script on stage with her (not that she looked at it much).
** final thought **
It was such a privilege and pleasure to be a part of today. Much love and respect to all those who graced the stage and allowed themselves permission to speak up about their passions, motivations and hiccups. Massive thanks to Jackie, Esther and Megan for their many hours of dedication and preparation. Thanks also to all the volunteers, without whom we simply couldn’t have had an event at all. ❌🔴
Morphability: to follow is the script from my talk at TEDxMandurah 2021
(Sing-song) Good morning/afternoon everybody .
And just like that, you are starting to construct a story about me in your head. Your own experiences and memories tell you that I am a teacher simply because of the sing-song way I said hello. You might also see my tattoos and assume that I work in the public sector with the belief that conservative private schools might frown upon such “decorations”.
This is what we do – we make judgements and assumptions about others before we get to know them and in some instances, we continue to predict the actions and reactions of people after we’ve known them for years because, in our heads, we have created stories about who we believe them to be. In part we do this to protect ourselves and others, to shelter people from things we think may harm them. But, over time, we lessen our grip on this version of reality. As parents we do this the most as we fret over our children swimming, riding a bike, hanging out unsupervised, moving out and so on. Eventually we see that our children are more capable than we imagined – we realise that we have sheltered them from the pains of growing (that include failing and learning) and sheltered ourselves from the realisation that they won’t need us forever.
Beyond that, we even make up stories about ourselves.
Here is a quote from one of my favourite authors: “If you don’t turn your life into a story, you just become part of someone else’s.”
This was Terry Pratchett. Sir Terry Pratchett whose works are the basis of this tattoo. This one, Stephen King. Here, JK Rowling. On my ribs, Neil Gaiman, and on my back, TS Eliot.
You see, I am fascinated by fiction – I quite literally wear my love of literature on my sleeve – but I also use my tattoos to tell a story about myself. Mainly, that I am a massive nerd with more money than sense. On a more serious level, they tell of my passion for my subject area – I am an English teacher after all.
But we all love stories. Our brains are wired to be receptive to narratives in all of their forms. Don’t believe me? Try telling yourself just one more chapter before bed. Or one more episode. Or one more level.
But, long before video games, tv shows and movies. Even before the written word, we as a species still loved stories – except, they were delivered like this:
[sit at the top of the circle/splodge]
Early man often sat like this, in a circle, warmed by a fire. We would tell tales to each other. We would share stories of where to go to find food or shelter, where not to go if you wanted to stay alive, and we had narratives to describe natural phenomena before we had the scientific evidence to explain it in any other way.
Today you will hear stories from a variety of speakers. We all have stories that would instigate change. For some of us, we are telling that story for the first time. For others, we have told it hundreds of times already and we are hoping to join your voice to the chorus.
Now, I can’t physically invite you onto the stage but I am extending an invitation to join my circle. I am inviting you to hear me, truly hear me, as I tell a story or two. Starting with a poem:
In the beginning,
there was nothing.
All stories begin this way.
Think of it as an empty page
or an empty stage
filled with nothing but possibilities.
One of these
sees a deity create heaven and earth
in just under a week
and then,
feeling blessed,
he rests.
In another,
the Sun Mother
wakes all the sleeping spirits of the earth
while, elsewhere,
the evolution of the universe
is like a tree
growing ever so slowly,
starting in darkness
and stretching out into the light.
Or it might have been
the explosion of a tiny bubble
thousands of times smaller than the head of a pin
that caused what we know of as life and matter
to begin.
Speaking, again, of beginnings
and we as a country
started much the same
when you consider
one of the names for Australia
we’ve come to challenge was
Terra nullius.
A vast expanse of nothingness
belonging to nobody,
at least, that’s how the story went.
It was a tale long told
and only in our recent history
has it changed,
that we acknowledge
that we are not a young country
but we are one country occupied by many people,
one and free.
What other stories have we
reworked and revised?
Well, once upon a time
a woman would be accused of witchcraft,
burned at the stake
if she read,
and later,
she might be given a bed
in an institution for similarly simple things.
Some of us still struggle with the idea
of a woman in a workplace
that doesn’t involve apron strings
or that a woman who
kicks, shoots or hits a ball
should be celebrated as much as a man.
But, the story changes,
evolves one bit at a time –
changes like bath water
so that when we are comfortable
we forget the sting of when it was scalding
or so that despite our initial comfort
things are now icy.
The civil rights movements didn’t end racism
but they started conversation,
opened up lines of communication
we never previously considered,
and gave voice to those who were rarely listened to.
You see, culture is simultaneously shaping and being shaped
by the stories we tell
but not all stories are told as well as others.
What voices still haven’t been heard?
How attentively do we listen to those we hear now?
Because even a judge will tell you how
Ignorance doesn’t absolve you of a crime.
But, if we change our perceptions,
change the story,
we can change the world
one word at a time.
[Thank you.] I talk near the end of that poem about our fictional worlds being shaped by and likewise shaping the real world around it. I’d like to prove that before delving into things a little more personal and, perhaps, more relevant to you. How will I prove it? With fairy tales.
I should think we’re all familiar with the tale of a little girl dressed in red who has to walk through a forest to get to her grandmother’s house. Along the way she meets a wolf and divulges where she is headed. When she finally arrives at her grandmother’s door… well, that depends on which version you know.
In some the wolf has killed the granny; in others, merely tied her up. In some he eats the little girl too but in others she’s unharmed. In most she’s saved by a woodsman of sorts – a hunter or lumberjack usually. In one she has a gun and saves herself. In another she weds the wolf, tames it with her own budding sexuality. And, in my personal favourite, the wolf tricks the girl into getting in bed with him but she manages to escape by telling him she needs to poo. So, I know of at least 11 different versions of the Red Riding Hood tale and am aware of maybe another 3 or 4 that are set in different countries and so many of the key elements differ – it might be a bear instead of a wolf for example, a golden jacket instead of a red hood. Even one of the stories of Thor and Loki is strikingly similar to this classic fairy tale.
Regardless, each generation and location sought to depict societal concerns. As didactic tales, most of these lend themselves to a pretty obvious moral lesson: don’t talk to strangers, listen to your parents, looks can be deceiving. Some have been shaped with particular agendas, mostly feminist ones, with a goal of rewriting the story with a stronger female lead more in line with modern sensibilities. The world changed and so the story changed, and through the consumption and discussion of the story the world changes anew.
The story of Red Riding Hood has aged and evolved – much like we do.
Here are some stories I’ve been told and some I’ve told myself:
You’ll never be good enough.
You’re a bad influence.
Boys don’t cry.
You’re worthless.
The world would be better off if you weren’t in it.
There’s no point even trying; you’ll never be successful.
You see, I come from a broken home. I have waited at the window for a dad who never came. My mum went away and when she returned we lived a nomadic lifestyle for much of my childhood, living in a caravan and constantly moving. Fights were common; some fights I’ve seen have been permanently imprinted on my brain, some fights I’ve been in I am incredibly ashamed of. Alcoholism and casual drug use were part of the environment and a family friend who was also once a housemate died with a needle in his arm. I have lost an uncle, an auntie and a friend to suicide. There are skeletons crowding my family closet. And none of my immediate family are tertiary educated.
So, when I was in year 10 I had a career meeting with my year coordinator and I told her I wanted to be an English teacher. She laughed. She didn’t think that career path was likely. I wanted to follow in the footsteps of Stephen King, William Golding and Robert Frost (all teachers before their writing careers took off) and, as the oldest grandchild and the brother of a sibling roughly 13 years my junior, I had plenty of opportunity to see that I was good with kids. More than that, I was a rebel. Proving her wrong was a way of saying “screw you”. And, the “screw you” is still part of conversations today. I hate the injustice that occurs when people twist things to suit themselves and disadvantage others. I hate that empty feeling inside when I don’t feel valued. Before my uncle and aunty took their own lives I had suicide ideation. Their deaths form part of that conversation. They were a wake up call. Since then, whenever I’ve had those thoughts, I have told myself “screw you”, you deserve to live AND you deserve the best life.
But, if you look at where I started from and the events and issues that have informed my upbringing, you can see where my year coordinator was coming from. Add to that the fact that my reputation wasn’t great and I’d recently been suspended and threatened with expulsion and her viewpoint makes even more sense.
Admittedly, my starting point isn’t as far back as some have started. I’m a white, heterosexual male; that automatically gives me a leg up. I check my privilege at the door. But, someone with the biographical details I listed before isn’t expected to follow the trajectory my life has followed. The key word there is EXPECTED.
You see, societal and personal expectations have the potential to be quite overbearing. The way we phrase our story can limit our opportunities. So I changed mine. I was determined that I was going to be a teacher and I wasn’t about to let someone take that dream away from me. I could have. Easily. Having someone in a position of power laugh at your choices certainly brings you down. It would have been easy to throw it all in. I see this, very much, as my sliding doors moment. In one life, I probably gave up on my dreams, found a job more suitable to my social standing and lived a life that ultimately felt unfulfilled. In this one, I persevered, overcame a number of obstacles; even slept in the back of my car or in hostels or on people’s couches and spare beds out of necessity so I could finish my studies. To paraphrase a commercial from the 90s; it didn’t happen overnight but it did happen.
I’ve been a teacher now for over 16 years, but what I hope I’m teaching more than content is the fact that we need to question the stories we tell and the stories we hear.
In my opening poem I hinted at some of the changes to the way society responds to race and sex, and there are still plenty of revisions and reworkings to be made there too. I didn’t even touch on gender or refugees or the disabled. There are still a number of marginalised people waiting for their story to be heard.
Beyond that, we need to question all of the outdated stories that still exist in the world. When I asked my friends some of the stories that they have told themselves or that society has told them, they said things like:
I’m too old… too old to learn new things.
I’m too young… whatever I have to say is irrelevant.
Real men should… a stable adult should… women should…
Life goals everyone should aim for include a good education, a high paying job, home ownership, and material goods.
If you’ve got cancer/anxiety/depression then how can you…
All of these things are restrictive. Once upon a time an old man learned nothing, a young woman with an idea worth spreading kept quiet, and a person with an invisible illness suffered in silence for fear of not being believed.
We have to understand that this is not how things have to be. If everyone is the exception to the rule, then the rule will change. Journeys begin with a single step; floods begin with a single raindrop. We don’t have to accept things for how they are. We can change the story.
I teach for one reason and one reason only: I want to make a difference. I don’t want others to have their dreams crushed like mine almost were; I want to be the dream enhancer. So, I provide a safe space for students to speak their mind, to try new things and to be themselves. I listen – really listen, and by doing so they feel valued and understood. And it’s a two way street. So when they feel valued by me, they see value in me. They listen then, as I encourage them to be open minded, adventurous and autonomous; to question things and not just follow along because that’s the way things have always been done.
I also believe that the difference I make is not limited to the students in front of me. They are the pond and I can be anything from a delicate feather landing softly to a boulder smashing through the surface and the ripples of my influence will be felt in places I will never see.
You don’t have to be a teacher to have this influence. You can have it in your homes and in your communities. You can brighten someone’s day with a smile. You can accept someone’s differences as a part of who they are, consciously reminding yourself to do so until it becomes automatic. Prove that you can be a better person, not just through your beliefs but through your actions and reactions. Realise that you always always have a choice. YOU can help change the story and, by doing so, you can change the world. It starts with an open mind. And it starts today.
How in the world does a man engage in a 20-year relationship with someone and not realise that his lover is actually a man disguised as a woman?
While Marc is flirting with the audience with some Deadpool-style fourth wall breaking, Gallimard is repeatedly shown as inept and impotent when around women. When a pinup girl reveals herself to him he claims his “penis is soft” and he “can’t do a thing.” When Renee, a student who uses words like “weenie”, offers herself to him, he claims she is “too uninhibited, too willing, so as to seem almost too… masculine.” Like, he finds himself outmanned by a girl who exhibits typically masculine traits of assertiveness and confidence. Hwang also alludes to the fact that Marc might have paid for, or at least organised for, Gallimard to lose his virginity.
It does help that Gallimard is so self-deprecating, constantly referring to how ugly and pathetic he is. It also helps that he’s enamoured with Puccini’s opera to the extent that he revels in this opportunity to self-insert himself into its plot.
Anyway, there’s the dan bit I mentioned before. Gallimard should have known but Western audiences might not be aware of the nuances of Chinese theatre. Regardless, Song still demonstrates numerous masculine traits. Look at the way they talk to Gallimard, criticising the fantasy of the “submissive Oriental woman and the cruel white man.” I mean, the guy is trying to flirt with them and they straight up call him out on his racist ideologies and his desired toxic masculinity – that takes some balls.
To make it obvious for the audience, Hwang drops in some dialogue in Act Two, Scene Four for those a little slow on the uptake. Gallimard is still claiming ignorance so it works on some level of dramatic irony, but in a little vignette Chin asks song why they are always “wearing a dress” and reminds them that there’s “no homosexuality in China!” For an audience member, this is possibly the worst time to disappear for a bathroom break. Well, this and when “Song drops his briefs. He is naked.” Miss those bits and you miss the point of the whole play.
bartopia 
