Where it all starts

It's been a bit of a busy time lately. Eleanor started Kindy last week. She's a little too young for it, age-wise, but definitely not socially or intellectually. She's taken a keen interest in learning to read (her request), and has been working through all the fun alphabet-related resources she can find. Reading Eggs. Apps. Signs. I could be overstating things a little, as you'd expect, but she's a smart kid!

I spent the first week of Kindy mostly sitting in the class. It was an interesting experience for me on a number of levels. Interesting to see the ebb and flow of kids into and out of the classroom, the changing faces, the small numbers in attendance, the teasing and tears, the process of teaching kids at different ages in the one classroom. I am endlessly admiring of school teachers - it's a very hard job. Made even harder in a remote community, where school socialisation skills are the starting point for Kindy class, not an introduction to the alphabet and correct pen holding.

A lot of people are engaged with the idea of Indigenous education. Yet what is little understood is the many, layered ways in which children from Western background are subtly and gently prepared for the experience of Western schooling before they even arrive at the gates in their oversized, overly cute little uniforms. When I see the enormous differences between Eleanor and the other kids at school, and reflect on what we are doing at home that creates this gap, the long road ahead to Indigenous literacy seems a little clearer.

For one, we have a bookshelf of kids books that is, quite literally, overflowing in the lounge room. Plus various kids books are scattered throughout the house, lost under the couch, buried in the boot of her little car, tucked in the midst of toys, sitting next to the bed. There are magnet letters all over the fridge and freezer, which Eleanor plays with and rearranges and redeposits all over the house at various points. She has (and I'm sad to say this, but it's true) three separate App folders in Fred's iPad called Eleanor, School and Colouring. The school apps are dedicated to learning and recognising letters, shapes, colours and numbers, replete with fun ways to encourage and maintain interest like stickers and dancing monkeys.

More importantly, perhaps, she has two parents who not only make reading a daily part of the structure of the day, but also regularly point out letters. For the past year, Eleanor has been able to identify 'her' letter, 'my' letter and Fred's letter. At various points, we add new capital letters to the mix - Cassie's, Rosalie's, Donnie's, etc. Building an alphabet in her mind through social relationships, which came about organically and was built on over time.

Just last week, walking home from school, I called into the clinic. On the way in, at about Eleanor's level, there was an old wooden sign with the clinic name, the letters carved into the wood and painted in rainbow colours. Eleanor took an interest in the C (after all, it's Cassie's letter!) and so we stopped and worked our way through each of the letters, as she traced her finger over them. It took about 5 minutes.

It is this kind of gentle, subtle reinforcement of the significance of letters, the relationship between letters and things that interest her, that lays the foundation for literacy. It is the way in which I sometimes ignore Eleanor in preference for my latest book that shows there is much more to this reading thing to know and learn. It is my interest in letters, and my encouragement of her interest, that gets her ready for that moment in the classroom when the teacher says 'today we're learning about the letter A'.

This is not a commentary about the parenting of Indigenous kids; rather it's a commentary about the multiple ways in which reading and literacy are woven into the lives of non-Indigenous kids without their parents even realising what's going on (particularly) as they prepare their kids for school.

Closing the gap. It's about so much more than just improving attendance. In fact, it's almost unrelated to attendance. It's about all the things that make up a life. A life rich in social relationships, rich in connectedness and family. But not necessarily rich in the alphabet and the meaningfulness of that to everyday important things. The more that social connectedness is related to literacy (through useful tools like Facebook, music, and games) and there are more interesting things available to read, only then perhaps will we start to see the gap close!

ID hell

I spent today doing a mundane but necessary task that many of us do without much thought, but about which we realise the significance of devoting a few hours here and there to do.

Maintaining my filing.

I put away all my FY11-12 documents and papers that had been piling up on the blue chair (well, it worked as a system for a while...). I then re-organised all the papers I'd been pulling out of different odd locations in my cleaning blitz of December, and packed away all my social work books and assignments into their preordained corner. I was mildly interested to flick through a few assignments that I've kept from my uni days in the early 90s, and made the unexciting decision to keep on holding onto them for... god knows what. Posterity.

All in all, my documents take up 5 drawers in a filing cabinet. I'm 38, so that's nearly 8 years to fill one drawer. Not bad.

Of course, keeping old assignments is hardly important. I do know that just one folder holds the truly important documents. The folder I'd grab in an emergency, if I had time. The one with my birth certificate, Eleanor's birth certificate, our passports, and various other bits and pieces that prove I am who I say I am.

The reason this rather mundane event of today is worthy of this post is this: I have spent approximately 35 hours of my work time in the past two weeks helping six community members apply to be foster carers and to get a Working with Children Check.

While I can see that some genuine effort has been made by the designers of the various forms to reduce the overall imperviousness of government identity verification systems (for example, by allowing certain people to make a declaration that someone is who they say they are), overall the process is extraordinarily complicated.

Why?

1) Most people don't have birth certificates. To apply for one is a process in itself. To do this in the context of their birth, that of their parents and grandparents and so on never having been registered becomes almost impossible. And certainly a lengthy process.

2) Most people do not have photo ID, such as a driver's licence. After all, scrambling the birth certificate hurdle to get a driver's licence is hard enough.

3) Most people don't hold any cards, apart from a keycard (and sometimes not even that! demonstrating beautifully how the world turns on a different axis where money is concerned out here)

4) No one receives 'utilities bills' in community housing (electricity is supplied through pre-purchased cards, water runs free), often do not have a home phone, and if they do receive official correspondence do not see a strong reason why this needs to be kept and stored 

4) Don't even mention passports to me, okay!!

By contrast, my wallet is literally bulging with all forms of ID, including photo ID. Student cards, Medicare card, health insurance, driver's license, WWCC, credit cards, key cards, library cards. The list goes on. I am IDed to my eyeballs. I know where my birth certificate is. In fact, I've carried it around with me in that all important folder every since my  mother gave it to me back in 1990 and I've faithfully held onto it for 22 years since. And, not at all oddly, my father went down and registered my birth within a few days of it happening.... Facilitating the whole beautiful process of identification in a smooth transition from there on in.

None of which applies out here. Which means I spent time searching for any bits of paper with someone's address, asking (and re-checking) if the applicants happen to have just one card (any card.... try me), ringing around various places that might be a source of ID, helping ring the bank and negotiating the trials of telephone banking to get a statement faxed, finding authorised referees, taking photos that meet the regulations, certifying at least 80 different forms of identification that were scraped together, completing the requests for alternate lodgment because there is no handy post office nearby, and then carefully working out that each individual has satisfied the requirements.

And now to working out who will pay the costs for the ID, and how it will be paid.  That's a whole 'nother trial...

Water water

An essential of life. A self-evident truth of which we think about little.

Until we run out of water. Or it buckets down. Or refuses to act as it should.

I seem to be preoccupied with stories of water of late. A little girl dies of dehydration in the desert, a summer storm just three days hence drenching the countryside around her.

The water turns off in Blackstone, a small reminder (less severe) of the centrality of water to our existence. The every day inconveniences multiply as the day progresses, the taps still dry.

A bucket of precious water sitting in the laundry tub. Back up for essentials like clean teeth and a sponge bath before bed. A quick assessment of the water to hand. 10 litre containers at work, at the store, in the garage. Enough for now.

Yet it's drenched outside. The conventional view of summer deserts are baked dry earth, cracking and parched. In fact it's the opposite. Summer is the time of storms. Where winter clothes briefly re-appear as storm clouds unfold. Rapidly evaporating the next day.

Each summer I remember the summer previous. Roads blocked for weeks, too wet to pass. Store provisions rapidly declining, pantry stocks the centre of every meal.

I was reflecting the other day on the minor inconvenience of the cold water taps never running cold. In summer, no amount of running the taps to get the water, heated in the quiet pipes, to pass makes any difference. I drink warm water, reassured that it is meant to be better for rapid absorption in any case.

And now there is none. None until 6pm tonight ... maybe... while the tank is filled. I missed the (unpublicised) brief window this morning of running water. Missed my shower yesterday. It's going to be a high day.

Oh for the halcyon days of warm water never running cold.

Bellwether

The wind is filled with rage and sadness tonight. A little girl is dead. Found too late.

As I listen to the wind battling outside, battering the house, I recall my fleeting thoughts on funeral days. How the weather seems to carry grief and sadness too. How a still morning suddenly turns, and we feel the animate earth rise around us. Sudden rain, hot wind, a dust storm.

So too is today. A day of gathering clouds. Of events unfolding on fateful tracks. Her family's grief unleashed.

There is a deep connection here between spirit, earth and people. Somehow it seems possible to be true.

Her spirit picked up and her story told, in more ways than one.

Mama-ku Christmas

It was a quiet, merry Christmas today in Blackstone. Eleanor was presented with an enormous trampoline (it didn't look that big in the box), which now dominates the backyard. While I was initially worried that it would be out of bounds during the day with the heat blooming on the dark mat, I realised with one stroke that the hose would be enough to turn that problem around.

The view

So early morning, I finally got to properly see the view from the back yard. On tippy toes, it's always seemed good. But in one second bouncing bursts, trouser hems wet, it was even better. Enhanced by the view over our neighbour's yard and highlights of the community to the west. I was reminded of the joy of simple play as a child, and briefly recaptured the moment (only this time without fear of plummeting through the springs on landing).

I am yet to see if the trampoline was a good idea. Eleanor loves it, so it scores top marks there. The main concern is that it will attract lots of bored kids to jump the fence into our backyard when we're away. While I'm perfectly happy for kids to bounce, the problem is that generally it doesn't stay at that. Bouncing turns to disagreements, which becomes frustration and then anger. The nearest thing takes the brunt of all that miniature burst of pure energy, and there is much to vent one's feelings on in the backyard. Fingers crossed ...

The day progressed apiece. After ambling through only half of the food we'd prepared, much of it spontaneously generated with the useful help of Fred's new iPad and online recipes, we marshalled to join the local police sargeant who had opened the pool for the afternoon. A kind gesture by him to give of his time, and one much appreciated by the kids.

The first thing Al said to me when I arrived was 'you wouldn't have thought there were this many kids in the community!' Indeed, it was packed full of leaping, backflipping, dunking, laughing bodies. At least 25 or 30, with more coming in and out, enjoying the rare opportunity to use the pool so tantalisingly close but sadly locked most of the time.

Unfortunately there is no youth worker at Blackstone at present. There seems to be inordinate trouble getting youth workers, paying for them and then encouraging them to stay. When the Shire hurdles the former two, the latter normally knees them after six months. It's a thankless task being a youth worker. Working late shifts, always in demand, constantly needing to find something new to do with limited resources, remote management. Since the best youth workers are young themselves, the sense of adventure wears off after a few months and the job just doesn't seem that attractive anymore. The only ones I know who have stayed have either been community members or temporary visa holders seeking permanent residency.

This evening, as the night closed in, the sounds of the community church wandered over the sky. Hymn songs in language. The unique cadence of the chairman's voice by megaphone, drifting across to the edge of the community.

Christmas lights on solar softly twinkling, the summer glare put to good use. The day is done.

Go quietly

I had a pretty stressful day today.

When I came home and lay in the hammock, the first thing that popped into my head was this: the only people who had a unified view on today's situation were Aboriginal staff and those living closest with them in their communities.

As always,  I am struck by the immense power of culture. About what we take to be normal, and therefore unexamined, and how we interpret 'abnormal'.

Take a simple, and perhaps innocuous thing like 'bad' language. While staying at my brother's house not that long ago, I because acutely aware of the different standards of what we would each regard as acceptable language. I counselled my daughter on a few occasions that while Daddy or Mummy might say certain words, they weren't okay where we were staying.

Personally, I think 'butt crack' is a funny way to describe someone's bottom, but clearly that's just my sense of humour! I'm not particularly fussed by the word 'bugger' either as a general expression of frustration. After doing protective behaviours, I also try to focus on using the proper names for private parts to demystifying for children and adults alike what is basically just a word for a body part. All these revelations were from within my own culture context. What about a context where cultural values and their manifestations in personal and social interactions were markedly different?

Living here, I hear a lot of swearing from the kids. Now that I know a bit of the local language, I'm even more aware of the frequency of swearing. The 'f'word is thrown around a bit, but that doesn't seem to worry the parents.Who am I to judge?

In fact, who I am to know? There is a whole lot more here that is different from other places. People encourage little kids to retaliate physically when they are aggrieved. I remember being slightly shocked when I heard another staff member telling me that he'd observed a parent gently encouraging their baby to 'stone' (ie throw little rocks) at a toddler sibling who was annoying her.

Clearly not something that falls within the Western parenting values repertoire, but the existence of this little moment in time indicates a much larger, substantially different way of dealing with conflict. A way of dealing with conflict that is more open, more immediate and more physical.

There are undeniably times when that physical expression of emotions tips the line and becomes violence. The bar where this occurs, however, is not where I draw it. It is where it is drawn within the culture of the people concerned, and within the bounds of the law generally. Making judgment calls on physical displays of emotion as indicative of a broader malaise is, however, a very risky thing to do with confidence.

I am very tempted by the idea of what it would feel like to truly walk in the shoes of another. Where daily the world is unpredictable, when my culture meets the culture of the mainstream. The power of the mainstream. When having an open fire, instead of a barbeque or a kitchen, is a matter worthy of note. When interactions seemingly innocuous snowball exponentially into events of monumental personal proportions.

There is a general quiet, reserved wariness I notice in Aboriginal people I meet for the first time. As if perhaps I am being tested for the true quality of our time together. Is it with good intent or to judge? It takes a while to get past this, to begin to communicate as much as possible that I see their way of living as inherently valid as my own.

To walk in their shoes is a journey unimaginable in my mind. The gulf is too great. Making the gulf all the more important to note before I and others take a flying leap into the void between us.

Loaded up

The past three weeks, since returning to Blackstone, I have been on a clean out blitz. So far, at least 10 boxes of junk have gone to the tip. Six bags of clothes and toys are stored at Warburton, pending the opportunity to sell them at a discount rate. Two large boxes of books have been set aside to start the Blackstone Coffee Club book exchange.

And still I'm cleaning out. I've only done two rooms so far. I'm yet to finish the study or look into odd cupboards and storage areas that I generally avoid (under the bed, hall cupboard, and so on).

What amazes me is how much stuff we seem to accumulate. Most of it we use rarely. As I wonder whether to chuck out a small plastic car with a popular brand toy driver (currently a hot favourite with Eleanor), I can see why I still seem to have so much left even after all my hard work so far.

Be ruthless, I say to myself. But with every snap decision to 'just keep this, just in case', I find myself reflecting instead on how hard it is to get rid of things. Things that I've spent time earning the opportunity to purchase, with little apparent value in the end. Was it really worth it?

Which leads me to the old man that we helped on his way the night before last. We came across him, by the side of the road, front wheel off, digging a small hole to make room for the spare. With the help of jack lever, and some grunt work from Fred, he continued on to sleep with family that night in Jameson.

What struck me, however, was the extraordinarily utility of every single thing he had with him in that old, nearly falling apart, nearly empty car. The car worked (albeit a bit noisy with the muffler off). He had a spare wheel. Some tools. A torch and a knife. He said he was prepared to bunk down on the side of the road if we hadn't come past. With his bottle of water, some billy tea, a can of tinned meat.

The only thing he said he was missing was a box of matches. (I would add a working jack, but we had one). Not a bad effort.

Our car, by contrast, was so full there was no way we could have offered him a lift without ditching some stuff.

Which makes me wonder. Is all this really worth it? Is all this really necessary? Is it indeed better to have just barely enough, and fill in the gaps with the kindness of strangers and family?

I suspect so.

Child centred

Blackstone community playgroup

I was asked the other day, in the typically direct style of my manager, whether I was being 'child centred'. I was a little astounded at the time. Being child centred was exactly what I was doing.

The asking, however, alerted me to a singular fact. That my idea of the 'child' was markedly different. So different in fact that my discussion appeared to be about other people in the child's life, not the child in question.

I am happy I was asked the question, however, for that one point in time helped clarify something that has been exercising me of late.

To put it starkly, I have been quite concerned that perhaps I am spearheading an altogether new type of stolen generation. The generation that intervenes in the lives of children out of their best interests. That characterises their best interests in such a way as to make their current lives seem untenable.

That so tarnishes their everyday existence that almost any alternative has to seem better.

Does it sound familiar? Do we all, each in our own generation, make personal and community decisions with the best of intent that are fundamentally misguided. How will we look back on this time, with the benefit of hindsight from 2061?

Will the markings I make on indelible electronic records be scoured over with simmering outrage by future researchers, not even yet a faint possibility in their yet unborn parents eyes? (There is considerable optimism in this future forecast - the assumption of a world that continues to sustain historical inquiry as an endeavour both worthy and necessary).

In any case, assuming the world continues as it is, how will my small part in it come to be regarded many years hence?

I'm not preoccupied with my personal record, more my personal values. Is this action now, quite simply, right or wrong?

A wise guide once told me 'you just know, when it feels wrong'.This intuitive affirmation has been a useful lighthouse for me in many decisions. Working back from a wrong feeling to work out why, then coming forward again with a clear rationale.

Which leads me back to the original question. Was I being child centred? The wrong feeling I got was steeped in a profound sense of disadvantage. The voice of the family so quiet, so solitary, so unique as to be effectively inaudible in our perfect English conversation.

Yes, this is wrong. This child is with family, on country. Visible. In fact, more visible than many. The many we do not see who in fact need the brutal, scarifying light of our attention.

Instead, we turn to those who are least like us and ask about 'the child'. As if the child is somehow able to be considered separate from his parents, his culture, his community, his identity. As if the child can somehow be distilled down to an essential blood and bone, a statement of milestones and achievements and little else.

For discussing the parents is discussing the child. Discussing the community is discussing the child. The child is more than just that. The child is part of a bigger whole.

While I think there are times when the child's 'best interests' seems to outweigh all those people that in fact make up who the child is, the times when this are true in my world are rare indeed.

A mirror and a window

I received an email from a good friend. It makes me cry each time I read it (which has not been often, for exactly that reason). I have been prevaricating about how best to respond.

On the way home today, I realised this was indeed the best way to respond.

Openly. Opaque, yes, for the general reader. But an open letter, nevertheless, which is important in itself.

Good friendships come rarely in life. Good friendships across generations perhaps even rarer (maybe for want of opportunity rather than any other inherent reason). Friendships of a certain deep hue need to be treasured, nurtured, sustained.

I have always prided myself on being a protector of such friendships. They have been precious to me in ways that fill a hole in my soul, excavated in the lonely rooms and halls and open spaces of institutional living.

I wonder sometimes what kind of end my aged body will come to, if indeed I make it long enough to age well. I linger on the thought that perhaps I will come (almost) full circle back to one of the more instrumental times in my life, institutional living.

I hope that I will die at home, in my bed, with loved ones nearby. That would be a lucky death indeed.

Death and life are intimately woven into each other, much as we choose not to acknowledge this.

I have become quite attuned to the possibility of imminent death. Passing road trains. A sliding turn on a freshly gravelled road. Another funeral. The sight of a small child going face first into the water, so close but too far.

It feels very near. I idly wonder on long journeys if perhaps I'll get cancer. I morbidly consider if a recent bruise heralds the onset of leukaemia. Or if one of my many moles will turn on me while I blithely smooth sunscreen on my face daily.

Having had very little experience of death, I feel its presence near. When will my luck run out? And when it does, will it be sudden and I will have had no time to say.

That I forgive you. That I choose not to forget either. That I hold certain moments precious in the memory of my life.

I feel the same way and I'm sorry too. We'll be friends again and take our imperfect perfect selves along for the ride.

Dazzling white all around

I'm back. At last. Heave a huge sigh of relief (it's been a long short time away).

Like all spells in a different country, it's been a very productive time for self reflection. Helped no doubt by studying a complementary uni subject (aka Critical Reflective Practice) and some significant personal challenges.

I've been mulling over this post for a while. As seems to always happen, my creative juices start to flow as soon as I hit the long red dusty roads again. Already I've clocked up 1700k and it's only been a week and a day since I stepped onto the tarmac at Kalgoorlie airport.

Now I have to distil my experiences of four months in Toowoomba into one return blog. The result: the dazzling power of white.

Undoubtedly one of the most interesting things to strike me about my work back in the 'mainstream' is just how transferable what I've learnt is to other cross-cultural situations.

I can't get away from just how damn white I actually am. The odd 'look and feel' of that statement first struck me when I was reading an article about working with Aboriginal people. It posed the interesting question of what answer you would give to someone who came up to you on the street and said (all casual and chatty, in good interview style) "so, what's it feel like to be White?"

The question in fact seems ludicrous. Umm, what do you mean? the most likely puzzled response.

You know, White, non-Indigenous, Caucasian, Westerner. White.

Oh, um, I'm not sure. It feels ok, I guess.

It's a pretty hard question to answer. But unless I stop to ask it (and I only just avoided bringing you all into my assumed white loop, by not saying 'we' just then), I will hardly have the self awareness to see where I daily go wrong.

A fun way to spend the day - for some!

For example, my first question, after introducing myself to a refugee community leader: 'So, what do you do?' This I asked to someone who only 2 years ago was living in a refugee camp, who had arrived in Australia, learnt a new language, found somewhere to stay, navigated enormous personal and social change, and commenced study for a new future. And my opening fallback question is what does he do for a job! What on earth was I thinking?... or rather, wasn't thinking.

As it turned out, that meeting proved to be one of the highlights of my Toowoomba stay. At the end of a fascinating, engaging conversation, we shook hands with genuine feeling and went back to our respective worlds, a small rope bridge thrown out between us. Some shared moments based on the truth of our own experiences, many of which for me were grounded in what I've learned out bush.

My whole time on bitumen has led to not one blog post . The deceptive solidity of the ground beneath me, where (almost) everyone and everything makes sense just as it should.

What grounds us is our culture, but it's not as solid as it seems. In fact, it's a dazzling white fragile fabric beneath.

So while I relentlessly strive for a better, slimmer, more perfect me, what am I leaving in my wake? What values am I fostering in my child, unconsciously, despite the best of intent? Some things can't be shifted by thought or good intention along. They are deeply embedded in the fabric of our daily personal, family and social interactions.

Only by being aware of the threads of that dazzling white, do I begin to see it for what it is. I won't ever be any different, but I hope I can start to better appreciate and value the alternatives. See the strengths where other see the deficits.

See the small child happily playing while others notice only the things around him.

With humble thanks to the team at Mercy Family Services Toowoomba (especially Frances, David, Melina, Nicole, Rachel and Candice - what a great bunch of people and a great place to work!).