SlutWalk – cos Gen Y feminism is no longer an oxymoron

‘Cos you know how, like, nerds reclaimed the word nerd and Greeks reclaimed the word Greek? Like, anyone who’s been bullied, it’s become, like, a trend to reclaim the word’ (comment overheard at SlutWalk).

Has feminism become such a dirty word that it’s cool? I haven’t seen so many coolsies at a protest since the live music rally. SlutWalk was dominated by females in their 20s and 30s. Despite a few ripped stockings and short skirts, nobody really managed to look ‘slutty’, except in a contrived, costumed kind of way. I’d describe the predominant fashion as Fitzroy cool – you know, understated T-shirts and vintage dresses and colourful woollen scarfs?

In a way, it doesn’t really matter whether people get involved in feminism out of passion for the cause or as a fashion statement. Motivations for these sorts of things are usually mixed, and they change over time. It’s common for people to get involved in social justice issues because they think it’s cool or they want to make themselves feel shiny, but that’s not to say they don’t care about the issue too, and often as they get more involved, this passion solidifies. Why second-guess someone’s motivations when they’re trying to do good things?

Getting Gen Yers to attend the protest at all was a massive achievement. As my one of my fave feminists Monica Dux, who spoke at the rally, explains in her book The Great Feminist Denial, while many Gen Y women subscribe to feminist views, they’re reluctant to identify as feminists. They have capitulated to the propaganda perpetuated by the haters, namely, that feminists are hairy-arm-pitted, man-hating bra-burners.

While SlutWalk wasn’t marketed as a feminist event, I’d like to think that it was a first step towards roping in the youngsters. A big cheer went up when Ursula Benstead, counsellor from the Western Region Centre Against Sexual Assault, identified herself a feminist, and clarified that feminism wasn’t all about hairy armpits: ‘The principle is that women are entitled to all the same rights and privileges, including the right not to be sexually assaulted and not be blamed for being sexually assaulted.’

SlutWalk made feminism feel fun. In her speech, Monica Dux admitted that she wasn’t wearing any undies, but not because of the walk – because she hadn’t done the washing. She pointed out the double standards when it comes to what men and women are wearing: ‘Nobody says to a man, oh look, your jocks are a bit tight, better be careful.’ Someone in the crowd yelled ‘Tony Abbott!’

The vibe was fantastic, and if you got as far as showing up, the message – that it’s men who have to stop raping women, rather than women having to avoid being raped – was clear. Benstead talked about having to turn tell girls who’d been sexually assaulted that they had to wait for six months before seeing a counsellor, because the centre was so swamped with clients.

Clearly, sexual assault is still a huge problem, and so is victim-blaming, including self-blaming. I know several people who’ve been sexually assaulted, and in each case, they blamed themselves – for inviting the situation by being too flirtatious, or not fighting hard enough.

It was encouraging to see quite a few men there too. One of the key messages was that men need to take responsibility for tacking sexual assault. One of the speakers, Cody Smith, a trans man and victim of sexual assault, choked back tears as he called on men to take responsibility for changing the behaviour of their friends. He’s spot on – the most effective way to change the mind of men who think that, for whatever reason, they can take what’s not rightfully theirs, is for their mates to speak up against it. This is why behavioural change programs often use male role models to teach their mates about respecting women – for example, check out the Be the Hero project, which tried to get school boys to teach each other to be respectful.

As I discussed in my previous post, the protest was probably less appealing to older feminists. It seeemed that for some ‘old guard’ feminists, the flippant reclaiming of the tainted word ‘slut,’ and the protest’s ironic, faux marketing, would have been pretty hard to swallow. Nonetheless, it was disappointing to see Leslie Cannold criticise older women for failing to take the ‘activist baton’ that young women had commendably seized. Firstly, there were older women there, and secondly, reinforcing divisions between older and younger feminists doesn’t seem particularly helpful.

As I mentioned earlier, some of my friends, both young and old, refused to go because they felt that the term SlutWalk implicitly sexualised rape and put the focus on women rather than men. They were also confused about the protest’s intent – was it condoning porn? Prostitution? They didn’t want to attend something that might be supporting these things. It’s a pity that SlutWalk turned off potential supporters with its marketing, and in the future I hope they can come up with something equally sexy and media-friendly.

At the same time, good on the organisers for drumming up that kind of buzz for an issue which struggles to get the attention it deserves. And for those who actually showed up, the overriding message was pretty clear – that we need to teach men not to rape, rather than women how not to get raped. If you accept this basic premise, disagreement around the details isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Providing nobody gets hurt and people respect differing views, people learn through conflict. Debate and talking over the issues can help you develop a position, and sometimes, change your mind. As Benstead said, if SlutWalk creates a dialogue about sexual assault, misogyny, and social justice, that’s a good thing. And if equally, if we can use irony, controversy, or fashion to attract people who’ve never been involved in feminism before, that’s a good thing too.

Slutwalk – people are smart enough to get it

When the SlutWalk event popped up on my Facebook account, it immediately appealed to me. The message, that women have a right to wear what they want, and act what they want, without being insulted or assaulted, seemed clear as mud, and I liked the subversive irreverence of using the word ‘Slut’ in this context. Still, some critics of the protests say the term is too susceptible to misinterpretation – of course, they get it, but they’re concerned about other people.

They suggest that these people will see the large photos of ‘sluttily’ dressed women in the media and assume that the protest’s a mere spectator sport. Lecherous men will see it as a fortuitous opportunity for men to leer at the wayward women, and women will buy into this patriarchal mindset by strutting their stuff for the eyes of their oppressors.

It’s true that we live in a world where AFL players still treat women as pieces of meat and people still sell buy T-shirts which say ‘And U Wonda Why They Call U Bitch’ – another reason why SlutWalk is important. In this context, it’s legitimate to question whether people are really ready for the level of conceptual complexity of the phrase ‘SlutWalk.’

So how would the average person interpret the protest? It’s pretty difficult to tell – I mean, who’s really tapped into the zeitgeist of the suppositious ‘average Australian’ these days? My sense is that these critics are underestimating people – that many people are familiar with these issues, even if they don’t spend much time thinking about them, and they do get it.

And so what if SlutWalk is perceived as a perve-fest? Men always perve, and men who are there will undoubtedly be perving. If I was a man, I’d get right down to the protest tomorrow to fix my appreciative male gaze on many sexy women who will be in attendance, and I might learn something from the speeches, too – there’s a difference been checking a woman out and wanting to take her behind your truck (or BMW, if you like) and have your way with her. And from a woman’s perspective, why is wearing skimpy clothing or heels, even if it’s to impress men, necessarily disempowering?

Which brings us to raunch culture.  In The Age the other day, the protest’s organiser, Clem Bastow, commented, seemingly with a hint of sarcasm, “Who knew that in organising SlutWalk Melbourne, my colleagues and I were apparently just confirming our role as another pawn in the raunch culture game?” Yet surely Bastow, who’s been involved in feminist stuff for a few years now, would have foreseen that the term SlutWalk, which implicitly references raunch culture, would invoke these divisions on an issue where feminists could otherwise present a unified front – after all, who condones rape and victim-blaming?

The strategic wisdom of choosing such a divisive term is questionable. Perhaps courting controversy was the only way to attract attention to the issue – in that sense, it’s certainly worked. But I can’t get any of my friends to come along to the protest. One was concerned that it reinforced notions that rape was about sex, rather than power. It’s a good point – given that the residential house is the most common place for a rape, and in most cases most perpetrators are known to the offender, what place does slutty clothing have in the whole thing? It might send mixed messages – but again, people are, in my view – pretty smart – I think they’ll get it. For other friends, word slut has too many negative connotations to reclaim. This is understandable, although personally, I’d rather reclaim it and then put it through a paper shredder; make ‘Slut’ my bitch and then expunge it from the face of the earth.

It’ll be interesting to see what age-groups are represented at the protest. I suspect SlutWalk is more likely to appeal to Gen Ys than older people, who are probably less likely to find the irony funny or clever, or to reclaim the term with such careless abandon. Julie Szego references her age in The Age today when she explains the reasons why SlutWalk “doesn’t light her fire” (generational differences even implied in the musical reference to the Doors): “I would happily embrace my own inner slut were it not hiding under the weight of motherhood and middle age.” But targeting Gen Ys might be good start; they are receptive to feminist ideals, but have capitulated to the false stereotypes of feminists as hairy man-haters, so many are reluctant to get involved in something ‘feminist.

In Julie Szego’s article today, she goes on to suggest that victim-blaming is a trivial issue, as legally and socially, Western countries have moved on from that. She dismisses the AFL, NRL and Defence Force controversies as a mere aberration, rather than a reflection of deeply entrenched views. Feminists should concentrate on the ‘hard issues’, she argues – rape in the Congo, etc.  But ask sexual assault workers – the issue of victim-blaming isn’t dead, and it’s not trivial. Szego’s comparative argument is overly simplistic – like saying we shouldn’t worry about poverty in Australia because it’s so much worse in India.

Despite its weaknesses, SlutWalk’s unlikely to do any harm, and may do some good – mobilise (some) women’s rights advocates, raise awareness amongst disengaged or uninformed, and perhaps cause a few people to question some of their unexamined assumptions about rape victims. So, you could either get bogged down in arguments, or just show up, and see what happens.

PS. Sweat – by Inner Circle. Can it be reclaimed? I think it is inherently sexist, and ‘offensive’ in a way, but it’s just so catchy. Sorry. For a while, every lunch-time, my friends and I used to dance to it at Primary School, in the same room where we received religious instruction from Supa Club. We even used to do the elbow pumping motions to symbolise getting jiggy. Me and my friend used to be the girl, because we had ‘brown eyes.’ We suspected it might be about rape, but kind of ignored it. Since then, I’ve been exposed to alternative interpretations – that ‘cry out’ is about pleasure, and they’re actually just talking about enjoyably rough sex. I’m not so sure.

Autumn beauty

I’ve heard that it is our most beautiful resplendent autumn for years, because of all the rain. Anyway, I’m pretty much constantly walking around in a reverie.

Ingrid Betancourt on shades of grey and tough decisions

Columbian politician Betancourt was captured by FARC guerrillas during her presidential campaign in in 2002. She had run on an anti-corruption platform, and one of her campaign activities involved handing out condoms on the street, something which her dad was a bit uneasy with. The gesture was intended to indicate that she’d keep people safe from corruption – she’d say to people, “If you vote for me, it’s like you’re in a condom.” I’m pretty sure something here was lost in translation, but you get the picture. “Why was your party called the Green Oxygen party?” interviewer Peter Mares asked. “Because, if you’re in politics in Columbia, it’s like you can’t breathe [for the corruption],” Betancourt explained.

Betancourt, beautiful and sophisticated with long, black-stockinged legs, has a warm, intelligent, animated face. She spoke passionately, articulately, and with perfect diction, even sounding out the ‘h’ in her ‘whys.’ As she retold the story of her capture, as she has done many times including in her book Even Silence Has An End, I wondered what effect the constant re-telling would have on someone who must surely still be suffering trauma – is it therapeutic, or ultimately damaging? Perhaps cognisant of this, interviewer Peter Mares asked his questions carefully and respectfully, occasionally looking down at his well-thumbed copy of her book, which was extensively peppered with post-it notes.

Betancourt’s a great storyteller – using well-timed pauses and bringing out ominous little details, she evoked a palpable sense of dread as she retold the story of her capture. She was captured while she was attempting to travel to San Vincente del Cagua as part of her campaign. The area was thought to be quite safe – flooded with government military and with helicopters buzzing overhead. The President had even decided to hold a press conference there, presumably to illustrate his powerfulness in driving out the FARC. Presumably for this reason, Betancourt said, he didn’t want the presence of an opposition politician and withdrew her security escorts at the last minute. She decided to go anyway, realising that if she acquiesced, the President would control the rest of her campaign.

Because of the strong military presence, nobody thought FARC would be audacious enough to set up a roadblock. And Betancourt didn’t expect to be targeted by them – she’d been sitting around a table with its leaders, joking and talking about politics, only weeks before. In general, it’s difficult to tell the difference between FARC and the military – they both wear the same khaki uniform – but Betancourt had been told that you had to look at the boots – the army’s were leather and FARC’s were rubber. So when she was stopped at a checkpoint that day, she gazed down at the rubber boots of her apprehender and realised she was in trouble. Picturing those boots in my head, I had flicker of the sick, queasy, limp, shaky feeling she must felt at that time.

Betancourt explained the moral ambiguity of the capture situation. In one sense, she said, you could say that the captors were the evil ones and the captives the good ones. ‘That’s true,’ agreed Mares. But no – the reality, Betancourt explained, was vastly different – there were shades of light and dark in both. The guards, some of whom were as young as 12, were regularly replaced. Some became friends, and she noticed some of them struggling with their conscience. What’s more, they spoke to her of the misery of their situation, situations of hunger – at least, working for FARC, they were fed every day, even if it was only rice and beans. But their behaviour deteriorated the longer they stayed there – “they could be quite humiliating.” This evolution towards cruelty was perhaps a result of their progressive indoctrination by FARC, the gradual entrenchment of a hostile groupthink, and constant threats of repercussions if the hostages were to escape.

The situation was also difficult with her fellow captives. Apparently – and I haven’t had time to look into this properly – that some of them have written books that were quite critical of her. But Betancourt spoke of the difficulty of maintaining your integrity in trying situations, and how what seems like a practical decision to make in the moment may not be the right one in the long term. For example, on the first night they were captured, they were in a compound with lots of lights and surrounded by barbed wire – it reminded Betancourt of a concentration camp. One of the guards yelled something along the lines of ‘give me your numbers’ and the captives started yelling out their numbers. Betancourt refused to comply with this dehumanising edict, requesting that they call her by name instead. For this, she attracted considerable resentment from fellow captives, who accused her of being a Prima Donna. And you can understand why they acted like this – there’s nothing that makes you feel worse than when something you know does something which implicitly questions a decision of yours that you feel uncomfortable about.

Like everything else, the jungle was both darkness and light. It was the impenetrable site of her captivity, but also provided a cloak for her escape. It was a source of diseases and bugs, but also gave her thoughts a clarity, pace, and rhythm. The river was like a highway through the jungle, allowing her to escape, but also a black, threatening pool of water teeming with unsavoury creatures like piranhas. Betancourt said she became very good at planning to escape – snaffling materials like fish hooks and flotation devices (water containers). Ironically, when she finally did managed to escape with one of her fellow captives, they caught heaps of fish but then realised they didn’t actually know how to light a fire! Her companion was diabetic, so Betancourt chopped up the raw fish in an attractive arrangement and then presented it to him, saying, “Look, it’s sushi,” and popping it into her mouth, “Mmm… delicious.”

At the end of her talk, Ingrid Betancourt was asked how she sustained her spirit during six years in capacity. “Love,” she said, and something along the lines of “Love is the answer.” This prompted a slightly awkward silence amongst audience members, who may, like me, have been flinching at the cheesy-ness of this Barbra Streisand-associated phrase, however apt. Or perhaps they were just moved. She went on to talk about how focusing on those moments where you gave or received love from family or friends helped salve her sense of self, which became bruised as a result of the hatred she received from others. Faith, too, helped – Betancourt is a Christian and carried a bible on her the whole time. Betancourt explained faith as a greater version of love – love from God or whatever higher power you believe in.

Betancourt was also asked what Columbia should do about the FARC, who are no longer negotiating. There are two possible reasons for this, Betancourt explained. It could either be because they are simply a drug cartel – and have no interest in politics anymore – or it may be that there is no central control. In either of these scenarios, she saw the only possibility as military intervention. Her view is surprising, especially as she acknowledged that unless the root causes for widespread displacement of people and poverty were addressed, another FARC would be likely to spring up. But if a war were to commence, wouldn’t it make it even harder to address these root causes? I guess there is no real right answer.

Mares concluded by asking her about the politics of hostage-taking. By advocating for her release so vociferously, did the French government, her family, and other supporters play right into FARC’s hands, by making her more valuable as a hostage? Not at all, Betancourt said firmly, explaining that it doesn’t really work that way. She reminded us that twenty of her fellow captives, who are not high-profile at all, are still in captivity.

It’s so rare to see an Australian politician, or any politician really, who so obviously practises heart politics. I mean, with a few exceptions, half the time, it’s like they forget why they’re even there, I mean, on a human or emotional level. In this context, Betancourt’s obvious passion, combined with an ability to advocate clear, considered solutions, offers welcome inspiration.

Paying the bills

Life is not all fun and bouncy.

I saw this photo on the way to work.

I may yet become this man.

Bob Brown’s infuriatingly genial grin

Bob takes on the media, and they don’t take it too well. “Don’t be upset, don’t be defensive…don’t be angry – be happy,” he says, with that infuriatingly genial grin on this face. He is enjoying himself. There is a very Canberrian hedge in the background, and what looks like flame-red autumn trees, although it could just be visual distortion.

The media’s savage reaction to the criticism, described here by Ben Eltham, tends to prove Bob’s point.

No divine right to discriminate

If you really want to test your faith in politics, try reading Victorian MP Geoff Stewart’s biblically orientated maiden speech.  Shaw acknowledges the original owner of the land – not the Wurundjeri people, but ‘God, the Creator, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the God of the Bible.’ ‘What a blessing,’ he declares, ‘that the Creator has given us stewardship of this place, and what a responsibility we have to govern here in Victoria and govern well.’ Presumably, Shaw means that humans have divine stewardship of the earth, rather than the government having God-given stewardship of the state of Victoria. But his speech is a little confusing,  ‘I am glad to be here as part of a new coalition government that knows the difference between righteousness and self-righteousness… we are on the common sense express, where we will carefully assess our spending decisions, knowing we are stewards of Victorian taxpayers’ money.’ So the new government, too, is a steward, and there is a righteous quality to their economic restraint. 

On Sunday 7 May 2011, The Age reported that Shaw, the member for Frankston, had described homosexuality as a sin tantamount to molesting a child, dangerous driving or murder. Shaw made these comments in response to an email from articulate, cluey 20 year old uni student Jakob Quilligan, who had written to his local member to protest against the Baillieu government’s new equal opportunity bill, which rolls back some of the Brumby government’s substantial anti-discrimination law reforms. The next day Shaw emailed Quilligan offering a half-apology [full email here]. He said that he ‘apologised and regretted any offence caused,’ but also, rather disingenuously, claimed that ‘the [Age] article does not reflect my views,’ even though The Age had quoted his email verbatim, and made the whole email exchange available online. 

It was not until six days later, on Friday 12 May, when questioned about the issue in parliamentary budget estimates hearings, that Premier Ted Baillieu expressed disapproval of Shaw’s comments, reaffirming his support for the gay community and admitting ‘(we have to be mindful) that language and commentary can have an impact and people do sometimes get it wrong.’ While better late than never, this equivocal statement implies Shaw’s comments were an excusable ‘mistake,’ and understates the damaging impact of the comments amongst a gay and lesbian community which suffers from disproportionately high rates of depression and self-harm. By failing to speak out early and strongly against Shaw’s comments, Baillieu missed the opportunity to reinforce one of his positive initiatives in the area – a budget allocation of $4 million for suicide prevention amongst young gay and lesbian people.

Baillieu is thought of as socially progressive– while opposed to gay marriage , he supported the Brumby’s abortion law reforms and the laws allowing same-sex couples to register their relationship. Leslie Cannold even urged Victorians to vote for him in the 2010 state election on the basis that preserving the influence of small-l liberalism in the Liberal party was essential to create a political space where socially progressive policy could be implemented. However, the new equal opportunity bill, introduced into parliament on 3 May 2011, demonstrates that the Baillieu government is still strongly influenced by conservative religious groups.

The bill allows religious schools and organisations to discriminate against employees on the basis of religion, sexuality, sex, marital status, parental status, gender identity or lawful sexual activity (this might cover extra-marital affairs or prostitution) where it is necessary to ‘conform with the doctrines, beliefs, or principles of the religion’, or to ‘avoid injury to the religious sensitivities of adherents.’ It removes the Victorian Equal Opportunity and Human Rights Commission’s power to conduct public enquiries into issues of systemic discrimination and watering down its investigation powers. There are also a number of other changes warranting detailed scrutiny, including changes to the Commission’s governance arrangements, exceptions relating to youth wages, political clubs and single-sex sporting competitions, and amendments to the obligation to make reasonable adjustments for people with disabilities.

The bill reverses some of the changes made by the Brumby government in March 2010, when after a long process of review, Attorney General and social justice reformer Rob Hulls, introduced the Equal Opportunity Bill. The Commission was given the powers to conduct public enquiries and initiate investigations without first requiring an individual complaint. The law and complaints process were simplified, allowing for more flexible, speedy, dispute resolution. There were a number of other significant changes, including removal of the blanket exception for businesses with five employees or fewer. 

In what was reported as a compromise with right-wing religious groups, the Brumby government’s bill did retain the exceptions for religious schools and organisations. This meant, for example, that a religious school could still rely on the exceptions to expel a student who admitted that he was gay, or that a furniture shop run by a religious group could refuse to serve a gay couple. Whether or not these examples legally fit within the exception (i.e. whether these actions would be considered necessary to conform with religious beliefs or avoid offence to religious sensitivities) is almost irrelevant given that the very existence of the exceptions is sufficient to deter people from challenging discriminatory decisions. 

The Brumby government removed attributes like disability and age from the scope of the religious exceptions. In practice, this was an immaterial change, given that the attributes of religion, sex, sexuality, marital status, parental status, gender identity and lawful sexual activity, which were retained in the exceptions, represent the most likely bases for religiously based discrimination. One significant change the Brumby government did make to the exceptions was to limit them in relation to employment. Under the 2010 bill, religious schools and bodies could only discriminate against employees or job applicants where conformity with the religious doctrines, beliefs, or principles was an ‘inherent requirement’ of the particular position, and where, because of an attribute covered by the exceptions (for example sexuality, unmarried status, or different faith), the employee couldn’t meet that requirement. The Australian Christian Lobby had lobbied against  such a change.

The Coalition opposed the imposition of this ‘inherent requirement’ test and the widening of the Commission’s powers. Parliamentarians referred specifically to the concerns of religious groups including Australian Christian Lobby, Family Voice Australia, and the Presbyterian Church of Victoria. In April 2010, Baillieu met with the Australian Christian Lobby at parliament and confirmed, corresponding with their demands, that if elected, the government would restore the ability of religious schools and organisations to discriminate against employees and job applicants and remove the Victorian Equal Opportunity and Human Rights Commission’s powers to investigate discrimination.  He reiterated this promise to the Australian Christian Lobby and Family Voice  during the 2010 state election campaign.

The new bill implements this campaign promise. The Commission’s capacity to tackle systemic issues of discrimination – issues such as discrimination against indigenous people in accommodation, or discrimination against Indian people in the workforce – has been severely diminished. The reinstatement of employment exceptions for religious schools potentially means that a woman working at a religious school could be legally denied a promotion because she was pregnant. An applicant for a job as cleaner or gardener at a religious school could be asked to sign a declaration of faith, and turned away if they refused. Employees at church-run organisations could be denied career opportunities because they admit to being in a same-sex or de-facto relationship. This is despite the fact that these schools, and many religious-based organisations, receive public money.

One provision in Kennett’s 1995 Act was left untouched by both the Brumby and Baillieu government. It allows ‘discrimination by a person against another person on the basis of that person’s religion, sex, sexual orientation, lawful sexual activity, marital status, parental status or gender identity if the discrimination is reasonably necessary for the first person to comply with the doctrines, beliefs or principles of their religion.’ This incredibly broad provision appears to offer a free-standing invitation to discriminate. 

Discrimination shouldn’t have a place anywhere, but especially not in publicly funded institutions. Geoff Shaw’s comments and the discriminatory exceptions in the Equal Opportunity Act reflect a system in which highly mobilised, well-resourced religious groups espousing a conservative, exclusionary view of Christianity, one which is not shared by the majority of Australians, exercise disproportionate influence over law making and policy. In this system, religious sensitivities are frequently given priority over human rights, valuing diversity, and treating people with respect and dignity. The circular story of the equal opportunity exceptions illustrates that without a strong community campaign, this is unlikely to change.

Find out more, and take action here.

DavidMitchellwhipped

Last night, while we were waiting for the Wheeler Centre’s David Mitchell talk to start, my friend and I were talking about geeks who come full circle. That is, when they’re at school or whatever, they’re not really comfortable in their skin – their geekiness is like an itch or something that they try to hide – but when they grow up they become one with their geekiness, and it’s a beautiful thing to behold.

I came to this talk with almost zero knowledge of Mitchell. In general, going to author’s talks when you haven’t read the book is highly recommended – it’s more surprising. I have a copy of The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet on my floor, and am now burning to read it.

The predominant mood last night was Swoon. Michael Gawenda, the Wheeler Centre guy, almost seemed a bit fluttery and stuttery himself when he introduced Mitchell, although that could have been for other reasons. And Jenny Niven, the Program Manager at the Melbourne Writers Festival, who has this beautiful, lilting, Scottish accent, was gazing at him almost lovingly the whole time. You got the feeling that she had devoured his whole oeuvre, and was just dying to ask something like, ‘You know, I still can’t understand why you killed off that minor character in page 500 of your unpublished manuscript, the one that nobody else has read yet, and yet it worked so perfectly?’

Mitchell seemed like a bit of a blank canvas when he first emerged from behind the curtain – storky, with a sticking-up fringe, cotton slacks, and daggy lace-ups. Like, he could have gone either way – been kookily funny; quiet, serious, and academic; or completely disengaged.

Mitchell said that the decision to write about late 18th century Dejima, a tiny island of Dutch traders in the bay of Nagasaki, was a mistake. Why? Novels thrive on coincidences and chance meetings, and the Japanese government’s policy of strict segregation between the Japanese and the Dutch was completely antithetical to that. Only a very select group of Japanese families were allowed to mix with the Dutch, and they weren’t even allowed to learn each others’ languages. But in the end, after thinking about elaborate plot contrivances to bring the two together, he realised that the solution lay within the problem. ‘Memo to self,’ he said, ‘The solution lies within the problem.’ A useful dictum, methinks, but what the solution was in this case, I’m not sure – I’ll have to read the book.

Figuring out what happened in the 18th century required both hard research – what were the major historical events of the time – and soft research – how was a room lit, how did they heat themselves, how did they shave, how did they bath, what did they eat? So you’ve got to work all this stuff out, he said, and then hide it, otherwise you’ll have a sentence like, ‘Jacob, I’m not sure if we should use the whale oil lamp, because that might be very expensive… maybe we should use the pig fat candle.’ It’s not easy to write a novel, he pointed out, when you have to check Wikipedia every time you write a sentence. He also had to think carefully about language. At first he thought it needed to be completely archaic, but after writing a few pages of that ‘slew,’ he realised it sounded like Black Adder and nobody was going to want to read it. Eventually, he realised he had to create his own ‘bygonese’ — an inaccurate but plausible language – with a different type of bygonese for the Japanese and the Dutch. Anyway, here’s an essay he wrote about writing historical fiction – have a read if you’re interested.

At first, I thought Mitchell’s disarmingness was incidental, and then I realised this guy was actually quite self-aware, conscious of his need to entertain the audience. When asked about his elaborately constructed plots, he said it was really an atomistic process, and then rejected this terminology, ‘It’s too late in the night for that kind of language… ok, it’s more like Lego.’ He’d started as a short story writer, and then gradually built up from there. Did he plan his novels? No, ‘life’s too short to plan a Lego cathedral.’

Mitchell’s stutter seemed almost cultivated, as it usually preceded some selection of the perfect adjective or a cracking metaphor. He fielded quite a few sycophantic questions from the audience, like ‘in XXX novel, which hasn’t been mentioned enough tonight I don’t think, there are so many great ideas in each chapter. Aren’t you concerned about using up all your good ideas at once?’ There was a little pause, a nod of the head, and then he’d be fluently expounding about how when he first started writing, he was dead-scared of committing the novelist’s cardinal sin of being boring, so he tried to fit in as many ideas as he could. Now, he was content to really work hard on developing the one plot and set of characters. ‘Now I’m growing a pumpkin whereas before I was….popping doughnuts.’ A look of glee at the marvellous metaphor he’d selected and then he mimed making doughnuts with his fingers.

They’re making a film out of Cloud Atlas, with Tom Hanks and Halle Berry, and Nevin asked Mitchell something along the lines of whether he was concerned if it was capable of fully realising the potential of the book. He said that that was really up to them, and he didn’t mind as long as they paid him the money – but at the same time, he’d read the script and was really excited about it, ‘I think it could be at least a good a film as my book is a book, however good you think that is.’ He was quite pleased with his own quip, deeming it the quote of the night.

It was really quite lovely, sitting and listening to Mitchell in the cosy, elaborate, Athenaeum theatre with its mellow lighting and all the other like-minded audience members in their woollen scarfs. Almost like meditating, I could just focus on his voice, his beautiful constantly gesticulating hands, and the warm, lilting, interjections from his interviewee. A welcome end to a day in which I’d had a spate with my colleague at work, whom I’ll dub Lolly Boy (origin of the nickname is another story), because he’d call me ‘Young Lady’ one too many times. Removing distractions, turning your phone off, and absorbing interesting thoughts and conversations, without having to participate, is a welcome reprieve from the grinding mundanities of the office day.

At the end of the show, there was this mile-long line of fans trying to get their book signed, so my friend and I decided to get a sneaky glass of red wine and then come back. Serendipitously, when we returned to the Athenaeum, there were only three people left in the line. It was this young girl, the one who had asked Mitchell an earnest, kind-of-cheesy but still cute question about whether it was lonely being a writer. She was with her mum, and the mum was being kind-of-embarrassing in a way I recognised. We could hear something along the lines of, ‘My daughter taught English in Japan and she really.. and it’s really…’ and this just went on for ages. Mitchell, of course, was being really interested and polite and warm. When the mum finally retreated, he said to the girl, ‘Your mum’s lovely. Kind of intense, but worth having.’

Then my friend went up to get her book signed. I just hovered behind her, trying to look cool and all-knowing, but not desperate. Mitchell said sympathetically, ‘You guys must have been waiting for ages.’ ‘Actually, we just popped off to get a drink,’ we said, feeling pretty shiny. Mitchell wrote flourishingly with a black texta all over the inside cover page, and I commented, trying to be cool again, ‘That’s a pretty flamboyant signature.’ My friend gushed about how good his book was, and I think he tuned out until she said, ‘I had to take a few deep breaths after I finished it,’ at which point he re-engaged and smiled at her thankfully. We left, and his Wheeler Centre minders swooped in on him, looking concerned that the signing had gone on for so long. They were probably, like, ‘David, are you OK? It’s been a long night,’ whereas I think he was loving it.

Whoever said infrastructure can’t be sexy? Sentimental pics from around town

Down by the Merri Creek – this is a bit creepy. I think it’s supposed to represent a guerilla gardener. You know, the Ceres/dumpster divin’/permablitz types that secretly, and illegally, plant non-native fruit trees down by the Merri, with the overall goal of using land efficiently and making us self-sufficient. I’m not sure what I think about it. I did it once though.

Myers Lane – this is actually an amazing bike, because it can ride up buildings. All the little hipsters that hang out in the eastern end of the city are trying to get their hands on it. But they can’t reach that high.

Autumn’s taking some beautiful dying gasps. Walking around town today, I saw brilliant red and yellow trees offset against bare, wintry trees.

It’s getting dark now at around 5. This photo, which is also a bit dark, was taken in South Melbourne. It’s really an area that was built for cars, rather than the people’s eye view. Tall buildings and a fairly barren street scape, with lots of advertising. For this reason, I think, there aren’t many people walking along, even at peak hour – it’s simply not an attractive area to be. At the same time though, that feeling of being dwarfed/snubbed as a pedestrian has its own stark charm.

North Melbourne train station at sunset. Whoever said infrastructure can’t be romantic? I’m starting an infrastructure dating club, in which people get to impress each other by citing interesting facts about infrastructure. In fact, I’ve spent the weekend examining subterranean sewers and outside processing plants. As a friend once said, you can only tell so much from reading stuff on the internet – you need to see it and smell it to really know it.

Proselytising kids

I don’t see any real difference between teaching kids about Jesus and proselytising them. At my state-run primary school, we had SUPA club (Scripture Union Primary Association). Its stated aim is to see school children ‘transformed through the nurturing of their faith as followers of Jesus Christ.’  In other words, conversion. We got to gather round, clap our hands, and sing songs such as ‘He loves me like a rock.’ From memory, the women running it were pretty relaxed – I don’t remember them saying anything noxious like ‘hate all gays’ or ‘be pure’. We were given a free ‘Good News’ bible – multi-coloured with a rainbow on the front.

I read that Bible from cover-to-cover, more because it was a free book than because I was particularly interested in Christianity. As a piece of literature, I probably enjoyed the Old Testament more than the New Testament. The Oldie contained lots of supernatural happenings and juicy revenge stories, whereas the New Testament was a different person telling the same, turgid, moralising fable over and over again, without offering a fresh interpretation. But ultimately, reading the Bible had a detrimental effect on my faith.

Mum was Catholic, so I was a Catholic by default. She dragged us along to church every Sunday, and sent us to Scripture classes every Monday after school, run in this old, draughty church. Through scripture classes, I did my first Holy Communion, wearing a pale flowered dress – deeply embarrassing, because all my friends were wearing white bridal-style dresses. ‘What’s wrong with being different?’ Mum would ask, feigning indifference to the adolescent condition.

Sister Mary, the nun ran our scripture classes, was old-school. After reading my SUPA club bible, I had plenty of questions for her, like ‘If my Dad doesn’t believe in God, is he going to go to hell?’ (Dad would never have a bar of religion). She wouldn’t answer, implying that the truth was unpleasant. And, ‘If God is meant to be so merciful, why did he do the plague of locusts?’ To this, she said, ‘Just have faith,’ which of course had the opposite effect on me. One time I was praying, and pretty tired, so slouched forward and let my clasped hands rest on the desk during prayer. Sister Mary caught my eye disapprovingly and pointedly mimed sitting up straight with clasped hands precisely heaven-facing.

So from my reading of the Oldie, and Sister Mary’s unforgiving interpretation of it, God came across as a stern, thunder-bolt toting, wowser, and Jesus, while nice, seemed a bit insipid, not necessarily the kind of person you’d want to hang out with. Ultimately, despite its proselytising intent, SUPA club, through its gift of the bible, equipped me with the ammunition I needed to make an informed choice to turn away from Christianity. Heaven was a comfortable idea, but also one of dubious merit, if they were turning dads away.