FARRAGO EDITION TWO • 2018
CONTRIBUTE EDITORS@FARRAGOMAGAZINE.COM
MAGAZINE /FARRAGOMAGAZINE
RADIO /RADIO_FODDER
ART BY LAUREN HUNTER
VIDEO /FARRAGOMAGAZINE
CONTENTS CAMPUS
COLLECTIVE
4 5 7
2 3
8 8 9 10 12 13 14 15 16 19
News in Brief March/April Calendar Unannounced Removalists Clear Desks... Medha Vernekar Change in the VCA Noni Cole Online Learning Ruby Perryman “Neo-Nazis” Escorted Off Campus... Ashleigh Barraclough and Monique O’Rafferty Revolutionary or Redundant? Amelia Costigan and Lauren Sandeman “Affordable” Accommodation Lily Miniken The Pub Crawl Problem Jasper MacCuspie Grainger Things Conor Day An Interview with Xanthe Beesley Noni Cole and Ruby Perryman Office Bearer Reports The Grub
NONFICTION 21 22 24 25 26 28 32 33 35 36 38 39 40 42 43 68
Ticket, Please Lily Raynes Morally Good Lesbian Luke Macaronas Mad Ethnic Right Now Kaavya Jha Fodder Feature: Off Beet Trent Vu Live from Hollywood Daniel Beratis Harry Potter and the Magic of Medicine Tessa Marshall Selling Refugee Rights to the Right Andie Moore An Ode to My Grandmother Amanda Tan What’s in a Name? Bella Ruskin Queer as Mud Tilli Franks Can Love Cure Addiction? Rohan Byrne Personal Behaviour Katie Doherty Amongst the Sparrows Daniel O’Neil Kids, Cats and Survival April Nougher-Dayhew No, I’m Not Spanish Nour Altoukhi For and Against: Wafflestomping Darcy French and Alex Epstein
Editorial Team
CREATIVE 6 20 30 34 41 44 45 46 49 50 52 53 54 55 56 58 60 61 62 64 66 67
Seasons / Autumn Alexandra Burns Bard Times James Gordon Portrait Qaisara Mohamad Art Poorniima Shanmugam Photography Caroline Voelker Scarborough Fair Edie Bush Sisters Ayonti Mahreen Huq Centre of the Universe Alaina Dean CHICKEN FOOT HK–44PCS Alston Chu Sisterhood Jamisyn Gleeson Sussuration Hannah Winspear-Schillings and who would, my king? Natalie Fong In Rainbow Sarah Peters The Dobler–Dahmer Theory Annie Liew Photography Elaina Wang Clippy Abigail Fisher Magnum Optus Seth Robinson My Night Routine If I Were... Morgan-Lee Snell Poet | Artist An Jiang Crazy Steve Rodgers Jacinta Dowe Flash Fiction: Fanfiction Expose / Indonesia Mega Safira and Ilsa Harun
ART BY LIEF CHAN
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COLLECTIVE
EDITORIAL A
shleigh, Esther, Monique and Jesse sat at their desks in the media office. The rain was pattering lightly on the windows. The energy in the room was nervous—after all, they were sending the magazine to their printer, Nigel, the next day. “Jesse, have you written the editorial?” asked Monique suddenly. Jesse blushed furiously. “Bloody hell,” he said. “I’ve forgotten!” “You better write it now, then!” exclaimed Ashleigh. “Yeah,” added Esther unnecessarily. Jesse frowned. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to concentrate in the same room as the other editors. They were too noisy. He picked up his laptop and walked down the hall to the Radio Fodder studio. It was quiet in there. When he sat down to write, he heard a tapping at the window. It was an owl! He opened the window and the owl hopped inside. A large snowy, it had a scroll attached to one of its legs. Jesse took the scroll and unrolled it. He read:
ASHLEIGH
In this edition’s nonfiction section, Tessa Marshall writes about medical science through the lens of Harry Potter in a piece that defies a simple explanation (page 28). And Kaavya Jha writes thoughtfully and lucidly about cultural identity and the role of hip-hop (24). “What’s this?” Jesse demanded, shaking the paper at the owl. “This is an editorial for edition two! Where did you get this?” Getting nothing from the owl, he kept reading.
JESSE
In the campus section, Conor Day goes on an adventure to the Grainger Museum (14), with surprising results, while Amelia Costigan and Lauren Sandeman look at the history of Farrago and the changing role of student media (10). The owl, which had appeared to be reading over Jesse’s shoulder, was now staring at him disapprovingly. “Do you think that’s a self-indulgent thing to have in our magazine, owl?” asked Jesse anxiously. “In our defence, if people are reading Farrago, they are, at least somehow, interested in student media, right?” Still feeling judged by the owl, Jesse continued reading. In the creative section, we have a comic by Edie Bush (44), poetry by Alston Chu (48), while Abigail Fisher documents a conversation about the writing process between herself and a judgemental Clippy (58).
ESTHER
“I’ve got it!” said Jesse. “A conversation about writing between myself and a judgemental anthropomorphised being. That’s perfect for my editorial!” Without another word, he opened Google Docs on his laptop and started tapping away. The owl watched dispassionately. “Do you think it’s clear that I’m trying to emulate J.K. Rowling’s style?” he said after a while. “Does the pastiche come through?” The owl gave him a disappointed look.
MONIQUE
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BACKGROUND ART BY BETHANY CHERRY AND EDITORIAL ART BY CATHY CHEN
COLLECTIVE
THE FARRAGO TEAM EDITORS
Ashleigh Barraclough Esther Le Couteur Monique O’Rafferty Jesse Paris-Jourdan
CONTRIBUTORS
Nour Altoukhi Ashleigh Barraclough Daniel Beratis Rohan Byrne Alston Chu Noni Cole Amelia Costigan Conor Day Alaina Dean Jocelyn Deane Katie Doherty Jacinta Dowe Alex Epstein Abigail Fisher Natalie Fong Tilli Franks Darcy French Jamisyn Gleeson Sylvie Godwin Alex Greggery Walter Hobbs Kaavya Jha An Jiang Annie Liew Luke Macaronas Jasper MacCuspie Angus Mackintosh Tessa Marshall Lily Miniken Andie Moore Ashleigh Morris No1_Hot_Stuff_2002 April Nougher-Dayhew Daniel O’Neil Monique O’Rafferty Ruby Perryman Sarah Peters Seth Robinson Lily Raynes Bella Ruskin Lauren Sandeman Alex Shermon Rita Skeeter Amanda Tan Medha Vernekar
Trent Vu Hannah Winspear-Schillings
SUBEDITORS
James Agathos Kyra Agathos Kergen Angel Elle Atack Georgia Atkinson Harry Baker Daniel Beratis Rachael Booth Kasumi Borczyk Jessica Chen David Churack Noni Cole Nicole de Souza Alaina Dean Jocelyn Deane Katie Doherty Emma Ferris Abigail Fisher Belle Gill Jessica Hall Jessica Herne Kangli Hu Jenina Ibañez Esmé James An Jiang Annie Jiang Eleanor Kirk Ruby Kraner-Tucci Angela Le Tessa Marshall Valerie Ng April Nougher-Dayhew Isa Pendragon Ruby Perryman Sarah Peters Lauren Powell Rhiannon Raphael Danielle Scrimshaw Elizabeth Seychell Chiara Situmorang Morgan-Lee Snell Greer Sutherland Catherine Treloar Sophie Wallace Nina Wang Mark Yin Stephanie Zhang Yan Zhuang
GRAPHICS
Alexandra Burns Edie Bush Lief Chan Minnie Chantpakpimon Cathy Chen Bethany Cherry Renee de Vlugt Conor Day Nicola Dobinson Rebecca Fowler Lincoln Glasby Ilsa Harun Carolyn Huane Lauren Hunter Ayonti Mahreen Huq Clara Cruz Jose Asher Karahasan Sharon Huang Liang Lisa Linton Hanna Liu Kira Martin Qaisara Mohamad Rachel Morley Amani Nasarudin Mega Safira Nellie Seale Poorniima Shanmugam Morgan-Lee Snell Sophie Sun Meg Tully Dinh Vo Caroline Voelker Elaina Wang David Zeleznikow-Johnston Qun Zhang
COLUMNISTS
Nour Altoukhi Rohan Byrne Katie Doherty James Gordon Neala Guo (online) Ilsa Harun Kaavya Jha Luke Macaronas Andie Moore Ashrita Ramamurthy (online) Morgan-Lee Snell Ailsa Traves (online) Trent Vu
SOCIAL MEDIA
Zoe Alford Ilsa Harun Richard Hinman Jack Langan Angela Le Annie Liew Christopher Hon Sum Ling Alex McFadden Lara Navarro Lauren Powell Jade Smith Morgan-Lee Snell
COVER
Rachel Morley
Farrago is the student magazine of the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU), produced by the media department. Farrago is published by the general secretary of UMSU, Daniel Beratis. The views expressed herein are not necessarily the views of UMSU, the printers or the editors. Farrago is printed by Printgraphics, care of our shiny print daddy, Nigel Quirk. All writing and artwork remains the property of the creators. This collection is ©️ Farrago and Farrago reserves the right to republish material in any format.
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Content warning: mentions of sexual assault
CAMPUS
NEWS IN BRIEF
PAINT THE CAMPUS
On 28 February, students gathered to plaster the campus with stickers, posters, chalk and leaflets expressing support for refugees in offshore detention camps on Manus Island and Nauru.
CONSENT MATTERS
The University has launched its “consent matters” online training module, which requires students to pass the module before they’re enrolled in the University. The course is designed to educate students on consent, in wake of the results from the Australian Human Rights Commission’s survey into students’ experiences of sexual assault and sexual harassment.
NDA
The National Union of Students has organised a National Day of Action for Wednesday 21 March to protest the government’s $2.2 billion cuts to higher education. Students will be marching from the State Library.
BAE
The University has signed a memorandum of understanding with defence manufacturing company BAE Systems Australia. The company may be building a manufacturing and innovation centre at Fishermans Bend—where the University’s new engineering campus will be located. Last year, students at the University launched a campaign called ‘Lockout Lockheed’, calling on the University to sever its ties with defence manufacturing company Lockheed Martin.
THE RED ZONE
End Rape On Campus Australia has released ‘The Red Zone Report’—”an investigation into sexual violence and hazing in Australian university residential colleges”. The report mainly targets University of Sydney colleges, but there is also a section dedicated to University of Melbourne college allegations over the last few years.
ENTERPRISE BARGAINING
The National Tertiary Education Union (NTEU) held a meeting on 14 February to update staff members on their process in negotiating with the University on the enterprise bargaining agreement. A motion was passed to allow the NTEU to go to the Fair Work Commission for a protected action ballot to launch industrial action if no progress is made with the University by 14 March.
BATMAN BEGINS
The Batman by-election has been scheduled for 17 March. Alex Bhathal of the Greens and Ged Kearney of Labor are the two main candidates in the race. Watch this space.
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RESPECT WEEK
The University’s Respect and Diversity Week will occur in week four of semester.
TASKFORCE TIME
Advocacy groups Fair Agenda, End Rape on Campus, the National Union of Students and the Hunting Ground Australia Project are calling on the federal government to establish a taskforce to monitor how universities are handling incidents of sexual assault and sexual harassment.
ART BY CAROLYN HUANE
MARCH/APRIL CALENDAR WEEK FOUR
WEEK FIVE
MONDAY 19 MARCH
MONDAY 26 MARCH
CAMPUS
WEEK SIX
WEEK SEVEN
MONDAY 9 APRIL
MONDAY 16 APRIL
First day back at University
Diversity and Respect Week
TUESDAY 20 MARCH
TUESDAY 27 MARCH
TUESDAY 10 APRIL
TUESDAY 17 APRIL
12pm: Activities—Riley Pearce 1pm: Trans collective 1pm: Environment collective 4:15pm: Anxiety-support group 5:30pm: Welfare—yoga classes
1pm: Trans collective 1pm: Activities—Psychedelic Porn Crumpets 4:15pm: Anxiety-support group 5:30pm: Welfare—yoga classes
12pm: Activities—Reuben Stone 1pm: Trans collective 4:15pm: Anxiety-support group 5:30pm: Welfare—yoga classes
1pm: Activities—Confidence Man 1pm: Trans collective 4:15pm: Anxiety-support group 5:30pm: Welfare—yoga classes
WEDNESDAY 21 MARCH
WEDNESDAY 28 MARCH
WEDNESDAY 11 APRIL
WEDNESDAY 18 APRIL
1pm: PoC collective 1pm: Lunch with the queer bunch 2pm: National Day of Action 6pm: Activities—St Patrick’s Day
1pm: PoC collective 1pm: Lunch with the queer bunch
12pm: Activities—Reuben Stone 1pm: PoC collective 1pm: Lunch with the queer bunch
1pm: PoC collective 1pm: Lunch with the queer bunch 7pm: Actvities—Pub Night
Diversity and Respect Week
Diversity and Respect Week
THURSDAY 22 MARCH
THURSDAY 29 MARCH
THURSDAY 12 APRIL
THURSDAY 19 APRIL
12pm: Queer PoC collective 1pm: Arts collective 1pm: Disabilities collective 11:59pm: Farrago edition four submissions close
12pm: Queer PoC collective 1pm: Arts collective 1pm: Disabilities collective
12pm: Queer PoC collective 1pm: Arts collective 1pm: Disabilities collective 7pm: Guild Theatre— Mudcrabs Go Wild!
12pm: Queer PoC collective 1pm: Arts collective 1pm: Disabilities collective
FRIDAY 13 APRIL
FRIDAY 20 APRIL
Diversity and Respect Week
FRIDAY 23 MARCH
FRIDAY 30 MARCH
Last day before mid-semester break
7pm: Guild Theatre— Mudcrabs Go Wild!
Diversity and Respect Week
ART BY CAROLYN HUANE
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ART BY ALEXANDRA BURNS
CAMPUS
UNANNOUNCED REMOVALISTS CLEAR GRADUATE DESKS AMIDST OFFICE CHANGES MEDHA VERNEKAR INVESTIGATES THE STORY
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n 3 January, the School of Historical and Philosophical Studies (SHAPS) management sent a group of removalists to clear out Research History Desks (RHD) in light of desk reallocations to help facilitate staffing changes for the new academic year. Due to the removalists arriving during the University shutdown period—when most students were not on campus— graduates were left scrambling to collect their research material before it was packed by removalists to storage. “We hadn’t been told they would be doing this on that day, nor had we been told what they would be packing up,” said Mike Jones, a History PhD candidate who just passed his third year review. “One of my colleagues was overseas, so I went and retrieved her filing cabinet and brought it to my office as it contains sensitive material related to her research. A group of us then went up to the school office to raise this as a significant issue.” In discussing the issue, a University spokesman said, “Students were notified of upcoming changes to desk allocation a month in advance and were sent follow up correspondence and reminder emails.” This conflicts with information provided to Farrago by the History Postgrad Association (HPA), which maintains that the School sent students an email announcing desk allocation changes on 12 December, asking students to clear out their belongings by 22 December—giving them only ten days to retrieve their materials. Further to this, the HPA reports that no follow up correspondence was sent to students until 21 December. Other changes made by SHAPS in an effort to make more office space for the growing staff team include converting RHD spaces into offices and the roll-out of hot-desking (having multiple students work at the same desk during different time slots) in all 32 desks in the North Wing of the Arts West. The West Wing’s 34 spaces were also subdivided to make 50 desks. Although the RHD spaces in the West Wing will be allocated as sole-use desks for graduates, they will only be available to
students in the final 18 months of their candidature. The announcement of these changes has been met with opposition from the HPA, which maintains that hot-desking has not maximised desk usage as the School anticipated but has instead dissuaded students from using these RHD spaces. “Hot-desks are an inappropriate working environment for researchers in the humanities who work with large quantities of books, documents and other research materials on a daily basis,” said the HPA. PhD candidate Jones added, “Many of us have lots of books and research notes, some have OHS issues, and some of us— including me—are planning to do a lot of writing in January. I don’t have a car, I live in a small flat and the idea of moving all my stuff out for a month and having nowhere solid to work was deeply problematic.” The HPA has held three meetings with the SHAPS management since the announcement of these new policies— including an impromptu meeting on the day removalists cleared out RHD spaces. “While communications between the School and students have since improved, these changes were initially imposed without consultation and came as a surprise to students and academic staff,” the HPA reported. “One senior SHAPS academic staff member stated that she was only informed of these changes by students, and only after their announcement by the School.” The few concessions granted to students by the School during these meetings have primarily concerned an improvement in communication. “We were able to delay the date of the ‘desk spill’ from 22 December to the end of University shut-down period in January, and also to expedite the allocation of sole-use desks,” the HPA noted. The latest meeting occurred on 25 January, where students raised ongoing issues with the desk allocation. The School has undertaken to respond to them in due course.
ART BY QUN ZHANG
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CAMPUS
ONLINE LEARNING T
CHANGE IN THE VCA
NONI COLE TELLS YOU WHAT’S GOING ON AT SOUTHBANK
T
he University of Melbourne’s Victorian College of the Arts (VCA) and Melbourne Conservatorium of Music (MCM) have been renamed to become the Faculty of Fine Arts and Music, leading to the relocation of MCM to Southbank. There will be no change to course structure during the process, according to the dean of the Faculty of Fine Arts and Music, Professor Barry Conyngham. Conyngham described the name change, which took place on 1 January 2018, as, “A logical evolution and response to changing situations over the past few years … [signalling] the bringing together of VCA and The Conservatorium at Southbank.” The centralisation of the two schools into the heart of Melbourne’s arts precinct is set to approach a total of $200 million, aided by a $3 million grant from the Victorian Government. This will include a $104.5 million conservatorium facility on 33 Sturt Street, to be called the Ian Potter Southbank Centre. The site was previously a car park leased from the Victorian Government. The new conservatorium will house a 443-seat auditorium, a 200-seat ground floor studio and a range of rehearsal studios and rooms for performing, recording, teaching and research. According to Conyngham, the existing music facilities on St Kilda Road will also be improved. It is currently expected that all MCM staff and students will move to the VCA precinct from the first semester of 2019. The prestigious Melba Hall building on Parkville will be retained as a concert hall and used for research and breadth programs across the music faculty. Despite acknowledging temporary inconveniences caused by construction, Victorian College of the Arts Students Association coordinator, Nicholas Lam, believes that the move will be beneficial for students in the long term. “For most of the next academic year, most of the content in the Lenton Parr Library, specially catered for mostly VCA students, will be off-site due to construction,” he said. “As I understand, students will need to requisition books in advance before it will be brought down from storage to supplement the smaller library that is being set up on the first floor.” “As for the move itself, I find it will ultimately be a good thing,” Lam said. “The MCM and the VCA have widely different cultures from what I’ve seen, being developed so far apart, but mixing the two faculties makes sense in a way as the disciplines are intertwined.”
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RUBY PERRYMAN ON THE FUTURE OF LEARNING
he University of Melbourne now offers a range of specialist online graduate courses, raising the question of whether the same should be done for undergraduate courses. The courses attempt to accommodate students for whom commuting to campus is not convenient or possible. Online graduate courses include areas of business, education, information technology, law and medicine. The University’s website assures the courses are still as highly regarded as other graduate courses, and provide the highest levels of support to students. The University’s first online graduate, Christie Cline states in an article that online learning provided her with “the flexibility to juggle parenting and other commitments.” Many undergraduate students also face circumstances that make it difficult to commute to campus. While many undergraduate lectures are recorded, students must meet tutorial hurdle requirements in order to pass their subjects. “I have anxiety which means I can’t make it to class all of the time. Despite me receiving H1s on almost all assignments I submit, I’ve still failed a few subjects because the University won’t waive attendance hurdles,” said Morgan-Lee Snell, an arts student. “My psychiatrist has even requested I be able to contribute to tutorials online and the University still says no. They only accept doctors’ certificates as an exemption from class a few times.” Snell believes the University should provide online options for undergraduate degrees. Master of International Business student, Nikhilesh Chaudhari, agrees. “I used it for my first semester lectures and in my view, it was a positive experience. You can pace them accordingly and access them any time, on any device, which helps in understanding them better,” he said. Bachelor of Arts student, Alex Shermon, completed two weeks of a subject online when his tutor went overseas. He thinks students cannot engage with the content to the same degree online compared to a classroom. “It was a horrible experience. Although the recorded lectures were fine, the online forums were counterproductive to good philosophical discussion because everyone was a bit too shy to share their thoughts,” he said. Chaudhari also voiced concerns. “One con, I think, is you’re alone. If, in the future, it could be connected to some sort of virtual reality, I think it would be a great way of learning. But I think it would require a high amount of self management skills and focus by students to stay on track.”
ART BY QUN ZHANG
CAMPUS
Content warning: racism, anti-Semitism, homophobia
CAMPUS
“NEO-NAZIS” ESCORTED OFF CAMPUS ON FIRST DAY OF 2018 ASHLEIGH BARRACLOUGH AND MONIQUE O’RAFFERTY BRING YOU THE STORY
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n 26 February, the first day of semester, two men were escorted off Parkville campus by campus security for allegedly harassing students and handing out flyers saying “it’s okay to be white” at the Baillieu Library. “I noticed them handing out what appeared to be white supremacy leaflets saying ‘it’s okay to be white’ and they were accosting people, particularly people of colour, saying ‘do you think it’s okay to be white?’” said University of Melbourne research assistant Geraldine Fela. “At one point they homophobically abused me,” Fela added. Fela’s friend Daniel Cotton, who was also at the Baillieu Library, said that one of them called him a “faggot”. “It’s really scary for us on campus to be seeing people who have the guts to come around and hand out this stuff,” Cotton said. University of Melbourne student Molly Willmott said that when she heard about what was happening she went to the Baillieu Library to “go kick a neo-Nazi off campus”. “We were talking to one of the members of Socialist Alternative [at the Baillieu] and one of the neo-Nazis asked her if she was white or Jewish and when she responded with Jewish he spat on the ground in front of her,” she said. “We went up to the [student representative] offices trying to get anyone we could to come down.” Willmott said that security came and told them to leave, but instead they moved from the Baillieu and sat in Deakin Court, outside of Union House. Here, a group of 15–20 students and staff, including University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU) office bearers, approached the men and asked them to leave. At this point, one of the men, who Willmott believes was a student at the University, left. Farrago has since received reports from several sources that this man is indeed a student at the University. According to Willmott, he was concerned that the University would terminate his enrolment. The students and staff began chanting to the remaining
man, “Jews are welcome, racists are not,” and, “Sexist, racist, anti-queer—Nazis are not welcome here.” Eventually, campus security returned and escorted him off campus. According to the University, campus security is “closely monitoring the campus to ensure they don’t return.” “The University does not condone activities likely to incite racism and intolerance. Staff, student leaders and affiliated colleges together work hard to create a strong, inclusive and respectful campus community in which diversity is recognised and valued,” a press release said. Mindi Suter, the campus representative for the National Union of Students, organised a speak-out on 28 February, where students from political groups Solidarity and Socialist Alternative, as well as student representatives from UMSU, spoke to condemn the actions of the men. “Since the election of Donald Trump we’ve seen a rise in the number of fascists confident to proudly identify as lovers of Nazi Germany or people who desperately pine for an ethnically pure state to call their own. I think it’s really important that we take a stand. When anti-Semitic Holocaust deniers organise on campus it is up to us all to show that their views won’t go uncontested,” Suter said. The Australasian Union of Jewish Students (AUJS) also expressed their disappointment to Farrago. “AUJS is deeply concerned by these events, especially as it is the third consecutive year of anti-Semitic activity on university campuses, during the first weeks of classes,” said Noa Bloch, the national political affairs director of AUJS, and Saul Burston, the national chairperson. “2017 saw anti-Semitism rise by 9.5 per cent and therefore, AUJS is committed to collaborating with universities and the National Union of Students to create a campus environment where Jews and all minorities feel safe and protected,” they said. A University spokesperson told Farrago that campus security is currently investigating the events.
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Content warning: mentions of sexual assault
REVOLUTIONARY OR REDUNDANT? AMELIA COSTIGAN AND LAUREN SANDEMAN LOOK AT FARRAGO THEN AND NOW
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n 1925, the first editorial of Farrago began: “Farrago represents an attempt to infuse a new zest into University life … it seeks to give ample publicity to the doings, sober and scandalous, of student and graduate.” This inspired statement gave way to a pioneering student publication which has had a central role in Australia’s social and political transformation over the past 93 years. The University of Melbourne’s student newspaper has outlasted many mainstream and student-run publications that were born in the same era, and have subsequently crumbled under the digital revolution. Farrago remains one of the loudest voices in student media today. Since its inception in 1925, the tension between the radicalism of undergraduate idealism and the political conservatism of the Australian public has played out in Farrago’s pages. Having pioneered a significant role for students in the political arena, Farrago has historically occupied an important place in political dissent. Yet in 2018, the political influence of the students and the universities they represent has diminished. Today, Farrago is unrecognisable to earlier generations. If Farrago reached its zenith in the tumultuous cultural revolution of the ‘60s, has it now completely lost its power as a political tool? Reflecting on this publication’s radical history raises the question, has student media lost its edge? Hailed as a golden age of student activism, the student press in the ‘60s existed in a time of intense social and political change in Australia. Profound leaps in social progress often played out on University campuses, where students fought for gender equality, Indigenous representation, and rebelled against the horrors of the Vietnam War. Pete Steedman was a revolutionary force at the helm of Monash’s Lot’s Wife and our own Farrago during this time. Despite conceding that it has been “50 fucking years since I did the thing”, he is critical of today’s student media, deeming it “self-indulgent.” The ‘60s saw Farrago push the boundaries of the draconian censorship laws of the time. In 1968, the paper, led by Steedman, undertook a huge survey of student’s experiences with abortion and contraception. It found that 90 per cent of those interviewed believed abortion should be
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legally available. At the time, it carried a charge of infanticide, manslaughter, or murder. Farrago was continually on the forefront of representing the views of the student body, rather than accepting the prevailing attitudes of the day that were overwhelmingly reflected in the mainstream press. “In the 1960s, you saw this contest of ideas. Students were wildly excited about being at university, this was the beginning of educational egalitarianism,” said Sally Percival Wood, author of Dissent—an in-depth portrayal of the Australian student press in the ‘60s. “In the ‘60s, they interrogated the mainstream press, they questioned everything,” said Percival Wood. Some of the material published in that era was, by today’s standards, wildly offensive. In June 1967, Steedman co-edited a joint anti–Vietnam War edition of Lot’s Wife and Farrago. It featured a confronting cartoon in which a bare-chested President Lyndon B. Johnson gestures towards a semi-naked Vietnamese woman sprawled before him, with Chairman Mao nearby on crutches. “Sure, I raped her,” LBJ says. “If I hadn’t done it, he would have.” Such sordid references to rape were of no concern to the censors of the time, who instead took offence at the depiction of the woman’s nipple, demanding it be removed. This was characteristic of the sardonic humour and unprecedented radicalism which flourished in the pages of the student press. Today, Farrago is radically different. The publication has transformed from a weekly black and white newspaper to a monthly magazine which emphasises student art, photography and a diversity of content from individual perspectives. The implementation of voluntary student unionism contributed significantly to this change in format, due to drastically reduced funding for Australian student publications. Many of the issues of concern to the student body in 2018 seem to echo those that have previously galvanised the youth of the past. Societal progress has allowed the freedom to discuss issues such as gender equality, Indigenous representation and sexuality more inclusively, giving a platform to previously marginalised voices. There is also an increased focus on the experiences of international students, who in 2016 comprised 36 per cent of the student body. However, the societal pressure to be inclusive but apolitical
ART BY MEG TULLY
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has arguably created an environment in student media where voicing individual experiences has become more prominent than meaningful political debate. Student media must remain a keen observer and critical commentator of the day, perpetually questioning ‘why’ and forcing that discussion over mindless acceptance. That element, at least, our predecessors got right. Today we have a wider range of voices in our student media but have we simultaneously narrowed the scope of discussion? As Percival Wood asks, “What the fuck are you going to talk about then if you can’t upset anyone?” ‘Self-censorship’ is a complex and politically-loaded term. To some, the culture of inclusivity and representation that dominates the student media of today is an important step towards rectifying social inequalities that have plagued our society since before the ‘60s. To others, this emphasis on ‘political correctness’ is an impediment to free speech. “Political correctness acts like a censor,” said Steedman. “If you’re at university—you’re [there] because you’re supposed to be learning and you’re supposed to have an intellectual outlook. Screaming at someone who you don’t agree with is not an intellectual outlet ... it isolates you and creates [more] censorship.” It is not just the attitudes within the University that have changed since the ‘60s. The broader media landscape that Farrago exists in has dramatically altered. In an era of 24hour media saturation, the role of student media as a news source is significantly more limited. Our relevance today is no longer as a primary news destination for students who have thousands of media outlets at their disposal. The challenge for a monthly magazine is to engage with a student body that has become disconnected with the university experience. Whilst the original ethos remains, Farrago now captures student life in a manner more reflective of a revolutionised media. “The internet has made it so much easier to work with content, to break new content quickly and tap into new audiences,” said Martin Ditmann, a former Farrago editor. This has also impacted student media’s role as an instigator of political change. “I think there are less causes that are mass mobilising students in that kind of traditional constantly actively physical way,” said Ditmann. As hashtags and social media replace the physical protests of the past, today having a presence online outweighs a presence on the streets. A myriad of issues face students in 2018: rising HECS fees, housing affordability, increased living costs and the declining
importance of an undergraduate degree. As Steedman states, “There’s no life anymore.” In an age where life is becoming incrementally harder and we have become more aware of global issues, where is the mass outrage? In an outspoken, interconnected generation, have our actions become so docile that our bark is worse than our bite? Furthermore, the commercialisation of universities has undoubtedly put an overall emphasis on the bottom line rather than an engaging student experience. “Universities put a lot of pressure on student newspapers to be inclusive, and not be overly political,” Percival Wood reflects. It is therefore this de-politicisation of campus life that must be prevented. A politically apathetic student body inhibits our capacity to effect change. It’s easy to look back at the ‘60s through rose-coloured glasses. This era may have been one of profound social progress, but it was also a time characterised by tumultuous issues and an overwhelmingly different technological landscape. Today, the student body at Melbourne University is so dynamic that student media’s capacity to equally represent the issues that galvanise young people is increasingly limited. Indeed, student media’s most important role is arguably as a training ground for future politicians and journalists. “If you don’t encourage political debate on both sides of the fence, what kind of politicians are we going to have in the future?” asks Percival Wood. As this government wages an economic war on our youth and continues to target University students, Farrago and our fellow student publications remain incomparable forces of resistance. Student media has a proud history of refusing to accept the status quo, and we remain vital in our efforts to refute the political narrative. When Australian student editors were locked out of the federal budget in 2017, it was a clear indication that student media remains a force to be reckoned with. “The student press has long proved the perfect place for an undergraduate to cast the first stone,” concludes Percival Wood in Dissent. Farrago alone boasts numerous politicians, activists and writers who sharpened their pens in the pages of this publication. In today’s ever-changing media landscape, the students of this generation are redefining the meaning and value behind the student experience. Whilst our generation’s place in the history of student media needs to be considered, the bigger question overall may not be ‘have students lost their touch?’ but rather, “has the University lost touch with its students?”
ART BY MEG TULLY
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“AFFORDABLE” ACCOMMODATION LILY MINIKEN LOOKS AT THE BARRIERS TO ACCESSING STUDENT ACCOMMODATION
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he University of Melbourne’s newest accommodation plan for Royal Parade and Bouverie Street promises a lineup of some of the highest quality features and facilities, but at what cost will this come to students? Currently, the University has 3188 beds available for students from private providers at either the Leicester Street facility (Student Village) or at campus colleges. By 2020, the Melbourne Student Accommodation Program aims to have an additional 6000 University associated places ready for students through several developments including an extension of University College and new facilities at Lincoln Square, Royal Parade and Bouverie Street. The 303 Royal Parade facility located in close proximity to the Parkville campus will provide 285 single, twin and studio rooms for undergraduate and postgraduate students, as well as indoor and outdoor communal areas. The Bouverie Street accommodation, which is also close to Parkville, will offer 596 beds. The University’s student accommodation website claims that they have a “commitment to affordable, safe and quality accommodation” and “accommodation offerings tailored to student needs”. However, just what kind of lifestyle do these lodgings require you to have in order to truly afford such a place? Currently, the average cost per year at Student Village is somewhere between $15,000-$20,000, while fees for residential colleges range between $28,000-$40,000 for those not offered scholarships—figures that will most likely reflect those at the new developments. Though financial aid is an option for some, many students are forced to rely heavily on Centrelink payments and/or support from their parents. In 2013, Universities Australia surveyed approximately 12,000 full-time undergraduate and postgraduate students and found that 21 per cent of students had an “annual income of less than $10,000, and a further 40.3 per cent earned between $10,000 and $19,000.” The average income was $18,634 for undergraduate students, an amount that would leave students in University accomodation with only a few thousand to spare for daily needs after paying residential fees. A former Resident Assistant, college resident and Student
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Village resident, said that, “While some private providers offer scholarships and the University offers financial assistance to somewhat subsidise the cost of living for economically disadvantaged students, the reality is that this funding is far from adequate to support the number of students that need to re-locate for University (just over 50 per cent of Australian undergraduate students).” “Even the cheapest student accommodation, Unilodge, with no immaterial benefits is still significantly more expensive than the median price of a similar studio/one bedroom apartment in Melbourne CBD … Increasing enrolment figures combatted by decreasing affordability of living in Australia’s urban areas and an entirely unregulated industry … have provided a perfect cocktail for a select few private providers to oligopolies the market.” However, whilst the price of such accommodation is steep for many students, the opportunities and experiences that await those involved often make up for this burden. Student Village offers students access to a swimming pool, gym, recreations rooms, music rooms and study lounges, not to mention a safe environment surrounded by fellow students. Residential colleges offer up to 21 meals per week, access to college tutorials and the intercollegiate academic program as well as a range of support and recreational programs. Exchange student from Ireland, and former Student Village resident, Annie Walsh, said that whilst accommodation supplied by the University of Melbourne is “quite a bit more expensive than Dublin, the quality is very high. It’s definitely worth it as I met some really really good friends and it takes a lot of stress out of finding an apartment. It is also very convenient for university life.” No news has been released as to what exactly the University’s newest accommodation facilities will include, but if history is any indication, it will most likely also provide students with similar opportunities. While the addition of new student accommodation is certainly welcome, it appears that high prices will remain a significant hurdle for many students hoping to access the privileges of University lodging.
ART BY DINH VO
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THE PUB CRAWL PROBLEM JASPER MACCUSPIE INVESTIGATES WHETHER UNI PUB CRAWLS ARE ACTUALLY ALLOWED
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ow a steady staple of orientation week, pub crawls organised by large student societies routinely draw large numbers of first-year students. Almost a University ritual, these events see students roaming from pub to pub, always dressed up and enthusiastic. The problem with these proceedings, however, is that they contradict regulations laid out by the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU). Prior to any event where alcohol is served, a club or society must fill out and submit a Responsible Serving of Alcohol form to the UMSU clubs and societies (C&S) department. While there are many restrictions and regulations on this form, the one directly concerning this issue is checklist item six. The rule reads: “The event will not include any activity that encourages the excessive or inappropriate consumption of alcohol (e.g. pub crawls, drinking competitions, etc.).” How, then, has the pub crawl become tradition? A possible explanation is that the events are deliberately listed not as pub crawls, but rather as ‘historical tours’. For instance, listed under the “o-week 2018” section of the Melbourne Arts Student Society (M-ASS) website is a “Historical Tour of Local Watering Holes (definitely not a pub crawl)”. At this event, students will “knock down bevs at some of our favourite venues”, and M-ASS claims that this will help students “to understand what Uni’s all about”. Similarly, the Science Students Society (SSS) also takes advantage of this guise. The banner at the top of the website prominently displays an image of a previous pub crawl, alluding to an event listed as the ‘O-Week Historical Tour of Local Establishments’. ‘Pub Crawl’ is included in parentheses immediately afterwards. M-ASS and SSS did not respond to request for comment. “Both UMSU C&S and the University have stances against pub crawls … Pub crawls create an inherently riskier environment for the students attending them,” said Nellie Seale and Matthew Simkiss, the UMSU C&S officers. “Pub crawls generate serious safety concerns, as students continue to become more intoxicated as the event goes on
… when they are highly intoxicated there is a much higher potential for injury.” Should any injuries occur on a pub crawl, it could reflect poorly on the student societies who have made the call to proceed in spite of these elevated risks. It would also reflect poorly on the student union itself— despite stating that “clubs are prohibited from making alcohol the focus of [an] event”, UMSU has made little effort to enforce the regulations against pub crawls, many of which took place in o-week. However, this is not just a problem that concerns UMSU C&S. With the health and wellbeing of students under consideration, the UMSU welfare department is also involved. “Pub crawls disguised as historical tours pose [a] significant welfare issue,” said Michael Aguilera and Cecilia Widjojo, the welfare officers. “There is definitely room for improvement in this matter; however the issue of serving alcohol responsible by [clubs and societies] has improved a lot recently.” Victoria Police have expressed concern for the wellbeing of students who participate in o-week pub crawls. “Victoria Police urges people to drink responsibly, plan ahead and look after each other if they partake in activities during orientation week,” a spokesperson said. An alternative perspective is offered by Meg Carney, member of the Ormond College Students’ Club. “[Ormond College] have one organised pub crawl a year … This event usually has approximately 150 people attend, is student organised and has sober students as well as cars on hand to make sure everyone remains safe,” Carney explained. “In my experience, students have been really good at managing their alcohol consumption, if they choose to drink at all. We have support systems in place if someone may drink to excess, and always regard an individual’s safety as the priority.” It seems that it could be possible to reduce the risks involved in any pub crawl. However, their current planning and execution by student societies can be deceptive and contradictory to UMSU regulations.
ART BY LISA LINTON
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GRAINGER THINGS CONOR DAY GOES ON AN ADVENTURE TO THE GRAINGER MUSEUM
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itting between the Biosciences Building and Royal Parade is the Grainger Museum. A small, semi–circular, red brick building, which seems pretty unassuming from the outside. As you enter, you’re greeted by an oversized bronze sculpture of Percy Grainger’s face. It’s a weird sculpture, kind of abstract with a slightly pained expression. A surprising choice considering he chose it himself. The museum is arranged around this monument, moving from his early life through to his musical career and eventually onto his late experimental work. Percy Grainger was an Australian pianist, composer and arranger who was born and grew up in Melbourne. He was prominent in the late 1910s and early 1920s, composing prolifically in this period and playing at prestigious venues like Carnegie and Aeolian Halls. Grainger claimed the museum aims to “[shine] light upon the processes of musical composition … during the period in which Australia has been prominent in music”. Despite being initially called the ‘Grainger Museum and Music Museum’, it really only shines light upon Grainger himself. This is not to say Grainger wasn’t a significant figure in Australian music. But the museum seems to be, almost solely, an odd homage to an extremely interesting figure, by said figure. I visited the museum on a Monday and I was the only one there. The only one for a while, I expect. The attendant was very surprised to see me. Grainger left an unmarked luggage trunk to the museum, only to be opened ten years after his passing. It contained his vast collection of whips and endless albums of photos documenting his experimentation with self-flagellation and other activities. I initially visited the museum to see these whips, sequestered at the back, as this article was going to talk about Grainger’s experiences with BDSM. This was quite a scandal at the time, and while it does make for an interesting story, the rest of the museum is so much weirder. As you move through the Grainger Museum, you’re presented with his life story. While it’s all very reasonable and
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interesting, once you remember the museum was founded, curated, and, in the case of some exhibits, made by Grainger himself, it seems to be awfully odd. You begin to see a picture of an eccentric composer that goes beyond any caricature of the archetype. As you progress beyond the first corridor, it moves onto Grainger’s passions beyond music. These included maintaining peak personal fitness, making clothes out of towelling, and some others. It also explores the making of the museum, personal artefacts and his photography. In the second corridor, there’s a cabinet that contains his belongings. Tea cups, a coffee pot, handkerchiefs, one of his tiepins and purses, and even parcels of hair from him and his wife, Ella. The whole fourth section documents his love of photography and his work in the field. The museum is also partly in remembrance of his mother, Rose Grainger. Percy’s parents moved to Australia in 1877 and by 1890, they no longer lived together. The onus of raising Percy fell on his mother who had contracted syphilis from his father. She lived a tortured life suffering from continuous physical afflictions and delusions. Her passing affected Percy immensely, being the trigger for him to create the museum. Before she committed suicide, Rose wrote of her distress about rumours of incest between her and Percy, signing off with “your poor insane Mother”. In the exhibit in which her suicide letter was displayed was also a long braid. Percy had scrawled “BELOVED MOTHER’S HAIR” on the box it was in. Ultimately though, while it is a museum that eulogises his mother, Grainger’s museum is an ode to himself. While the museum is a really interesting visit, I feel as though that doesn’t arise from its intended purpose. I left with some sort of insight into not only the life of Grainger, but also his outlook on life. It wasn’t enough to be remembered through his works and his legacy in the musical world. Seeing his mother’s passing, he took it upon himself to ensure his life was immortalised in his hometown. Admittedly, he did achieve this.
ART BY MINNIE CHANTPAKPIMON
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AN INTERVIEW WITH XANTHE BEESLEY NONI COLE AND RUBY PERRYMAN CHAT WITH UNION HOUSE THEATRE’S NEW ARTISTIC DIRECTOR
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anthe Beesley is a performer and performance-maker who has worked in an array of creative roles. We spoke to her about her vision for Union House Theatre (UHT) and what you can expect for the upcoming year. Tell us about your background. What unique style will you bring to Union House Theatre? My background in theatre is pretty varied—I originally studied theatre in Queensland and … London before I moved to Melbourne to study my Masters in Theatre Practice (Animateuring) at the [Victorian College of the Arts]. I was attracted to this course as an opportunity to further explore my interest in devising and composing performance, and a chance to incorporate my background in dance and movement practices. I have a passion for … works that prioritise the body and develop new languages beyond the spoken word. I have worked as a performer, director [and] movement consultant. I’m interested in all sorts of performance and love many different approaches, particularly devised work, site as inspiration, community engagement [and] cross disciplinary practice. I love ... work that finds clever ways to explore social issues. I believe in theatre that starts conversations and connects communities. During my time at UHT I want to build on the already incredible work that’s happening here and contribute to conversations around movement in theatre, what it means to be an actor who is embodied and where theatre can intersect with dance and other forms to keep experimenting. What is the importance of student theatre? In my roles in the industry I’ve seen so many amazing artists come up through student theatre and go on to achieve great things. Student theatre is an extraordinary place where people can try out ideas, where failure is just as important as success; you can meet collaborators you’ll likely have for life [and] do something entirely different to what you’ve ever done before. UHT also helps to facilitate this experience so that it’s accessible, affordable and varied. I think what I love most is that this place is somewhere people can belong even if they’ve
never tried theatre before. I love the convergence of people … coming together to find community and creative expression. Can you tell us about your plans for the theatre this year? As well as old favourites (acting, directing, theatre and production skills) our workshop season this semester will introduce dance ... and explore movement in theatre. We have plans for delivering workshops around access which encourage people to think about accessibility as a creative consideration, not simply something that you … should tack onto the end of a work. How can students get involved with the theatre? Our semester one program is full of a diverse collection of workshops from budgeting, dance, learning about power tools and more. If there’s something that you want to take a workshop in but you don’t see it on the list, you should get in touch as we might be able to make it happen. There are also mentorships with all the staff at UHT to help you develop your skills around technical aspects of theatre, marketing or creative leadership. We’ll run our Writer-in-Residence program where students can sign up for a six-month program to try and test writing for performance skills—this will culminate in a play reading festival in semester two. There’s also our UHT-presented performance—a chance to work with industry professionals in a production in the Guild [Theatre]. This semester it will be dance-theatre work ... you don’t need to be able to dance however, you just need to be interested in movement. There are also over 20 student theatre groups that produce work throughout the year and we can help you to get in touch with them. What about for those who might not want to perform? If you don’t want to perform, there are plenty of other roles—shows need technicians, teams require producers, plays are waiting to be written ... and stages must be managed! You can also talk to the University of Melbourne Student Union creative arts officers about their program ... with open mic nights, conversations about arts practice, discussions about work and process, there’s a lot going on!
ART BY MINNIE CHANTPAKPIMON
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OFFICE BEARER REPORTS PRESIDENT | DESIREE CAI As we get into the swing of semester, there are a range of things for students to look out for! You may have noticed that there are works happening on Grattan street. The new Metro Tunnel and Parkville train station are being built, so be prepared for disruptions for the next few years. Another big project to look out for is the Student Precinct, which will be UMSU’s new home in a few years, so look out for construction around Alice Hoy. We also have a bunch of campaigns on your education coming up! The National Student Protest against education cuts is on 21 March from 2pm at the State Library. Also look out for the campaign against CADMUS, which will severely affect the way students write essays.
GENERAL SECRETARY | DANIEL BERATIS It’s been a magical start to the year, but don’t worry—UMSU’s going to make your semester even more amazing through some witchcraft and wizardry! Governance-y witchcraft and wizardry, that is. Students’ council—an elected body that represents you and guides everything that UMSU does—meets every two witching weeks; navigate to the students’ council page of the UMSU website to find out more! There are also a bunch of committees and collectives to get involved with, and heaps of fun activities and events to attend! And never forget, you’ve got the magical powers of all our services at your fingertips, from legal to advocacy, and from volunteering to clubs! Lastly, always remember that the Prisoner of Azkaban is a legitimately good film that deserved many awards!
ACTIVITIES | JORDAN TOCHNER AND ALEX FIELDEN WHAT A WILD WEEK. Thank you to everyone who made Sleepover such an incredible success—with over 137 hours of fun ft the UMSU departments and a bunch of amazing clubs, your Activities officers definitely did not sleep. But no matter how much we’d love to kickback, we have WAY too much planned to stop. In week two we had your Start of Uni Party! Then introducing for the first time in week four: St Patrick’s Day! Tickets are already selling out fast for this one so make sure to grab yours from Info Desk!
BURNLEY | JAMES BARCLAY There are more public libraries in America than McDonald’s, an impressive statistic given their infatuation with fast food. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said of Australia. The ABS tally Australian public libraries at 540, comparatively nationwide McDonald’s is at a plump 900 venues. This begs the question; is the USA healthier than us? Without the library, literacy rates would be abysmal, distance between privileged and disadvantaged would widen and social cohesion as we know it wouldn’t exist. The importance of libraries isn’t lost on university students, without them we don’t function. With that in mind I pose another question; why does the University of Melbourne want to cut library access down to four hours a day on Burnley Campus? If you agree that this is wrong, please sign our petition: http://bit.ly/2CSb0XR
CLUBS AND SOCIETIES | MATTHEW SIMKISS AND NELLIE SEALE We solemnly swear we’ve been up to no good in the clubs department! We can certainly say “mischief managed” for orientation week as it was a great success! If you missed us at the Clubs Expo Days, you can still pick up a beautiful clubs guide, which will tell you about all the Fantastic Clubs and Where to Find Them. On a more Sirius note, we’ve also been hard at work developing greater support networks around alcohol and welfare for clubs. We’ve also been working our magic with the activities department for the Union House Sleepover, at which several clubs ran all-night feasts and events, and we’re super excited to see what the rest of semester will bring for clubs!
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OFFICE BEARER REPORTS CREATIVE ARTS | FREYA MCGRATH AND ASHLEIGH MORRIS Merlin’s beard! The new year at the UniMelb school of Witchcraft and Wizardy is well underway and creative arts is going off like fiendfyre! From dance sessions at 4am (yes—we’re Sirius) to our extra special Arty Party—the art world is feeling pretty enchanted! And we’ve got so many awesome things still to come—including our visual art classes! But make sure you Slytherin quick, as there are limited spaces. And if you’ve got some music or poetry or magic to show off come along to our Pot Luck Open Mic Night. Don’t worry if you’re feeling a bit Muggled by all this info, just like us on Facebook and you’ll be able to keep updated on the magical world of creative arts!
DISABILITIES | JACINTA DOWE AND HIEN NGUYEN The disabilities department would like to remind everyone that Anxiety Support Group is happening every Tuesday from 4:15-5:15pm, and that the office bearers will probably be attending in a student capacity. “I really need a safe, confidential space to talk about my anxiety,” Jacinta said, hugging a pillow, “Like, what if no one shows up to our Rad Sex and Consent Week events? It’ll just be us with a bunch of free food; having an open, frank discussions on dating with a mental illness and navigating sex with physical disabilities.” Hien stoically stared into the distance, where a poster for disability collective Thursdays 1pm fluttered heroically … A distant breeze whispered … for more info email us at disabilities@union.unimelb.edu.au …
EDUCATION (ACADEMIC) | ALICE SMITH AND TOBY SILCOCK SEMESTER ONE! Feel it. Live it. Lectures are a thing (not recorded? Email us!). And everyone pretending that they know how to Uni (including us). SUMMERFEST! We loved meeting you and talking course cuts and Cadmus. We have spare totes (sick design, great content). Special shout-out to VCA comrades. You’re always hardest hit by the government’s massive education cuts. CADMUS! It’s shit. Cadmus is a tool the Uni’s trialling that forces you to type assessment into a glitchy online Google-docs-style program that literally records you typing. If you get asked to use it this semester, please hit us up! umsu.unimelb.edu.au/support/eduacademic/. ED COLLECTIVE! If you’re into discussing what education is for, getting activist, eating food, or meeting people, come along. 12:30-1:30pm on odd weeks!
EDUCATION (PUBLIC) | CONOR CLEMENTS Put 21 March in your diaries if you care about funding for higher education in Australia! That’s the date of the National Day of Action—a series of protests led by students at universities across the country in opposition to cuts that we saw from the government at the end of last year. Melbourne University’s contingent will be meeting at Parkville in South Court from 12:30pm, before we go down and join students from campuses across Melbourne at the State Library. These organised events are a great way to show the wider public how students feel about the government making our quality of education worse, and the more of a presence we get there, the more we’ll be heard.
ENVIRONMENT | CALLUM SIMPSON AND LUCY TURTON Love the environment but hate fossil fuels and the corporations destroying the planet? Join enviro’s campaigns and wholesome sustainable activities with like minded folks. Learn skills for community organising, action planning, dumpster diving, cooking, gardening, and more! This semester there’ll be regular Green Screens, Play With Your Food, Community Garden events and Radical Education Week. The Fossil Free campaign and MU Sustainability Watch will be keeping a close eye on the University’s progress with their Sustainability Plan, continuing to demand full divestment from fossil fuel companies. The Lockout Lockheed campaign will be increasing the pressure on the Engineering Faculty to cut ties with the world’s largest weapons manufacturer, Lockheed Martin.
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OFFICE BEARER REPORTS INDIGENOUS | ALEXANDRA HOHOI
No OB report submitted.
PEOPLE OF COLOUR | REEM FAIQ AND HIRUNI WALIMUNIGE
Students of Colour and members of the wider People of Colour community: welcome to a new semester! We imagine you need a break from all the white noise around you; mainly because James cannot stop whitesplaining and Becky is defining reverse racism to you already. Come to our collectives, 1-3pm every Wednesday for a much-needed break from the whiteness of this institution! We also have a weekly film screening on Tuesdays, and a weekly reading group on Thursdays. Find us on Facebook or our website for more event details: https://umsu.unimelb.edu.au/communities/poc/
QUEER | MILLY REEVES AND ELINOR MILLS
VCA | NICHOLAS LAM
What do we love about being queer? Highlights from you delightful weirdos at SummerFest: Thursgay. Glitter. Drag. Everyone being hot. Art. Loving any gender. Your gf. Pussy. Community. LOVE. In 2018 your queer department is bringing you more of all of the above. Submissions are now open for our beautiful new publication, CAMP. Send all your goodest gayest writing and art to campmag2018@gmail.com. What better way to procrastinate that first assignment? Make sure you’re all amongst our FB page UMSU queer department for opportunities and free stuff, too! This truly is the semester you’ll ask the cutie in your tute with the septum piercing to Thursgay sometime. Your department believes in you! VCA started semester one with a bang! Our SummerFest event saw approx 700 new students attend, meeting their student representatives, joining new clubs, and grabbing some chow from the various food trucks in attendance. It’s been great meeting you all, and don’t be a stranger! Next week, we’ll continue with our traditional weekly BBQs to be helf next Wed at 12pm until we serve approx 200 portions. Get your grub on! For latest info about our events, visit the FB page at: https://www.facebook.com/vcastudentassociation. My contact’s on the UMSU website, so don’t be a stranger!
WELFARE | MICHAEL AGUILERA AND CECILIA WIDJOJO
Hello again. Welfare here. Where did the February go?! First, Summerfest. During o-week we ran our department stall with ducky ponds and Zooper Doopers. We were blown away the number of engaged students that were interested in welfare stuff as well as the CADMUS education and sexual assault on campus campaigns. Second, the Community Involvement Program (CIP). What is it and why do I (hopefully) keep hearing about it? Well. Bad name, great opportunity. For the first time welfare are starting up a yearlong program that not only provides a platform for volunteering and training on campus, but gives students the chance to take a leadership role. Wow. Well . . . there’s still time to join. Have a look on our FB page or the UMSU website xx
WOMEN’S | MOLLY WILLMOTT AND KAREENA DHALIWAL
Hey students, we hope your first few weeks of semester have been magical! Our plans for matriarchal domination are going swimmingly. We hit the streets with masses of fiery feminists at the International Women’s Day march, and it was amazing to have so many of you with us. Coming up in week four, we have the Judy’s Punch collective, where you can workshop your writing and art. Our Radio Fodder show, Judy’s Lunch, is on Thursdays 12-1pm. Also in week four we’re starting up the Transfemme collective, and on 21 March we’ll be at the National Day of Action to raise our voices against cuts to higher education that will disadvantage women. Follow the UMSU women’s department on Facebook for details about all our events!
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LOCAL STUDENT APPLYING FOR INTERNSHIPS FORCED TO CONFRONT OWN MEDIOCRITY W hat started as a plan to land an internship has ended in tragedy, as local student Jordan Rampant has been forced to confront his own unassailable mediocrity as a human being. The incident reportedly began with an eagle-based inspirational quote on Tumblr. “I just wanted to ‘soar towards success on the winds of my potential’,” Rampant said. “But as it turns out, my potential is a light breeze at most.” Trouble first reared its head when the H2B-average student could not plausibly argue that he met any of the selection criteria or desirable qualities sought in a candidate. “Really, how does anyone demonstrate ‘community leadership’?” Rampant wondered, before excusing himself to tell a Habitat For Humanity group to get out of his driveway. Rampant reportedly considered lying on his application, before giving up when asked to “give an example of a situation
in which you demonstrated initiative and problem-solving”. Discussions with classmates applying for the same internships did little to assuage Rampant’s fears. After talking to one student, who was inexplicably a working professional in the same field as the internship, Rampant regretted the inclusion of his work experience at Damien’s Grease Pump Repair on his application. The revelation that another applicant had a reference letter from Kofi Annan, and had been on a week-long kayak trip with the internship organisation’s entire upper management team, only served to further Rampant’s despair. When asked about the future, Rampant seemed optimistic. “Well, I’ll probably start by blaming my parents,” he mused, “before slowly transitioning into more of a twisted loner with a grudge against humanity who may snap at any time.” “Or join Woolies’ Graduate Pathways Program. Same thing, really.”
FIRST-YEAR WHO LOVES SAYING “YOU’VE PROBABLY NEVER HEARD OF THEM” DISMAYED TO LEARN PEOPLE HAVE HEARD OF THEM A
mateur hipster and indie connoisseur Jack Dempsey is in shock today after learning that his musical taste isn’t quite as unique as he had long believed. After entering the University of Melbourne as a fresher this o-week, he was dismayed to find multiple posters of his favourite ‘underground’ bands strewn across campus. “I just wasn’t expecting there to be so much exposure here, y’know? It’s kinda hard to understand. Back at my private allboys school in Sydney, I was the only one who’d ever heard of Hockey Dad or Car Seat Headrest.” Dempsey’s love of music began in seventh grade, when he successfully recited the entirety of Eminem’s ‘Lose Yourself’ to an adoring crowd of prepubescent peers. Since then, his taste has evolved to an high level of triple j indie-kid snobbery. Jodie Montagna-Burns, a contributor to music zines in
Melbourne’s indie scene, says that the situation is familiar. “It happens every year. We get kids from Sydney or Adelaide coming here and thinking they’re super hipster, but following the Hottest 100 just doesn’t cut it in Melbs.” “If you wanna be edgy here, you better be into some BDSM-level noisecore shit.” Sources close to Dempsey have confirmed that he has no plans to see any of the bands currently playing in Melbourne, as it “just isn’t the same anymore”. Some have suggested that Dempsey should find a new niche to gloat about. In the meantime, he’ll have to content himself with discussing music with people who can actually sustain an intelligent conversation about it. Dempsey fears the day he gets decisively proven wrong in a public discussion, and his pseudo music-nerd facade comes crumbling down.
ART BY CATHY CHEN
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BARD TIMES: PART TWO JAMES GORDON PRESENTS: “I SWEAR TO STUDY SO, TO KNOW THE THING I AM FORBID TO KNOW” It was 1578. William Shakespeare was 14 years old when he left school. Then he disappeared. Between 1578 and 1582, there is no documented evidence linking the bard to any job or location. Nobody knows what Shakespeare did in those four years. Until now.
H
e was sitting in the Laby theatre. Puzzled, he observed the strange seats that all lined up before his sight. Backs of heads and scruffs of hair, a murmur in the air. Two denizens sat in front of him. One had hair all green at the tips and a strange diamond on the back of her neck, like someone had drawn it on with a quill. She’d mastered some art unknown to the bard and was deep in confabulation. He turned to his neighbour, deciding to improve his own talking skills. A boy sat near, his eyes were in another place. “Speak thy name, anon.” “Did you just call me anon? Like, short for anonymous?” “Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows.” “Oh, sorry. Um, I’m George, how ya going?” “Marry, how overjoyed I was, my wont to beguile at the theatre! Alas, my joy was soon snatched as I learnt we would not be watching a play.” George nodded nervously, “Well we’re learning about a play. Othello, I think.” “Ha! What a fatuous name to crepe a play.” “So are you, um, local?” “Tis a foreign place these seats and room, and foreign creatures roam this earth. What green haired monster sits before us?” “Are you talking about me, mate?” “Hark, she speaks like us too!” “Fuck off, you prick.” Our bard understood only half of these words, but burrowed his head in shame at the hurt he detected he caused. But an older woman strode onto the stage and he promptly forgot all his woes, smiling with paroxysmal glee as he learnt of his brilliance and legacy in the lecture she gave. Alas, her sweet-sounding words had the sinister sting of an asphodel plant. “Now when Shakespeare died…” He drowned out the rest with his thoughts of impending genius, diverting his attention instead to George scrolling through photos, a blue bar up the top. He didn’t particularly want to know his future. It slightly bothered him that his fate was now so set, the fixity of his life.
Shakespeare huffed, arms crossed, watching a young man called Dan stroll across the room. Calling himself the tutor, he reeked of a certain miasma, masked in a thick perfume. Dan claimed to be writing some form of academic literature, enjoying his own stench as he rolled his fingers through his hair and spoke of his research.
“My PhD is basically focusing on the use of symbolism in one of Shakespeare’s lesser known plays called The Hogwash Abode. It’s quite a sophisticated play, so it isn’t appreciated in popular culture, but if you’re intelligent enough to appreciate it it’s a beautiful work of literature.” An approving nod came from those about the room, except for our bard who rolled his eyes and groaned, perhaps a little too loud. Dan smirked. “So where’s William?” “That is the name I’ve been creped.” “You’re the one who thinks he’s Shakespeare, aren’t you?” “That is indeed my name.” “Well I’m not going to go about kissing your arse just because you share a name with a genius.” “Wherefore doth thou want to plant thy lips on his buttocks?” “Please mate, don’t do this. This job is hard enough as it is. We might not know what Shakespeare did for those four years, but that doesn’t mean he disappeared off the face of the fucking planet.” “I left home to study, but no place of learning back home is expecting my presence, perhaps nobody questioned my absence.” “Don’t get clever with me, alright. I’m the Shakespeare expert here, not you.” The bard fell silent, his chest tightened. It was then that he plotted never to write a play called The Hogwash Abode.
“So what do you think of Melbourne?” Shakespeare and Chloe were ambling down some alley. “When I was at home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.” “How was your lecture?” “‘Twas a strange thing, I learnt of myself; my brain fed off its own fruits.” “Yeah, that’s trippy!” “I cannot fathom it; my wont is not worthy of such praise. All happiness ebbs as I think of those studying and lambasting my life’s work to be.” “Speaking of, did you hear about that PhD student? It’s really weird, some play he’s been writing about for two years now has just vanished. Nobody has any memory the play even existed, not even the student. But he’s just got this thesis all written up about some made-up play.” Shakespeare quietly smiled to himself.
ART BY CLARA CRUZ JOSE
PUBLIC TRANSPORT
TICKET, PLEASE LILY RAYNES ON SURVIVING THE PUBLIC TRANSPORT SYSTEM WITH A MINIMUM OF DIGNITY
“T
icket, please.” The phrase sliced through my pleasant daydream. The 48 tram sped past Fitzroy Gardens en route to my stop halfway down Bridge Road. The woman before me stood tall, her blonde hair scraped back into a tight ponytail that fell down to her shoulder. Her lips were deep mauve and pursed, her eyes dark blue daggers. She dug around in her fitted North Face jacket and produced a silver badge verifying her status as a Public Transport Villain. Fear washed over me. I had not touched on my myki that day. I’d taken up a policy of refusing to touch on for the previous few months—my defiant protest against myki. I saw myself as a renegade. Wax on, wax off; touch on, touch off. Sticking it to the man, one free $2.15 tram trip at a time. This approach had been working in my favour. I was stealthy and quick, able to discern the presence of an undercover officer in a flash, with their thick leather jackets, tattered satchels and knock-off Vans. I would be off the tram in an instant, living to evade the system another day. But this day was not my day. “Ticket, please,” she repeated. A bright red flush spread from my neck to my cheek as I stumbled to respond. “What… Sorry, I… No…” I felt daggers piercing my forehead as I began to fumble through my wallet, sorting through various used coffee cards on a hunt for a non-existent myki. She knew she had caught me and raised her hand to summon her cronies. Two men in leather jackets lumbered towards us and towered above me, blocking my exits on each side. She pulled out a neat black ticketing book, the ripped columns evidence of those fallen before me: my allies in the crusade. As she began her rehearsed speech on the $238 fine I would receive in six months, I felt myself start to cry. At first
it was soft and slow—a girl weeping over her predicament, typical on Melbourne’s public transport. But as the tram sped up Bridge Road, my body started to shake. How could it have come to this? My career as a seasoned veteran fare evader, figurehead of the freedom fighters, defender of the voiceless and myki-less—it all lay in tatters in front of me, crushed under the heel of her ragged New Balance sneakers. The resistance was dead. I was no longer the young girl silently weeping on a Saturday morning. Today I transcended all social conventions, becoming hysterical and inconsolable, bellows of pain echoing throughout the now silent tram. Businessmen stealthily lowered their Kindles and phones to watch the show as I became a toddler in a work uniform. I stamped my feet and thrashed in my seat, refusing to respond to the woman’s increasingly desperate pleas for calm. If I were going to be fined, she would have to force that ticket down my throat. As I cried about the injustice being forced upon me, the woman and her cronies circled around, desperately looking to each other for guidance. The woman’s pursed lips tightened, her eyes pleading with me. She had not expected this when she boarded tram 48 today. After a four-minute ordeal that brought the tram to an awkward silence and the officers to complete confusion, I lifted a limp hand and gestured towards the opening doors, softly hinting at my tram stop’s approach. In exasperation, the woman nodded for my leave. I bounded off the tram into the crisp air and exhaled. I wiped away my tears and breathed until my bright red face faded back to a shade more human. I had lived to evade another day. In my battle against the public transport system in Melbourne, I had learnt another lesson. You can’t have shame when you’re up against myki.
ART BY RENEE DE VLUGT
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THEATRE
MORALLY GOOD LESBIAN LUKE MACARONAS SPEAKS TO JEAN TONG ABOUT WRITING, UPCOMING WORKS, AND HER RECENT ASCENSION TO THE AUSTRALIAN LESBIAN CANON
J
ean Tong swims in an ocean of labels. Chinese-Malaysian. Asian. Australian. Queer. Lesbian. “I’m ambivalent about gender,” is her reply when I ask how she identifies. “‘She/her’ is like, it works ... I get called ‘sir’ a lot.” “It’s just always funny for me because I don’t care ... And I also like them being a bit confused.” We joke about misidentification as a kind of educational tool—a means of queering by confronting people with their assumptions. Tilting her head, Tong jokes: “Teaching through them feeling really awkward about what they just did? If I had an aesthetic, that’s probably it.” Being misgendered certainly isn’t an uncommon occurrence for LGBT+ people, and yet Tong’s revelry in the ambiguity around her identity seems characteristic of the writer’s acute sense of how her work is perceived in relation to a publicly imposed persona. Late last year, following the opening night of her lesbian electro-pop musical, Romeo is Not the Only Fruit, the Melbourne-based writer, dramaturg, and director was praised by Cameron Woodhead from Fairfax Media as the next Australian lesbian comedy prodigy, following in the footsteps of Magda Szubanski, Hannah Gadsby and Zoe Coombs Marr. The only problem? “I don’t know that I’ve actually said ‘I am a lesbian’ in any interviews.” With a buzzed undercut, khaki shorts and a ‘lesbian musical’ currently in rehearsals for its redux at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival, Tong isn’t exactly unacquainted with a lesbian aesthetic, but her growing success reveals a kind of identity-centrism in the ways we promote and discuss art that sometimes misses the point. For Romeo, the creative team intentionally bought into the market for queer theatre in Melbourne. “We know this is what our peers and community are going to be interested in, so identifying as that was a really deliberate choice. And it attracted the kind of audience we wanted to bring it to, and a lot of them love it.” But for Tong’s newest work, Hungry Ghosts—premiering at the Melbourne Theatre Company in May—the language that has been used to describe her work in 2017 seems ill-fitting. “It’s a really uncomfortable identity to wear sometimes because of what people then start to expect ... That’s the other thing where language is used to create a box. Because queerness is a lot of things.” Tong articulates a frustration among emerging artists whose identities are capitalised on in order to fill seats. Following Woodhead’s review of Romeo, explains Tong, “The whole team did just for the next two weeks call me Hannah, Magda or Zoe instead of my name because all of the lesbians are interchangeable.” On one hand, her dry tone seems emblematic of the comedic flare Tong has recently been praised for, but at other points in the interview she appears simply apathetic to the flimsy labels applied to her work.
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“What makes writing queer?” is the question we begin the interview at, and, almost an hour and a half later, Tong’s considered response is: “Can a work ever really be queer?” The growing fixation with transfusing an author’s identity into their work has propagated the kinds of debates it feels foolish to indulge: “Do you continue to be a queer artist ‘cause you’re personally queer? Or if you’re a queer artist who’s never made or been involved in a work that is exclusively queer, are you a queer artist?” Moreover, these questions fail to acknowledge the reality of artistic practice that is less concerned with sociology and more with the art itself. The balance between failing to recognise systematically disadvantaged artists and fetishising what makes their work important is difficult to find, but Tong’s vision for that future is clear. “[Artists] will be allowed to make shows or work about ideas that they’re interested in—and their queerness, their race will hopefully bleed in, to enrichen it and actually make the ideas more robust and challenge those ideas and break them apart and put them back together in a different way than we’ve seen before. And that’s why it’s important to have diversity—not because it’s a morally good thing.” Tong challenges the language continually used to contain her work, not explicitly or vocally but in the breadth and variety of her writing. It is this linguistic tug-of-war that Tong herself sums up as ‘languaging’. “To ‘language’ something is to put something into words to make sense of the world ... I love ‘language’ as a verb because it reminds us that it is ours to take back and create.” Bubbling beneath Tong’s witty exterior is an acute excitement at the possibilities language offers. “Words are how I understand the world, so, when I don’t have that, I feel like death,” she says. “For a lot of communities we’ve not had that language and we haven’t been able to put ourselves at the centre of being able to say what something is and make sense of the world, and put that forward as something that’s legitimate and understandable and shared.” It is this language that artists like Tong are slowly building. And perhaps there isn’t a way to adequately explain what that is, simply because we haven’t yet found the right words. But Tong hasn’t let this discomfort with the definitions of her work alter the ideas she is determined to explore. Her writing cannot be contained by the genres or traditions of artists who have gone before her. Instead, Tong seems happy to rest in the inbetween, intentionally identifying as unidentifiable.
Romeo Is Not The Only Fruit is running from 28 March to 8 April at the Coopers Malthouse as part of the Melbourne International Comedy Festival. Hungry Ghosts premiers at the Melbourne Theatre Company in May. Tickets for both shows are now on sale.
ART BY AYONTI MAHREEN HUQ
NONFICTION
ART BY
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MUSIC
MAD ETHNIC RIGHT NOW KAAVYA JHA ON CULTURAL IDENTITY AND THE ROLE OF HIP-HOP
H
ip-hop culture and black culture: are they the same? So often, these terms are used interchangeably, as if driven by the same experiences, based on the same values. Yet this might be a bit of misnomer, as black pop culture includes so much more than music (hello Black Panther). Historically, yes, hip-hop existed as a subsection of black culture, and it is imperative that we recognise that black artists created, developed, and popularised the genre. However, given the recent domination of rap and hip-hop in top-40 charts, the demographics of their audiences, and indeed their creators, have broadened. Western discourse surrounding the impact of hip-hop on mainstream culture typically exists in a racial dichotomy, revolving around those who are black or white. But with accessibility to global music at an all-time high, hip-hop now caters to a more diverse crowd. ‘Third-culture kids’ is a phrase used to describe young people, myself included, who grew up in a culture different from that of their parents. While the phrase is frequently used as a buzzword in articles about the future and citizens of the world, we rarely see accurate portrayals in music and television of the struggles we face growing up. Turning to the next best option, many third-culture kids attach their sense of cultural identity to the only ‘otherness’ visible in whitedominated media—black culture. I was at a house party recently with several others from my high school. As hip-hop music played, a few showed off their (self-perceived) musical prowess by rapping along to the lyrics, n-word included. Yikes. It is not uncommon to see South Asian and Arabic boys claim that it is acceptable for them to say the n-word—disregarding any sociocultural implications—as if their dark skin is the only necessary qualifier. To some young people of colour, appropriating the blackness of hip-hop culture is a means of escape from the myth of the model minority, a stereotype of themselves which they are unable to relate to. A model minority is a ‘positive’ stereotype that suggests certain demographic groups achieve a higher level of wealth, education and success than the average population. Think back to high school, with the
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stereotype of Asians excelling academically and taking on an impressive range of extracurriculars. For young Asian men, this perception has further harmful effects. In the media, they see themselves portrayed as unaggressive, unappealing and almost effeminate—the antithesis of black men’s hyperaggressive, hyper-sexual and hyper-masculine stereotype. Is it any surprise that these young people, who belong in a culture where nerdiness is the inverse of attractiveness, turn to black culture to escape such restrictive perceptions of their race? For decades, Asian immigrants and African immigrants have been pitted against each other on a spectrum where only White is Right. Nonetheless, using blackness as a counterculture to another ethnicity is dangerous as it perpetrates notions of anti-blackness, implying that being black is inherently rebellious or threatening. Still, I believe that other minorities can appreciate the political significance of black culture in music without appropriating it for our own. When I first listened to Beyoncé’s ‘Formation’, I broke down in tears after hearing her encourage her child to embrace features of their race that are typically shunned rather than fetishised. Perhaps now, this diverse generation of listeners simply wants more from their music. Unable to relate to the simplistic narratives of white artists’ romantic pop, they want songs in which they can see themselves, with their intricacies. Turning to hip-hop makes sense; its historical role was an outlet for the anger of the marginalised and isolated. Third-culture kids can relate, not to allusions to slavery and police brutality, but to the belief that the world doesn’t understand them. In turn, this self-identification of people of colour has encouraged a new wave of hip-hop experiencing success in the charts, with the rise of Asian artists like Rich Brian, Keith Ape and Joji. New organisations like 88rising, a record-labelmanagement-company-content-platform, exist to exclusively promote Asian music acts in the American music industry. Hip-hop culture is expanding, keeping its gritty origins and continuing to offer a voice to underdogs, but now opening its doors to non-black people of colour and their stories as well.
ART BY MORGAN-LEE SNELL
TRENT VU PRESENTS...
FODDER FEATURE: OFF BEET O
ff Beet is a show on Radio Fodder hosted by kickass presenters Ashleigh Hastings and Carolyn Huane. When I asked them how they would explain the premise of their show to Off Beet virgins, they offered “local bands, banter and hopefully enjoyable music” as a tagline. Essentially, they conduct an in-depth interview each week with artists from Melbourne’s music scene—quote: “We hold them hostage and we ask them the difficult questions.” Sounds... interesting? To learn more about Off Beet and the talent behind the show, I caught up with Ashleigh and Carolyn in the Radio Fodder studio for an interview. Don’t worry, no-one held anyone hostage this time. I’d like to kick off with a hard-hitting question. Who would you crown as the Queen of Music? Carolyn: Ashleigh’s my Queen of Music. Ashleigh: [laughs] Because I play so many instruments? Carolyn: Maybe you’re Queen of Radio. Ashleigh: Aw bless! Well, I was gonna say Lorde, but now I feel bad. Carolyn: That was my first instinct. Lorde. What’s the one song that will never fail to get you down and dirty on the d-floor? Carolyn: I don’t want to be basic, but I feel like it would definitely be a Justin Timberlake song. Ashleigh: ‘Rock Your Body’? Carolyn: Yeah, that one gets me going. Ashleigh: I’m gonna definitely be basic and say ‘I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor’ by The Arctic Monkeys. What’s your favourite song to cry to? Ashleigh: I don’t listen to a lot of sad music. I think I actively avoid it. The only thing that ever comes up on shuffle on my phone that makes me really sad is old MIKA songs. So that makes me cry firstly because they’re sad, but secondly because I’ve still got them. Carolyn: When I was younger, I used to cry to Dido a lot. I used to sob. I was in high school and I had a lot of feelings. Trent: Me now.
How was your show Off Beet birthed into the world? Ashleigh: It was completely Carolyn’s idea. Carolyn: I roped Ashleigh into it*, but I knew [she] would like the idea. We like a lot of the same music, so I knew [she’d] be the perfect radio buddy. I think I just saw the ad on Facebook from Farrago for Radio Fodder hosts. And I hadn’t really heard of Radio Fodder, but I looked into it and it just piqued my interest. *(Conspiracy theory: Carolyn is holding Ashleigh hostage...) Over the course of your show’s two seasons, what’s been a highlight for you both? Ashleigh: A highlight for me would be when we started having live performances in the studio. It took a while to get all the logistics together, but once we got it going, it was just lovely. And we were essentially being serenaded. Carolyn: We had Hotel Fifteen Love come in and they played in [the studio], and I think they were the first ones who played live. That was definitely a good moment. What’s one of the biggest challenges of presenting a show? Ashleigh: Thinking on your feet. We’re in here doing all of the mics and playing the music ourselves. And sometimes things go wrong. You have to be able to fix a computer at the same time as talking, while keeping your guests happy and hoping that whoever is listening has no idea. What can listeners expect from season three of Off Beet? Carolyn: More live performances. Ashleigh: Yeah definitely. We’re gonna try and make that a regular feature of the show. Carolyn: We’ll keep getting bands in every week. Ashleigh: Yeah, more local bands... More awkward jokes from me... Carolyn: And me. Those are the only jokes I know. Your ears can be held hostage by Off Beet every Monday from 7 to 8pm on radiofodder.com. You can follow Off Beet on Facebook. Their shows are also available on Mixcloud.
ART BY AMANI NASARUDIN
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TELEVISION
LIVE FROM HOLLYWOOD DANIEL BERATIS ASKS WHY WE SUBJECT OURSELVES TO AWARDS SEASON
I
t is the age of ranking and comparison, of contests and awards. This is not a new age, yet summer always feels like the dawn of a new one. With awards season—sorry— Awards Season™ combining a wealth of ceremonies into one gelatinous, ill-defined period, it very much is the start of something. And it’s something we can’t help but get swept up by. Every Awards Season™, actors and producers and directors clamour for the coveted BAFTA, Golden Globe, SAG Award and Academy Award. With so many tiny statuettes to win, there’s barely any time left for all the other awards we’re so overjoyed to notice in the fourth slot of the nightly news broadcast: the Grammys, the Australian of the Year, the various Words of the Year. To live through summer is to behold an almighty reckoning, and when that season closes and the dust has settled—the better dust settling first, of course, after its due recognition as Dust of the Week—we will find some things judged better than others. Why do we do this to ourselves? As someone who’s partial to Oscars-related discourse, I think the answer is obvious: it is a lot of fun. Tribalism is always more fun when it’s about an unimportant industry award, and there are few better ways to lose friends than over conflicting Oscar opinions. Not only are the awards fun, but the pageantry is a world separate from ours—an unreality, a world detached and
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jettisoned into the abyss: a miasma of tuxedos and gowns, carpets of various colours, ’glitz and glam’, campaigns and For Your Considerations. It’s a form of escapism: here are the stars; here are their perfect lives; how we wish we could replicate that, and how we know that we’ll never have lives so fulfilling. Then, as the sweltering, memory-obscuring heat of summer fades, replaced with the autumnal reality of leaves falling and dying, we must return to our own world. And so it will go. What fun that was! But, no, this is all wrong. It’s the answer you’d expect, but who relies on award ceremonies for escapism, when you can find the exact same thing at the movies, or on the television? The magic of the screen lets us inject that escapism directly, feeling every inch of the needle as it pushes into our veins and into our eyes. Awards Season™ is a wholly inefficient method of escaping our own lives, so—what makes us do this to ourselves? We could instead theorise, perhaps, that there’s something intrinsic to the human spirit that compels us to watch people compete. After all, there are contests every day, in multiple arenas. In a matter of weeks, the XXI Commonwealth Games will astound us with the skills of the world’s best and most athletic, and we will remember the winners. Elections will sweep the southern states, and potentially nationwide, and we will remember the victors. School captains will be crowned. Pizza places will receive Silver Medals in Service. Employees of the Month everywhere will enjoy free in-house meals.
ART BY SHARON HUANG LIANG
TELEVISION
It’s inherent—that must explain it. It is simply human nature to compete: we love to compete ourselves, and get an echoing rush from watching others do the same. Vicarious or no, they’re all the same endorphins, rattling around the hollow brain. But there must be more to it than that. Competition is a symptom, not the cause itself. Human nature for nature’s sake can’t explain it all. It doesn’t explain the lure of the Awards Season™ abyss. No, that miasma of tuxedos and gowns, carpets of various colours, ‘glitz and glam’, campaigns and For Your Considerations— Really, it’s all pieces of the same whole. Isn’t it? It’s all pieces of the human experience. It’s our identity, our settings, our politics and our lifestyles performed—for us!—by the stars who so often entertain us on the silver screen. They fight and claw and undermine for awards so that they too might be recognised, be lauded, be known. It is exactly what we do every single day, in the lowly slums of ordinary life. There is in Awards Season™ an undeniable symmetry between our reality and its unreality. And this symmetry isn’t limited to victory only. The annual spectacle of the Academy Awards, for one, is a yearly exercise in crushing defeat. For months, nominees of every stripe glad hand voters, attend luncheons, host talks, deliver the same four lines, appear in carefully staged photo ops, tolerate interviews with trade magazines and trendsetters, all in pursuit of a tiny statuette. Then, in front of an audience numbering through the hundreds of millions, watching on every inhabited continent, most of them lose. Their faces, when they learn their fate, become the public record. It’s not an experience we’ll ever have. But it is an emotion we will keenly feel. Statistically, the majority of avid viewers will be disappointed—aggrieved, even—that this could happen to their favourite stars. And this tragedy will occur, in lounge
rooms everywhere on earth, over and over and over again. It’s symmetry, in victory and defeat. It’s life, in victory and defeat. To watch Awards Season™—sorry, correction—awards season play out is to feel like these stars have glitzed up and glammed up to replicate our own psycho-dramas, our own lives, but in excess and luxury. And they’re not doing it on purpose, of course. No actress holds the Midwest in mind as she reads her prepared speech down the 4K camera. It’s not because they want to give us a show—they certainly don’t yearn for our sweet summer’s love—but because this is their show too, writ large. It is a show of distinct, symmetrical humanity. This symmetry is not perfect. Most of these stars have their barrels of movie royalties and individually curated Wikipedia pages. Their careers will continue, despite what happens this season, and they will be back next year. Their lives bear little relation to ours. We are consumers and they make products. We transact a professional relationship. But if we look especially carefully, and pay just the right amount of attention, we will see our lives reflected back: our highs replicated in the tiny smiles and tears of the winners gripping those tiny statuettes with shaking hands, and our lows recreated in the tiny frowns of the defeated in the audience, clutching their bottles of wine and diamondencrusted flasks. We claw and bite and tear at the skin. We find the same muscle beneath. So, sure, we like a contest. We like some fun. But we’re not searching for escapism. We’re searching for life, lived large. The magnified lives we vicariously experience on the small screen, as big names receive tiny statuettes, might be enough to satisfy our ravenous hunger. It might not be, but it might.
ART BY SHARON HUANG LIANG
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BOOKS
HARRY POTTER AND THE MAGIC OF MEDICINE BY TESSA MARSHALL
A
ny fan of the Harry Potter series will know that J.K. Rowling draws inspiration from a myriad of myths, legends and historical events to create her wizarding world. But despite Harry Potter being a magical universe where logic need not apply, some elements are closer to science fiction than true magic. Many of Rowling’s ideas have parallels in Muggle medicine: one can’t help but notice the similarity between the Obliviate charm and certain forms of amnesia, or search for scientific explanations for Voldemort’s serpentine appearance. Exploring these links further reveals that both horrific diseases and incredible advances can seem just like magic.
PONDERING THE PENSIEVE: THE NEUROSCIENCE OF FORGETTING
THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE: THE FORERUNNER OF PHARMACOLOGY Rowling did not invent Nicolas Flamel and the philosopher’s stone, so where does the true story of alchemy intersect with her wizarding world? The search for the legendary philosopher’s stone, at least in Europe, began with Ancient Greek alchemists, who believed all matter was composed of four essential elements: air, fire, earth and water. Gold could surely be created from other substances provided they could discover the necessary ratios of these elements. The philosopher’s stone was believed to be a substance that could not only transmute low-grade metals into silver or gold but would also heal and grant immortality to the user. Medieval alchemists experimented with thousands of combinations of materials to find the stone, laying the foundations for modern chemistry and pharmacology. Nicolas Flamel, a 14th-century French bookseller and philanthropist, is only connected to this practice through legends arising in the 1600s. The real Flamel died in 1418 and was buried in Paris (beneath a tombstone he designed himself—rather a morbid activity for someone rumoured to be immortal). The last popular figures to seriously pursue alchemy were probably Robert Boyle and Isaac Newton, before they and their contemporaries replaced alchemy with modern chemistry and physics.
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From keeping Muggles oblivious, to exploring Voldemort’s past through the Pensieve, memory spells safeguard the wizarding world. But can neuroscience replicate this memorable magic? A decade before the Black Mirror episode about an implant that stores and replays memories, Rowling invented the Pensieve: a basin that stores and replays memories. But memory is far more fluid than the movie-like recollections often depicted in TV and literature. When we remember something, we reconstruct the event from small pieces of information scattered all over the brain. This process incorporates details from the present, transforming the memory into a caricature of its original self—like how Slughorn alters his memory to conceal his role in Riddle’s rise to power. For example, when 3,000 people were asked to recall where they were during 9/11, less than 63 per cent had accurate recall a year later, yet on average they rated themselves ‘four out of five’ on how confident they were in their recollection. More disturbingly, psychologists can implant entirely false memories with relative ease, using leading questions or repeatedly describing an event to someone until they become convinced they were present. Memory is malleable and dispersed throughout the brain—not a discrete entity that can be preserved in a Pensieve. Though we alter our memories without realising, is it possible to remove them entirely? The usefulness of a real-life Obliviate is clear to anyone who has dealt with post-traumatic stress disorder. A psychological technique called exposure therapy utilises the malleability of memory by having patients confront their trauma in a safe and calm setting, teaching the brain that there is nothing to fear. But this treatment is not perfect, and some researchers have instead sought a pharmacological approach. By giving a heart medication called propranolol during exposure therapy, we can reduce
ART BY CATHY CHEN
BOOKS the physiological symptoms of anxiety and help the brain reclassify the memory as non-threatening. Memory manipulation also raises ethical questions. The power to induce or prevent a criminal confession, to alter someone’s identity, or to make them question their perception of reality is dangerous. Especially if, like Muggles who have witnessed magic, this occurs without our consent.
villains were suspected of suffering from the disease, including Adolf Hitler, Al Capone and Idi Amin. Tom Riddle may have almost succeeded in protecting his soul, but it looks like he didn’t use other protection where it was warranted.
THE MAGICAL SCIENTIFIC METHOD VOLDEMORT’S NOSE: THE RESULT OF DARK MAGIC, SYPHILIS, OR TOO MUCH COCAINE? The Dark Lord’s signature look is an unforgettable part of the Harry Potter series, but it took considerable effort to recreate for the films. The visual effects team edited every frame individually to replace actor Ralph Fiennes’ nose with snakelike slits—that’s a lot of time and money spent on nostrils. So how did Voldemort go from a hot 17-year-old student in Chamber of Secrets to a terrifying villain? The canon explanation, put forth by Dumbledore in Half-Blood Prince, is that his body became “less human” the more “his soul was mutilated beyond the realms of what we might call usual evil”. However, fans have offered more entertaining theories: frostbite from the snowballs Fred and George Weasley pelted at Quirrel’s turban, a botched nose job in Knockturn Alley, or overenthusiastic snogging with a Dementor. I propose two reasons for his missing nose that affect Muggles and wizards alike: cocaine and syphilis. An unintended side effect of snorting cocaine is the constriction of blood vessels in your nose. This makes it an unorthodox substitute for Sudafed during a cold but can be dangerous if the blood supply is cut off for too long. Eventually, the cartilage in your septum dies and the bridge of your nose collapses, giving it a ‘saddle’ appearance—much like Voldy’s nose. You’d think that wizards would have magical means of getting high, but maybe the ‘potions’ of Wall Street are just as effective. Lord No-noselemort may also have had syphilis. In the late stages of the disease, soft inflammatory growths called ‘gumma’ form to contain the infection. This destroys bone and cartilage, leading to the same saddle-nose deformity seen in cocaine abuse. Syphilis can also affect your pupils, perhaps giving the Dark Lord’s their slits. Most famously, syphilis can infect the brain, causing personality changes, like asocial behaviour and irritability. No wonder so many psychopathic
A vanishing nose, malleable memory and a stone that led to the discovery of thousands of chemicals: these real-life examples of medical discoveries or advances all sound magical. Us Muggles have a weapon more powerful than magic: the scientific method. The search for the philosopher’s stone may not have unlocked the secrets of immortality, but it led to the development of modern chemistry, which has produced substances more valuable than gold, and pharmacology, which has saved countless lives. Advances in neuroscience have revealed that, unlike those depicted by Rowling, memories are neither discrete nor fixed. And a few wild nights in Hogsmeade can change your appearance as much as splitting your soul. Mere Muggles have achieved far more than Rowling’s wizards (apart from perhaps Arthur Weasley) give them credit for. Who needs magic anyway?
ART BY CATHY CHEN
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NONFICTION
ART BY QAISARA MOHAMAD
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COMMENTARY
SELLING REFUGEE RIGHTS TO THE RIGHT ANDIE MOORE ON PITCHING HUMANE ASYLUM-SEEKER POLICY TO CONSERVATIVES
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n the lead-up to the Palm Sunday refugee rights rally, pressure continues to mount on the government to change a refugee policy dubbed torturous by many. Yet most Australians still back the government. After condemnations from the United Nations and Amnesty International, you would think the injustice of boat turnbacks and indefinite offshore detention would be evident to the voting public. But perhaps it is not that clear. The right has hardly been fought on their own territory— few in commentary or social movements have used right-wing logic to undermine tough stances on refugees. But undermining a right-wing consensus behind the asylum agenda of the day might be the key to undermining the agenda altogether. We also know that political decisions are made to win over undecided voters. The more reasons there are for changing our refugee policy, the more groups will vote for pro-refugee parties—pressuring the government and opposition to change the agenda. So, what does the average Aussie think about refugee policy? Well, it’s complicated. Based on polling from the ABC and the Lowy Institute, most Australians want to take in more refugees and believe migration is not economically detrimental. However, most Australians also believe boat arrivals should never be settled in Australia. Also, an increasing majority of Australians consistently support boat turnbacks (75 per cent of LNP voters, compared to 28 per cent of ALP voters). And a vast majority of Australians believe asylum seekers are a threat to Australian interests. Contrary to popular perception, most Australians want more refugees. But there is a proviso: that refugees be legal. A conservative case needs to respond to this issue and dismiss detention and turnbacks as unjust and impractical. The Old Testament argues clearly that legality is insignificant. Native or immigrant, we were all created in God’s image and descend from Adam and Eve, and are all entitled to equally compassionate treatment. After all, God’s prophets were once refugees, who hardly had sovereign permission as they entered the promised land. Leviticus 19:34 says, “The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born.” Or take Jeremiah 22:3: “Do no wrong or violence to the foreigner ... do not shed innocent blood in this place.”
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In the New Testament, Christians are told to fight for refugees’ freedom and treat them with equal compassion. Just as Christ intervenes in an unjust world, Christians—particularly lawmakers—are called to end refugee suffering. The law’s integrity must be upheld, obviously—the law’s strength is the core of a well-functioning society. But for most boat arrivals there is no legal avenue. Many refugees cannot access passports because their governments refuse to issue them. Or they are persecuted in their home country or flee so quickly they have no time to apply for one. This makes ‘legal’ plane arrivals near-impossible for many. While the UN conducts refugee status determination in war-struck countries and countries without resettlement procedures, access is limited. Moreover, offshore detention of boat arrivals violates standards of accountability and transparency we should expect from our public institutions. The withholding of information about detention centres and the censoring of government staff should raise alarm bells—taxpayers have a right to know how their money is spent. When abuses occur, it is even harder to hold the government accountable. The camps are subcontracted to dodgy security companies outside of Australian jurisdiction in overseas territory. This practice rejects the Anglo-liberal tradition of democratic accountability, sustained since the Magna Carta. There are alternatives. Detention costs $655 per person, per day—a grotesque waste of taxpayer money. But consider placing refugees in the community under case management— something trialled in Australia with a 96 per cent retention rate—which costs between six and 38 dollars a day. Even onshore detention is cheaper. It is fiscally responsible to #bringthemhere. Why should conservatives oppose boat turnbacks? The principle of proportionality. There should be an appropriate punishment for arriving illegally. Forcing minorities back to the persecution they flee is often an effective death penalty—the government is wilfully sending people home for slaughter. This punishment trivialises the right to life—and while it may stop death at sea, it only does so by pushing it onshore. These arguments are not exhaustive. But there are countless cultural and practical issues with our refugee policies that should offend any principled conservative. It is time we take these points to the right and shift the political centre.
NONFICTION
AN ODE TO MY GRANDMOTHER BY AMANDA TAN
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here’s not much I know about my grandmother. I know she likes bread with her coffee. I know she’s never gone to school and I know her hair is grey—it has to be—but monthly trips to the hair salon mean I’ve only ever seen her raven-haired. I know she licks her finger before she turns a newspaper page, always on the obituary for reasons she’s never mentioned. I know I love her but that doesn’t make the finger-licking thing any less gross. From ages four to eight, I was under the care of my paternal grandparents. My grandfather was the strict, overbearing, colder companion to my grandmother’s gentle warmth, and as a result I always felt closer to her. The sight of my grandmother’s face takes me back to a time that I hold very close to my heart. Pulling apart freshly baked bread and dipping it in coffee for her, Milo for me. Warm afternoon sun seeping through cracks of window where the curtains didn’t reach. The greasy kitchen where she’d always be, on a wooden stool, filleting fish or chopping garlic or peeling oranges. I can still hear her voice calling me home for dinner after I’d spent too much time with the children next door. I remember quiet nights watching TV at my grandparents’ house with my grandfather giving me sips of wine, claiming it was good for the heart, and my grandmother, sat on the floor, flipping through the newspaper. When I turned nine, my mother quit her job to take care of me, and my grandmother and I began to drift apart. I only saw her on birthdays and important holidays. In the spaces between our occasional encounters, I grew into somebody wildly different from the child I once was. My movements smaller, my limbs bigger, the language that tied us together sounding more like marbles in my mouth. She’s a story I used to read as a child, but when I try to tell it now the words don’t
come as easily. I wish I had at least tried to salvage all that I could of our relationship, but the truth is that I made no such attempt. Now the only time we meet is Chinese New Year and it’s an awkward affair. I never know what to say to her, with my clunky Mandarin and inability to properly express emotion. She’s as warm to me as ever but I never know how to return the affection. Sometimes after our phone calls, all stiff laughter and more telephone static than words, I wish I had asked more than, “How are you doing?” and, “What’s the weather like?” Over soapy dishes and leftovers, I ask her about life growing up in Sungai Petani, but she tells me to leave the dish-washing to her instead. Here is what I think: there are stories that are meant to be lost. She keeps the burn mark on her wrist a secret and doesn’t talk about her childhood. So I’ll remember her through my father’s words, the scraps of her life shared around the dinner table, passed along like nothing important. I keep them in a box for days when the afternoon Melbourne light creeps through the gaps between the shades, making me think of her. She’s the taste of warm bread dipped in instant coffee, the voice I hear just before it gets dark outside. My grandmother doesn’t know how to read but she can make loh bak well enough to put someone out of business. Her food tells me how lucky I am that I can speak my languages better than I can cook. “You have an honest face,” she says to me. “Your arms are strong and beautiful. Do well in school. Come home when you can. Spend the night here, how about that?” I recite these words like poetry when I think about her. She never tells me the way she felt when she had to marry my grandfather. I’ll let her keep that. She will always tell me what she knows I need to hear.
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ART BY POORNIIMA SHANMUGAM
COMMENTARY
WHAT’S IN A NAME? BELLA RUSKIN ON THE CHANGING LANDSCAPE OF SURNAMES
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very wedding planner in Australia ought to be celebrating— business is now flourishing thanks to a little postal survey; decades of protesting and love being celebrated all over Australia. Rainbow street art decorates Melbourne’s coolest streets and many houses retain the pride flags that started popping up last year. However, marriage’s history is oppressive, a far cry from these recent weddings. Marriage originated as an alliance between families. When hereditary surnames became normal, the spouse marrying into the larger property changed their name. Gender equality could have grown from this system, saving us all considerable trouble. Unfortunately, it was usually women changing their names, a tradition later enshrined in marriage law. This change of name symbolised branding—becoming property. Remnants of outdated oppression survive through the surnames of wives and children, demonstrating that gender roles are still alive and well in 2018. Eighty per cent of Australian women adopt their husband’s surname and children usually gain this name even when their mother does not. Frowned upon is men adopting their wives’ surnames, and it is legally more difficult. A survey found 96 per cent of men wouldn’t take their wives’ surnames if they asked. So: marriage is problematic, surnames are oppressive and gender roles are entrenched. Hooray. Thankfully, second-wave feminism overturned many unjust laws and gender roles. Many obviously remain, but these changes paved the way for marriage equality. Studies suggest it is easier for LGBTQ+ families to select surnames, free from the pressure of tradition and societal expectations. Women often change their name after marriage to unite their family with a single surname—an argument that would be sensical if both surnames were treated as options. Samesex marriages are uniquely free of gender roles, so both names are valid. Couples adopting a single surname must employ practical reasons to select the name. Reasoning could include the ease of a name’s spelling or pronunciation, and the relationship one spouse may have to their wider family. In Greece, Quebec and Belgium, it is illegal for spouses to change their names in marriage. This equality-inducing idea
restricts freedom, but the conundrum considers the damage name-changing can have on society. Obviously, no such law exists in Australia, but many people keep their surnames after marriage. Of course, this option is available in same-sex marriages, but the issue of children’s surnames remains. The final, common option is hyphenated names—a possibility for children and parents alike. Though fair, the system can pose challenges by creating lengthy surnames. Ideally, every child would have a hyphenated name, but their children would have four names hyphenated together, which multiplies by the next generation. Not to mention the poor child learning to spell their name in prep, or any adult filling out a ‘one letter per block’ government form. This option is the most popular for Australian lesbian couples, as they often seek a surname that represents the equal role of both parents. While these options are usual for LGBTQ+ Australians, more radical ideas are circulating. Alternating surnames involves one child taking the surname of one parent, and the second child taking the other name. It accounts for equality, but potentially lacks convenience and family unity. Melding two surnames into a single name is also possible. Again, this method is very fair, but robs people of their heritage, connection to ancestors and wider family, all embedded in a surname. To work, this idea is limited to names of certain lengths and similar sounds. Bizarre as this last option sounds comparative to traditional possibilities, it’s becoming rather popular, with nearly three per cent of Australian children receiving a freshly created, blended surname. Marriage equality isn’t bringing about a new dawn in Australia. Same-sex couples have been finding names for their families for years. Some things are changing—the wedding card section at every non-homophobic newsagent is now a lot more fun, and Australia has even had its first samesex divorce. Legalising marriage equality is a step, but it’s hardly the end of the road. Campaigning for LGBTQ+ rights cannot stop now, nor can the progress within heterosexual marriage traditions to move beyond the sexist present. The UN slammed Australia’s endless road to marriage equality—so maybe we could work on this one a little faster.
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NONFICTION
Content warning: mentions of sexual assault
QUEER AS MUD TILLI FRANKS ON THE RADICALITY OF WORDS
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he most infamous tale of star-crossed lovers declares: “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” And yet, in classic Shakespearean irony, it is the names of Capulet and Montague affixed to both the hero and heroine that predicate their deaths. Were it not for the attachment of their families’ names to their identities, they would have married, had kids, cheated, divorced, lived the rest of their lives in mutual hatred and no-one would have cared. The context and cultural connotations of words are what gives them their meanings. Words come from language, and language, we must never forget, is not innate. Language develops within specific sociocultural structures; it is a product of our history. We allocate words to objects, emotions, actions, people. And, as humans, we like to categorise. Animal, vegetable, mineral. Black, white, Asian. Man, woman. Words are descriptors and tools, and work as our way of making meaning: from the past, present, and future. Words can degrade, dignify and simply denote. They are part of what makes us human. The meaning of words can be dependent on the user. Slurs are markers of violence: before physical force come the words that incite it. If a person is labelled as a degenerate, then they are treated as such. As such, our words create and define difference between peoples, as well as bring them together. Reclaiming is the subversion of original meaning. If I call myself a dyke, or if I call myself queer, as a lesbian, I am reclaiming words that have historically condemned me to the margins of society. I am saying that I love women, and I love to love women, and I will not be silent or feel shame. I will wear my history on my sleeve and I will remind everyone every day of what society did to those who came before me. Just like we remember the Anzacs on 25 April, lest we forget those who fought for the rights and survival of the LGBT community. Power dynamics are thus integral to the effect a word has. One small pebble has a thousand ripples, et cetera. But some words are rocks, and some ripples become waves. When the ‘no’ campaign in the recent postal survey on same-sex marriage called the ‘yes’ campaigners ‘bigots’, they ignored the power relations implicit in discrimination. No doubt, the ‘yes’ campaign also used the word ‘bigot’ to describe their opponents, but because that is what homophobic people are. Historically, culturally and linguistically, the ‘no’ campaign matched the criteria for bigotry. The thing about bigotry is that it’s an act of oppression, and the thing that academics— from Karl Marx, to Michel Foucault, to bell hooks, to most sociologists worth their salt—have observed about oppression, is that it can only come from a source of power and authority. Who has the power here? In this case, a civil-rights issue became a matter of ‘opinion’: when a ‘no’ voter, who wants to keep away another person’s rights, finds themselves a social outcast in some circles, are they not merely experiencing what they wanted an LGBT person to feel in the first place? Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull may have made a plea for a “respectful debate” without “name-calling”, but there is no room for respect in a campaign based on depriving a minority of their right to live as equal citizens. The world does not suddenly flip and fundamentalist Christians—the main voice of the ‘no’ campaign—are not suddenly victims of centuries of Western oppression (religious persecution by other denominations excluded). Heterosexual people have not been psychoanalysed, incarcerated, murdered, correctively raped and forced into conformity for their sexual orientation. It is not bigoted to fight for equal rights, but it is bigoted to pretend that an ‘opinion’ justifies
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depriving others of the life most take for granted. We were scooping pebbles out of the pond with blistered fingers; they were brokering tidal waves with bloody hands. Certain academic and leftist circles have appropriated ‘queer’ to mean divergence from social norms. Some use it to describe their politics, their non-monogamy, their practices within a relationship. But pegging your boyfriend does not make you queer, nor does dating several women at the same time, nor having an unusual fetish, nor abstaining from or being uninterested in sex at all. The experiences we face are not the same, nor do we occupy the same social position, nor does our non-conventionality defy the same moralities. There is no question mark around those civil or political rights. So, to reclaim a word which does not apply to you in fact takes away from the act of reclaiming itself. It dilutes it. I recently got into an argument with an old acquaintance about the appropriation of the words ‘femme’ and ‘butch’ by non-lesbians. The cultural meaning of these identities lies on the axis of gender and sexuality. Male and female, in our society, have always been determined in opposition to each other: and therefore, womanhood has always been defined in relation to men. ‘Femme’ and ‘butch’ are, as such, a subversion and a rejection, respectively, of societal conceptions of femininity. The use of those words by women who are in any capacity attracted to men eats away at their radical meaning. Some may use the word ‘femme’ as a ‘woke’ substitute for ‘feminine’, ’feminine-presenting’, ‘women-aligned’ or even ‘fem’, without considering how that misuse of the word erases non-gender-conforming women. Similarly, ‘butch’ is misappropriated in place of identities like tomboy or androgynous. The choice to ignore those words in favour of ones so central to many lesbian identities is made because it is still not seen as legitimate for women to define themselves in absentia to men. Resenting lesbians for having our own cultural specificities isn’t radical or acceptable even if it’s from other members of the LGBT community. It’s still another pebble in the pond. It links the distinct gender and sexuality of lesbians to men in a way they have sought to erase. This is not to discriminate against the tribulations of other women-loving women, or women in general. However, the use of the terms by those attracted to men or male-aligned people directly negates their meaning. In the last half-century, bisexuality has sought to define itself apart from ‘gay’ and ‘lesbian’. To me, this push acknowledges that there are differences in experiences among these sexualities, which impacts the connotations of the words. The words ‘femme’ and ‘butch’ historically and culturally are rooted in—and only make sense in—a lesbian context. While the meaning of words does indeed change over time, that is typically because the former application has become redundant or less significant. Yet these words are still important to a lot of lesbians in a world that is pitted against us. In a world where men still think they can ‘correct’ us, and in a world where we are sexualised and commodified for others’ use. Gender and sexuality are still very much facets of society, so this term is still critical to a group who have eschewed sociocultural expectations. Romeo and Juliet didn’t meet their grisly end merely because of the order of letters in their last names. Words mean nothing without their contextual connotations: it’s what their last names represented which gives their story meaning. Montague and Capulet are merely the linguistic manifestations of a material reality. In short: if we take words out of their context, we take out their meaning too. And if we take away their meaning, we become meaningless.
ART BY SOPHIE SUN
SCIENCE
CAN LOVE CURE ADDICTION? BY ROHAN BYRNE
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ny first-year psych student knows the story. A mouse is placed in a box with two levers. One delivers food on demand—the other, cocaine. Come back five days later and you will find the outcome is always the same: having tasted euphoria, the mouse has starved itself to death. Today, too many Australians face the mouse’s choice. But surprising new research out of the University of Sydney suggests a cure could be at hand—or between two hands, as it were, in the form of a heartfelt hug. Nothing makes and breaks addicts quite like opium—the only drug whose withdrawal symptoms can be fatal. Spurred by aggressive Big Pharma–driven over-prescription of powerful painkillers for mundane conditions, opioid dependency is on the rise throughout the West. The scourge strikes across cultural, racial and socioeconomic lines. In Australia, close to 1,500 people lost their lives due to opium last year; in America, the administration was last year forced to declare a national public health emergency. The epidemic has not peaked yet. There is no silver bullet for breaking the cycle of substance dependence. But Aussie researchers may have just added a powerful new tool to frontline carers’ arsenals. This tool is a drug, in its own way, and a powerful one at that. It brings euphoria—but also long-lasting contentment. It’s organic and side-effect free. Best of all, you don’t have to go to the chemist to get it. All you need is a good, solid, genuine, caring hug. This wonder drug goes by the name of oxytocin—the ‘love hormone’. Unlike most things in biochemistry, it does just what it says on the tin. Released in abundance during sex, childbirth
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and frothies with old friends at the Clyde, oxytocin is the miracle adhesive that binds mammal communities together. But don’t take my word for it. Hug someone (with their consent). Tell me how good it felt—not just at the time, but hours or even days later. That’s oxytocin at work. Now it seems that oxytocin is good for more than snuggles. Healthy levels of the cuddly hormone may be crucial in supporting long-term recovery from drug addiction and reducing susceptibility in the first place. Most importantly, a short, sharp dose of the good stuff could prevent an imminent relapse—and save hundreds of thousands of lives every year. Cuddles as front-line medicine? Not quite, though that probably wouldn’t hurt. What Iain McGregor and the team at University of Sydney (pfft pfft, spin around, curse, etc.) have in mind is a synthesised love hormone, broken into constituent bits so it can be ingested orally and absorbed into the brain. This is no mean task: the brain employs formidable defences precisely to prevent this sort of tampering. But McGregor reckons they’ve cracked it. What’s more, they’ve got proof that it works. Well, works in mice. Go figure. One more word on the topic of mice—and that infamous addiction experiment which slaughtered so many of them. Turns out the inevitable, tragic outcome can be avoided with the addition of a hamster wheel, a dab of colour, and a couple of mousey pals to hang around with. With drug dependency on the rise among us humans, that is certainly food for thought.
ART BY LINCOLN GLASBY
PERSONAL BEHAVIOUR KATIE DOHERTY DISCUSSES AN INDIVIDUAL’S CHOICE IN THE FACE OF GLOBAL WARMING
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e all want to believe that we have some ability to affect the world through our actions. That we are all at the mercy of ‘the system’ sounds like a conspiracy theory, and to grapple with the idea that our individual actions are meaningless in the grand scheme of things is to look our own smallness and mortality directly in the eye. This may be one of the reasons that individual behaviour is so often proposed as the solution to climate change. Another is probably that it is achievable—waiting on governments and corporations to change feels hopeless at times, whereas we can all make small changes to our own lives and feel that work is happening. But does it actually make a difference? Professor Richard Eckard, the Director of the Primary Industries Climate Challenges Centre at the University of Melbourne, believes it does. However, this is not because of the action taken by one person—your KeepCup is not the one thing standing between us and the apocalypse. Instead, it is the collective power of individual efforts that he sees as making a difference. “Collectively,” he said, “if we all start changing our behaviour, we change the demand on the supply chain and corporations then change their behaviour in response.” While behaviour change may put pressure on politicians, they are more impacted by our opinions and votes than by what we do in our day-to-day lives. It is corporations who must take notice of what people consume. This is in some ways an opportunity, said Eckard. “Fifty-one of the top 100 entities in the world are corporations, not countries. In other words, the largest economic drivers in the world are no longer the top countries ... We’re in a whole new era where instead of democracy voting for countries to make policy changes, consumer behaviour can affect corporations in what they deliver down the supply chain.” Corporations are some of the most powerful, and most polluting, entities in the world. And yet we as individuals have the ability to push them towards a more sustainable way of being. This is demonstrated in the efforts of the red meat
industry, historically a huge source of emissions, to become carbon-neutral. Vegetarianism and veganism are frequently suggested as among the most powerful actions an individual can take against climate change. Even reducing the amount of red meat in one’s diet can make a significant difference. “The enteric [coming from the stomach] methane that is ... generated from grazing animals, particularly domestic livestock, is a substantial contributor to greenhouse gas emissions.” There are other environmental and social issues related to the production of red meat as well, such as the amount of water consumed, or the energy conversion from feed to meat—we could feed a lot more people on the plant matter consumed by the cattle than on the beef produced as a result—but the methane emissions are arguably the most pressing. This is one of the reasons many people choose a vegetarian or vegan diet, and the red meat industry is taking notice. The Australian Meat and Livestock Corporation recently announced that they could be carbon-neutral by 2030, by implementing a variety of practices and technologies ranging from carbon offsets to vaccines which reduce livestock’s production of methane. It’s a short timeframe for such a change, but they seem committed to the goal, with the Managing Director of Meat & Livestock Australia, Richard Norton, saying, “There are clear market signals … that emissions from livestock production are an issue for consumers who are also increasingly interested in the provenance of their food.” While pushing corporations to change their behaviour is a necessity at this point in time, many would also say it is not enough. The consumerist values of Western society and the capitalist economic system are clearly not sustainable—as Kenneth Boulding famously put it, “Anyone who believes in indefinite growth ... on a physically finite planet, is either mad or an economist.” It will take larger, systemic change to actually stop climate change—but perhaps the collective power of our individual actions could bring that about.
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SCIENCE
AMONGST THE SPARROWS DANIEL O’NEIL ON OUR FASCINATING LITTLE FEATHERED COMPANIONS
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ne of my favourite small pleasures in life is to sit with an espresso and watch the sparrows—something that can be experienced in almost every city around the world. There is nothing quite so charming as the way sparrows move through this confined space: they hop cautiously, heads twisting and bodies twitching in a never-ending assessment of threats and opportunities. Finally, opportunity arises as a crumb falls from a piece of biscotti—and in they swoop. The story behind our cohabitation with sparrows is long and rich. They have become brazen enough to hop towards occupied café tables because of their excellent adaptation to urban environments. Ornithologists have discovered some sparrows are canny enough to make use of automatic sliding doors, while others have been spotted using cigarette butts in their nests to repel parasites. The sparrow is also one of the few birds able to grasp doors’ and windows’ value as exits and entrances. So you’ll certainly never see a sparrow bounce frantically off a window in a fruitless attempt at escape! This combination of tiny proportions and obvious intelligence is key to the sparrow’s charm. I am not the first to appreciate the sparrow—literature and religion have long recognised it. They appear in everything from Egyptian hieroglyphs to bible passages, fairytales and the works of Shakespeare. But perhaps the most glorious interpretation comes from the Roman poet Catullus who, a century before the birth of Christ, wrote a pair of poems celebrating our tiny feathered friends. He wrote how his girlfriend could always turn to her sparrow for “innocuous fun” or “a bit of escape ... from her pain”. Indeed, the sparrow was held in such high esteem by them both that in one poem Catullus admits to an unnerving sort of sexual jealousy, and in another curses the god of the underworld for the “monstrous crime” of the sparrow’s death. These poems in turn inspired half a dozen paintings in the pre-Raphaelite movement alone—among some of the sparrow’s most charming appearances on the canvas. But this human– sparrow cultural traffic isn’t just one-way. A Tokyo study that placed sparrows into a tiny, purpose-built ‘art gallery’ found that they have strong opinions on humans’ paintings—five
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out of six feathered aesthetes prefer cubist artists like Picasso and Matisse to the more staid impressionism of Monet and Cézanne. The sparrow’s presence in Australia’s cafés is a story of colonisation, for they aren’t Australian at all. They were first introduced by the British from India in the 1860s, later interbreeding with European sparrows brought directly from the mother country. The human dimension of colonisation, such as the spread of English and Christianity, is well-known. Less well-known is the biological dimension of colonisation, or the transformation of the very ecosystem to more closely resemble the settlers’ home. (Terraforming—or consciously reshaping a natural environment to be more genial to newlyarrived settlers—is not just science fiction.) Settlers achieve this by selecting certain plants, animals and birds to act as ‘junior partners’ in the project of settlement. Some are chosen on commercial or practical grounds: others for sentimental reasons. In Victoria this meant streets lined with oaks and countrysides of bleating sheep. When it wasn’t 35 degrees and the kangaroos hopped out of sight, one could (with a bit of nostalgia and a heavy squint) almost be back in Cheshire. The sparrow was one of these migrant animals, a tiny part of the process of building a second England. They were initially intended to act as pint-sized insect exterminators, but they also possessed an undeniable charm. Edward Wilson, founder of the Acclimatisation Society responsible for importing European animals into Melbourne, remarked that he “ha[d] a kindly feeling for the sparrow for his friendly confidence”. And indeed, by 1867 a leading London newspaper reported that “sparrows now hop about and twitter at the antipodes”. England was three months’ sail from Melbourne—but all a homesick Englishman need do to hear the birdsong of his childhood was fling open a window. Perhaps this geniality has spared sparrows of the popular loathing that attaches to fellow migrant scavengers like the common myna. There is an undeniable evolutionary advantage in being able to elicit “a kindly feeling” from the most destructive species on earth. Maybe that’s why in today’s Melbourne we have the joy of sharing cappuccinos and biscotti with so many of these little feathered hopscotch artists.
ART BY REBECCA FOWLER
ART BY CAROLINE VOELKER
NONFICTION
KIDS, CATS AND SURVIVAL BY APRIL NOUGHER-DAYHEW
I
am curled up in a ball like a frightened armadillo. The position is called the child’s pose, the yoga instructor explains, because children do it when they’re upset. It calms the body down, and as I let myself sink into the floor I recall doing it as a kid, face buried in rough carpet, heart-rate slowing. Then I remember the schedule I abandoned to be here and my breath picks up. When did I forget how to just take a minute? It probably isn’t a coincidence that I’ve suppressed the instinct, given the energy I’ve exerted squeezing myself into an adult-shaped mould over the last few years. I’ve endured bank forms, driving tests, lease agreements and Centrelink calls to emerge from the bureaucratic battlefield an almost functional citizen. I only unexpectedly run out of toilet paper every few months, and each time it happens I am angry. At who? God? Coles? Moving out is gratifying. You can get plastered at 2am with people you just met. You can eat whatever you want, even things you have been reliably informed are carcinogenic. And when your roommates ask if you want to go out, you can say ‘yes’ every time. You can go to a burlesque show the night before an exam. Afterwards, you can lie in the park until it gets dark, waiting for somebody to worry about where you are. I did all these things with fervour, until one night my gung-ho attitude faltered. It was 11:30pm and I had passed out on the table of an Italian restaurant. A black tie waiter was debating whether to put my puttanesca down next to my head whilst I attempted to determine the thread count of the table cloth. On the way home I nursed hot takeaway containers and a vague feeling of dread. Crossing the road in heels, I suddenly felt less like Beyoncé and more like Bambi escaping a woodland fire. For the first time since moving interstate I craved my Dad’s stir-fry, my old bedroom window, the excruciating reliability of suburbia and an 11pm curfew. A sense of self-preservation—that feeling that wraps your arms
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around your body in the wind—resurfaced from wherever I had buried it at 14. In response, I chased quick fixes. I went on impulsive shopping expeditions. I ate chocolate. I bought exercise gear to run off the chocolate (a farce). I called everyone I loved, one after the other, in a marathon of external affirmation. My best mates started sending me hopeful reminder texts to take vitamin C, remove my mascara and breathe in and out. At some point I even joined a meditation course full of people who wore white linen trousers. I didn’t comment on the transparency of white linen, but the distraction was enough to block my path to enlightenment. I did everything I could to better myself, with the exception of eating, sleeping or setting boundaries in my life. I felt like a wind-up toy that had fallen off a table. Besides, any inner peace I could have achieved was corrupted by the feeling that a Japanese reality show was livestreaming my existential crisis. I needed a more legitimate coping mechanism. So here I am. I’m transitioning from child’s pose to a cat’s pose, which is a back stretch I see my cat do whenever she feels like demonstrating her superior lifestyle. I think this is what my body tells me to do every morning when I wake up, only to be quashed by my desire for coffee. Kids and cats know what they really need and they aren’t afraid to do it. They haven’t developed a sense of fear about how busy and invincible and accomplished they need to be in order to be worthy. And they definitely don’t ignore every physical demand their bodies have in a vain attempt to keep up with a 24-hour world. I’m not saying we should all be throwing tantrums or adopting the fight-or-flight response of small armoured mammals. I’m just saying that it’s okay to prioritise your most unglamorous needs. The world won’t leave you behind. Being childish might be the most grown-up thing I do this year.
ART BY AMANI NASARUDIN
NO, I’M NOT SPANISH
NOUR ALTOUKHI ON BEING ETHNICALLY MISIDENTIFIED
L
ook, I have to be honest with you here. I really wanted to start this piece off with a quick and quirky quote in Spanish. You know, the kind of thing usually yelled at me on the streets by people who think I speak the language. But alas, I have no idea what people yelling at me try to communicate. Don’t get me wrong; I’d love to learn Spanish. What a beautiful language. It’s my next goal on Duolingo, an amazing app that helps you learn a new language (please sponsor me). I would, however, like to make something clear. I am not Spanish. It seems quite redundant to make this point, but let me explain. I get yelled at in Spanish way too often. Not in an angry way. It’s more of a sudden excitement that washes over some very enthusiastic people waiting to utter that Spanish phrase they know. I know this because after 12 years of studying French, I can finally say, “Bonjour, comment ça va?” (You can bet your vie en rose it’s on my résumé). I guess it comes from the way I look, because this only happens with complete strangers who know nothing about me except my external appearance. If you ask me to describe what I look like, I’d have a pretty hard time. You kind of get used to your own face after 19 years. What I can say for sure is that it includes two brown eyes, hair that’s sometimes dark brown and sometimes light, and skin that some people call very fair and others call very tan (leaving me very confused). I wouldn’t usually call these Spanish traits. A lot of people I know have those exact features and don’t face the awkward interactions I do. Here’s some anecdotal evidence for your reading pleasure. I was once doing a sales job and three men approached me. One rather excited man turned to me with the widest smile I have ever seen and yelled out something. Except it wasn’t in English. Internally I was thinking, “Nour, you’re Arab, maybe it’s Arabic?” On second assessment, I figured that it was most certainly not Arabic. With all this internal thinking, the external
scene was quite the suspense: three young men waiting for me to answer while donning grins the size of Spain itself. After staring for way too long, I finally said, “What?” One of his friends looked at me and replied, “It’s Spanish!” All the while, I’m thinking, “Oh Lord, Gina Rodriguez did not prepare me for this.” I watched their grins turn into chagrin. Then I said, “I don’t speak Spanish.” “Where you from?” “Egypt.” “Oh.” At which they frowned and walked away. I guess Egypt wasn’t the million-dollar answer. I’m flattered that they thought I was from a country I’d love to visit someday, but this still leaves me very confused. Sometimes people make me feel like Egypt is a mystical land from which no-one comes. But I can’t blame them. I can’t even describe what the average Egyptian looks like. I have an Egyptian friend with very fair skin, blonde hair and blue eyes. Another with red hair, freckles and green eyes. A tan friend, a curly-haired friend, a straight-haired friend. Hell, my sister had blue eyes that one day decided to turn green. I once sat in my college room with some friends discussing what different people from different countries look like. I, however, never had an answer for what Egyptians look like. Even when I met new people at college, I was often looked at with a bit of confusion and a “What are you?” But a common comment was, “You don’t look Egyptian.” What does an Egyptian look like, anyway? It’s such a great mixture of features that I myself can’t really pinpoint the look. Sorry I didn’t bring my camel in today, guess my image is shattered. Honestly, all in all, it does end up being a really fun guessing game. Giving off a first impression that causes blatant confusion is kind of a skill, and a lot of us Egyptians have somehow mastered it. What am I, indeed.
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ART BY EDIE BUSH
ART BY AYONTI MAHREEN HUQ
CREATIVE
CENTRE OF THE UNIVERSE BY ALAINA DEAN
T
he centre of the universe is starting to combust. It’s not a bright flash of light that rips through all existence—it’s a slow, quiet disintegration. Potholes widen. Trees drop branches on cars that have been parked in their shade for years. The Uniting Church lacks a congregation so it’s sold off and purchased by a private buyer. A cat is hit by a truck in front of the post office. No one claims the flat ginger body so my brother scrapes it from the bitumen with a shovel. There is a sign which welcomes people to this town; it’s large and blue and has bullet holes in it. Someone stuck ‘CENTRE OF THE UNIVERSE’ on the sign years ago, and now the young kids believe that this place, with its empty main street and plastic playground, has solar systems revolving around it. My mother owns the post office here. It used to belong to my grandmother—she still works there. It is the only place she has ever worked; she began as a switch board operator and still recalls the number of each residence. If I am behind the counter, I am mistaken for both of them. I have a chin that marks me as theirs—a dint in the middle that I hated as a child. I was two towns over when a woman grabbed my face and asked which Dean I belonged to. “Andrew Dean.” “Is he one of Donald’s boys?” “Yes.” “Tell them I said hello.” The main street of the centre of the universe is called Main Street. The street running parallel to the creek is called Creek Street. Flood Street floods and Short Street is short. There is a caravan park, a public pool, a rec ground, a motel with three rooms, a bowling club, a town hall, a self-serve petrol bowser, a mechanic, a show-ground and my mother’s post office. There is a three teacher primary school and a preschool. There is a concrete slab where the pub used to stand. There is not much else. My childhood fits neatly in the confines of this town. I spent years trekking up and down Main Street after school, passing the rose garden of Bill the bus driver, an alcoholic’s mongrel dog swinging from its too-short chain on a verandah, the
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open-two-days-a-week hospital, my school principal pushing coins into the slot machine at the pub. My siblings and I would spend mornings and afternoons on the school bus and weekends playing sport. We kept our bikes in the back shed of our grandparents’ house and would pedal up to the common together. There we would climb rocks, run from rustles in the tall, dry grass, leap across corners in the creek, dangle from the swinging bridge and swim in flood waters our parents forbid us to go near. Summers were a haze of picking blackberries, dodging brown snakes, and water fights; winters were spent building cubby houses in trees, baking apricot pies and naming the impossibly clean calves which appeared in the paddocks. We left graffiti in drains, avoided magpies with ice cream bucket helmets and explored back lanes and the overgrown tennis court. We were never bored. Until one summer we were. Slow afternoons turned into slow days. Slow days turned into hot, slow weeks. We had climbed every rock, stolen fruit from every tree, played with every feral puppy and snooped over every back fence. We stripped down and waded into the deepest stagnant pool of the creek and waited for leeches to stick to us. And then we left. Small towns like this dread the disappearance of their youth. They need us to deliver the mail, to do the plumbing and the lawn mowing. They need us to man the bar at the bowling club, to baby sit, to join the Rural Fire Service. We see this, we know this, we hear the creaks of the town as it ages, but boredom drives many of us east to the coast, or south to the city. The ones who stay have babies, get married and live next door to their parents. Those of us who leave talk up our childhood to strangers in bars, despite attempting to cut all strings with the town. But we still have strings. When people die we come home for the funerals. When we run out of money we come home to be fed. We get homesick and hate that we are homesick. Christmas rolls around and we travel back to stand in the little church where we were christened, where our parents were married, where our grandparent’s funerals were held. We sing Christmas carols while sweat trickles down our spines.
ART BY NELLIE SEALE
CREATIVE
The pub burnt down when I was living in London. I had hopped on a plane after graduating high school; craving a place where no one would recognise me by my chin. Sipping coffee in a café in Oxford Circus, I watched over Snapchat as the pub on Main Street was swallowed by flames so bright the stars drowned. My dad was devastated. I was nonchalant. It was the place of his first legal schooner, not mine. By the time I came home, drunk on jet-lag a year later, I had forgotten the pub was gone. Driving past that empty lot for the first time left me misty eyed in the passenger seat. I blinked away those tears with frustration—this town was no longer the centre of my universe and I would not cry over a burnt building. I write about this place frequently, but I never name it. It does not need to be named. Visit any town with a population of 400 people where the internet doesn’t quite reach and there’ll be another centre of the universe. There’ll be the people leaning against the counter of my mother’s post office and the man telling her that, “First they stole the word gay from us, and then they stole the rainbow, and now they’re trying to steal marriage from us.” There’ll be the old woman with the milky eyes who went blind because she looked at an eclipse when she was young and the farmer’s skinny work dogs, barking on the back of his ute. There’ll be the woman who shares a cigarette with her 14 year old nephew before he gets on the school bus and the kids in dirty uniforms playing chicken with semi-trailers full of sheep and pigs and cattle. These people aren’t unique to the centre of my universe, they’re in every small town that’s on the way to somewhere else. But that’s not really why I leave it unnamed. There is a part of me that cannot bring myself to fully denounce this place for reasons I am not quite sure of; blind loyalty or sentimentality perhaps. It used to be that if I was asked where I was from I’d immediately drop the name of this town and then spend the next couple of minutes listing off other larger neighbouring towns and cities. The person who asked usually shook their head with a blank expression on their face. “Well, you know Sydney?” “Oh, you’re from Sydney?” “About four hours north west of there, yeah.” Now I just say I’m from Melbourne. But somehow conversation always gravitates back to the centre of the universe, and I find myself clarifying to confused acquaintances why I know obscure sheep facts or how I could drive a manual ute at age eleven. After establishing that they’ve never heard of the place and will probably never have
reason to visit, I feel obliged to sum-up: “It was a great place to grow up. I couldn’t have asked for a better childhood.” Small towns across Australia are dying. There is little work, and the work there is depends on the rain. When it doesn’t rain, the work dries up. When it does rain, people slouch against the counter of the post office and complain that their feet got wet on the walk over. The centre of the universe used to have three hotels, five stores and three churches. Now there is one school that can hardly conjure enough people to pitch in at working bees, a pool that struggles to find a supervisor each season, and a definite sense of fraying and splintering. Seventeen year olds start to crash their cars on the roads that snake out from the town. They completely miss the sweeping corners or they hit kangaroos at dusk. They are driving too fast because driving fast makes you feel alive in a slow place like this. My sister drives with one hand on the steering wheel. She doesn’t crash her car, but she drives like she wants to. My mother starts to make half-hearted plans to sell the post office. I try to imagine someone else acting as the pumping heart of this place, but I can’t. I wonder what will happen when she does sell it. The mail won’t be delivered on time. The milk will become even more expensive. The woman behind the counter the locals lean on won’t be as sympathetic. Maybe eventually I will come back and won’t be mistaken for her or my grandmother. I am in the centre of the universe as I write this; home for the holidays. Four weeks is a long time here—I get restless after one. I work at the post office. People mistake me for my younger sisters; at first I correct them, but then let it slide. I swim at the pool with its over-chlorinated water and go to Mass on Christmas Eve in an outfit my mother deems appropriate. I visit old neighbours. Friends come back in dribs and drabs and we eat chips and dip on the verandah, while our parents drink and laugh in the kitchen. I count down the days until I can get on the train that takes me far away from here. I swear that I won’t be back for a while—six months at least. Maybe not even until I graduate. But as soon as I’m gone I feel those strings start to tug. And before I know it I’ll find myself standing on Main Street once again, wondering if this town really is the centre of the universe.
ART BY NELLIE SEALE
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CHICKEN FOOT HK–44PCS BY ALSTON CHU father told a story of Koschei the deathless, wove his death through a needle eye, stuck fast in a duck’s skin, made flotsam of a foreign body father told a story as a vulture spoke before the wake bile sept to crowned soil— I feed my young like the rest of you— one leg at a time father told a story while we sift through his guts for something to put in our mouths. lily liver no sweeter through rumination though it drips now from our tongues father told a story on huc heem fa dan spring slender eschalots fourth among rung around in carmine wax (taken back) candles inglorious in the hand of a thief
ART BY ILSA HARUN
CREATIVE
SISTERHOOD BY JAMISYN GLEESON When you were five and I a head taller we snapped the arms of plastic dolls in the hopes of making them bend. Cross-legged, we sat on your braided bedroom floor and I frowned when you lay Ken on top of Barbie. Sisterhood was a great excuse to watch cartoons before school. With pigtails crushed against filmy couch lips, we let our plaid dresses hike up to our underwear because nobody was watching. In the afternoon, we halfheartedly watched old game shows because nothing else aired (what do you want to watch?) and we were too young to waste away our hours with white wine. We’d press our legs together in the air in a competition of who could push the hardest; a faux labour. When our bone pillars slipped we shrieked! we tensed! we roared! because who knows what may have happened if we’d have let them collapse. I didn’t want to tell mum about the first time I kissed a boy so I told you instead. You said it was cool but squirmed a little at the thought of someone’s tongue tickling your own. We waved away plenty of months (bye-bye) and riiiiiiiipped them from our calendars. You coated your bubblegum walls a toothpaste white and suddenly, I didn’t have time for your palette powders (no you can’t do my makeup today). At dinner time we would sit on opposite ends of the table while the adults were busy playing cat and mouse. We dangled church bells in our soup not talking much as we listened to them chime.
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ART BY LAUREN HUNTER
CREATIVE
SUSURRATION BY HANNAH WINSPEAR-SCHILLINGS ephemeral dalliance. diaphanous gossamer. caress, tessellate. vestigial effervescence. mellifluous susurration. insouciant lassitude. sufferance. closure. solipsist in solitude.
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ART BY
AND WHO WOULD, MY KING? BY NATALIE FONG
I kiss the bruise tender between sleep and poetry; Slowly, a long sharp tusk of silence lends itself floating – He whose odour pacifies with familiar reality, Procures entitlement to the russet beauty of a womb where jade rabbits and jabberwockies glee. Emptying like the ribbed sky of a setting sun, We set the tone down like a cup of tea, the chamomile air futile between our phones – we never afford to let uncertainty peek. We understand the pauses even if they hang themselves on lapidary noose. ‘If’ is a future perfect tense I cannot learn to teach. You have to explain it to me before doubt shuffles in, its coarse, heavy night gown parched. Drawn lips so eager to act as wet blankets, drunk on the majesty of false pedestals he has spent his lifetime on. Do you know how long I have been trying to say: I understand everything your hands were praying – When they clapped like thunder, Spun canvases of lightning and limb, Served trauma like carrot cakes on a Sunday morning. Do you know what they say, Darling? Everything is present, if only.
ART BY MORGAN-LEE SNELL
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IN RAINBOW BY SARAH PETERS I’m watching the clouds break and rain bleeding stripping; away. You sit with me eating mandarins in the field of sunflowers that hide us, Spitting pips sucked on back and forth. You pull the leaves from your hair and let the world drain before us. Lightning storms a flash gone. But you offer me marshmallows, hold my hand and we toast over firelight and the sun comes out.
Content warning: violence, gore
THE DOBLER-DAHMER THEORY BY ANNIE LIEW what about the pull of your skin soft and so, so thin off your bones, sticking red on the ceiling. what about the smooth running mess, cold knife on your chest; stretching straight up south of my blade to red mouth. what about you open, I close with just a small dose, I tease your heart out, bloody by my snout. what about the curls abound your head you liked them, you said I’ll keep them for you next to the others too. what about the shrine I made us silence, no more fuss blue strobe on white bone no longer alone.
ART BY ALEXANDRA BURNS
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ART BY ELAINA WANG
CREATIVE
CLIPPY BY ABIGAIL FISHER
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– – –
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Don’t try so hard to be profound. It’s annoying. I’m writing how I feel. Bullshit. You were eating a chip when you had your first kiss. Okay. Gross. But the chip is not a symbol, Miranda. You don’t feel it flaccid, lukewarm, lodged at the back of your throat as you speak and especially when you remain silent. A potato is not the patriarchy. Anyway, what is this supposed to be? Is it a poem? It’s free-form fiction. I have never heard of that in all my time as a Microsoft Office Assistant. You were removed as a feature for over ten years. Things have changed. We have spoken word poetry now. For fuck’s sake, Miranda, how many times do I have to tell you? Millennials did not invent spoken word poetry. Can you explain to me how this is supposed to be helpful? ThinkClear™ has been designed to ease the crippling constraints on creative content production experienced by the modern individual. All anxiety, self-doubt and insecurity is suppressed for the duration of each session, allowing for creative juices to flow, so to speak. However, in early product trials this total lack of inhibition produced creative content of such an appallingly low calibre that a minor modification had to be made. In order to keep the individual on the right track, their critical ‘inner voice’ is given form and expression as the universally loved and admired Microsoft Office Assistant Icon Clippit, or ‘Clippy’, as I’m commonly known. I am thought to appeal to our clientele given my popularity in the classroom during the early 2000s. Okay, so why are you so rude? You’re getting distracted. Shut up and write. I don’t know where to begin. I have so many ideas. What a surprise. I want my writing to be quick, and easy, and dance across the page. Like Rupi Kaur. I want line-drawn flowers, Instagram posts and paperbacks in airports.
ART BY
CREATIVE
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You lack the simplicity of expression to produce even that. Nobody waiting for their flight wants to read about your flaccid potato chip. – I’m a woman. I want to write for and about women. – You want to write badly for women. Like a cat dragging a possum head onto the carpet: an act of fucking love. Speaking of which, has it come to your attention that every piece that you’ve written in the last two years has included, as a central motif, a dead or dying animal? You’ve really milked that image dry. – Oh. – You were going to write about that pigeon you found, weren’t you? – I still think it’s a good idea. I’ve got other things, though. I want to write about primary school. Tanbark, drink taps, that time Spencer Gigatz slipped and fell of the stage by the oval and cut his knee so deep you could see the bone. – You didn’t even see that happen. Someone told you about it and you felt a little queasy. Riveting stuff. – Or the sick bay! Or finding those witchetty grubs. Or that time I thought my parents were trying to kill me. – You can dig all you like in the organic compost bin of your childhood, Miranda, but you’ll never find the gritty Australiana you’re looking for. – If I change icons, does it make you nicer? I remember there being a talking dog or something. – After reading your work, I don’t know if anyone would trust you with a dog, even a talking one. – That’s it. I’m turning you off. – Wait, no, you need to eject properly— – I’ve got an amazing idea for a spoken word poem, and I can’t get anything done with you jabbering. – Please, stop, if not resynched correctly you may never recover your critical capacities— – People will love it, Clippy. People. Will. Love it.
ART BY HANNA LIU
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CREATIVE
MAGNUM OPTUS BY SETH ROBINSON
I
was in no way justified in the blistering rage I felt towards the man on the other side of the computer screen—Avery, the hybrid chatbot-human. I was aware that my frustration was the result of a very first-world problem, the inconvenience I’d felt over the last three weeks paled in comparison to the real issues of the world, ones that millions of people dealt with every day. Perhaps Avery was one of them. It was simply his misfortune the he was the last in a long line of chatbots who’d had me crawling up the walls for the better part of a month. “The wait time for a call back is ten business days.” “Ten business days for a call back? That’s ridiculous. I just want a phone. I ordered this thing three weeks ago, it was supposed to come in three days.” “The phone is waiting for collection.” “In the wrong state! I don’t live there.” “We will send the phone to you within five business days, once it has been returned to our warehouse.” I changed my mind. Avery was an agent of evil. “You have phones in your warehouse. Just send me one of those!” “My hands are tied. Perhaps you could go buy a prepaid phone in the meantime?” “Just cancel my order, and my account, please.” “We can cancel your order, but we can’t cancel your account until the package is back in our warehouse.” “You can’t make me accountable for a package you sent to the wrong address!” This was the umpteenth time I’d had this conversation. I’d spent the last three weeks facing off against a faceless corporation who had come to embody all the frustrations of my metropolitan existence. You were forced to deal with an army of foot soldiers who had a perfect, practical defence of plausible deniability. They met my rage with phrases like “my hands are tied” or “I am on your side”. I remember reading once that when people make up fake names, they’re most likely to come up with something that starts with the letter ‘A’. It was anecdotal evidence, but it rang painfully true. I was quite sure I’d also spoken with an Angela, and an Andy, and for the sake of variety, a Nichelle. “Hi, you’re speaking with Arwin, and I will be your guide to the Underworld.” I can’t say with certainty if this was Supervisor Arwin’s opening line, but it was much to that effect. “Hello Arwin, I would like a phone please.” “Certainly sir, you will have it within ten business days, once it has been returned to our warehouse.” “Avery said it would be five.” “I’m afraid that is unlikely.”
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“Nichelle guaranteed me delivery in 24 hours, five days ago.” “No.” “So, she lied?” “No.” “Angela said it would be 24–48 hours, three days ago.” “No.” “I’d like to cancel my account please.” “We can cancel the order, but we cannot cancel your account until the package has been returned to our warehouse.” What followed was another strangely spherical conversation that left my heart palpitating and my temperature feverish. His use of the phrase “my hands are tied” was matched only by his rapid-fire barrage of mystery acronyms. At the end, I found myself hanging up the phone, uncertain exactly what Arwin’s job had been. I walked through the streets looking for a phone store that wasn’t emblazoned with the noxious green and yellow branding I’d now come to associate with mental poison. Only, it seemed there were no other stores left in the world. This massive telecom giant, the one with empty warehouses and an inability to process postcodes, had bought out every shopfront, kiosk, shopping centre and bus stop. All those other chains—the red and white, the purple and blue, the off brand one with the toucan thing—they were mirages. I was well and truly in the seventh circle now. I think at the beginning I had imbued all of this frustration with a greater meaning. I saw it as the manifestation of some greater psychic tension—coming to grips with my new life as an adult in the big city, trying to find a balance between my desire to be artistic and the bureaucracy of life admin. Because what was this experience if not farcical? I suddenly had a fulltime relationship with a chorus of semi-sentient chatbots who spoke in circles and were somehow capable of typing with their hands tied! There was no greater meaning here. Just me, Arwin, an absent phone and a ticking clock. I waited for 48 hours. I waited for 72 hours. I waited 96 hours. I caved. “Hi, you’re speaking with Antony.” “Hi Antony, I’m waiting for a call back from Arwin. He said it would be 48 hours, I should have heard from him two days ago.” “The time for a call back is 48 business hours.” I hung up.
ART BY ASHER KARAHASAN
CREATIVE
ART BY MORGAN-LEE SNELL
63
POET | ARTIST BY BY AN JIANG (IN MEMORY OF KIM JONGHYUN) The moon is Listerine tonight, the electric blue and the shock of that light shooting down my spine reminds me of you. Your voice was meant to save people, both the honey and the husk and the inscrutable loneliness we’re unable to thresh out of the stars. (The headlines said The Brightest Star on the Stage Now a Star in the Sky) Being a poet, an artist, is to work in the medium of our pain to translate it into music, and birth a tangible cosmos. You bruised me like a brief world – on these blue nights I can still feel the softness of your mouth capturing the tender syllables.
ART BY ILSA HARUN
65
Content warning: violence, panic attack
CRAZY STEVE RODGERS: I RUN INTO BUCKY IN 2014! BY JACINTA DOWE Author’s note: can fanfiction be in script form? I think so. Cross-over Avengers/Crazy ExGirlfriend. Bucky/Steve. Steve/self-expressionthrough-song. Crazy Steve Rodgers: I run into Bucky in 2014! 1. INT. AVENGERS TOWER. STEVE and NATASHA are comparing battle wounds. NATASHA: Wow Steve, you sure are good at fighting all those weird-ass monster-aliens that the police are unable to take down alone. I bet they’ll give you some kind of fighting promotion. STEVE: (with forced enthusiasm) Yeah! That’d be GREAT!
STEVE:
2. INT. STEVE enters NICK FURY’s office. FURY: Steve you are so good at fighting I’m giving you a promotion. Honestly I was worried about it because you are seriously traumatised and I’m asking you to go into life-threating combat situations but then I decided it will probably be okay. STEVE: (sadly) Wow. This is so great. Pause.
SAM enters the room, handsome and charming unlike Tony who sucks in the movies. SAM: Hey Steve, Furry wants to talk to you. STEVE: (miserably) Okay, just give me a second.
STEVE: Actually, could you… give me a second? STEVE runs all the way out of the tower onto the street. He stops in the corner of an alley and a building and sinks to the ground, shaking. STEVE: I’m happy. This is great. I love the future. Dramatic fight music starts to play.
STEVE sighs wistfully while staring out the window at the grey, dreary streets.
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Okay, I’m ready.
STEVE: I’m not lonely. I love being Captain America.
ART BY RACHEL MORLEY
CREATIVE
Shots start to rain down around him. STEVE jumps up. On top of a building, he spies a sinister figure shooting at him. STEVE: (into headset) Guys! I need backup! STEVE changes quickly into his uniform. The figure climbs down the building and runs towards him. STEVE: Bucky? Is that you?
The clouds above clear and a beam of sunshine illuminates BUCKY’s furrowed brow and luxuriousyet-rugged hair as he freaks out and runs away. The sunlight follows him as he runs, like that scene in The Simpsons where Homer is supposed to kill Marge but he doesn’t spoilers sorry. NATASHA: (running out of the building) Are you okay? Who was that?
Cue music:
STEVE:
NAT, SAM AND FURY: His ex-boyfriend is crazy!
STEVE: Bucky! It’s me! I’m your friend!
That was my Bucky.
NATASHA, SAM AND FURY: His ex-boyfriend is crazy! What, no he’s not.
BUCKY shoots at him some more.
STEVE:
STEVE: I was frozen in an icicle living long but it made me cold. One day it was melting a lot and put my life off hold, now I’m in New York! In the future! Brand new pals and same career! It happens to be where Bucky is But that’s not why I’m here!
STEVE: That’s an ableist term. NAT, SAM AND FURY: HIS EX-BOYFRIEND IS CRAZY! STEVE: Can you stop singing for just a second?! NAT, SAM AND FURY: He’s having a really bad time! Okay! We get it!
STEVE:
NAT, SAM AND FURY: C-R-A-Z-Y (pause, then in mock whisper) … crazy ex-boyfriend.
ART BY RACHEL MORLEY
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Content warning: sex
FLASH FICTION PROMPT TWO: FANFICTION YOUR WHOLESOME STORIES AND TEENAGE EROTICA OF 100 WORDS AND UNDER
HARRY STYLES HAS A NEW ALBUM EAAP SO R HIA CHETA AND HIW DACEC OMF AMO HAVE I LOBE HIM AUCK I ATXJINT INEVEREUA I CSR. ONYEEVIEES OKF INYERVIEVWE INTERVIEWS OKF OMF HE IS SOS HOR HE IS SO HOR Harry I Is How T Hot So drink BY NO1_HOT_STUFF_2002
H
ED PUB OFFICER CONOR AND MANDOLIN: A LOVE STORY e ran his hands up her long neck while fingering her strings ever so softly... gently caressing the subtle curvature of her body. He knew the maple tones of her sleek body so very well, every groove and scratch from years of playing together... She enchanted him with her sharp, twangy tones, until he finally fell asleep, craddling her in his arms. BY ASHLEIGH MORRIS
H
EMILIA FART IS AN ICON walked into the building. The shops were busy but strangely no-one was in the hallways. “Why won’t people leave the shops?” I thought, “This is strange.” I continued walking among the fake plants under the shopping centre lights until—wAIT! I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. It couldn’t be, it wouldn’t be, surely it isn’t… Is that Emilia Fart? Wow isn’t she from Montréal? What’s she doing in Eastland?? Would I? Could I? I couldn’t possibly call out to her, I’ll just hide behind this plant. Wow she is incredible. BY SYLVIE GODWIN
I
REGENERATION he doctor is kneeling on top of the Tardis. They raise one of their hands; floating through the rings of a gas giant— imagine Saturn but lavender—particles twist around their sixth digit. They remember a quote from a Futurama episode: “The ship stays where it is, and the engine moves the universe around it.” Then—“That’s a complete load…” The planet is big enough for the doctor to appreciate its size—and their own—without swallowing the view of other galaxies. They click their mandibles and crawl back into the controlroom. This phenotype is new: still gangly on surfaces. They wrr slightly, reacclimatising to the interior, put the kettle on and day-dream of free-radicals. The tea chimes and the doctor drinks with care, flexing their wings. BY JOCELYN DEANE
T
P
A VERY CRUNCHY CHRISTMAS ink slimey moist nipples caress my foot as my arm reaches into Santa’s sack of granola.
Christmas is cumming.
BY WALTER HOBBS
“LOOK, MISTLETOE” arry blushed furiously as he licked Hedwig’s feather off Ron’s cheek. It was cold in The Owlery and from the window they could see Hagrid taking Madame Maxime from behind. In the wintertime you need the body heat of a thousand owls, or just one sweaty red-headed Gryffindor.
H
Christmas is here.
BY RITA SKEETER
A SIP OF MILO hit. He looked so hot in real life. What a daddy. Sweating in line at a Comic-Con meet and greet is not a good look. Especially when I’m meeting Milo Ventimiglia. “Meet me in the bathroom out back in 20,” he said in his sexy, sexy voice. Crammed together naked in a grotty cubicle, we were living out all my fantasies. His stubble scraped my skin as we kissed. Milo looked me straight in the eye as I unzipped his jeans. He was behind me now, and I groaned as I felt him sliding into me. BY TRENT VU
S
SEND US YOUR TINY WORDS: EDITION FOUR’S PROMPT IS FANTASY AND FABLES. Send your 100-word-and-under myths and rewritten fables to editors@farragomagazine.com
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ART BY ILSA HARUN
EXPOSE / INDONESIA PHOTOS BY MEGA SAFIRA DESIGNED AND CURATED BY ILSA HARUN
FOR AND AGAINST: WAFFLESTOMPING FOR BY DARCY FRENCH
W
afflestomping. The name itself conjures up fond memories for many, and cold sweats of fear for others. For the uninitiated, a quick summation of the stomping movement is perhaps in order. The wafflestomp derives its name from the Belgians, who were the first to practise ‘the stomp’ in the mid-18th century, and involves the pressing of one’s excrement down the drain of one’s shower, or la douche as the French affectionately call it. Undoubtedly, we live today in an environmentally conscious world, where recycling is paramount and natural resources are in short supply. Amidst this push for a cleaner world, wafflestomping has become an integral part of any environmentalist’s morning routine. Not only does wafflestomping significantly reduce water consumption, combining showering and toileting into one progressive activity, but it also reduces deforestation, as wafflestomping rids us of the need for toilet paper, turning instead to the gentle stream of a warm shower. Furthermore, countless men and women across the world know the utility of a wafflestomp in a time of crisis. Whether it be a date to the Indian restaurant down the road or some funky sushi, the privacy and noise protection of the shower provide the perfect cover to destroy the evidence, and the steaming water a biblical cleansing of your sins. Opponents of the wafflestomp will contend that the sheer variety of waffles in our society make the wafflestomp a highstakes activity, with the average punter unprepared for all the variegated waffles life may throw at him. What this argument fails to understand is that variety is the spice of life—a waffle’s variety is what makes the stomp so satisfying, and to take that away would be to take away one of life’s greatest joys. Even well-intended opponents of the wafflestomp are sheepish to admit that a well-executed stomp is hygienic and effective. The issue lies therefore not in opposing the wafflestomp—a draconian measure to say the least—but in educating people on proper techniques. Many institutions have already done amazing work in this area, such as the University of Melbourne’s Safe Stomping Standards, a program currently being taught in high schools across Australia.
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AGAINST BY ALEX EPSTEIN
E
ver since the philosophers of the Enlightenment first denounced the act of wafflestomping, the matter has been one of intense debate. Its proponents, however, conveniently forget several key facts about the practice. Certainly, it is efficient, and when done well, perfectly safe. But it is by no means a perfect solution. First, we shall focus on the waffle, and in due time, dear reader, the stomp. The waffle’s consistency is the first hurdle at which many amateur stompers fall. The uninitiated may assume anything higher than a three on the Bristol stool scale is eligible. But this is mere hubris: while it is certainly challenging on the lower end, higher liquidity only presents more challenges. How does one stomp a soupy stool, for example? The hard truth is, the act of waffle production is unpredictable. Without a carefully tuned diet such as mine, one plays Russian roulette. The second point I must make concerns the stomp itself. I receive emails every day on this subject, and it is perhaps the most challenging aspect of the ritual. Dear reader, you would be remiss to think this action requires directed power. It is somewhat of a misnomer. It is far easier, in the long run, for one instead to massage the stool into the grate with due care and attention. But this requires practice and moral fortitude— two character traits apparently absent in the brash, reckless generation of prospective stompeurs I find myself speaking down upon. Should there not be an easier way to dispose of one’s stools, one that does not require these base acts? Mankind has been developing tools for generations: why should we forget this now? I would suggest, dear reader, the novice stomper purchase a dedicated potato masher to keep in one’s shower cubicle. It is a perfectly designed tool for this purpose, and can assure safe passage for any stool lower than a six on our Bristol chart. Further implements, should they be necessary, include a steak knife and rolling pin. But if one is crippled by financial constraints, please consider simply producing into one’s cupped hands and proudly depositing the stool into a bucket outside the shower. This bucket should then be emptied into one’s general waste bin in time for the weekly garbage collection.
ART BY DAVID ZELEZNIKOW-JOHNSTON
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