Volume Three: Unchartered Paths

Volume Three — Unchartered Paths

Mr BURNS A POST-ELECTRIC PLAY “DOWNRIGHT BRILLIANT” THE NEW YORK TIMES

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“INVENTIVE AND DARING” SEATTLE TIMES

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TIME OUT NEW YORK

“DARING, MARVELOUS, METAAPOCALYPTIC” THE VILLAGE VOICE

Writer Anne Washburn | Score by Michael Friedman | Lyrics by Anne Washburn | Director Imara Savage ‘Mr Burns, a post-electric play’ is presented by special arrangement with SAMUEL FRENCH, INC.

BOOK NOW BELVOIR.COM.AU

Photograph by Daniel Boud

19 MAY – 25 JUNE

The In-Transit Volume

Flight Mode The man beside you snores gently, his balding head teetering from side to side. Hovering just above your shoulder every time. A family of three hoist swollen bags and curses into overhead lockers. You watch with envy as the passengers in the emergency exit stretch out and settle into their new home. You missed it by one row.

Take-off is so close you can feel it rumbling beneath your feet — when your phone rings. Before you reach to answer it, the flight attendant snaps at you to switch it to flight mode. Your friend once told you the science behind this: phone signals mess with the plane’s sensors and navigation. Another friend said it makes that crackle crackle static noise on the pilot’s radio. You don’t believe either of them.

Amongst the chaos, it provides a certain silence. Untethered from arrival and departure, the quiet of going somewhere, while not moving a muscle. The static blanket draped over your lap tickles the hairs on your bare legs. You tuck your phone into the seat pocket. You didn’t want to answer it anyway.

Welcome to Country

UTS acknowledges and recognises the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation and the Boorooberongal people of the Dharug Nation as the traditional owners and holders of knowledge where our UTS campuses now stand.

UTS also pays respect to Elders past, present and future for sharing their knowledge and the significant contribution that Australia’s first peoples make to the academic and cultural life of our university.

– Maree Graham, Coordinator of Indigenous Outreach, Jumbunna Indigenous House of Learning, University of Technology, Sydney

Photo — Joshua Moll | @jayemol

Contents 4 5

Editorial Contributors

Arts & Lifestyle 20 44 48 72

The Age of Mobile Therapy – Josie Bray Luka: Lessons on Poetry & Politics – Akshaya Bhutkar Pasta with Papa Phan – Papa Phan Central Tunnel: A User’s Guide – Emily Warwick

Showcase 12 27 49 60 70 79

Cosita – Ali Chalmers Braithwaite Making Moves – Jennifer Poon Dan Da Silva By the Quiet Seaside – Amy Tong & Ansel Wakamatsu Somewhere Between Antarctica & the Indian Ocean – Eden Payne Wander – Ryley Miller

Business & Science 25

Hyperloop – Dilhan Wicks

Creative Writing 6 8 21 35 68 74

Where I’m From – Layla Mkhayber ode to a lone traveller – Emily Sharpe Japanese Skinning – Vonne Patiag Untitled – Dani Encarnacion How Far, My Love, How Long – Imogen McCluskey Fight or Flight

Politics 23 57

Boss Baby – Max Grieve In Good Faith? Nuance Lacking in 18C Debate – Hugh Pearce

Socio-Cultural

77 84

The Art of Travel: Brown Edition – Aaron Pinto To Be or Not to Be (Polite)? – Celeste McDermott Healey On In-Between Cultures – Alice Nguyen, Michelle Xu, Alyssa Rodrigo, Wafa Kazal, Fiona Lau, Akshaya Bhutkar, Kezia Aria, Gigi Liu Tracks – Rebecca Cushway Yogic Transformations – Raveena Grover

86 90 92

Students’ Association Reports Submissions Guideline Horoscopes

11 17 37

4 — Editorial

Editorial A Message From the Team

Editor-in-Chief Louisa Luong

Managing Editor

Welcome aboard our transitory, purgatory, in-between issue. This volume, we asked our contributors what it was like to be ‘in-transit’. Volume Three celebrates the inbetween — full of pent-up energy with twitching fingers. Essay season is upon us and we’re trapped in a liminal void watching a blinking cursor on a blank document. On the verge of running to Central and getting on a regional train with nothing but our phone, wallet, and no plans of ever coming back.

Michael Zacharatos

Editors Kezia Aria Akshaya Bhutkar Rebecca Cushway Mariela PT Elliot Vella

Creative Director Kim Phan

Sub-editors Eugenia Alabasinis Liam Fairgrieve Samuel Fraser Davina Jeganathan Alyssa Rodrigo Amy Tong

Art Director

We spent a lot of time in lectures and tutes daydreaming of looking out plane windows. There were 50 lone-travellers who embarked on this journey with us, dreaming of bigger and better ways to communicate how it feels to be stuck somewhere in the middle.

This volume takes off with Layla Mkhayber sharing the struggles of calling Australia home in Where I’m From. Baguettes and berets aside, Celeste McDermott Healey looks to language to unravel the myth as to why the French are so ‘rude’ in To Be or Not to Be (Polite)? Kezia Aria compiles stories that have settled In-Between Cultures. We take the scenic route and stopover somewhere a little slower when we Wander through Ryley Miller’s comic recalling rainy Japanese quietude. Amy Tong and Ansel Wakamatsu reflect on the past selves left behind in their photo essay, By the Quiet Seaside. We finally speed up and embrace motion in stillness in Making Moves, Jennifer Poon’s photo interviews featuring worldly Sydney street dancers.

We want you to chug through this volume from start to finish. We’ve charted your itinerary, and all you have to do is follow the roadmap sitting in your lap. This volume is here for your aimless moments, for your need to keep moving even if you don’t know your destination. Here for stopovers, layovers, waiting rooms, and delayed planes.

This is our movement. Take your time, or rush on through. It’s not about the destination, it’s about the stop-stop-go and the sitting in traffic and the roadwork and the customs and the missed flights. So whether you’re reading this on a plane, train, or automobile, we hope you find some solace meandering through these Unchartered Paths.

Isabella Brown

Designers Eden Payne Lizzie Smith Mia Tran

Thank Yous

Fuck Yous

Shrugs

Skivvy season Garlic bread Foam roller

Trackwork Boat shoes Lactic acid build-up

Stuvac “Australian Values” Japanese raw denim

enquiries – editorial@utsvertigo.com.au | submissions – submissions@utsvertigo.com.au

Contributors — 5

Thank You Our Volume Three Contributors

Written

Visual

Lachlan Barker Josie Bray Jenny Cao Luke Chapman Dani Encarnacion Max Grieve Raveena Grover Norma Jean Cooper Wafa Kazal Fiona Lau Gigi Liu Imogen McCluskey Celeste McDermott Healey Layla Mkhayber Alice Nguyen Vonne Patiag Hugh Pearce Papa Phan Aaron Pinto

Leya Reid Alyssa Rodrigo Emily Sharpe Beatrice Tan Amy Tong Ansel Wakamatsu Emily Warwick Dilhan Wicks Lachlan Wykes Michelle Xu

Sagar Aadarsh Ali Chalmers Braithwaite Isabella Brown Zoe Crocker Thea Kable Shannon Kovats Ryley Miller Joshua Moll Vanessa Papastavros Eden Payne Jennifer Poon Dan Da Silva Georgette Stefoulis Amy Tong Ansel Wakamatsu

Cover Art

Opening Page

Advertising

Kim Phan

Louisa Luong

For all advertising enquiries please contact: Stephanie.King-1@uts.edu.au

Vertigo is published by the UTS Students’ Association (UTSSA), and proudly printed by SOS Printing, Alexandria.

The contents of Vertigo do not necessarily reflect the opinion of the editors, printers, or the UTSSA.

Vertigo and its entire contents are protected by copyright. Vertigo will retain the right to republish in any format. Contributors retain all other rights for resale and republication. No material may be reproduced without the prior written consent of the copyright holders.

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6 — Creative Writing

Where I’m From Layla Mkhayber

They ask me where I’m from And I struggle to tell them That I am Cedar on Eucalyptus lands That I am from the land that will one day consume our bodies Six feet under That I am from the land that today consumes me Because it makes me wish that I was Six feet under That I am transplanted heart in rejecting body That I wish you knew that I am somebody That I am a rose in the barrel of an AK-47 And I am inspired Because I see that I am only ever exotically desired And only ever really required to fill A quota They ask me where I’m from And I tell them that I am fully sick What they don’t know is that I am also fully sick and tired Of people seeing this hijab, this melanin, this name I tell them where I’m from But all I get in response is hipsters tryna claim My tabouli, my hummus, my falafel You would gladly swallow up my culture But spit me out Because I make you uncomfortable Because I am just as Australian as you are And just as immigrant as you are But you are Still uncertain of where I’m from

Creative Writing — 7

They ask me where I’m from And I tell them that my first breath of air Was in a hospital room on Eldridge Road In Bankstown That my foundations are snow-capped Lebanese mountains And the rest of me is only just Perisher Blue I tell them that my first breath of air Should have been Mediterranean Sea, sand, and stars But you pillaged my lands And then let people like Peter Dutton conflate our flee from your terror With terrorism So now I can only see the stars from afar They tell me it’s cloudy because I live in the city I tell them that I can’t see the stars from here Because you close my curtains every night I guess it’s really just because I’m not… white They ask me where I’m from And I say that I live on Darug Land Belonging to the Eora Nation Still not forgotten for thousands of generations That I am not a new generation of Australian That my grandfather carried us on his back That my grandmother gave this country her backbone But you’re still convinced that I am not from the country that you claim to own But I know That the next time someone asks me where I’m from I don’t want to tell them Because it’s hard for me to comprehend That this land makes me feel so alone But I somehow still call Australia home

8 — Creative Writing

ode to a lone traveller Emily Sharpe

To walk alone with only your mind, left unhinged by splintering thoughts of another, is the greatest gift to give to a stirring spirit.

Mossy stones lie yet unturned, and in half-dark light your line casts deep, down it ricochets into this workaday world.

But workaday is not for you, it is not your time to catch the frantic motion towards those silver boxes, entry points to offices dim and slight.

There are greater plans for you, without the hands of time pushing you around revolving doors, so instead you let the motion of the soul purr and swim, down and down, to meet your feet, it tickles your toes with curious wander.

There is no rhyme or reason in your glistening intrepidity.

But then the tide changes, as always with too much freedom, the mind plays tricks on you.

Fret and fear and vulnerability, you, a human watchtower at risk of toppling, as walking alone can be one form of prison, with a cacophony of new sights and sounds that threaten to leave you naked, A foolhardy dweller and lonely.

Thunderous tremors make their way from the bustling guts of a trafficked highway, blistering sun unabashedly pouring from the sky, energy for a million minds ticking away beneath it, beating hearts,

drumming fingers, beeping, blaring from behind their metal scraps.

But safe you are from these violent tremors, an anchor you cast down and hold on tight.

Yes, you fight the fear with your rusty anchor, as you suck up sights and filter them through your own spectacular kaleidoscope.

No one else can see through its lens, it rests safely behind your eyes, capturing the ebb and flow of people, as they wave streamers and dance around your unchartered path.

But there are those who stay a moment longer in your colourful mosaic, they come to you with reason, as you do to them.

There is a poignant lesson in each and every vibrant meeting, as your feet are guided by subconscious and not by need of reason.

You begin again to meander, and find yourself in peculiar places.

But always remember, in those times of doubtfulness while solicitude steers you, it is your story being artfully wordsmithed, the pen you hold and the power, to walk through haze and bellowing smoke.

To be alone and merry in fruitful solitude, is to make friends with those who wander too, who also make their paths through dense tangles, of noisy sights and colourful sounds.

Socio-Cultural — 11

The Art of Travel: Brown Edition Aaron Pinto

They say travel is the university student’s calling, and it’s true; I’ll never get as good a chance to travel as I have now.

So, why don’t I? From the moment I announced I’d be travelling unaccompanied to India for a week in the mid-semester break, my family had “ten-dozen heart attacks”, as my mother put it. Not because they thought I was too young to be travelling alone, but because they knew something of the chore ahead.

“Beta, you better shave before going, you know what they’ll think if you have a beard.”

“Why isn’t mummy going with you?”

Growing up in a large Indian family, I became familiar with the problems my relatives faced while travelling.

It seemed every January there would be a new story of someone being pulled aside to have their luggage searched upon returning from India. Or how their elderly parents underwent excessive security screenings when arriving upon Australian shores. The advantage is, having grown up with these stories, I was well prepared to face the airport on my own.

And so I was driving to the airport, ticking off my mental checklist: Do I look Australian enough to avoid questioning? Does my moustache make me look too Indian? Do I have enough time to get through customs?

Is my visa valid? What do I do if I get stopped? I couldn’t help but wonder what it must be like to not have to think about this. How easy it must be to just not be brown; I tried to think about the amazing experiences I would have on the other side of the border, rather than the frustrating ones before it. Finally satisfied with my preparation, I waved goodbye to my mum and made my way through to security.

explosive detection. So ‘random’ three out of the four other people pulled up with me also happened to be brown. A happy accident. I passed the test easily, but I was annoyed. I like to think of myself as an agreeable person, so why should I be forced to undergo extra security screenings? Travellers across the world have a peculiar habit of affecting a false bravado in transit.

It’s been pointed out to me on more than one occasion that the bulk of these voyagers are brown, whether South Asian, South-East Asian or Middle Eastern, and with a cursory glance, I can see why this misperception exists. I’ve heard it attributed to a culture of ‘rudeness’, a refusal to travel like ‘normal’ people. That is, a refusal to travel like non-brown people. But, why should we? We are brown.

There exists a separate global standard for the brown community as we travel, one that focuses on special selection (read: targeting) for ‘security screening’. The idea that we want to own our foreignness is an affront to the idealised Western social system, one which they must rectify to restore its dominance. The systematic ‘shaking down’ of brown people at travel hubs worldwide is a means by which to force us to assimilate to avoid such treatment. Brown travellers across the world are thus seen as potential threats; as dangerous cargo, not holidaymakers. It’s the dangerous type of story that seems truer the more it’s heard. It’s in the looks I draw as I stride through customs at Sydney. It’s in the hushed whispers of the old, white couple in the lounge at Hong Kong Airport.

The narrative of ‘brown guilt’ perpetuated by the systems of travel continues to prevail in the minds of non-brown travellers around the world. ‘Rudeness’ and ‘arrogance’ are bandied about as rationale for our treatment as second-class travellers. In truth, our only fault is that we are proud people who refuse to be humbled. We are brown. And we won’t apologise for it.

As expected, I was pulled aside for a ‘random’ drug and

Art — Sagar Aadarsh

12 — Showcase

Socio-Cultural — 17

To Be or Not to Be (Polite)?

Celeste McDermott Healey

Despite being known as one of the most beautiful languages in the world, le français is challenging and undoubtedly difficult to master, and the French people even more so. Upon confirmation of my International Studies placement in Lyon for 2017, I was immeasurably excited to embark upon the ‘adventure of a lifetime’.

One friend in particular, however, was a little haughty with her response.

“Bonjour, est-ce que c’est possible pour moi de…”1 When I received a reply, however, I was a little taken aback to read with no apology at all, “Absolutement pas, c’est impossible.”2 After showing the email to a friend, we deduced that the officer must have been having a bad day. Why else would she have been so rude?

At the time, I had laughed and shook my head in agreement. It was only later that I remembered my first trip to France — when another family friend had mentioned that “all the French are really stubborn” in the context of his own trip to Paris. Why was this a thing? Why was it a universally-acknowledged ‘truth’ that the French were rude and tenacious, and didn’t want you in their country or butchering their lovely language? For a moment, I was a little apprehensive about having to deal with this so-called stubbornness, but I brushed it off. I was sure it was just an overexaggeration of the language barrier, nothing a few weeks of cultural immersion couldn’t fix.

However, it happened to me several more times over the next few weeks. Despite all the polite greetings of “bonjours” and “bonne journées”, I began noticing that there was never much of an apology when someone bumped into you on the street, or when you were forced to wait in a long queue at the admin desk only to have the officer close for lunch. To me, it seemed bizarre that a simple “so sorry about that” wasn’t offered when this occurred and I began to resent this snooty, unapologetic behaviour. At the same time, I was more aware of how often I apologised for basic things. I would try to squeeze past someone in the supermarket aisle and say “Pardon, excusez-moi… Désolée…” in a French version of a typical “Sorry, excuse me… Can I just…” When fumbling around in my wallet for change, I apologised for holding up the queue. When meeting with a teacher at uni, I started the rendezvous with an apology for interrupting their work. Was it just me acting this way?

On one of my first few days in Lyon, I emailed one of the International Relations Officers at my university to swap the date of a ski excursion. In English, I would’ve written something along the lines of, “Hi, I am just wondering whether or not I am able to change…” In French, however, I found that I couldn’t find a polite direct translation. In the end, I settled on what deemed to be a succinct but respectful message beginning with,

It reminded me of social anthropologist Kate Fox’s book, ‘Watching the English: The Hidden Rules of English Behaviour’ and how she mentioned “negative politeness culture”. It was this idea of how perpetrators of negative politeness culture often employ certain linguistic techniques to make a request seem less infringing, because they are “concerned with other people’s needs not to be intruded or imposed upon”. This

1 “Hello, is it possible for me to…”

2 “Absolutely not. It is impossible.”

“You’d better not come home as a stubborn, arrogant Frenchman,” she said, only half-jokingly.

Art — Thea Kable | @theakable

18 — Socio-Cultural

includes using complimenting, thankful, or apologetic language, avoiding direct references to disagreements or issues, and appearing ambiguous or vague in certain statements. This type of behaviour is often habitual and subconscious, and allows the perpetrator to communicate effectively without seeming direct.

Let’s consider a speaker who was talking to someone with a greater social significance, or someone who was more powerful in terms of the relationship dynamic.

The speaker would subconsciously apply negative politeness techniques to acknowledge that this power dynamic exists. For example, you would never tell your professor or your boss at work to “shut the door” (direct, no politeness). You would either use positive politeness (“How about we shut the door?”) or negative politeness (“Would you mind if I shut the door?”). Thus, the theory posits the notion that a particular politeness strategy — negative-politeness or it’s opposite, positive-politeness — largely depends upon the specific circumstances of its context.

To think that something as plain as a simple statement can be formed in so many different tonal ways in English is just astounding. As native English speakers, we are often socially conditioned to use apologetic language or self-criticism to ask a question, frequently followed by an indication of awareness or concern for the hearer’s feelings. The following example is written entirely with negative-politeness techniques: As you know, I’m finishing up my internship here next week, and I’m not really sure what I’ll be moving on to.

I’m really sorry to bother you but I was wondering if you could please write me a reference before I go. I don’t know if you’ll have much time to do so, and I feel so silly in asking but it would be great if you could let me know!

Whenever you have the time, I’d appreciate it.

It’s a bit tiring to read, isn’t it? And yet we all do it, most times without realising! The lack of direct requests, the vagueness in the statements, and the lack of precision passes the power of the conversation to the receiver.

How many times have you sent an email like that, only to have never received a response? It all comes down to power and with such negative-politeness in play, the receiver can do whatever they like in return.

On the other hand, it’s interesting to see whether employing a more direct approach really is the most effective. How would it come across? Let’s rewrite that email from before: As you know, I am leaving this internship next week. I will be looking for a new internship or job as soon as I’ve finished here. I will need a reference from you. Please make the time to write me a good reference before I go.

You can send it to me via email or you can hand it to me in person. Thank you.

Obviously that’s an extreme version, but it definitely does the job in showing how a less negative-polite way of speaking or writing can come across as arrogant, haughty, rude, and conceited. So even though you’d be using more direct and effective communication methods, would it really be all that beneficial?

This made me ponder how difficult it must be for non-native English speakers to learn the language, as ‘politer’ sentences are generally more syntactically and grammatically complex. A new French friend of mine speaks English fluently, complete with a slight British accent and ample use of the word ‘like’. However, in the times that we have spoken English, I have noticed that she phrases her questions more directly than I would myself. When we had brunch at her place, she asked me to open her windows in the kitchen to let some air in. It was more of an order phrased as, “Celeste, open those

Socio-Cultural — 19

windows please.” At the time, it seemed a little blunt and curt to my native English ears but I reminded myself that’s what she would have said in French — she was directly translating without understanding the social context.

Anglo-Saxon culture tends to encourage speakers to “conform to social expectations in interaction”, whilst French speakers are more tolerant towards “spontaneous outbursts of emotion… and may sometimes engage in behaviour, linguistic and otherwise, that constitutes a breach of territory”.4 Could this be why so many people have the opinion that the French are ‘stubborn’ and ‘arrogant’? Is it just because their speech pattern is typically more direct and franc than what native English speakers are used to?

conflict that could arise from the disagreement about housing contracts, and so I did nothing but stumble over my poorly-formed, English-translated sentences with tears of frustration in my eyes.

When I was confronted by these situations in this new city, I was forced to reflect upon English in a way I had never done before. Look, perhaps my International Relations Officer was just having a bad day that one time. Or perhaps that’s just the way she’s been socialised to communicate — in a direct and assertive manner.

To an outsider, it may seem arrogant; but then, when did an outsider ever know the whole story? By delving deeper into what could be written off as cultural difference, I learnt more about the French language and culture (even if it meant I had to force myself to be more of a stubborn, arrogant French(wo)man).

And so in an attempt to ‘be more French’, I tried to embrace the frankness of their everyday speech.

In the first week of moving into my university accommodation, I began to see why it wasn’t a popular option with UTS students. There was no one about and I felt very isolated. I went to see our International Relations Officer about moving out and finding someone to take my room. So, lo and behold, here was a perfect opportunity to put my new French assertiveness into practice! I resolved to be firm and use direct language to convey how I felt, rather than skate around the issue to avoid any conflict. I would say “Je voudrais quitter mon lodgement universitaire,”5 instead of “Est-il possible que je peux quitter mon lodgement universitaire?”6 It was a seamless plan!

But of course, it didn’t quite work out that way. In an attempt to be polite, respectful, and considerate (read: cool, calm, and collected), I resorted back to my negative-politeness mentality. After being socially conditioned into deference to older and more experienced people, I was immediately wary of the

4 Béal, C. 2010, Les interactions quotidiennes en français et en anglais, Peter Lang

5 I would like to leave my university accommodation.

Publishing, Bern, Switzerland.

6 Is it possible to leave my university accommodation?

20 — Arts & Lifestyle

The Age of Mobile Therapy Josie Bray

“Journeys are the midwives of thought. Few places are more conducive to internal conversations than a moving plane, ship, or train.”

I doubt that when Alain de Botton came up with this gem in 2002 he foresaw its future implications. Though, he did not need to. As long as there has been travel, it has served as reflective aid. There’s just something about getting into a vehicle that provides you with both passing time and horizons that creates the perfect reflective cocktail. Mundane travel is one of the few times in a busy person’s life they can forfeit control and focus, allowing whatever thoughts they have to come to surface. This is as relevant now as it was in the days of horse and cart.

Without sounding too much like a pompous literary asshole; de Botton’s words transcend era.

For every conversational driver, there is an equally chatty passenger. Whether it’s discussing your day, life, or innermost thoughts, as a passenger you have a set amount of time with a stranger who’s obligated to listen.

Awfully similar conditions to therapy. You’re able to discuss whatever you want without any obligation to resolve anything, continue into uncomfortable territory, or explore outside your comfort zone. It’s as casual as discussing with a friend, but as impartial as a counsellor.

You never have to make eye contact; no one ever has to know what you discuss; and most of all you know exactly when it’s going to end.

However, a delightful 21st century phenomena has started to emerge in which the reflective environment of travel and the therapeutic nature of counselling have found an unexpected home in ridesharing apps.

The majority of Uber users have had a far too in-depth conversation with their driver at some point in their lives. Whether they chatted about themselves, the driver, or even a friend, the conversations are usually brief, yet comprehensive.

Many who do not consider their issues ‘serious enough’ for counselling don’t seek help. Whether it’s the social stigma of talking to a professional, the money, or the time required, a majority of people leave their concerns untouched. So having a small amount of time in a private space with an open stranger can, and often does, act as an emotional release for many.

I can vouch for myself that, after a few glasses of anything, I’ll have a fantastic chat with the stranger driving me home. Unless there’s something particularly interesting going on in my life at the time (which let’s be honest, isn’t often) my drunk self loves to hear the driver’s stories and worldview. Usually, they end with a piece of advice, an opinion, or perhaps their mantra of choice. I’ve heard stories from aspiring DJs, music producers, doctors, and accountants simply on their way home from work. The nature of Uber allows almost anyone and everyone to become a driver, meaning you get a great variety of people.

Most have things to say and stories to tell.

This is not to say chatting with your Uber driver is the holy grail of therapy; a cure-all for your ills. Rather it simply acts as a much needed outlet for those with something to say and no one to listen.

If this is you, or someone you know, UTS offers free counselling on Level 6 of Building 1, or you can call to book an appointment on 02 9514 1177.

Creative Writing — 21

Japanese Skinning Vonne Patiag

CW: gore, mentions of blood

While travelling through Japan, I fell off my bike at high speed.

I had just completed an 80km round-trip along a highway that hopped over seven islands across the Inland Sea of Japan. Close to Onomichi — my end destination — I tried to mount a curb, missed, and ground my wheel along the gutter. I was thrown over the handlebars. I wasn’t wearing a helmet, because Japan’s safety rules are very relaxed, but my knees and right elbow took the brunt of the tumble. A mechanic witnessed the whole thing, and proceeded to finish his cigarette before crossing the street with a first aid kit.

As he wrapped my wounds I told him I needed to return my bike on time because I couldn’t afford the late fee.

I painfully half-pedalled the rest of the way, my knees spurting blood each time they bent. Returning the bike, I looked as though I had been shot. At a convenience

store, a worker followed me around with a mop to wipe up the trail of blood behind me. It was only when it took me two hours to walk the 500m to my hostel that I started to panic.

As I was picking out the gravel stuck in my left knee, I had the odd experience of touching my own bone, leaving me suddenly drowning in fear. I was in a foreign land with a month’s itinerary already planned out, and my budget would not allow for a hospital stay or a doctor to look at my wounds. Instinctively, I knew rest was vital, but I had this ridiculous sense that if I stopped I would die — I had to keep moving. Forward momentum fuelled every heartbeat; I couldn’t bear to look at my wounds, so concentrating on the next destination placated that dread, allowing me to literally move past my pain.

The next day I shouldered my 30kg backpack, putting all the weight on my knees — my wounds reopened over

Art — Georgette Stefoulis | @georgettestef

22 — Creative Writing

and over again. I stole an umbrella from the hostel to use as a crutch and hobbled to the train station where I caught a train to Hiroshima, an overnight bus to Osaka, and finally collapsed at the airport. A wheelchair was rushed to me and I boarded the plane as a disabled patron. I was sure the crew and other passengers could smell the blood pooling in my shoes.

I spent the next three days in a dusty hostel in the port of Naha, the main city of Okinawa. It smelt of mildew and I could hear giant rats through the walls. I grew weak and crippled, constantly worrying I would suffocate because of the intense humidity. The only other occupant was Matt, a musician from Melbourne, who offered to buy me food to save me crawling to the convenience store. I spent those days watching my body slowly heal, my flesh turning different shades as it repaired.

On the Zamami Islands, I was nauseous and had a splitting headache that lasted hours. A quick Google search of the symptoms led to a self-diagnosis of scurvy, caused by a Vitamin C deficiency. This was probable, as my limited budget didn’t allow for fresh fruit, something that was much of a necessity — as Vitamin C is used by the body to produce collagen when repairing skin. I hobbled to the local supermarket, the only store that serviced the island population of 70, and devoured four oranges. I used sanitary pads as bandages because they had so few medical supplies. For the next few days, I lay on beaches with wings on my knees. I eventually dared to enter the ocean in hopes the salt water would cleanse my wounds.

I travelled back to mainland Japan and stayed at an arts and crafts commune, having hustled a Workaway contract: free accommodation and food in exchange for a few hours of work every day. A lovely artist couple ran the commune out of a converted school; it was in the mountains, isolated and overrun with cats —like something out of a Studio Ghibli film. The first day they put me to work digging trenches in a field, but after a farmer helped me limp home, I was delegated to cooking and cleaning. After stoking the daily fire to boil rice, I spent my free time playing table tennis with Sam, a

Londoner, who visited my bedroom every night with his first aid kit to change my bandages. In my final week, we went hiking together, and for the first time I didn’t take my umbrella with me — I was finally able to stand on my two feet. I left that umbrella in the corner of a Yokohama bus station waiting room, after kissing it goodbye and thanking it for its assistance (it had become useless as an actual umbrella). I felt confident walking again, even with my backpack on, although always at a slow and steady pace.

After bathing at an onsen (hot spring) just outside Aomori, I decided to climb to the top of the Hakodate mountains and catch the cable car down — fuelled by the absurd pride of being physically able to move again.

The climb was a lot more challenging than I expected; some of the ‘stairs’ were 2m vertical walls. My knee started to throb, but I knew if I didn’t move faster, night would soon begin to descend.

Even though my body had almost forgotten how, I decided to run.

My left knee started leaking instantly, but I moved through the pain. I arrived at the cable car station to find it closed, but a security guard found me pounding on the glass and sent me down. I pressed my face against the glass of the car; I was soaring above the trees. The last bus had left but I felt invincible. I hitchhiked my way back to town, the fear of that risky situation drowned out by the throbbing in my knee.

Dropped off at my hotel, I changed my bandages — the process of fixing myself now second nature. A nurse would later tell me I was lucky to have staved off infection. Yet almost two years on, my left knee still itches — a sign the wound is not done healing yet — and the accident still haunts my dreams. Sometimes, a sharp pain hits and I am forced to sit down. I look at my right knee that was completely skinned and is now covered in scars — healed so it looks like a deranged smiley face.

It’s me: laughing maniacally at the fact that I lived through all this.

Politics — 23

Boss Baby Max Grieve

I hadn’t seen any promotions for ‘Boss Baby’ before seeing ‘Boss Baby’, save for ads on the sides of buses: ‘Boss Baby’, they said in a chunky blue font, under a picture of what was presumably the titular Boss Baby.

Taken together, the text and visuals of the bus ads made for pretty compelling evidence that this was going to be a movie about a baby who was also a boss.

His name is actually Boss Baby. He’s voiced by divorced 59-year-old father Alec Baldwin, which is still jarring after an hour-and-a-half. He drinks a special formula that makes him intelligent and stunts his growth — some sort of cocktail of milk, steroids, cigarettes, and what I guess to be the opposite of oxygen — so he’s always a baby. And he’s also a boss.

The opening ten minutes of ‘Boss Baby’ is kamikaze cinema, and demands repeat viewing. We’re introduced to Boss Baby. We’re introduced to Tim Templeton, a needy only child who’s about to get a taste of what Boss Baby’s got to offer. We’re subjected to a montage set to the Beatles’ ‘Blackbird’, condemning all children watching to grow up enjoying the Beatles until they hit puberty — when they’ll learn that even though the Beatles are good, it’s not cool to say so. It also turns out that the title of ‘Boss Baby’ is really ‘The Boss Baby’, but I prefer it without the definite article.

There are some half-clever concepts at play in this movie but the central narrative isn’t one of them. BabyCorp is struggling to compete with PuppyCorp, who have a similar thing going for them, but with dogs. They’re set to release a new puppy, which could put BabyCorp out of business — puppies are already more popular than babies as it is, says someone at some point during the movie. Boss Baby infiltrates seven-year-old Tim Templeton’s family (Tim’s parents work for PuppyCorp) because this will help him to commit corporate espionage and stop the new model from getting out somehow — it’s not explained very well.

Who is Boss Baby? Boss Baby comes from BabyCorp, like all babies, but didn’t laugh when tickled by an assembly line robot so was assigned a life of middle management instead of a family. He works in a cubicle at BabyCorp, where he wears a suit and lusts after a corner office.

Tim doesn’t like Boss Baby, who’s now the centre of his parents’ attention, but decides to help him get rid of the new dog: if Boss Baby succeeds, he’ll leave Tim’s family, and get the corner office he’s always wanted. It’s a win-

Art — Zoe Crocker | cargocollective.com/zoelc

24 — Politics

win for two one-dimensional characters in a brainless animation that probably won’t be in cinemas when you read this, and you almost certainly wouldn’t watch online like I did. On one level, ‘Boss Baby’ is an underthought title backed up by an over-thought plot: a story of neglect; of an attention deficit disorder epidemic; of a screenwriter’s problematic obsession with visual jokes about babies’ arses. On another, it’s a flimsy excuse to draw a parallel between the Boss Baby and Donald Trump.

He doesn’t just appear on the Templeton’s doorstep in a basket, he rolls up to the curb in a taxi, and swaggers to the door in a suit, kicking over Tim’s bike on the way.

Everything about Boss Baby indicates that he doesn’t give a damn what the establishment thinks as he makes his way to its heart, but he’s crippled by an eternal, loveless childhood that’s left him unable to function without constant approval. It’d be sad if he wasn’t such a dick.

‘Boss Baby’ is a movie set in the president’s universe.

Capitalism isn’t just at the centre of society, it’s at the centre of existence — corporations are responsible for the survival of at least two species, as far as we know.

Boss Baby was ‘born’ in a factory and lives in an office; Trump was born into a loveless void between a father who was too busy building a real estate empire to love his son, and a mother who didn’t care enough about him to warrant a credible result when I ran “Trump + mother + relationship” through Google. Boss Baby throws a tantrum and is showered with love by Tim’s parents; Trump lobs 58 missiles at Syria and is showered with bipartisan praise. Boss Baby drinks a special milk that keeps him young and smart; Trump forges medical reports to do the same.

Admittedly, the analogy is never properly realised in the movie — you’ve got to dig if you want it to work, so I dug deep. There was something about a heated exchange between Tim and Boss Baby that didn’t sit right with me, and it wasn’t that Boss Baby was voiced by Alec Baldwin.

Boss Baby is voiced by Alec Baldwin, who plays an increasingly grating Trump on Saturday Night Live and, like the president, has a history of calling women “pigs” — well, three times in the one 2007 voicemail to his 11-year-old daughter, anyway. The movie even alludes to Trump’s approach to courtship in a troubling scene which takes place in Tim’s bedroom: Tim: What do you want me to do with that?

Boss Baby: I want you to suck it.

T: You suck it!

BB: No, it’s for you to suck.

T: I’m not sucking that!

BB: Suck it.

T: I don’t know where it’s been!

BB: It’s not where it’s been! It’s where it’ll take you.

Boss Baby is manipulative. He’s insecure. He’s brash.

“You don’t know what it’s like to have a family!” yells Tim. “And you don’t know what it’s like to have a job!” yells back Alec Baldwin as Boss Baby.

Khizr Khan, father of a Muslim soldier killed in Iraq, stood up at the Democratic National Convention and told Donald Trump that he had “sacrificed nothing” only for Trump to reply that he had “made a lot of sacrifices — I’ve created thousands of jobs”. Having flashbacks?

Yeah, me too. The parallel is obvious, if you look hard enough. Trump is an infinite angle; an irresistible reference point. He must be written about. He must be talked about. Of course ‘Boss Baby’ is a movie set in Donald Trump’s universe: it was a movie made in Donald Trump’s universe where the media cycle and the sun revolve around him.

‘Boss Baby’ isn’t worth your time or money, but demands a sequel for our times: BabyCorp’s assembly line spits out a kid that not only doesn’t laugh when tickled by the robot, but goes on to tweet about how “sad!” the “pathetic”, “failing” robot was for trying. It’s called ‘President Baby’: the movie that a dystopian future imagines, but only the present could be irrational enough to realise. We wouldn’t be able to tear ourselves away from the screen.

Business & Science — 25

Hyperloop Dilhan Wicks

Modern engineering lets us get almost anywhere on the planet within 48 hours. This level of interconnectedness has shrunk our world and opened up vast opportunities for trade and travel, greatly enriching our quality of life. However, this does not mean that travel innovation has peaked — there are plenty of awkward gaps in the sphere of long-distance travel technology.

All methods of transport have optimal ranges wherein they are most economical and efficient. For example, a Boeing 777 should ideally fly between a range of 2,000 to 3,000km. Travelling further than this means the aircraft will be burdened by carrying excessive weight in fuel, while travelling a shorter distance uses such a huge amount of energy to reach optimal flying altitude that a smaller plane would be more appropriate. A plethora of planes exist to cover a variety of trip ranges, from giant A3 that can transport over 500 people up to 13,000 km, to lighter planes that fly over 500km but only carry as few as 70 passengers. It’s within this range the Hyperloop may enter: transporting passengers from city to city faster than any other method of transport.

In essence, the Hyperloop is a vacuum-sealed tube.

When completed, it can transport cargo and people at speeds of up to 1,200km per hour — imagine Sydney to Melbourne in 45 minutes. The concept has been floating around for about a century, however it has always been considered far-off science fiction until the project was backed by billionaire-philanthropist and CEO of Tesla and SpaceX, Elon Musk. While his plate has been too full to take on the responsibility himself, his support has prompted the private sector to take up the challenge themselves, with companies ‘Hyperloop One’ and ‘Hyperloop Transport Technologies’ taking the reins to develop this technology. If successful and made affordable for general use, the Hyperloop will have a huge impact. It could provide a breakthrough in an industry that has been stagnant for years.

The design of the Hyperloop is still elementary.

Generally, it is characterised by a long vacuum tube stretching about 650km between cities, in which a podlike vehicle (similar in looks to an aerodynamic train carriage) can speed through. At this point, a number of methods to power the Hyperloop are being considered.

The most commonly-discussed uses magnets to float the pod above the floor of the tube. An air compressor at the

Art — Mia Tran

26 — Business & Science

front sucks in a build-up of air and forces it backward, propelling the pod.

The main benefit to these approaches is that the backward force acting on the vehicle is reduced, meaning it can reach higher speeds using the same amount of energy. By operating in the vacuum tube, an already low-air-density environment, a train could reach speeds faster than a commercial jet — without having to lift 427 tonnes of metal 12km into the sky. In addition, the system is theoretically cheaper, more sustainable (it proposes to cover the outside surface of the tubes with solar panels), unaffected by weather, safer, and more convenient.

Recently, there have been Tesla-funded competitions inviting universities from around the world to design and build small-scale Hyperloop prototypes as a test of concept. TU Delft, a Dutch university, won the most recent competition with a super lightweight design that used permanent magnets to levitate the pod above the track. With fresh innovation coming from some of the world’s best universities, and over 700

Art — Mia Tran

people collectively employed by ‘Hyperloop Transport Technologies’ and ‘Hyperloop One’, it is reasonable to believe that there could soon be Hyperloops built at full scale. Currently there about 30 possible routes mapped out, as well as conceptual plans to build a track between Dubai and Abu Dhabi, cutting down a 48 minute flight to a 12 minute Hyperloop trip.

Throughout the history of the transport industry there have been few inventions with similar potential.

James Watt optimised the steam engine in late 1700s, turning what was a technology with limited power into an innovative technology that catalysed the industrial revolution. This development led to the growth of cities.

People and goods could be brought in easily from far away, meaning a town was not limited to its nearby natural resources. From that point on, communities have been rapidly growing, to the point where the world now has more people living in cities than in the country.

Given the unprecedented possibilities the Hyperloop offers in terms of speed, efficiency, and cost, it could very well be the impetus for the next big shake-up.

Showcase — 27

Making Moves Photographs by Jennifer Poon & Words by Louisa Luong

The Sydney street dance scene is relatively young, known for its easy-going attitude and tight-knit community. Over the years, dancers from every corner of the world have come and gone, momentarily bringing with them a piece of dance culture from home. Each and every one of these international influences make up Sydney street dance, and despite struggling to find its own identity there is no denying its upward trajectory.

‘Making Moves’ aims to document the voices of dancers whose transitory presence has left an enduring mark on our city’s street dance identity.

From as far as Korea and Japan to as close as Perth, when three dancers are asked what kind of dancer they are, they each hesitate before answering. There’s an unspoken rule that as much as labelling is important, there’s just something you can’t define. Because dance is more than movement to rhythm or melody, it’s a form of shared energy, steeped in history and culture.

An expression that transcends all language barriers.

Eventually, they tentatively classify themselves as hiphop dancers, but there’s one thing for sure: these people certainly can’t be put in a box.

Photos — Jennifer Poon | @jennnpoon

Leo Lee Hip-hop dance started in the late 1980s/early 1990s, around the same time Leo Lee was in high school in the rural town of Pohang, Korea. He may be soft-spoken but his bold curiosity for life has seen him through being a full-time dancer in Seoul and a corporate suit in Sydney. To every street dancer though, Leo is one of the most respected hip-hop dancers in this city. With a reputation that precedes him, it’s no surprise that the way he speaks about dance and hip-hop is not unlike a tale of romance.

“Hip-hop was a new trend when I was young. It had only just been introduced, so we were all curious about this new thing. I started dancing in high school by imitating celebrities and their dances, but I got more serious when I saw all these videos about New York dancers. During that time, New York dancers influenced East Asian countries.

Japan started first, and next was Taiwan because it was once a Japanese colony, so they have a strong culture of liking Japanese culture. And because South Korea is so close to Japan, we started to get influenced too. The hip-hop I know is the early 80s of New York dancing, but Japanese dancers are always so good at preserving culture. As time passes, all these different cultures of dance start to die. That’s what happens, because dance follows trends. But Japan is very good at learning culture; breaking it apart, changing it to a Japanese way, and keeping it. Back then, Korea was strongly influenced by late 80s to early 90s hip-hop Japanese dancers. That’s what we see as the hip-hop era, because we lived that era, and that’s how we respected that culture.”

“Sometimes there’s a lack of understanding of what dance is, what the culture is. People like to say that hip-hop is unity. It started from parties in the Bronx and Brooklyn where Hispanics and African-Americans would come together. That’s what started hip-hop music and dance: A mixture of different movements, the sharing of energy, and the unification of different cultures based on what was happening in that hood.

Nowadays, hip-hop is worldwide. Because of Youtube and different events, dancers so easily share their energy with others to make their own art. I think that’s what is happening at the moment. It’s still moving but it’s not completely moved. It’s still changing.”

Arisa Tani From classical ballet at three years old, to hip-hop at thirteen, Arisa Tani has danced nearly all her life.

Originally from Kochi, Japan, she moved to Sydney three years ago and has since been teaching, battling, and training to find her own unique style. More than ten years of hip-hop dancing has left her torn between respect for the old and charms of the new.

Showcase — 31

“90s hip-hop — mid-90s hip-hop — that’s my area, it’s how I started dancing hip-hop ten years ago. But last year I started getting really into new hip-hop. All that swagger; it’s more towards actual New York street dance, which I think is cool. At the same time, I also feel unsure because 90s hip-hop culture is really against new hip-hop because it’s a such a different vibe and people complain that new hip-hop doesn’t respect foundation. Old and new hip-hop clash, they don’t like each other. I have a deep respect for 90s hip-hop, but at the same time, I was conflicted. I kept asking myself, “Should I like this?” And then my friend said to me that although the two styles are so different, it would be cool to be the first one to start integrating them. I mean, my teacher who taught me 90s hip-hop still listens to new hip-hop songs, but he doesn’t dance to it. I’m still not sure if I should be doing this swaggy kinda thing because I feel like I’m disrespecting 90s hip-hop. Change is always hard, and I still don’t know whether I’m doing the right thing.”

“A lot of hip-hoppers I know from here are also in-between styles though. We always share music so we kind of got into new hip-hop not because swag dance is cool, but because hip-hop music was changing, and we changed with it.

Hip-hop’s always evolving, it’s always changing. Before, it used to be this high-pitched hip-hop and then it moved to 90s, really dope hip-hop, and now it’s this swaggy kinda feeling. Because the music is always changing, our style is always changing too. Some people want to stick with one era, which is cool, but at the same time I feel like hip-hop should always change because that’s what it is. It’s good to appreciate one era but if you’re 100% sticking to it, that’s not accepting hip-hop for what it is.”

Paven Gill Dancer. Creative. To Paven Gill, the two are one and the same. After moving to Sydney from the sunny shores of Perth, he speaks fast and with passion about the evolution of street dance, from hip-hop to urban choreography, and the internet’s potential in breaking down labels.

34 — Showcase

“We’re living in a generation of artists. Because of the internet, kids nowadays can look up how to use an NPC and make beats, it doesn’t need to be this thing you can’t do anymore. Everyone is unstoppable now, if they put in the work, because we have everything at our fingertips. I don’t think we should settle anymore.

People can’t continue doing the same things they did 20-30 years ago, we need to find ways to integrate the goodness of technology and what we have. Ten years ago, there was no iPhone, five years ago, no Instagram or Snapchat, and now these things completely rule our lives. With technology, we’re going to break down labels.

Back in the day, if you were a hip-hop dancer, or this dancer, that’s what you were. Now, because we have so many different inputs, it’s not like you’re ‘this’ or ‘that’ anymore. You’re just a creative.”

“We need to understand why we dance and the history behind it in order to push forward in the right direction.

Old hip-hop’s blaming kids who live in a world that’s teaching them shortcuts — to find the quickest way there and not give a fuck about anything else. I don’t think uploading or sharing dance videos is the problem.

The problem is shortcuts and bad intentions. In terms of dance, you should dance for yourself. But I think there comes a point where most people need to think about their contribution to future generations. We need to work really hard to find different avenues of technology that visually improve the art form, while also giving a live experience that people can physically feel, and grow from that. There’s this specialness of something being live and in front of you that we need to keep, no matter what.”

Creative Writing — 35

Untitled Dani Encarnacion

Who I was, when I was.

When I was born, my mother planted a tree. A small kalamansi tree from back home, it grew shyly but dug its roots firmly into the earth. Years after, on a day late in January, she brought home another shrub. The flowers — blood-red bottlebrushes among thin leaves — burst through more willingly than the kalamansi fruit ever would have.

Once acclimated to a concept, a child does not think to question it. Yearly trips between two airports were no different to daily trips between school and home. I was only one person, then: an unquestioning, homogenised mixture of school, home, country, country. Lunch in one place was the same in the other. The shoes I slipped off upon entrance to one place slip off just the same upon entrance to the other.

I don’t know what I think of when I try to think of home.

she gets a call:

hello. i’m doing well. australia is great.

yes, i am going to university now! i am studying. how are you? how are you—

how am i— — the words rise up from her lungs to grapple with her throat — —coping?

—living?

—existing?

sorry, what did you say? me? visit? i will, soon. dead space hangs between them with the crackling of the call. it stretches out into a barrier wider than physical separation, built from years of broken English, broken culture, broken girl —

36 — Creative Writing

she puts the phone down. thus begins a slow, deep ache in her chest: it is some small, animalistic thing from long ago. a past life? it nestles inside her ribcage and gnaws at her heart — moments of quietly numbed, smarting pain as its softened teeth grasp at her — paws pushing at her lungs, her short exhales — when she does visit, the air outside the airport is chokingly thick. the van drives along a skyway next to slums in the dying light, while

a pink-blue sunset eats at the horizon. webbed shadows sprawl through the car windows, from streetlamps flickering in the darkness. roll the window up, she sighs. i can’t breathe here either.

Two hearts beat as one in a girl alone on a bed.

Lately I’ve found myself suspended in a strange, widening limbo between here and there.

The more time passes, the less I feel like I belong in either one of those places. Instead, I exist in a perpetual state of otherness: too Filipinx to be Australian; too Australian to be Filipinx.

Slowly, I am learning that not knowing where I belong affirms my identity, strengthens it. I will forever be in the air between the Philippines and Australia, but that doesn’t mean I’ve departed from either place.

Socio-Cultural — 37

On In-Between Cultures CW: Islamophobia, racism, racial slurs

write in Vietnamese. Every day when it hit seven on the dot my parents would switch on SBS Radio and listen to the Vietnamese channel. And, of course, every birthday, anniversary, and Father’s Day we celebrated by eating out, my dad chose his favourite cuisine: Vietnamese.

On My Parents Alice Nguyen culture shock (noun): the feeling of disorientation experienced by someone when they are suddenly subjected to an unfamiliar culture, way of life, or set of attitudes In 1985, my parents fled their homeland Vietnam to escape their hardship and the devastation of war. They arrived in Australia with very few belongings, no family, no English, and no expectations — except one; wherever they arrived would be better than their country of birth.

My parents did not completely assimilate and immerse themselves into ‘Australian culture’, but only because they had very little reason to.

They had the hustle and bustle of Cabramatta and Bankstown plazas — their homes away from home.

They loved to communicate in their native tongue and enjoyed conversing with the shop owners who they have now known for decades. They went to Buddhist temples on the weekend and would blast Paris by Night every time a new show was released. They had the Vietnamese Association they would attend every Sunday, filled with their closest friends, and my mother volunteered to teach young people how to speak and

While being born here has been a blessing, it has also been difficult to navigate two contrasting cultures. I felt as though I personified Cabramatta and Bankstown: these places and myself located in Australia, but raised and cultivated by those from elsewhere; a product of the evolving fusion between Vietnam, several other diasporas, and the West.

Growing up, Vietnamese was my first language, and I remember mixing my Vietnamese and English words at primary school. There was a communication barrier between my peers and I. I remember sitting in an English as a Second Language (ESL) class when the teacher taught me the difference between ‘here’ and ‘hear’. English was hard to grasp and I didn’t have anyone to practice with, not even my brother, who was struggling as much as I. Now, my parents have accepted that I am different to them, despite dragging me to temples, Vietnamese school, and taekwondo classes. My parents, although having always been relatively ‘traditional’, have recently become more open-minded and thoughtful.

While it has been difficult for me to switch between the two worlds — that of my parents and that of my reality — I have concluded I am a mixture of both. Now, I am trying to find balance, carve out my place in the middle. I have come to peace with my identity and self, and accept that I am incredibly fortunate to be able to explore both my traditional roots and the beautiful place I was born in, Australia.

Art — Isabella Brown | @bissy

38 — Socio-Cultural

While I struggled to understand the Chinese idioms and complex terms my parents would use, and struggled to argue my position on issues such as racism and my desire to do Visual Arts in school (an argument I lost), the food on the dinner table still connected us.

On the Significance of Food

Now, as I grow further and further away from my parents, food still tethers me to my cultural background.

Reminds me that I’m Shanghainese, Australian, me.

Michelle Xu I am very protective of Chinese food, specifically Shanghainese food.

I grew up in a community where Chinese bakeries dot the streets, and grandparents scour groceries early in the morning to get the best greens. While I was learning how to use chopsticks with the correct grip, I slowly lost grip of Chinese. I struggled to keep up in classes, so afterwards my only use of the language was to communicate with my grandfather and my mother.

This worsened in high school as my grandfather returned to China and passed away a few years later. I spoke less and less Chinese to my parents, even though I still understood the Shanghainese they spoke to me.

At the same time, I read voraciously, and loved writing creatively. I excelled in English classes, while my fluency in Chinese continued to fall by the wayside.

Throughout all of this, I still identified very strongly with my Chinese heritage; I listened to the same C-Pop as my parents, wandered Chinese groceries and butchers with my mother, and did my best to live up to their academic expectations. The gap between my level of Chinese and my parents’ made me proud and protective over the food my mother made me every day. It was one of the only ways in which I could still connect with my parents and my heritage despite our language barrier. I learned how to make classics like stir-fried tomato and egg, braised pork belly, tea eggs, wonton, and zongzi.

Ingredients remain the same across languages.

On Multi-Ethnicity Alyssa Rodrigo

My hair is pitch black but my eyes are hazel. My skin is olive, but the way words roll off my tongue gives testament to a childhood set in the suburbs of Western Australia. And so, at nearly every encounter with a stranger, I am faced with a question, delivered in varying degrees of offensiveness, and only sometimes with a tinge of racism, “What are you?”

And every time, I respond with the same spiel I have given since I was a small multi-ethnic girl in an all-white primary school classroom. My mother, whose last name I have assumed, bears her roots from Indonesia, Spain, and China. My father owes the tone of his skin to his Sinhalese heritage in Sri Lanka. In this alchemy, made possible by the fortitude of my ancestors in an era of colonialism and struggle, came me, in all my unkempt glory.

Socio-Cultural — 39

Though I am filled with a sense of pride about the uniqueness of my ethnicity, there also lies a sense of fragmentation and diaspora. Having moved from Singapore to Perth to Sydney in the span of ten years, feeling connected to a culture is difficult when your blood belongs to many. My mother speaks Mandarin, Cantonese, Hokkien, and English, while my fluency is limited to English and a sprinkling of Malay slang. At dinner with family and friends, we enjoy Chinese hot pot where we sink tofu, fishballs, and noodles into broth. My last name, Rodrigo, translates to ‘noble’ and ‘powerful’, yet I know little about my Spanish heritage.

In the midst of all the racial ambiguity is my experience growing up in Australia. I remember going to gymnastics practice when I was eight, holding a bag of candy, and a girl a year or two above yelling, “Hey Asian Girl, give us some.” In the years following, I’d be asked if I’ve ever tasted dog, called a “filthy Mexican” by a classmate, told my eyes were “big for an Asian”, and asked whether I speak “Ching-Chong”. This bullying was considered minimal compared to my other Asian friends, who would always tell me that it was a blessing to be mixed, because apparently it was boring to be ‘just’ Chinese. I do not doubt the privilege that comes with being a lightskinned Asian, with parents who were able to immigrate to Australia with few problems pertaining to their race.

However, the exotification that comes, especially at mention of my Spanish origins, leaves a bitter taste.

Sometimes being multi-ethnic feels like being a jackof-all-trades, but a master of none. And in these times, I am forced to remind myself that the colour of my skin, the structure of my bones, and the hazel in my eyes have all come to fruition because of the strength, love, and perseverance my ancestors sewed through history and time.

On Passing as White Wafa Kazal Enunciating every syllable, vowel, consonant, Constant condescending concern sits in the creases of their forehead as eyes widen, Gesticulations grow Sentences slow.

They are uninterested in paying credence to your university degree, To your multi-linguality To your clear comprehension of their message, Spoken, unspoken You are not broken — For the hijab they are speaking to has yet to hinder your understanding, Rather it has been expanded, enhanced, elevated.

You know now, This is the exact embodiment of ignorance.

As a visibly Muslim, Syrian immigrant, the interaction spoken of in this poem is a commonality in my mother’s life. The first time I noticed it was the first time I questioned my own position in Australian society. A society that, despite being born into, I would never fully fit into.

As I do not wear the scarf and am relatively fair-skinned, I do not visibly appear Muslim or Arab, and thus I benefit daily from passing as ‘white’. I see these interactions

Art — Isabella Brown | @bissy

40 — Socio-Cultural

happen all the time, I hear people spouting racist and ignorant things about Arabs or Muslims on the daily, and yet I very rarely experience any of it myself.

Passing as white is a gift that just keeps on giving. It is the old, white man at work, talking about how he thinks that if people in Syria “just got jobs” then none of “this” (read: war, genocide, disaster) would be happening, completely oblivious to the fact that I, myself, am Syrian.

It is the turned down offer of a glass of water “because I am fasting” met with shock — I can see, feel, hear the discomfort in their voices. It is the being served with a smile when I am on my own, and not even getting a “Hi, how are you today?” when I am with my scarfed mother.

I do not shy away from making my religion or culture known, but I do know that once it is, I am seen differently. Judged by a different standard. The most frustrating thing for me is that making it known never truly alters that person’s perception.

Rather, it alters their interaction with me, making them more cautious, and apologetic when their caution slips.

Living in-between cultures — being both Arab and Australian — is something I am still learning to navigate in the adult world. I am grateful for the place I get to call home, but never want that gratitude to detract from my ability to be an Arab, to show that I am a Muslim. And while in most cases, my ability to pass as white grants me some leeway, the privilege that I am awarded for passing as white is not fair, not welcomed, and yet, it is mine.

On My Mum’s Accent Fiona Lau I used to hate when my mum spoke English. Or when she asked me to translate things she didn’t understand.

It was embarrassing when her English wasn’t as fluent as all the other parents in primary school, or when the sales assistant slowed down their speech to speak to us.

I used to ask her why she didn’t understand English because she had been here since 1978. She said she tried to learn at TAFE but it never stuck. I asked her why I needed to learn Chinese if everybody here speaks English — I was a smart-arse kid. She always answered, “You will regret it if you don’t,” and lo and behold, she was right. I do regret not understanding more Chinese, and only being able to hold a conversation in broken sentences. (Hot tip: use iTranslate to text in Chinese and impress your mum!)

I used to think my mum was humiliating. Her English was lacking, people had to speak loud and slow so she could understand. She held the Chinese language, traditions, and culture with such importance — the same things I believed to be so irrelevant since we were now in Australia. I never understood the concept of migration until year nine. I never grasped the risk of fleeing one’s country until mum told my siblings and I that her boat was the only one that made it safely to the refugee camp in Malaysia. The refugee camp where my aunties, uncles, and grandparents would mix flour and water for breakfast, share one cigarette between five.

To think: A couple of minutes late, a couple of people in front of them in the line, and maybe my cousins,

Socio-Cultural — 41

siblings, and I wouldn’t exist. This realisation made me more grateful, and made me love my mum even more.

She was not weak and humiliating. She is inspiring and ambitious and successful. My family is strong and powerful and they belong. Do you know what a foreign accent is? It’s a sign of bravery.

On “Whitewashed”

identity — everything I’d pushed away that had roots to my ethnicity; food, dancing, and even Bollywood movies. I was trying to learn and embrace every part of me that I’d pushed away and dismissed. I thought I’d done pretty well at it, until the word was used again a couple of years later.

This time, instead, it was by one of my Brown friends.

“You’re so whitewashed, Akshaya. Anyone who spends that much time with white people has to be.”

A different reaction sparked this time. I was angry and hurt. It’s one thing to be called “whitewashed” by white people who have no understanding of your culture. But to have that term thrown on you by those who share your culture, and the politics and emotions of being in a cultural limbo, brought a whole new level of irritation.

The space I was constantly being pushed into by white people was one where I didn’t fit, once again. I found backlash and labelling in what I thought would be a safe space to talk about my experiences as a Brown woman; once again another space I felt I wasn’t welcome.

Akshaya Bhutkar Being called whitewashed used to be a compliment growing up. It meant that you weren’t grouped into the stereotype of being Brown, that you were just like the other white girls. It somehow felt like a form of acceptance, like you’d finally broken away from being ‘that Indian girl’. That everyone else was seeing you as more than your race, it was a sign you’d broken past your ethnic stereotype, and people saw past the melanin of your brown skin.

I would refuse to wear ethnic garb in public, and rant about the melodramatics of Bollywood films — “Who wants to watch musicals anyway?” Any tie to being Indian I saw as bad, and I would do anything to break away from the stereotypes of my race. I proclaimed that I didn’t like Indian food loudly, and told no one about the years of classical dance training I had taken, because it wasn’t like ‘normal’ dancing.

I wasn’t “Brown enough”, according to their standard.

This time, being whitewashed meant my struggles and experiences were belittled. It meant I hadn’t lived up to my ethnic stereotype, and that by doing so I was abandoning my culture. It implied my progressive actions, beliefs, and thoughts were something only reserved for those identifying as white.

Having progressive ideals, going against the stereotypes of your ethnicity shouldn’t ever be something only associated with being white. Reclaiming my culture has become an integral part of who I am today; passionate, progressive, and a person of colour who’s just tired of worrying about being “too Brown” or “not Brown enough”.

I was 17 when I began to reclaim my culture and my

Art — Isabella Brown | @bissy

42 — Socio-Cultural

there was only so much new gossip they could run.

I couldn’t practice and develop my own Bahasa (Indonesian language), learning new words and incorporating them into our own conversations within the safety of two or more of us who were in the same position: Learning their ancestors’ mother tongue while living in Australia. I couldn’t be a part of linguistic inside jokes, unless it was with my own siblings or parents.

On What Could Have Been Kezia Aria I get excited when I meet someone new and they’re of the Indonesian diaspora, and they’re Muslim.

Don’t get me wrong, I have a lot of family friends who fit the criteria. My grandparents are extremely involved in the New South Wales contingent of the Australian Muslim-Indonesian community, being a part of boards who hold cultural events and being invited to arisans (regular social gatherings) every weekend. But as much as my (more direct) family would tag along to such events — myself included — I found it difficult to actually belong. As children, we all got along easily. Now, although we still enjoy each other’s company when we meet up tri-annually (usually during Ramadan, mostly just Lebaran — or Eid), I can’t help but feel it was a missed opportunity.

Perhaps it was because my mother tended to move between several social circles, or maybe it truly was because of my shyness as a child, but these relationships were never nurtured, developed, or explored. I never made a deep connection with someone who understood what I was going through specifically. I had many friends who were of the Christian-South-East-Asian diaspora and the Muslim-Arab diaspora, but it wasn’t the same.

I couldn’t laugh with someone about the current popular sinetron (Indonesian soap operas) or the excessive amount of daily infotainment shows our mothers were obsessed with, including Silet and Cek & Ricek, and how

I couldn’t feel total embarrassment with another when our mothers, grandmothers, or aunties would dance to dangdut (a genre of Indonesian folk and traditional popular music) at weddings. Or when they would roll out the karaoke machine with the cheesy generic visuals and oftentimes incorrect lyrics, and how the only contemporary English song we could ever do was ‘Sk8ter Boi’ by Avril Lavigne.

I couldn’t continue practicing traditional Indonesian dancing, with the one dance class being far away and no proper friends my age. I had publicly performed at two Indonesian cultural events, once at a wedding, and that was it. I also couldn’t even try to navigate the political atmosphere of Indonesia growing up, with constant demonstrations and rallies, and controversial elections.

Forming my own opinions when it came to Indonesian politics that weren’t derived from my parents’ worldview? Not an easy or accessible feat.

I feel like I’ve missed out on a large chunk of my identity.

And although now, at 20 years of age, I’m trying to consume as much as I can about Indonesia, its language, history, culture, and my own family’s ancestral roots, I can’t help but mourn for what could have been. It’s tough being a part of a diaspora, being biologically connected to something, and yet not connected at all.

Socio-Cultural — 43

beauty. We aren’t friends anymore.

It is only now I realise what my sister had meant all those years ago in that bedroom; my mother had sacrificed so much for us to grow up in a Western country, she had spent so much time trying to help me become the best version of myself. But I don’t think she expected me to make my own sacrifices, to discard my own culture so I could fit in during lunchtime.

On Time Spent Gigi Liu

Today, I spend the afternoon interviewing my grandmother for a university assignment on cultural identity. My mother translates for us because I can’t speak Cantonese anymore.

Today, I am no longer blind. I can see and feel and hear the beauty of being a person of colour.

I spent most of my childhood and teenage years ashamed of my cultural identity.

I remember dancing around my mother while she was in the garden, singing Cantonese songs I’d heard on the television shows we watched together.

When I started pre-school, I picked up English.

“Yuck, how Asian.” A boy in my grade said to me when I was 9 or 10 years old, studying in the library.

When I was 11, I visited China for the first time. It was there that I learned I didn’t get into the selective school my mother wanted me to attend. My sister had pulled me aside, into an empty bedroom in our uncle’s apartment, and told me, “Mum probably cried when she found out.” I didn’t understand. All I knew was that I was going to another high school where I could wear what all the white girls wore on mufti day.

I spent most of my time trying to dye my hair a lighter shade of brown. I showed up to school one day with my new hair and a white friend told me I looked so much better, that I looked a “bit too Asian” with my natural colour. I didn’t realise the hostility of her statement. I embraced it with open arms, blinded by the whiteness of

Art — Isabella Brown | @bissy

44 — Arts & Lifestyle

Luka: Lessons on Poetry & Politics Akshaya Bhutkar

Luka Lesson is an Australian spoken word poet and self-described “conscious hiphop artist” of Greek heritage. With an original but classic style, Luka utilises hip-hop and poetry as a form of expressing self-determination and raising awareness for marginalised young people.

Photograph — Michelle Grace Hunder

Arts & Lifestyle — 45

Cultural identity is a subject that many first generation migrants struggle with. Being from the Greek diaspora, how have you dealt with the struggle of being in-between two cultures?

I’ve dealt with it in some pretty serious ways. Growing up in Australia, I’m constantly told that I am Greek and not Australian. Of course when I go to Greece, they call me “the Australian”, not “the Greek”. I actually had an experience on stage in Greece, where a rapper I was performing with was making fun of me, saying I lived in the bush and had a pet kangaroo. There’s plenty of racism in Greece and there’s plenty of disrespect in Greece for Greeks of the diaspora. There are also the same issues in Australia between the Greeks and the Aussies, and the Aussies and the Greeks.

I don’t really fit into the mould of a generic Greek-Australian; whatever that is. I don’t really feel at place in many of the Greek circles in Australia. Being ‘in-between’ is definitely a space I’m beginning to feel comfortable in. Getting comfortable with that is an important aspect; it shows other people it’s okay [to be in-between], too. We all end up feeling more comfortable about it.

It’s also where the good art is, where the new voices are, where the new concepts live. That’s where the growth of society is, in those in-between spaces. I think it’s a place of power.

Did you always see yourself expressing your culture and beliefs through your work?

I spent a lot of time disregarding and disliking the negative aspects of my culture that I grew up with. I never saw myself becoming a poet. I was following my heart and I fell into a dark place in my life and poetry helped me. By the time I came out of that dark place, I realised I was good at it. I realised I wasn’t taught about true Australian history at school, so I did an anthropology subject when I first went to university. There I discovered the truth, in terms of the massacres and treatment of Indigenous people in Australia. I dove deeply into learning about that, and it forms the basis of my understanding of the country I live in. It’s not until now I feel I’m grounded enough in the history of this country that I feel more compelled to continue my journey towards Greece.

You broke into the world of performance poetry after studying a degree in Indigenous studies. How has that impacted the messages that you express through spoken word?

A lot of the knowledge Indigenous academics have taught me, and are continuing to teach in Australia is somehow looked upon in general society as a bunch of lies.

KRS-One, one of the originators of the hip-hop movement, believed in a term called ‘educainment’: educating through entertainment. They really inspired me after finishing university. Knowledge needs to be heard outside the towers of an institution not everyone can engage with. So I started making a lot of political poems, making

46 — Arts & Lifestyle

videos — now I focus my attention on amplifying voices: those of Indigenous people, people of colour, other poets. I want to make sure of that; I understand I have a migrant background but I don’t suffer as many injustices as others do.

Do you feel your messages are understood or misinterpreted at all? How have your messages and motivations evolved from when you first started?

I see myself as a poet, first and foremost. I feel as though if I wanted to become a politician, then I would have. Even though I talk about many political things, it’s important for me, as a poet, to write about every single different thing on the planet. I’ve written poetry about love, my ancestors, the Odyssey, funny stuff, ancient Greek stories, and politics. My art varies and gets misconstrued. People assume I’m talking about a certain thing when I mean something else, but that’s the nature of being an artist.

Some people hate it; some people think it’s too political for them. All I can do is keep putting my neck on the line and keep making my art. Our voices are important.

How important do you feel it is to cultivate the idea of words as tools, as a form of expression, from a young age?

It is essential, and I think it’s in the interest of governments and capitalist systems. I think a lot of issues we face today — domestic violence, high suicide rates among young men, racism, sexism — a lot of them stem from us not having the words to express what we’re feeling. I think a lot of men, especially, are frustrated at not being able to express what they’re thinking, or are terrified to be vulnerable around each other.

If I can help every kid I work with to write even just one line of honest, vulnerable, true speech, then that’s my activism. I can’t count exactly how many workshops I’ve done, but I would say that over the past eleven years, I have witnessed and helped hundreds and thousands of poems be written. Each one of them is a small drop in the ocean: helping the community grow, and being able to express themselves clearly and honestly.

Have you had any notable experiences while running your workshops?

I have one story. Last month, I was in country Victoria, in a very small town. In my workshops I encourage students who speak a second language to use that language in their poems. There was a girl from a Chinese background and she was the only girl that was brave enough to get up and read her poem at the end of the session. It was a ‘personal metaphor’ poem so she wrote: “I am a stamp on a letter, stuck on the corner, not knowing where I’ll go. I feel like I need to escape this town.”

Arts & Lifestyle — 47

When she got to the point of reading her line in Mandarin, she looked at me for a final permission of sorts, and then she spoke this line — this really long line in Mandarin.

The emotion in the room just totally dropped. Sometimes poems aren’t just words, they’re actions. In that moment, the action changed the atmosphere in the room. The mostly-white students that were her classmates were all really shocked or giggling — they didn’t know how to handle it. It was the best-written poem in English.

She sat down after the class and was crying with her teacher because it was such an emotional experience for her. It was like she came out as a Chinese person. Her teacher was super proud of her and I was super proud of her. At the same time, it was extremely sad, that it has to be a thing. Why is it even a thing for someone to speak a line in their language? But all of a sudden everyone was blown away, not just because she spoke Mandarin in front of them, or wrote a poem, but also because her poem was the best out of everybody’s. For the first time she was proud of being Chinese, in front of her friends.

There are lots of moments like that, claiming their stories. Claiming your history, speaking it in front of a group of people, is just so empowering. It changes the way everyone sees you from that moment on.

Interview transcript has been edited for length and clarity.

This year at the start of August, Luka will be running his first ever poetry, writing, and performance retreat in the village his grandfather comes from in Rhodes, Greece.

This retreat is designed to inspire and amplify the voices of people who wish to experience the power of writing and performing a piece of art soaked in history.

Aimed at all skill levels, the sessions will include visits to ancient sites, a look into the historical context of spoken word poetry, one-on-one guidance, group writing sessions, and solo performances.

More information can be found at: www.rhodespoetryretreat.com/

48 — Arts & Lifestyle

Pasta with Papa Phan Serves 4 | Preparation time – 30 minutes Papa Phan is the father of Kim Phan, our Creative Director and resident garlic bread enthusiast. He’s as cool as his koi fish and as smooth as John Legend.

Ingredients: - a handful of dried spaghetti (or your favourite pasta) - 300g fresh soft tofu - 1 large onion — finely chopped - 4 tomatoes — diced - 1 cup vegetable stock - 1/4 cup coriander — washed and chopped - pinch of sugar - salt and pepper to taste How To: - Break tofu up into small pieces and shallow fry in oil, continuously crushing with a spatula until it becomes the same granularity as mince. Season with salt and pepper and cook until nice and crunchy.

- Set the mince aside, and begin the Bolognese sauce.

- Fry off the onion until golden, then add the tomatoes, stock, herb mix, sugar, and half of the coriander.

- Simmer on a low heat until the sauce thickens, then add your tofu mince.

- In boiling, salted water, cook your pasta until al dente.

- Drain and stir in Bolognese sauce.

- Serve and garnish with remaining coriander.

Tip: Add half a tomato more than you think you need, which makes the sauce a tad more sour, then add sugar and salt to balance it out. This will make the sauce more flavoursome.

Mix it up: - Add cream to the sauce when simmering.

- Add butter and Italian herb mix to the pasta after draining it.

- Sprinkle cheese on the pasta before adding the sauce.

Art — Vanessa Papastavros | vanscribbles.tumblr.com

Showcase — 49

Winter in New York City, an imposed slumber as snow falls on an otherwise frenetic landscape zipping with yellow cabs and light-up trees. But in empty streets and simplified scenes, the push-and-pull of time becomes slow and still as a mist of quiet reflection lingers in shades of black and white.

Dan Da Silva | @dan_ds

Politics — 57

In Good Faith?

Nuance Lacking in 18C Debate Hugh Pearce

CW: racism

On 30 March 2017, in a late-night sitting, the Senate voted down proposed changes to section 18C of the Racial Discrimination Act (‘RDA’). On the face of it, these changes sought to weaken the protections provided in the Act, and focused on removing three words: offend, insult, and humiliate. This vote was the culmination of a fiery chapter of public debate around freedom of expression in Australia. Before we evaluate the merits of these changes, it’s important to understand exactly the legislative provisions at the heart of this debate.

Simply put, 18C provides remedy when people are insulted, offended, humiliated, or intimidated on the basis of their race. This provision was added in 1995, following the ‘National Inquiry into Racist Violence’ and the ‘Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody’. In particular, 18C was designed to address lowlying behaviours that can normalise micro-aggressions and act as a precursor for more severe acts such as harassment, intimidation, or violence. 18C is the first line of defence before racist and bigoted behaviour can escalate.

One of the most prominent cases relating to 18C, one that sparked the current round of debate over freedom of expression, is the 2011 case of Eatock v Bolt. In this case, a complaint was filed against Andrew Bolt and his publisher, the Herald Sun, for a series of articles he wrote targeting prominent ‘light-skinned’ Aboriginal people. Bolt claimed they had chosen to identify as Aboriginal, considering their mixed heritage, for personal and professional gains. The court held that the elements of 18C were satisfied, as the comments in Bolt’s article were such that would offend, insult, humiliate, and possibly intimidate reasonable lightskinned Indigenous Australians.

However, the discussion doesn’t end with 18C. While the elements of 18C were established in the case, Bolt and the Herald Sun then sought to rely on defences under section 18D of the RDA. 18C sets up the ‘offence’ while 18D holds defences to excuse one’s liability under 18C. These defences exempt anything said or done “reasonably and in good faith” in three circumstances: – As part of an artistic work.

Art — Kim Phan

58 — Politics

– As a comment with a genuine academic, artistic or scientific purpose or a genuine purpose in the public interest.

– As a fair and accurate report or comment on any event or matter of public interest.

While these are broad, they are not final. In Andrew Bolt’s case, the court decided he couldn’t rely on the 18D defences — he had not acted “reasonably and in good faith”. Bolt had not cared enough to research or contact the groups and individuals he wrote about and generalised so sweepingly, and he couldn’t provide any facts to support his comments.

This sparked uproar — people were terrified freedom of expression was under attack. This topic was championed by soon-to-be Prime Minister of Australia Tony Abbott, and became a popular point in his election rhetoric. Regardless of the backlash, what is often missed is that the penalties handed down in Bolt’s case did little to limit freedom of expression. In fact, the articles Bolt wrote are still available online to this day, however they must be accompanied by a corrective notice. This penalty is, as noted by Melbourne University Law School Professor Adrienne Stone, not a sanction on expression at all, but rather the involvement of the state in the debate by which it could note its disapproval of the comments.

It’s a common theme to see discussions surrounding 18C overlook the provisions in 18D. It is not so simple as being illegal to insult or offend someone on the basis of their race, rather it is only unlawful to do so where there is “no genuine purpose in the public interest”.

Moreover, a recent surge in the public debate around 18C, inspired by the late Bill Leak’s infamous cartoons published in The Australian, seemed to miss the fact that whilst a complaint was filed against Leak, it is highly unlikely this complaint would succeed. Again, there are strong protections under 18D. Thus, whilst Leak’s cartoons can easily be seen as offensive, the provisions in the RDA are not such that they inhibit his freedom of artistic expression.

The proposal the Senate recently voted down intended to replace the words “offend, insult, and humiliate” with “harass”. However subtle, this semiotic change implies a higher degree of intention and malice. This proposal would, in the words of Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull, “provide the right balance” between a right to freedom of expression and a right to be free from racial vilification. However the RDA has already been interpreted by courts as only applicable for conduct that is “profound and serious”, rather than “mere slights”, making this amendment seem partially redundant as the law already sets a reasonably high standard for the application of the RDA. Perhaps this irrelevancy contributed to the Senate rejecting the proposal.

When considering the merits of the proposal, it is important to remember that rights consist of a balancing act. In this instance, the right to freedom of expression is balanced against the rights of others to be free from harassment, vilification, and hate speech.

Moreover, freedom of expression in the Australian context is greater than simply a right to say whatever pops into one’s mind. It is a conduit for the preservation of other rights, including freedom from racial vilification. When considering those who campaign against 18C, we see they are, in the words of Adrienne Stone, “defending a particular, rather unusual, and strongly contested version of freedom of speech”.

Indeed, perhaps their efforts would be better suited to exploring other areas of Australian law where measures against freedom of expression are even stricter, such as defamation law. But that’s a topic for another day.

60 — Showcase

62 — Showcase

Showcase — 63

I don’t know how Japan managed to wedge itself beneath my skin. It’s a longing that intensifies with each passing year, a longing that leaves me inconsolably homesick for a place that simply isn’t home.

It was raining the day that I left Tokyo for the first time with my brother. The smell of rain wafted in through the window of our apartment, acting as an invisible net catching my thoughts and tears, because I knew a part of me would remain there forever.

The city is a refuge for my past self — a refuge completely devoid of sorrow and sadness.

It’s a place where I can return to my former self to feel elusive joy and contentment.

Last December, I came home to Sydney from Japan for the second time. I had spent the whole of November abroad, backpacking with Ansel. Coming home again, what once was so familiar felt incredibly foreign. My room became an empty shell I was occupying to pass the time. As soon as I walked through the door, my mother and brother immediately bombarded me with the dreaded question, “How was your trip?”

It was much more difficult to communicate the second time round as I felt another part had left me again for Japan. This time in the sleepy, seaside town of Onomichi.

64 — Showcase

Onomichi is affectionately known as the “town of hills and cats”. Houses and apartments perch precariously on the town’s slopes, while stray cats are wellacquainted with its winding alleyways.

There was a shotengai (outdoor shopping arcade) which ran right through the town.

High school students zipped past us on their bicycles. A few too many shops seemed shuttered up for good. We turned off into an alleyway, so narrow that our bulky backpacks barely managed to fit through. It led us to our guesthouse, Anago no Nedoko (the bed of an eel). We opened the sliding door only to be greeted by an empty room.

The smell of mould and gas permeated the space.

Anago no Nedoko used to be a fabric store in the Meiji Era, which explained the narrow alley that looked centuries old and the guest house’s deteriorating exterior. It was a property of Akiyasaisei — a non-profit organisation committed to the renovation of Onomichi’s abandoned housing after a significant proportion of the younger generation left the rural seaside for the booming industrial metropolises of Japan.

66 — Showcase

One of these renovated spaces was a book and record shop that used to be an outhouse.

It was tucked away behind Anago and was hidden amongst the sparse, skeletal ginkgo trees. As we entered, we were bathed in a warm yellow light. Piano music softly hummed in the background while the rain began to patter quietly outside. An incense stick burned in the corner, releasing the smoky scent of cedar into the room. On one side of the shop, there were shelves lined with books that stretched from floor to ceiling. On the other side were rows of CDs and records stacked against one another.

Waiting for the rain to subside, Ansel and I flicked through the sleeves to find that the shop exclusively stocked ambient music (there was a lot of Brian Eno) and moody instrumental piano albums.

Next to the shop was a tiny nook illuminated by a single, yellow lightbulb. It was a reappropriated bike shed turned storage area, filled with antiques that were left behind in the abandoned houses. A paper parasol was left untouched in the corner. Lined across the back were paper fans which had been nibbled on by moths. Biscuit tins housed black and white photographs and negatives. As Ansel and I held each strip to the light, we temporarily lived fragmented memories of summer trips to the beach with these strangers.

Looking at the photographs, I imparted a piece of myself within the walls of the nook.

It was our shared moment in time. This was a one in a million moment that stood by itself, because Ansel and I were together but paradoxically alone in the world. There was an underlying bittersweet feeling knowing that this nook was an experience unto itself, never to be recreated or relived ever again. Parts of ourselves lived there untarnished and untouched like the strangers frozen in the photographs. .....

There was a wood-fired pizza restaurant near the pier called Tranquillo. The only other customer inside was a woman sitting by the counter speaking with the owner. We watched as he twirled and tossed pizza dough in the air before we were presented with two menus in Japanese. Ansel furrowed his brows, trying to decipher the menu with Google translate while I stared blankly at the pages, pretending to decide what we were going to have for dinner. Realising that we couldn’t understand a single thing after 15 minutes, the waiter handed us English menus.

Two pizzas swiftly arrived along with a side of bread and salsa verde. Ansel and I ate in silence, overhearing the chef’s conversation with the woman at the counter. She was a yoga teacher who had come back home to Onomichi from her retreat in Hawaii.

Impressed, the chef mentioned that he had always wanted to go to Hawaii.

The woman stood up from her seat and thanked the chef for the meal. He walked her to the front and opened the door, letting a wintry draught inside. It was only when she left that Ansel and I realised how much time we had spent in the restaurant. Maybe it was just the warmth, but I realised that something had been missing from this trip. It was the simple comfort of home that I had forgotten.

I have come to understand that this is a sadness that exists within joy. A sadness that follows elusive happiness, for no reason other than that the joy has dissipated a little. I know that, for better or for worse, a part of me lives contently in Onomichi. She’s sitting on the dock with a ginger cat in her lap and Ansel by her side, waiting for me to return.

Words by Amy Tong Photographs by Amy Tong & Ansel Wakamatsu @a_m_y_a_m_y | @anselwaka

68 — Creative Writing

How Far, My Love, How Long Imogen McCluskey

CW: self-injury

You once cut off your eyelashes because someone called them ‘girlish’. Your mother let out a gasp when you emerged at dinner, completely naked it seemed, the small stubs of hair now sharp against your fingers when you held them up against the ends. You had decided to chop your eyebrows off as well, and your fringe, and — while you were at it — why not the tip of the middle finger on your left hand. As if to test whether skin fell the same as hair against the white basin. Whether it thudded with the same softness, or tumbled down, crashing into the bowl, cracking it in half.

Your mother gasped, you said.

And you wouldn’t have remembered it, particularly if she hadn’t brought it up. You had just got back from hockey practice and had bruises blooming along your shins.

You joined because it was co-ed, and you liked the look of girls’ bra straps moving underneath the cotton uniforms.

When she spoke you could picture her sitting in the living room of your house. She had taken off her left earring to hold the receiver up to her cheek. The ones with the pearls and three small diamonds underneath. As she spoke, you thought you could feel her breath against your ear, but maybe that was just yours, wrapping around the black plastic, covered in fingerprints. Recording all the hands of all the people wanting to make a call back home.

And you were thinking of all the other people you had seen that day: a woman wearing a headscarf fastened with a brooch in the shape of a dollar sign; a man holding a book on the train, titled, ‘Let’s talk about DATA’; the old woman at your grocery store, whistling to her mushrooms. You liked to run your fingers over all these faces, the ones you liked and didn’t. Sometimes you wrote them down to better remember, sometimes scratching phrases and faces in the margins of your book, like when you saw a group of old women huddled together, standing over a dropped bag of groceries. You wrote: Woman, Doris. The leader. ‘She must have been behind the door when God was giving it out’. //Patience// And your mother was speaking all the while, and suddenly she sighed, and you were only half-listening when she spoke the words to you: Carrie had an accident.

Creative Writing — 69

Carrie is your sister who was studying abroad in Madrid. You had spent the summer before you left for university shut up in your room, listening to her practice Spanish through the walls. You were never that close, but not too far apart either.

Held together by the sticky thread of shared love, of shared blood.

Carrie is hurt, your mother said. She is coming home.

How badly? You said. Although you can’t be sure. Direct quotes from life are rare.

Everything blurs and spins and dissolves inside your head, especially that afternoon after the phone call ended, and you pictured your mother replacing the receiver and clipping the earring back onto her left ear, re-crossing her hands in her lap. Or maybe lifting them up to her face and screaming. Or tearing out her hair, or standing up and knocking all the glass figurines off the coffee table onto the floor. But no, that’s not your mother. Or if it was, she would recover a minute later, and run to fetch some glue and newspaper to place underneath the fragile bodies, now surrounded by their severed arms and ears and legs. A battlefield of broken glass.

And then you went walking, you think. Yes, you went walking, because that’s when you found yourself suddenly on the other edge of town. It was only a small university town, but large enough that it was dusk by the time you had somehow walked, or ran, or flew, across to the other end of the river; the bit where it starts to divide into sandbanks that scratch through the clear surface. And you felt the compulsion to pluck out your eyebrows, one by one, and you didn’t realise how many there were and how much it hurt until they all lay in your palms, some picked up by the wind, flitting into the river or onto the ground.

And you found yourself standing in the half-light, suddenly cold — you hadn’t brought a jacket with you, I mean, how could you? You didn’t know you were going — watching the current make small ripples along the sand. You were panting, and sweating, which made you colder. And you were thinking about Madrid, and trying to remember what Carrie had said about it. Was there a river near there? Or was it the ocean? And in that moment you couldn’t remember, but you wiped your forehead and walked back through town, quickly against the cold, and returned to your room just when it went fully dark, and opened your computer to discover — yes, it does have a river. The Manzanares. And it is nowhere near the sea.

70 — Showcase

‘Somewhere Between Antarctica and the Indian Ocean’ is made in collaboration with Saints Press, a small risograph press founded by UTS Masters of Research on Design student, Ella Cutler. The zine is part of a collection of work that explores the theme of ‘fatigue’ from the perspectives of different designers, artists, writers, and musicians.

You can find Eden’s full zine, along with the remainder of the collection, at the Saints Press stall at Other Worlds Zine Fair on 28 May.

72 — Arts & Lifestyle

Central Tunnel: A User’s Guide Emily Warwick

Central Tunnel: the cruel mistress that is the lifeline of Central station. For anyone who has the pleasure of walking through the muggy air of the tunnel, I have but one bit of advice about your walking pace: Knees to chest, people! If you haven’t worked up a sweat by the time you’ve hit Lord of the Fries, you’re not doing it right.

As someone who frequents the tunnel, I’ve come up with some tips to help your travel be as smooth as a freshly shaved leg.

Position ­— The key to a successful run is in the way you plan your positioning. Do not underestimate the power of the position. While clinging to the wall Spider-Manstyle may seem like a good idea to begin with, you will eventually hit: 1.

2.

3.

Someone stopping to tie their shoelace; A company giving out flyers; and/or The musical duo who busk every morning (and the lady who plays a tambourine strapped to her foot).

In order to avoid the above, give the wall a wide berth.

Find the happy medium of people walking with you and against you. Once your position is set, the real technique begins.

It’s a trap! — Position means nothing if you get stuck behind a pack of slow walkers. Avoid the following: 1.

2.

3.

Anyone who stops to look at the time boards outside the ticket gates. They’re obviously new to Central, and do not know the inner workings of the tunnel.

Families on a day trip to the big city. They will walk slowly, a child’s shoelace will untie, and they will spend time fumbling to put their Opal cards into their bum bags.

Phone walkers; those who have the uncontrollable need to constantly look at their phones. Yes, even while attempting to navigate the intricate maze that is Central Tunnel.

Arts & Lifestyle — 73

Picking your team — There’s no ‘I’ in team. There’s also no ‘I’ in Central Tunnel.

Picking the perfect team to help you on your journey can mean the difference between making your exam or not.

Two words: active wear. Not my personal fashion choice, but my choice as a team leader. Speedy, determined, fit.

Shoes: those fancy business ladies who hold their heels and wear runners. They’ve got things to do and places to be. Follow their path.

Wheels: bikes, scooters, skateboards.

All obstacles for people in front of the vehicle but when you’re cruising in their wake, it’s a streamline trip.

Once you’ve picked out your fast-walking, fast-thinking team, you can put some choreographed moves to practice.

Triangular formation — Like an arrow slicing through the air, your team will slice through the masses of people. Keep in formation. If you fall behind, you get left behind.

The tag–along — Find someone who is speedy and follow their every move. If they slip in between someone you, too, slip in. This means you must walk extremely close to your selected person. Balance is key; it will all go to crap if you step on the back of their shoe.

Dodge — If you travel through the tunnel you will encounter the infamous flyer handouts. Your best bet is to dodge your opponent. Approach, then at the last second, side step, spin around, and continue on your journey as planned. Simple, but effective.

Fluids — You need to get into the mentality of water.

Play waterfall soundtracks on your iPod if you need to. Just like water, you need to be able to flood into the tiniest of gaps. Find the gap. Fill the gap. Be the gap.

Props

iPod — motivation for when your legs are burning and your heart is pounding.

A random flyer — flash this at the person trying to give you flyers and exclaim, “Already got one!”

Shoes — preparation starts from the ground up.

Make sure you wear comfortable shoes. Even if they don’t go with your outfit, you’ll be walking so fast no one will see.

Sunglasses — although there is technically no sunlight in the dark hole that is the tunnel, sunglasses help you avoid eye contact, making your journey all that more smooth.

To my slow-footed friends I leave you with this; keep left unless overtaking. And to those unknown heroes, those who dare to travel further, faster, and smarter; when travelling through Central Tunnel there’s nothing you can’t do while listening to ‘Eye of the Tiger’.

Art — Mia Tran

74 — Creative Writing

Fight or Flight

CW: mental illness

It was Plath who said there was stasis in darkness. But I’ve always seen it as the opposite. There’s darkness in stasis. Change, growth, and novelty have the ability to comfort me, and provide excitement to a pool of mostly stagnant perspective.

Novelty brings us a kind of transcendence; it breathes curiosity into the fundamental quicksand of sameness that faces each of us at some point.

When the fight-or-flight instinct is activated in the brain, the body releases endorphins, dopamine, and norepinephrine. Hunger, stress, and panic induce this response, causing a rush that is ironically addictive. Being constantly active allows you a degree of super-charged awareness you hadn’t otherwise thought you could find in yourself. On this chemical wave, you can think better, you can be better, you can ‘live’ better. As a straight-laced near-teetotaler, the idea of mind-altering substances consumed against one’s better judgment felt abhorrent. But this was a pill I was swallowing over and over again.

I had felt that desire for urgency building for a while. In between polishing schooner glasses, I wrote on the back of soggy coasters nihilistic platitudes that meant something to me in that time. I drove to empty parking lots late at night, craving a solitude that seemed to only breed more of the same aching feeling. Yet I did it again.

It was something I couldn’t quite explain, but was beginning to permeate my entire life. I felt swollen, my concentration waned, my energy declined, and I carried a vague apathy for things I once cared about. Because nobody appeared to understand, I didn’t bother bringing it up. All I knew was that I wanted to get out.

I boarded a plane, began writing in school books in foreign languages and living under a gentler sun. I was out. I was flying. I was changing. Beaches became mountains. Heat waves became snow days, and I felt transformed. New surroundings purified me of a cynicism that had racked by mind. I ate less, I moved more, I worked harder, I strived. I had worked it out. I had calculated myself a cure:

Ambition + Achievement + Excitement = Happy

Therefore

More Ambition + More Achievement + More Excitement = More Happy

This equation was infinitesimal. Constantly fighting and flying was a noble pursuit.

Being a ‘better’ human being was subscribing to never-ending industry, and allowed

Creative Writing — 75

each day to become an art form. I was able to construct and control every way that my life turned. This was the pyrrhic plight of the perfectionist. It was also a slow burn toward feeling absolutely frantic.

********

Cumulatively, this movement started becoming too fast. Flights were booked and then flights were cancelled, jobs were applied for and then abandoned, relationships dramatically ended and then rekindled. The rush of sustaining this frenetic pace wasn’t working anymore. Avoiding friends, I walked in woods alone and wept inexplicably, filled with a terror I hadn’t experienced before, and couldn’t quite name.

I sat in front of my hostel bunk on a Greek island and forlornly clutched a crushed eucalyptus leaf in my hand. All I had associated with that leaf was the feeling of wanting to get out. The glare, the sadness, the cicadas, the pang of relief I felt every time I left a party with the same faces. Returning to that place meant returning to a feeling I desperately wanted to avoid. And I would do everything within my power to stop it.

“Do you think you might be depressed?”

I immediately rebuffed the idea. I was following my equation! I had literally moved away from the eucalypts and scorching sun. I was achieving, I was fit, I was healthy, I was in a relationship. Therefore, I wasn’t depressed. Therefore, nothing could be wrong.

********

Halloween. I was seventeen, resisting the underage sucking down of Bacardi Breezers while the rest of my friends rolled around crying and spewing into plastic pumpkins. I had asked to be invited to this party and was now struggling to understand why. I was frightened. I had no desire to participate in the rite of passage that having a drink gave my friends. I wanted to get out.

Halloween. I was twenty-one, no longer resisting the ceremonious sucking down of vodka and house parties that carried the stench of bong water and unwashed clothes. I wanted to get out.

Halloween. I was twenty-two, having the sinking realisation I had felt this way before.

There were crying spells and moments of panic increasingly marking my day. But this time there was a boy that I loved with an accent, there was independence and achievement and excitement. There was everything I thought I had ever wanted. Yet at the same time, there was a compounding realisation that my equation, which had been maintained to combat this ever-present feeling, might not be working. I had nothing external to relate this cyclical fear and dread to. I wanted to get out.

76 — Creative Writing

********

I could no longer be still. I could no longer sleep. I was starved. Back-ending each day with a certain list of things to do prevented me from confronting this idea. Small moments in which there was nothing to do were sucked away. But that was okay — the more I could do, the more I could move, the better I would feel. According to my body’s indications, I needed to fight. Or I needed to fly.

The emergency ward had tinsel strung along its front desk. A Christmas tree was placed haphazardly on the blue linoleum floor. Explaining my symptoms of panic in another language felt exhilarating. Surely my vital signs would indicate something was physically wrong. Psychosomatic distress could not solely account for the simultaneous terror and exhaustion I was experiencing. In other words, this couldn’t be me. I was ambitious. I was achieving. I was moving. I was following my equation. And yet I was in a psychiatric waiting room. I was getting out, but from what I wasn’t exactly sure.

********

Recognising you have a mental illness is like having the metrics for what determines your mood or happiness flipped around. When you understand that which has given you the drive to keep going can sometimes push you to limits that aren’t mentally or physically possible, you come to see things differently. The lens with which you access your past, predict your future, and understand yourself becomes tarnished. In hindsight, my equation was evidently wrong.

My relationship to that instinctual response seems different now. It is sometimes strained, in wake of the understanding that rush itself cannot be a panacea. I swim laps, and feel my body’s reluctance for exertion now that dogma is gone. Although outwardly nothing in the circumstances rationally rendered what happened, my mind’s warped image of those moments feel indelible. I am still trying to place some kind of significance on that time.

The red-brick semis line the same streets I drive to the same beach. I’ll probably book another trip in a year or two, just like everyone else. But perhaps the meaning of it won’t render quite the same significance. Because I don’t have to fight or fly. At least not all of the time.

Socio-Cultural — 77

Tracks Rebecca Cushway

CW: mental illness, suicide, self-harm, BPD, ableism

I remember it vividly. The thick sterile air, the pale skin, the comforting electric pulse. I can smell the nurse’s sweat and hear him feeling sorry for me. Bright white in the middle of the night. She was lying on this bed a hundred other people had lain in, ignoring me. Her arm hung limp, railroad tracks running down her skin, that I pretended to ignore back.

My best friend has tried to kill herself three times that I have been there for. Once (foolishly, she admits) with a fuck-load of Panadol. A measureable fuck-load. Twice, in a psychiatric hospital that I was too scared to visit.

Thrice, with neglect and recreational drugs.

There were other times too. But I wasn’t there for those.

When I say neglect, I mean that she has a metabolic disease that she used to intentionally not medicate herself for. She used to do drugs I hadn’t heard of, drink like she was untouchable, and eat whatever the hell she wanted. What would be a run-of-the-mill night out for some, was an act of self-harm for someone with diabetes.

Fact: People with a mental and behavioural condition are almost twice as likely to report having diabetes. It is unclear whether diabetes increases the chances of having a mental and/or behavioural condition, or if it’s the other way around.

This last time was terrifying. Growing up with a nurse for a mother, and mental illness in the family, my teenage self never really clicked that being hospitalised fortnightly and changing medication monthly was not normal. I remember walking to the hospital nearly every day after school to visit my mum, and sometimes she would just be there in the children’s ward, alongside kids with eating disorders and broken legs.

Until this last time, I didn’t think that she was actually going to die. I wheeled her on an office chair down 18 stories and shoved her into a taxi, because she was screaming at me that she didn’t want an ambulance.

I was so scared, I listened. Nurses looked at us like dumb kids, asking us what drugs she’d taken. Nobody in triage seemed to realise the gravity of the situation.

I was so scared, I didn’t realise either. Her skin was pale, she couldn’t speak, and what I assumed was a hangover or a bad trip turned out to be a severe case of hyperglycaemia.

Fact: When blood sugar is high enough, a diabetic’s kidneys can fail. To combat this, their body metabolises energy using stored fats and proteins (instead of glucose), which can result in ketoacidosis.

This creates a smell on the skin so distinct that some dogs are trained to recognise it as a warning sign.

These dogs are smarter than I was.

I sat in the emergency waiting room for three hours, intensive care for two, and a night awake stressing at home after they told me I had to leave.

This moment was when I realised where the intersection of her mental illness and physical wellbeing collided.

She ingested substances she was not supposed to, and didn’t take her insulin. I realised that disregard for self-care can sometimes be very real self-harm. People get sent to psychiatric hospitals for overdosing, not for forgetting to take their insulin.

I was not a very good friend in high school. I was scared of being called ‘crazy’, like her. I ignored warning signs, left her alone at parties, and told my classmates that I “didn’t really like her that much”. Being a good friend to someone with a serious mental illness is not easy. That doesn’t excuse shitty behaviour though. You can’t blame

78 — Socio-Cultural

betrayal and apathy on someone else’s mental health.

For a long time though, I thought I could. I reasoned with that disgusting line: it’s not them, it’s their illness, and let my teenage insecurity coat my skin in sticky resentment and fear. I was in a car, on the way to a concert with three girls I’m not sure I ever really liked, and when these girls brought up the topic of my best friend’s hospitalisation, I panicked. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I remember the word ‘crazy’ and my mother’s disappointed face flicker at me in the reflection of the side-view mirror. When I was found out, my best friend shut me out, she had been fucked over too many times to fall for it again. Ignored me for a solid month before I couldn’t take it anymore. I forced myself into her room and through tears, recited my apology to an unmoving face.

There have been other times when boys or rumours have made me a coward. But I made her a playlist that spelled out an apology track by track and mailed it to her four hours away. She’s always forgiven me for the things I’ve done.

The scariest part about finally understanding someone’s will to die, is knowing that they believe with all their heart that they would be better off not living. It is a constant battle — this dangerous empathy has you feeling selfish for encouraging them to keep going against their will, convinced so much by their chemically imbalanced logic that you start believing it too.

When she was finally diagnosed with borderline personality disorder (‘BPD’), she had been through so many psychologists who did more harm than good.

They sent her to psychiatric hospitals; places she was not prepared for, places where she would watch a friend kill himself.

Fact: As of 2015, in the whole of Australia, there are only 17 public psychiatric hospitals and 143 public hospitals with a psychiatric ward.

I could argue that sometimes she is not herself. My mother happened to be one of the nurses trying to

sedate her once when she was manic. She kicked and punched my mother in the face. She loves my mother, and apologised a hundred times over. Another time, she found herself in the middle of the city, not knowing what day or time it was, because she had disassociated so severely. When these things happen, it is not my duty to still love her. I am my own person and can have feelings and emotions about these things. I love her because I decided that was what I was going to do. When I am not myself she does the same.

I wake her up at 4:00 a.m. with 39 messages, rambling about being scared of myself and how much I feel the need to tear off my skin. She asks me questions about the future and gives me a digital slap across the face, telling me things I already know — like your body is never going anywhere, you have to deal with this somehow.

I watch neon lights hit her dancing in the dark of a warehouse, spinning out of her mind, happy. I do not pity her, indulge her, or pretend she is anything she is not. I should not have to talk about what it is like to love someone with a severe mental illness, but I will.

Because I know there are people out there, teetering on the edge of giving up on this, like I was. Remember that being neurotypical does not make you more rational, it does not make your opinions more valid, and it does not make your life any more or less important. This person does not need to earn your love, you need to earn theirs.

If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health, or suicide, please consider speaking to your local GP, a healthcare professional, or calling one of the confidential services below.

Lifeline — 13 11 14 Suicide Call Back Service — 1300 659 467

Showcase — 79

84 — Socio-Cultural

Yogic Transformations Raveena Grover

Katie-Lynn rolls up her yoga mat following an intense Bikram workout with Swami David. As she waves to her swami, she can’t help but frown at why yogic terms in Sanskrit are so much harder to pronounce than in English. She mouths sew-ray-e-nam-ass-car repeatedly, walking out of the studio passing a bustle of perky blonde mums, eyeing their taut bums and (probably) faux Hermès bags. Like many others, Katie-Lynn begins her weekend with a high-energy yoga workout at one of the Northern Beaches’ most popular yoga studios.

Surrounded by prolific views of Bondi, these women sweat, flex, and bend chanting Oh-Muh under their guru’s guide.

Yoga originated 5,000 years ago in the Indus-Sarasvati civilisation in Northern India. Through the Rig Vedas (sacred Hindu texts written in Sanskrit) it was practised by the Brahmins (the highest caste) and carried on to be developed and honed into a spiritual and physical practice. Contrary to its use in Western and modern Indian practice, yoga’s roots lie in Hinduism.

Popularised through two of Hinduism’s most notable scripts, the Bhagavad Gita and Mahabharata, yogic scriptures were made more accessible to Brahmins and spread throughout the Indian Subcontinent. These vedas spoke at great lengths of the transformative and healing powers of the practice.

“Om” (ॐ), a combination of three sounds, A-U-M, is a mantra to invoke mindfulness. Passed down in Hinduism by rishis, its vibrations align all elements of being. In yoga, Om is chanted to centre one’s mind, body, and soul to bring focus to the present. The four pillars of yoga are Gyan (Intelligence), Karma (Action), Bhakti (Devotion) and Kriya (Energy), and the combination of these bringing Samadhi, the highest state of consciousness. Yoga strives to unite all aspects of being to transcend materialism. Its asanas (movements), conducted sequentially, strive to centre the mind.

In Sanskrit, the word yoga means connection; of the mind, spirit, and physical being.

Art — Shannon Kovats |@shannonkovats

In Bondi lingo, yoga means a flat tummy and a free pass to appropriate a marginalised culture.

Through a Western lens, yoga is primarily viewed as a form of physical exercise to tone and sculpt the body.

Its portrayal in popular culture is one that strays from its classical roots. For example, take the song ‘Yoga’ by Janelle Monáe with its sexualised lyrics insinuating a

Socio-Cultural — 85

fun, flirty workout. Yoga’s history of being sexualised emphasises its transition from a meditative, spiritual practice to one that is solely physical, despite the ancient teachings of meditation stating otherwise. Ignoring this and placing arbitrary sexual characteristics on the practice misses the point.

Yoga is also profoundly used and portrayed as an elite activity taught by white people. Along with the popularisation of activities such as goat yoga and Yogalates, the roots of yoga have been desecrated. Why though, should we associate yoga with spirituality?

Yogic spirituality is a powerful form of meditation.

Messing with yogic energies used for meditation that have been refined for millennia is not only useless, but can be harmful to the energies of those practicing these kinds of activities. Yoga’s aim is to bring mindfulness, and though entertaining, neither goats nor sex complement yoga and will not help any student achieve Samadhi.

Though heavily appropriated and classist in the West, yoga also has a history of oppression in India that cannot be ignored. Its formation ensured only those with a high standing in society would have access to its teachings and only men would be permitted to engage in it. Casteism in South Asia extends as far back as 1500 BCE. Out of the four primary castes — Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, and Shudras — the accessibility of yoga was limited to Brahmins. Sanskrit is a language of violence for Dalit people, who are excluded from the four-fold varna (caste) system and instead were engaged with as the fifth ‘untouchable’ varna. Dalit people were prohibited from hearing the vedas, which upheld Brahmins as the sanctimonious caste.

Yoga’s entrenchment and subsequent deviation from religion is interesting to explore. The practice of yoga was prohibited under the rule of the British Raj for being a product of Hinduism. However, with the advent of European colonial oppression alongside globalisation, and the subsequent increase in secularism, yoga’s focus in India dramatically shifted from fundamentally religious, to physical.

The characteristics of yoga being a classist practice in India continued to be upheld with its spread to Western society. Classism and racism in the West ensures yoga is largely available to those with a favourable socioeconomic status. With the average cost of a yoga class being $15, students can expect to pay anywhere between $150-$200 over the course of a term. Though this may seem a menial amount to some, those who cannot afford to fork out this payment are left with less viable options to practice yoga.

Racism generally being structurally systemic means the highest class is attributed to those with the most favourable race characteristics. In short, white people.

When the highest class, who by default are a majority race, commodify an Eastern practice, not only is credit and praise directed to them, but monetary profits too.

This then becomes an ethical issue; would it not be most beneficial for profits of yoga to be received by those from whose culture it originates? Obviously, race and class issues aren’t this clear cut, and many other intersections factor in. However, it is important to note that due to the commodification of an Eastern practice by Westerners in Western countries, yoga has become less accessible to South Asian expats and descendants, even less accessible to Dalits, and easier to for white people to profit from. It is therefore imperative that credit and funding are returned to support the community that created yoga.

Both identity and class tie into the adoption of yoga by the West. The spread of yoga has done some great things, and the practice should be made accessible to everyone. However, yoga’s detachment from Hinduism and its globalisation is not a free pass for its appropriation and perpetuation of classism in the West. Yoga should be approached with an open mind to learn about a marginalised culture from a marginalised culture, and return any profits made to the culture. So forget Bondi, Katie-Lynn, and place your yoga mat in front of my people.

86 — Students’ Association Reports

Students’ Association Reports

President’s Report — Beatrice Tan It’s been a busy period for the Association, with various projects in the process of being implemented.

1. Equity Loan Scheme In the past few weeks, I’ve been in contact with some faculty societies regarding the equity loan scheme.

The loan scheme will be filling the vacuum created by the discontinuance of the second hand bookstore. The equity loan scheme will also be extended to include calculators for specific faculties.

In order for students to loan the textbooks, they will fill out a loan form and we will take a photocopy of their student ID, and they will then be allowed to loan the textbooks out for the duration of a semester. The calculators will be loaned out for a week.

The Business Society has given me a comprehensive list of the textbooks most used by the students. We are currently waiting on some other contacted societies for their lists.

I am still in the process of contacting some other faculty societies for their assistance. Should this fail, I will attempt to contact the deans of the respective faculties. We are hoping to launch this scheme by the second semester.

2. Night Owl I am proud to announce that Night Owl will be expanding in to the Haymarket Campus in semester two. We are looking to offer fresh fruit, tea, and coffee, as well as a light dinner. The dinner will most likely be offered on Wednesday evenings. This has been in the works for quite a while; the biggest problem is the lack of industrial dishwashing facilities in the Haymarket building. The Education Vice President, Norma,

the Executive Officer, Mariah, and I had extensive discussions on how we can overcome this problem.

One way, which we are looking into now, is through Parliament on King who we are currently in contact with. Parliament on King provides us with the soup for Night Owl, and is an important social enterprise that provides employment and leadership opportunities to refugee women settling in Australia. They can provide us with individual servings of food in recyclable bamboo containers, as they did when we hosted the Network of Women Students Australia National Conference in 2016.

Even with this, there are a few more logistical issues to consider but we are making steady headway into the project.

3. Sexual Assault Working Group During induction, the DVC mentioned a sexual assault working group, which would have student representation. I was contacted by the provost’s office asking for representatives from the association, myself and one other person.

Having thought long and hard about this, I chose to nominate our Treasurer, Lachlan. This decision on the basis that Lachlan and I are the best people to sit on this committee given our experience and knowledge on the topic. In the early stages of the discussion, it is important that those with the most knowledge and experience are at the table and able to contribute.

As the process goes on and the circle widens, I will nominate more people to be involved in the process.

Contact: president@utsstudentsassociation.org

Students’ Association Reports — 87

Treasurer’s Report — Lachlan Barker The President and I recently met with Michael Zacharatos to discuss Vertigo’s projected budget. As has been discussed in previous meetings with the draft budget, Vertigo’s funding has been increased this year and it’s encouraging to see this money being scheduled for good use. Some new equipment is being investigated for purchase, costs have been estimated for future volumes, and investigation into marketing is being done. I’m appreciative of the willingness of Vertigo to work closely with us on finances — something likely aided by the fact that we aren’t just at each other’s throats constantly.

I will be meeting Deputy Vice Chancellor at the end of May with the President; we will be presenting the finalised budget proposal for the year, so if any students are interested in discussing the proposal then I’d be more than happy to take questions via my email.

I’d also like to thank the President for selecting me to sit on the Sexual Assault Working Group with her and several University Department Directors. Whilst not strictly falling under my capacity as Treasurer, it is a privilege to be able to represent the UTSSA on a matter I am so passionate about.

UTS is in a unique position to have management so eager to work with us in resolving this issue.

As always, feel free to email me if you have any questions.

Contact: treasurer@utsstudentsassociation.org

Secretary’s Report — Luke Chapman

the Federal Department of Education released data which showed UTS students were the least satisfied in the country with their educational experience. This disappointing result is no surprise to UTS students who have had to deal with the poorly implemented changes to timetables and teaching methods with no consultation and sparse support.

The University can only resolve these failures by working in partnership with students. A true partnership will require the University to work with students from the ground up on changes and new projects. As your representative body, the UTSSA will continue to lobby the university to meaningfully engage students at all levels of University decision-making.

2. UTS Stop Funding Harassment and Intimidation: Deregister LifeChoice: Without any consultation with students, UTS is now using student money to fund the anti-choice group LifeChoice. As an affiliated ActivateUTS club, the anti-abortion group will now have access to student money collected from student fees to fund bar tabs, merchandise, and other resources to further their activities.

The use of student money to fund an anti-choice group that targets students seeking an abortion with medical misinformation and harassment should be of concern to anyone who supports the right of students to enjoy a learning environment which is free from gender-based harassment and all forms of intimidation.

In response, the UTSSA is launching a campaign for UTS to stop funding harassment and intimidation by deregistering LifeChoice from the ActivateUTS clubs program. If you would like to support this campaign, please email me to be added to the working group.

Contact: secretary@utsstudentsassociation.org

1. UTS Fails On Student Satisfaction: This month

88 — Students’ Association Reports

Education Vice President’s Report — Norma Jean Cooper *Vertigo highly recommends reading to the tune of ‘Tennis Court’ by Lorde Don’t you think it’s boring how people write reports?

Making rhymes with their words again, well I’m bored Because I’m doing this for the thrill of it, killin’ it Never not voting for a million things I want And I am only as young as the minute is, full of it Getting pumped up from the little bright ideas I thought But I know you’ll never remember me (yeah) Baby, be the councillor, I’ll be the EVP in tears It’s a new art form showing people how much I care (yeah) We’re so democratic, even when we’re getting out of here Let’s go down to the Students’ Association and talk it up like yeah Pretty soon, I’ll be going to my first Education Conference I’ll see the veins of my city like they do in space But my head’s filling up fast with SRC games, up in flames How can I ever have fun again, when I’m known?

And my faction trips me up with their heads again, loving them Everything’s cool when we’re all in line, for the throne But I know it’s not forever (yeah) Baby, be the councillor, I’ll be the EVP in tears It’s a new art form showing people how much I care (yeah) We’re so democratic, even when we’re getting out of here Let’s go down to the Students’ Association, and talk it up like yeah It looked alright in the pictures Getting voted in is half the trip though, isn’t it I vote motions up, with all my heart And Vertigo watches from their window And Vertigo watches from their window

Welfare Officer’s Report — Lachlan Wykes I hope you have all been getting back into the swing of things this year and enjoyed your recent StuVac. It is important that students take time away from studies to relax and unwind as the latter part of the session can be particularly stressful, especially approaching the exam period. Students experiencing mental health issues related to their studies may contact the Welfare Department for assistance, or may contact the UTS counselling service directly. Details are available at the UTTSA office on level 3 of the Building 1.

Recently, the UTS Students’ Association voted in favour of a campaign to deregister LifeChoice, a pro-life lobby group, from being an ActivateUTS Club. Allegations have been made that this club has been engaged in activity that has involved harassment and intimidation of students. The UTSSA Welfare department takes these allegations very seriously, and any students who have experienced such conduct are encouraged to contact the Welfare Department. Students eager to get involved in the UTSSA campaign should contact the Welfare Department or the UTSSA Women’s Collective.

In my last report I mentioned the UTSSA’s plans to adopt emergency packs for students. This is a lengthy exercise and the logistics of these packs are still being reviewed within the Welfare Collective. Any students in need of emergency support are still encouraged to contact the Welfare department for assistance.

Contact: Lachlan, Welfare Officer and Reagan, Welfare Convener — welfare@utsstudentsassociation.org

Students’ Association Reports — 89

Women’s Officer’s Report — Leya Reid Nearing halfway through the semester, the Women’s Collective is shaping up to be a reckonable force on campus. Having established a close-knit community within the Women’s Space, we have been meeting weekly to organise future collective-run events and to discuss relevant issues. For the first time, we have introduced an educational activity run each week by a self-nominated collective member, in which they introduce a topic of interest for discussion. This has proven to be a hugely successful way of broadening the collective’s learning compass and getting members involved and engaged in issues that are diverse and representative.

It has been a busy few weeks, especially in light of the recent havoc surrounding the Human Rights Commission’s decision to withhold the data collected from the sexual assault enquiry. We sincerely hope that the Vice Chancellor releases the data specific to UTS and follows through with his proposed campaign to mandatorily educate students on sexual assault.

Despite a few technological stress points, our film screening of ‘Stepford Wives’ went fantastically, with members joining an informal panel at the end of the film to comment on the represented status of women.

A few members turned out to the Palm Sunday rally — a beautiful way to speak out on behalf of voiceless refugee women seeking safety and basic human rights.

Additionally, members were invited to a crafternoon session to create their very own WoCo branded shirts.

On Friday 21 April, the Students’ Association launched the campaign ‘UTS Stop Funding Harassment and Intimidation: Deregister LifeChoice’ on the same night as LifeChoice’s ‘Drinks For Life’ event. LifeChoice is an anti-abortion lobby group and have reportedly, in the past, used harassment and intimidation to pressure and coerce students into adopting their anti-choice mandate. Through Activate’s endorsement, UTS is

now using student SSAF fees to fund their anti-choice program. Without consulting students, ActivateUTS have carelessly consented to the dissemination of false information, gender-based harassment, and anti-abortion messaging. Our campaign requests that ActivateUTS immediately disaffiliate with the LifeChoice society and cease all funding and support. A huge number of students turned out to the campaign launch, easily outnumbering the ‘Drinks For Life’ attendees. Over the next few weeks we will be presenting the petition to the VC, DVC, and ActivateUTS and campaigning to ensure that our student debts aren’t contributing to the toxic, inaccurate debate on abortion and personal health choices.

Coming up, we are collaborating with the Queer Collective and Out To Party to host ‘Stand Up Speak Out’, an open mic event that celebrates diversity and challenges the mainstream. On 5 June we are holding a panel themed ‘Empowering Indigenous Women’, which will feature Linda Burney, women from the Mudgin-Gal women’s group, and UTS students.

To learn more about how to get involved, join our Facebook group, ‘UTSSA Women’s Collective’, and follow us at ‘UTS Women’s Collective.

Contact: Chloe — utswomenscollective@gmail.com Leya — womens@studentsassociation.org

90 — Submissions Guideline

Submit to Vertigo Welcome aboard and thank you for choosing to fly with Vertigo. We require a moment of your attention as we demonstrate the submission features of this aircraft.

Vertigo is always on the lookout for pitches and submissions of creative fiction and nonfiction writing, visual art, feature articles, news and reviews in the following sections: – Arts & Lifestyle – Business & Science – Creative Writing

– Politics – Socio-Cultural – Visual Arts

Safety first! Please take your seat and fasten your seatbelts. And for

Air has never tasted this sweet because you have an idea that will

no particular reason at all, make sure your seat is in its full upright

soar through the skies and into our submissions inbox.

position and tray tables are stowed.

Written Pitches Have an idea for written content that isn’t complete? Let it take off by sending us a pitch that specifically outlines: Content — what you want to write about.

Scaffold — narrative, structure, style.

Classification — factual, creative, reflective.

Approximate word count.

To help us get a sense of your voice, attach some examples of previous work. (Any work — even essays will do!)

Visual Pitches Tell us whether you’d like to be involved as either: Design contributor: Artists who are keen to work closely with the Vertigo design team to create conceptual art that will accompany written articles.

Visual showcase: Artists who have work they want to be featured as standalone art in the magazine e.g. illustrations, comics, photography that tells a narrative.

Please be as specific as possible, and tell us about your proposed medium, concept, style, and tone. Don’t forget to attach examples of previous work.

Submissions Guide — 91

How to Contact Us Email all your pitches and submissions to submissions@utsvertigo.com.au and a friendly editor will get in touch with you shortly.

Check out our Facebook page for the most recent callout for themed contributions at facebook.com/utsvertigo, or just send us a message to say hello. We can’t wait to talk to you. We love talking to you so much.

In the case of emergency, Vertigo flight attendants will assume

A fun slippery slide awaits where you will be whisked away to your

positions of deep thought to help you through any patches of

desired destination, safe and sound.

turbulence.

Cold Submissions Already have a completed piece you want to submit?

Send your work straight to submissions@utsvertigo. com.au with a brief summary of content and themes.

As a general rule of thumb; themed work is good, wellwritten work is better, and well-written themed work is the best.

Format Guidelines Please send written work in a Word document with 12pt font and 1.5 paragraph spacing. Please send visual work in PDF format.

Nominations Know someone at UTS who might be shy but whose work would be perfect for Vertigo?

Please let us know their full name, the kind of work they do, and why you think their work is suitable for Vertigo.

You can attach a link to their website/portfolio/ Instagram, and we’ll take it from there.

92 — Horoscopes

Horoscopes Jenny Cao

Aries — Cha-ching! You’ve been working hard

Libra — It’s been a busy time for you and you

this month hustling; chasing that paper! With

may have been forgetting about the important

all that hard-earned cash in the bank, consider

people in your life. Show them some love and

becoming a sneaker enthusiast. Spend

attention — poke them on Facebook a couple

everything you have on shoes, and develop a

of times or send them some e-flowers with a

crippling addiction to material goods. Indulge

cliche message like “Thinking of you”. It’s the

a little!

little things.

Taurus — Feeling a bit complacent? You may

Scorpio — You’ve caught the travel bug and are

find yourself in a rut this month so now is an

feeling super adventurous. Take a trip to the

important time to spice things up, especially

doctor and describe your symptoms. Feelings

since the sun is moving back into your sign.

of courage and risk-taking behaviour should

Change your Instagram handle for a bit of fun,

disappear.

and make it harder for your friends to tag you in photos!

Sagittarius — There’s a lot of pressure on you at the moment and you may feel weighed

Gemini — Your current goals are unrealistic

down by expectations. Strip down until you’re

and far-fetched. Redirect your ambitions and

naked and roam the streets! You can avoid

energy into a more meaningful project. Start

all responsibility if you’re arrested for public

a hummus meme page that reviews your

indecency.

favourite hummus brand. The hummus meme market is still young; it will be easy to make a

Capricorn — Reignite your sense of confidence

name for yourself!

this month and start trusting yourself again.

There’s no better way to do this than by

Cancer — With a full moon in your midst, this

looking in the mirror and repeating positive

is the time to let that special someone know

affirmations. Try “I am above average!” or

how you feel. Say it to their face or, if you’re

“This outfit looks fire!” Make sure your outfit

shy, record a voice message and play it to them

isn’t actually on fire.

while you stand there — it’s basically the same thing.

Aquarius — Your passion for theatrics has always been one of your defining

Leo — It can be tough admitting to mistakes

characteristics, but you might want to tone

with your headstrong personality, but it’s

down the 10 minute soliloquys and dramatic

crucial for moving forward. Own up to your

entrances. People are starting to get freaked

actions by muttering apologies your breath.

out, dude.

Virgo — You’re feeling uncertain about the

Pisces — As Venus enters your sign there may

future and worry about what lies beyond the

be a chance of a new romance blossoming, or

horizon. Better take a trip to the optometrist

even an old flame re-entering your life. If it’s

and get those eyes checked. Don’t let them

the latter, have the fire extinguisher ready.

trick you into getting the anti-glare coating.

It’s a scam.

Art — Ryley Miller | alifeofryley.tumblr.com

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