Lucky For Some.

On Wednesday, November 4th, 2021 Australian model, Jesinta Franklin hopped onto Instagram to share her thoughts, in the wake of the news that little Cleo Smith had been found alive, after her eighteen-day abduction.

Without taking away from the joy of finding a missing child alive and well, I can’t help but think about the disparity that exists in this country between missing children who are white and indigenous children when it comes to the visibility and coverage of the case

The timing of Franklin’s post, the day after little Cleo was found, may have been ill-conceived. The narrative she was proposing was one that most Australians find difficult to digest at the best of times and, if the vitriolic comments that followed the post are a gauge of public sentiment, they certainly didn’t want it encroaching on their moment of shared national celebration.

A Difficult Conversation

But for those of us who sit uncomfortably with Australia’s denial of its cultural inequities, it is these very moments that find us biting our tongues and waiting for the national fervour to pass. It is these very moments in which we are reminded of our cultural immaturity and arrested development, when it comes to conversations about culture, colonisation and our Australian identity.

Ms. Franklin added her name to a list of commentators who have, over the years, dared to name the elephant in a room that, to be blunt, was built on the historical foundations of masterful elephant concealment.

Who can forget the frenzy of outrage that followed a 2017 ANZAC Day tweet by ABC Presenter, Yassmin Abdel-Magied, who chose that day to call out Australia’s selective memory when it comes to human rights abuses in our own backyard? She was hounded through numerous media outlets, with celebrities and politicians alike calling for her head on a stick.

And in 2013, when Adam Goodes challenged a thirteen-year-old girl in the stands for calling him an ape, it was Goodes himself who felt the weight of public scrutiny and condemnation, as he dared to hold a mirror up to Australia’s cultural underbelly. But the act of calling a proud and strong Aboriginal man an ape is not one born in the mind of a thirteen-year-old girl. Her actions were an expression of a cultural narrative that has been passed down, from one generation to the next, from the first days of settlement.

An Old Story

It is a narrative that has been propagated by politicians and pastors, journos and high court judges for centuries, characterising Aborigines as faithless, depraved savages, who pose a threat to the innocence and chastity of our sons and daughters.

Such narratives have been culturally internalised over time, allowing us, generations on, to turn a blind eye to violations against people of colour, whether First Nations people or refugees and asylum seekers. They are simply less important.

In nineteenth century Australia, blatant hate speech against Aborigines was given free rein in newspapers such as the Sydney Herald and The Australian. When, in 1838, seven white colonists were charged with the massacre of twenty-eight Aboriginal men at Myall Creek, the public was largely united in its outrage that a black life might be considered equal to that of a white. One juror’s views, expressed during the trial, were published in The Australian in December 1838:

I look on the blacks as a set of monkeys, and the earlier they are exterminated from the face of the earth the better. I would never consent to hang a white man for a black one. I knew well (the colonists) were guilty of the murder, but I for one would never see a white man suffer for shooting a black

Selective Memory

Culturally significant days, such as Australia Day and ANZAC Day – intended to unite us as a nation – bring into sharp focus the growing divisions between us. For many, it is becoming increasingly difficult to stay silent in the face of apparent hypocrisy, which remembers so vividly one part of our history, whilst attempting to completely erase another.

It is an inconvenient truth that our very existence as Australians was built on the lie of Terra Nullius and the subsequent attempted genocide of this continent’s First Peoples. This story simply doesn’t fit with our preferred national self-concept. The qualities of the lovable larrikin and the characterisation of the ‘land of the fair go’ are far better served by tales of battlefield mateship and comradery, drawn from WWII.

A national conversation that shines a light into the dark corners of our history is a tough ask. It requires emotional courage and a willingness to be vulnerable.  In the words of Nelson Mandela, “true reconciliation does not consist in merely forgetting the past”. In fact, to paraphrase Desmond Tutu, it necessarily exposes the awfulness, the abuse and the hurt. It is then, and only then, that we can begin to move forward, together, with a working understanding of our separate and shared histories, towards the forging of a true and authentic national identity.

Adam Goodes, Yassmin Abdel-Magied and Jesinta Franklin are just three of the many cultural whistle-blowers who have dared to pierce the fragile veneer of this lucky-for-some country, at considerable personal cost. They have challenged us to be (in the Australian vernacular) fair dinkum and sit with the difficult conversations that take us beyond the discomfort, beyond the shame, to reap the rewards of building a fairer, more inclusive, and more authentic story of who we are – today and into the future.

A Tough Tote with a Touch of Sass.

Hamish glanced at the bag I had set down as I entered the staff lunchroom, and reacted apparently without engaging a single critical faculty:

“That looks like a female bag”, he offered, immediately followed by a minor facial spasm, which suggested that his brain had just caught up with his inane verbiage.

Two prospective responses leapt simultaneously to my mind:

Option 1: “My bag does not have a sex, Hamish. It is just a bag. It is without hormones, chromosomes or genitals. It is an a-gender, non-binary container. It is simply my bag.”

Option 2: “I suppose you’re right.”

This was not a Monday-morning conversation that I had a strong investment in prolonging, so I selected option 2, thinking that this would put the matter to bed.

“But I suppose a man can still use it, though”, Hamish generously conceded, in a desperate bid to resurrect a facade of social proficiency.

“I suppose you’re right”, I concurred once more, hoping to convey disinterest,  infused with just the faintest essence of contempt.

Figure 1

The bag in question is a faux-leather tote-bag (figure 1), which I’d bought the week before after weeks of hunting for just the right item to accommodate the increasing load I was transporting to and from work, since starting my new job.

I had rifled through shops of all kinds to find just the right mix of practicality and aesthetic appeal. I liked my new bag.

My previous one had become too small and I’d grown out of it (figure 2). Work-mates and acquaintances had politely referred to it as my ‘man-bag’, and I had generally refrained from delivering my ‘my bag does

Figure 2

not have a sex’ speech. I would have been quite happy for people to refer to my ‘handbag’, as once did, to my office mate, Margaret. She reacted as if I had told her that I was wearing my dead mother’s underwear, so I didn’t try that again.

It seems strangely random that the word ‘hand’ should denote exclusively female usage. I regularly play hand-ball in the backyard with my nine-year-old boy and have never considered that there might be something emasculating in this. No-one has ever suggested that the game be renamed ‘man-ball’.

Actually ‘man-ball’ sounds vaguely inappropriate for a family-oriented recreational activity, so good call there, I reckon.

As a person of the homosexualist persuasion, I’m no stranger to sashaying dangerously along the boundaries of prescribed gender expression and, from time to time, stepping across the line. I have learned, as an out gay man, that there is absolutely no purpose – or indeed benefit – in dressing and acting like a complete and utter bore.

Released from the tyranny of fear that I might be labelled a sissy or a girl, I am free to express whoever I am, in whatever colours, and decorated with whatever accessories I choose.

My bag is just my bag, Hamish. It has no inherent gender, sexual orientation or ethnicity. It requires no prefix and it makes no apologies for being a tough tote with a touch of sass.


Spray-can Hits Raw Nerve

I cannot for the life of me understand why anyone would choose the tedious complexities of a conversation about the trans-generational trauma unleashed by colonisation and the 250 years of subsequent oppression of First Nations Peoples over a simple, reassuring narrative about dole-bludgers desecrating our national heritage with their Marxist filth.

In the interest of public order, I feel someone must reassure an understandably rattled Australian public that the mysterious figure recently caught on CCTV, splashed across the media and rightfully dubbed a ‘cowardly criminal’ by our Prime Minister (henceforth referred to as ‘Strong Leader’ or S.L.) was not a deranged jihadist or a serial rapist, but a lefty-pinko-tree-hugger with a spray-can.

Be assured, however, that no-one died and no living creature was injured, as a consequence of the man’s actions, although three pigeons were possibly inconvenienced. The pigeons hardly have a right to complain, having enjoyed shitting on Captain Cook’s head, quite without remorse, since the monument’s unveiling in 1879.

The strong words of our great S.L. will be widely applauded by those who recognise the real transgression of this spray-can wielding degenerate. Jabbing with such savage ferocity at the heart of our Australian identity, it was his audacity to demand, with such ill-bred delinquency, that Anglo-Australia should take a fair and honest approach to reflecting on its past and making reparations in the future.

Unfortunately, your average Captain Cook memorial plaque offers less ad-space than a twitter post, so all he could manage was ‘no pride in genocide’ on one surface of the Sydney statue and ‘change the date’ on another (for the benefit of my millions of overseas readers, this refers to the national celebration of ‘Australia Day’, which shares an anniversary with the warmly welcomed arrival of the first colonial fleet in 1788, bringing fairy bread to all the native children and generally spreading joy and loveliness all around).

Apparently, a handful of ungrateful Gen ‘Y’ feminist, homosexualist-types choose to reflect on the foundations of our great country a little differently. But you can’t please everyone, can you.

I cannot for the life of me understand why anyone would choose the tedious complexities of a conversation about the trans-generational trauma unleashed by colonisation and the 250 years of subsequent oppression of First Nations Peoples over a simple, black and white narrative about dole-bludgers desecrating our national heritage with their Marxist filth. Seems simple enough to me and S.L.

If consumers of Australian media would tune into more Current Affair or Today Tonight and less of whatever socialist, free-loving propaganda is being peddled as news by SBS (Socialists, Boat-people & Shirt-lifters), this country would be a far more comprehensible place for all of us.

I hope I’ve helped to clear a few things up.

To Motherhood

I have yet to see so much as a brass plaque commemorating the unsung heroines of motherhood, to whom we are all indebted for whatever approximation of human civility they manage to wrest from the delinquency of our self-absorbed adolescence.

Three months ago my husband and I became long-term carers for a seven-year-old boy called Algernon (I’ve changed his name to protect him from the potential malevolence of my fan-base. I’m not sure that ‘fan-base’ is the correct term, as it derives from the word ‘fanatic’ and usually implies a substantial following. And not one of the modest collection of visitors to my blog has yet accused me of being either a genius or a raving lunatic, so I can’t really justify attributing the word ‘fanatic’ to any of them). Where was I? Ah, yes, Algernon.

In my more egocentric moments I would characterise my new role in Algernon’s life as a relentless crusade against the ever-threatening gap between the parent I would like to be and the inescapable reality of my day-to-day parenting performance. I frequently fall short of my own self-imposed KPIs.

But, if public perception is at all important to me (ok, just a smidge), I am aided – as a 50-year-old gay man – by the cultural presumption of my absolute unsuitability and certain incompetence* as a parental figure. I am assured that, if by some fluke I manage to adequately feed and clothe dear Algernon and steward him safely into adulthood, fundamentally unimpaired, I will undoubtedly be lauded as an iconoclast – possibly worthy of sainthood.

Now, I am embarrassingly aware that young mothers, the world over, endure a far greater burden upon their shoulders than 2.5 kilograms of newly occupied BabyBjorn. They also bear the societal expectation that they are the natural heirs of a primordial lineage of inherent maternity. No pressure! So, while I muddle my way through my induction to parenthood, to the soundtrack of kind words and commendations – “You’re doing such an amazing job, Chris!” – women everywhere are going about the business of protecting and shaping our next generation in relative silence and anonymity.

A newborn bub would find it hard to spit a dummy in this town without hitting some or other monument to a pompous pollie or champion of colonial conquests, but I have yet to see so much as a brass plaque commemorating the unsung heroines of motherhood, to whom we are all indebted for whatever approximation of human civility they manage to wrest from the delinquency of our self-absorbed adolescence.

So, from the lofty mantle of white male privilege and a social media presence which strains under the pressure of unrivaled popularity (just go with me), I pay respect to the mothers of the world, with this humble tribute:

We honour you, the mothers, who, moments after giving birth, gaze with unadulterated love upon the very creature that, minutes earlier, caused you more excruciating agony than you will ever know. We honour your grace and composure in accepting the reality that your tireless efforts are unlikely to be rewarded with remuneration, massage, a Brownlow medal or the rest of ea3b71f563cca008e367d139cf59abbfthe week off. We honour your resilience in facing the guilt of not being the perfect composite of Mother Teresa, Angelina Jolie and Rosie Batty. We honour the working mothers, the stay-at-home mothers, the single mothers and the may-as-well-have-been-single mothers. Lest we forget.

Now, can we just get a damn plaque?


*I would historically have defaulted to the infinitely more expressive adjective, fuckwittedness, but, alas, responsible parenthood has incrementally robbed me of my ability to freely revel in the more festive embellishments of the English language.


Personally, if someone extends a helping hand to me, from a place of love and genuine goodwill, I won’t be checking the colour, age, gender or sexuality of that hand before I embrace it.

“Nothing about us without us”, he spat, flicking the words in my direction, like holy water intended to burn holes in my heathen postulations. We were discussing the plight of Queensland’s Queer communities and the challenge of building and sustaining support systems in regional outposts.

I had just begun to promote the qualities of a colleague of mine – a stellar advocate for LGBTI rights – when my conversational adversary cut me off like a speed-freak on P-plates.

“But she’s bloody straight”, he protested and then, perhaps wishing to seem a little more erudite, “NOTHING ABOUT US WITHOUT US! HAVEN’T YOU HEARD THAT?!”

Nothing+About+UsI had heard it. So we stood for a moment in silence, while he glared triumphantly, like a second-rate tennis player who believed he’d just served the winning ace and I deliberated over whether or not I had the energy or inclination to return the ball.

Now, I enjoy a punchy slogan as much as the next placard waving, bleeding-heart lefty, but I have to call ‘relevance’ on this one.

You see, the phrase in question comes from a rich lineage of social activism, reaching back to the European democratic movements of the sixteenth century. It supports the idea that decisions pertaining to the rights and welfare of a group of people should be made only with the direct participation of members of that group. No argument from me there.

But there is nothing in the spirit of this iconic doctrine that suggests that heterosexuals should not use the privilege afforded them to support the rights of gay or lesbian people. Surely we need all the help we can get.

Of course the subtext is that many members of minority groups have spent decades relegated to society’s margins, persuaded that they do not belong in the centre and should be grateful for what paltry crumbs of kindness might occasionally spill from the lips of the cultural overlords.

Queer Queenslanders, who lived through the tyrannical reign of Bjelke-Petersen, toiled long and hard for the right to meet in the local cafe with people just like them and, if only for an hour or two, not have to explain or justify their existence.

But now, liberal-minded heterosexual college types are turning up in their Suzuki Swifts with their ‘I Welcome Refugees’ bumper stickers and wearing their Yothu Yindi T-shirts, tossing around the word ‘queer’ like it was their freaking birth right. It’s enough to make a gay man with hard-won self-respect and some unresolved anger issues stand up and yell “Rack off, straighty! You’re not welcome here!”

Oops. Did I say that out loud? Well, there it is, I suppose. The pendulum swings. The oppressed becomes the oppressor. And reconciliation remains a distant aspiration.

Personally, if someone extends a helping hand to me, from a place of love and genuine goodwill, I won’t be checking the colour, age, gender or sexuality of that hand before I embrace it.

In the spirit of the great liberationist, Paulo Freire, nothing about us without us should always stand as a reminder that oppressed minorities must be the architects of their own liberation. But it takes many people to build a house and just as I take up tools in support my brothers and sisters of all colours and creeds, in their struggles, I wholeheartedly welcome them as they support me in mine.




Santa and the Virgin Birth

A belief in God assigns one to a life of deep contemplation or no contemplation at all, depending on one’s disposition.

I’ve always known that I didn’t believe in Santa Claus, but I’ve recently realised that I don’t actually believe in anything. Well, O.K., not entirely true. There are fundamental concepts of physics that I feel obliged to entertain in order to participate in intelligent conversations. But belief in the existence of atoms and molecules is quite different from that of a mythical character, which requires a certain commitment of faith. And I don’t really do faith.


I’ve never been able to accept as truth a story that strikes me as fundamentally incredible, be it Santa, the Tooth Fairy or the Virgin Birth. I suspect I’m a deeply suspicious person, or perhaps lacking in imagination. Or maybe there is a faith gene, and I just don’t have it.

Whatever the cause, I feel just a little bit ripped off. Every culture on earth has some version of a story that explains how we got here, what we are supposed to do here and where we go next. It would be so reassuring to have a grand narrative to cling to, explaining everything and negating the need to endlessly search for truth and meaning in a Godless universe.

I never chose to be an atheist. Atheists have often struck me as rather smug and self-righteous – a little bit like Christians. My father was agnostic. I put this down to essential laziness and a general reluctance to think deeply about anything of a personal nature.

A belief in God assigns one to a life of deep contemplation or no contemplation at all, depending on one’s disposition. To my certain detriment, I seem to be a deeply reflective person, which appears to have rendered me entirely incapable of accepting any spiritual assertions with which I feel no experiential resonance.

I once accompanied a friend to a Baptist church service in New York, where the congregation shared with one another an undeniable bounty of love and compassion, extended equally to friends and strangers like me. I felt like a fraud as I sang and clapped, tears rolling down my heathen cheeks, swept up in the heady emotions that flowed through the congregation like sacramental wine. Part of me wanted to renounce the cursed atheism that held me apart from this loving throng. I ached to throw myself on the altar of human kindness and beg for God’s healing love.

Of course this would have been the religious equivalent of a late night drunken text to an ex and I’ve always felt that decisions of lasting significance are best made in relative sobriety. So I repressed the urge and left feeling unsatiated, rather like a vegan at a Brazilian barbecue.

Belief is an idea enshrined by the illusion of certainty. It is the stale remains of one true moment that we could not bear to let go. Truth, on the other hand, is fleeting and elusive. Neither tomes nor temples will contain it. It is neither reassuring nor challenging. It just is. Belief obstructs truth just as surely as clever words obscure true feelings and lead us into emotional disintegration.

Bugger. This post really was just going to be about Santa Claus, I promise.

The Tyranny of Potential

No longer indentured to conformity by the fear of failure, I suspect I may finally be reaching my potential and it looks nothing like I expected it to.

In year-seven Derek Shankhill had it so easy. He was dyslexic, had one leg longer than the other and was legally blind. He lived in government housing with a single mother, an incalculable menagerie of cats and seven louse-infected siblings. No one expected anything of Derek Shankhill and consequently his youth was blissfully unhampered by the tyranny of potential.

Some of us will wait decades to taste the sweet freedom in which Derek Shankhill reveled. You see, unlike my classmate, Derek, I was woefully burdened with the privileges afforded one born of healthy, well-educated, middle-class parents: Three square meals a day, my own bedroom and all the Osmond Family L.Ps my pocket money could stretch to.

At school I displayed a precocious flair for English, performed solos in the school choir and held my own on the soccer field. My childhood possessed all the material prerequisites for a future of success and general awesomeness.

The inescapable downside of being given a good start in life is that you are then expected to single-handedly build an even better middle and end. And there is no surer way to transform a virile, upstanding youth into a flaccid has-been than the bone-crushing weight of expectation.

Wait!…Don’t leave!…There is good news coming. Because if one can survive the gauntlet of dodgy choices, failed ventures and missed opportunities long enough, one will eventually reach the green pastures of middle age, at which point one will have either fulfilled one’s cursed potential or resigned to the possibility that one never will. Either way, the pressure’s off.

There is something refreshingly liberating about reaching an age at which one has become largely invisible to the public gaze, no longer the object of curiosity and intrigue. For the first time one is free to embark on daring adventures and take foolish risks, in the assurance that practically no one is watching.

No longer indentured to conformity by the fear of failure, I suspect I may finally be reaching my potential and it looks nothing like I expected it to.

IMG_1528I am learning to wear purple, sit still for long periods, eat exotic food, cry more, worry less, write silly blog-posts, laugh at myself, ride a unicycle, tell people I love them, let go…Let go…Let go.

I recently rediscovered Derek Shankhill on Facebook. He is the CEO of a Charity that supports visually impaired children. Derek basks in the love and support of a devoted wife, three well-balanced children and…just one cat.

What on earth might have become of Derek Shankhill had he been given a ‘better start in life’.

The Lesser of Two Weevils (OCD Memoir Part 1)

It is an irrefutable reality that once seen, an occupying weevil in one’s Alpine muesli cannot then be un-seen.

When I was a child we lived on a boat. It wasn’t a yacht. It was definitely a boat. People who have yachts have lots of money or want you to think they do. I think my parents referred to it as a yacht sometimes, to hob-nob with posh people or elevate their status, after someone had judged them for wrenching their kids from school to travel the world on a…boat.

But this story is not about boats. It’s about weevils.

We lived in a little Caribbean cove, encircled by a reef, and we rowed ashore each day to work or buy food, etc. The local shop sold imported canned and packaged goods. It was always a gamble buying packet goods. They would often have been on the shelf for months and have become home to weevils.


Weevil: A herbivorous beetle of the Curculionoidea superfamily. The dark brown adult may grow to 6 millimeters. The smaller juvenile (the lesser of the two, if you will) is off-white in colour.


Predictable weevil pun. (Image:
Predictable weevil pun. (Image:

I imagine, from an evolutionary perspective, the juvenile weevil’s colour was designed to protect it in the same way that babies are born cute so that we choose to cuddle them rather than eat them or throw them on the fire when we run out of wood. Weevils can’t ever really be cute and whilst it would take an enormous number of them thrown on a fire to provide an alternative fuel source, they spend their awkward youth camouflaged in rice, flour and the like, where they are generally left alone.

As a child I developed an obsessive-compulsive way of being in the world and leaving things alone was not my forte. A weevil that found its way into my cereal bowl of a morning was not a fortunate weevil. I scrutinised my food with pathological precision. I could break down the constituent parts of any meal in seconds, to identify potential hazards, like an elite bodyguard conducting a security sweep on a presidential suite. My task was to control a list of variables that might represent a hygiene threat.

Hygiene Threats:

  • Poorly washed cereal bowl (Encrusted food particles on rim, etc.)
  • Human hairs
  • Finger prints
  • Cockroach larvae (Less common, but anxiety-provoking when found)
  • Weevils

My genuine hope was always for a clean sweep. I knew that my surveillance operations caused tension at the meal table, but the threat was ever-present and complaisance was not an option. It is an irrefutable reality that once seen, an occupying weevil in one’s Alpine muesli cannot then be un-seen.

These unfortunate siblings have just discovered weevils in their pasta. (Image:
These unfortunate siblings have just discovered weevils in their pasta. (Image:

Any idiot can spot an adult weevil in their cereal. You just have to pour the milk and watch the dark specks float to the surface, framed by the pale liquid, like stars in a night sky. But it takes a keen eye and an advanced state of anal-retention to foil the tiny, white juveniles. They might evade the scrutiny of an inexperienced operative, but not me.

My exhausted mother would watch, through gritted teeth, as I painstakingly fished out the reluctant amphibians, large and small, lining them up around the rim of my cereal bowl, like the decapitated heads of my enemies, impaled on the ramparts of my fortress walls.

As a child, I was always aware of the distress caused by my obsessive compulsions, but felt helpless in the face of their power. I was a youth-work student in my late twenties before I learnt about something called obsessive-compulsive disorder and began to understand why I was the way I was.

But that’s a story for ‘Part 2’. This was a story about weevils.

Just See Us

I cried as my partner and I sat in front of the television in 2013, watching the New Zealand parliament vote for marriage equality. I thought of all the young queer Kiwis who would grow up with a level of acceptance and self-esteem that I could only dream of as a boy.

“Why do gay people want to get married anyway?” she unleashed. “It’s so bloody overrated.” I considered, just for second, that I might venture a serious response, but thought better of it.

I’m coming to the realisation that social media is reducing our tolerance for meaningful dialogue to the Twitter-prescribed 40-characters or less, before we retreat to cute videos of cats mistaking the neighbour’s miniature Zen garden for kitty litter.

In any case, Barbara was several flutes into a magnum and, in the five minutes since we’d stumbled into one another’s company at the Story Bridge Hotel, she’d unloaded a torrent of offensive material without even trying. “I just love gay men” she gushed. “They dress impeccably, they are so witty and you can tell them just about anything because they will never judge you.” All at once I felt underdressed, dulled-witted and savagely judgmental.

Maybe in the sober light of day – minus the vat of Bollinger – Barbara would see with blinding clarity the foolishness of her statement. “I just love heterosexuals”, I might say. “They dress so sensibly, they’re so good at sports and if you ever need advice about home-loans or four-wheel-drives, they are always so willing to oblige.

So, why do gay people want to get married? Well Barbara, I’m going to give this a go, but it won’t be forty characters and there will be no cute cat videos.

Actually, I never wanted it. I’ve spent a good forty years accepting my place on the peripheries of society, a half-citizen with only part-access to the privileges of the dominant culture. Marriage was always something that belonged to others.

Like every queer person I know, I internalised the rejection and I never imagined that the love I shared with my partner would one day be afforded the respect of heterosexual society. And through a distorted lens of internalised derision, I never believed that it should.

Queer thought on same-sex marriage is as diverse as the community itself. It includes the view that taking a place at the table of heteronormative privilege is a betrayal of the egalitarian relationship structures we have built and defended, against relentless forces of societal ostracism and condemnation. It’s a view that I probably once held.

But the construct of marriage lies at the heart of every civilization, in some form. It is a rite of passage, through which people have been granted full membership of their community. It has survived successive generations of feminist and libertarian critique, to remain a potent symbol of belonging. And we all want some of that.

I cried as my partner and I sat in front of the television in 2013, watching the New Zealand parliament vote for marriage equality. I thought of all the young queer Kiwis who would grow up with a level of acceptance and self-esteem that I could only dream of as a boy. Studies in America have shown that this simple legislative amendment increases levels of understanding and acceptance in the extended families of gay and lesbian people

image: www.
image: www.

So, legislation does have a role to play in opening the door to conversations that could not be entertained when the door was closed and our communities – straight/gay, black/white, male/female – stood on opposite sides

When black people and women won the vote, white men were forced to contemplate living alongside them as equals for the first time – not tolerating, not condescending, but genuinely collaborating in the co-authorship of a new and more egalitarian society.

One day this door will be opened for Barbara and she will see that this rich and diverse queer community cannot be reduced to witty retorts and a talent for accessorising. If I had just forty characters or less for Barbara, they would be these:

Do not see us as greater or lesser. Just see us.

Male Violence

Why are we shocked by the high levels of male violence in society, when the celebration of male aggression is woven throughout our culture and modeled at the very highest level?

I suspect I possess emasculating levels of personal ambition and drive, but I must confess that I have never wanted anything badly enough to thrust another man’s face into a muddy paddock to get it.


I’m not entirely claiming the moral high ground here. On the day that H&M opened their first Australian store, I had a momentary lapse in composure that saw me reach across the face of a competing shopper, to secure the last available Cotton Stretch tee in the V-neck of my preferred colour. So I am perfectly attuned to the emotional turmoil that might give rise to an act of such naked aggression.

For those unfamiliar with the classic ‘spear tackle’ maneuver, it is an attempt, within the context of a jolly football match, to gain a competitive advantage by driving another man’s head into the ground at spine-snapping velocity. It’s all in good fun of course and the offending spear-tackler need fear no greater forfeit than a small fine and a two-match ban.

Now, as much as I abhor acts of physical brutality, I have developed a necessary threshold of tolerance for the insistence of two grown men to beat the living shit out of each other, with the following provisos:

  1. It is fully consensual
  2. I don’t have to watch
  3. No third parties are physically or psychologically harmed in the process

Ah, but there it is! If you’re as sharp as me, it won’t have escaped your observation that the average football stadium seats between forty and sixty thousand people at capacity. If a quarter of them is under fifteen, that’s ten thousand kiddies witnessing the spear-tackling shenanigans of their cherished idols.

One thing I know with certainty is that little boys study bigger boys with the concentration of a portrait painter scrutinising his subject for every last crease and contour. They learn that a mastery of prescribed male behaviour is a goal of unrivalled importance and the wages of transgression may be relegation to a social world populated by girls, geeks and homos.

If only I’d learnt earlier in my school career that a life surrounded by girls, geeks and homos would have been infinitely more uplifting than years of trying to squeeze an irregular-shaped me into the square hole of socially-prescribed boy culture.

But I’m veering off track. The point is that boys desperately seek male role models to guide them in their existential quest and no role model is more deified in our popular culture than that paragon of manhood, the bronzed, mythic figure of the footie hero.

Why are we shocked by the high levels of male violence in society, when the celebration of male aggression is woven throughout our culture and modeled at the very highest level? Why do we expect the undeveloped male brain to understand that actions lauded in one context are outlawed in another? On what basis do we trust a young man, schooled on the turf and the terraces, to possess the emotional intelligence to safely regulate difficult feelings when at home?

Ok, you’re right. I’m in no position to lecture. Somewhere in Melbourne there is a casual shopper still traumatised by flashbacks of that day in H&M, when a thrusting forearm momentarily obscured his vision and thwarted his attempt to secure the last available Cotton Stretch tee in the V-neck of his preferred colour.