Contradictions

‘You wanna pop around and see if Jenny has any chicken?’ John seemed to think that Jenny had a little of extra of everything at her place. Perhaps he knows her well enough to count on her good planning. Well enough to know it’ll cover his shithouse planning. The day I arrived the milk in his fridge was already ten days out of date – as yet unopened. Still, milk bottles are largely cheaper than airfares.

Lo and behold Jenny did have chicken. I was heading back from her place. A two minute walk usually, but I thought I could do it without my shoes. I could evidently, but hobbling takes twice as long – my feet haven’t toughened to Aboriginal standards. They have the uncanny ability to stay as soft and wet as if I’d just removed a pair of shoes after a fun run (like I know what that’s like).

Along the way there was a couple of kids playing. An 11 year old girl pulling her 9 year old rollerblade-wearing brother behind her – deliberately fast and dangerously. They were conscious of my approach. There’s always those awkward moments as you approach anyone on foot – are we or are we not going to acknowledge each other? It’s not cut and dry. Whities will usually give you that ‘I’m-a-white-guy-you’re-a-white-guy’ nod. Aboriginal is groups of more than two will usually ignore you. Two might say ‘hi’. One almost always will – though it always seems reluctant, even fearful.

They’d been looking at me so long that I felt obliged to say something. ‘That’s going to end in tears,’ I started. ‘Keep it up!’ The girl smiled – pleased to have been given adult permission to injure her brother (I’m only adult to them, and only for the purposes of this story - not in real life, sorry Mum). I, on the other hand, felt a little odd about the exchange. Dirty. Like I probably shouldn’t have said anything. Like I shouldn’t be seen talking to kids of that age. Why? Because they were white.

Today I spent the day entertaining two little Aboriginal girls – 7 and 6. Martha and Kara. Actually, they spent the day entertaining themselves – I was just the source of said entertainment. The Health Board always has a couple of kids that couldn’t be bothered going to school hanging about. They’re all really excited that I’ve stared working here. My office is the most interesting in the building – movies to watch, music to listen to, someone to sneak up on and tickle his neck like a spider.

They’re all over me. Hugging me as I work, tickling me, offering me pictures of snails. It’s genuine Aboriginal art, I just wonder if there’s a market. And it’s all Ok. If I was in Melbourne I wouldn’t even be allowed to be alone in the room with these kids. Still, that’s not the double standard I want to draw attention to.

The discrimination is in ME. I’m comfortable talking and playing with Aboriginal kids. They make it so easy – they’ve been approaching me all week. ‘What’s your name (complete stranger)?’ “Excuse me, can we come and sit next to you (lone, hairy, twentysomething white male)?” But I’m not comfortable talking to white kids, unless I’m related to them or I’m sleeping with their mother. It’s not right.

What kind of world is it to grow up in, as a white kid in Melbourne these days. I like kids, and even I’m wary of communicating with them for fear of feaking out some highly-strung soccer mum with mace in her faux Louis Vitton. Parents complain about the lack of decent male role models in their children’s lives, not realising that it was they who eliminated them all in the first paranoid place.

My brain is racist. Dead set. I have a physical reaction to the situation. Aboriginal kids make me feel welcome. White kids make me think I’m a predatory paedophile. Aboriginals should be sending volunteer workers to white communities. Hey, we’ve all got problems but we are much further away from sorting our shit out – it’s deep seated.