Thought I’d give a mention to a documentary my friend, Michaela Perske has produced and co-written called “88”.
The documentary goes back to 1988, the year of the Australian Bicentenary, and tells the story of some of the many thousands of Indigenous people who travelled from all over Australia to join in protests on January 26. As well as being a seminal moment in the development of modern Indigenous affairs in Australia, it was also a seminal moment in the lives of many of those profiled.
The program goes to air on ABC1 on Thursday, January 30 at 8.30pm. A lot of hard work over a long period of time has gone into this, so I hope you’ll be watching :)
There’s more info about the program on their Facebook page.
“So you must be James, the blogger?”, I was asked today at the Anglican Church at Windsor. The question took me quite by surprise. Though I’ve been keeping this blog for over a decade, and I’ve met several readers, and I see from the statistics that people DO read what I have to say, it still comes as quite a surprise.
I travelled today to Windsor (on the outskirts of modern-day Sydney) for the unveiling of a plaque which commemorates the lives of some of my convict ancestors, James Rixon and Amelia Goodwin. Both were transported to Australia in the early days of European settlement, having committed what many call “crimes of poverty”.
After some time closer to Circular Quay, they ended up at places like Windsor and Campbelltown in Western Sydney. As I caught the bus and train today, I was trying to imagine what it must have been like for them to have been settled in this area, which is roughly an hour’s drive from the coast, and roughly one hour and forty five minutes by train (there was track work today). Did they walk to get there?
I also thought about their lives as early European settlers, and hoped they weren’t involved in poor treatment of the area’s Indigenous peoples. “I hope they weren’t arseholes to the local Aboriginal population. I hope they were good people”, I said to a couple of people today.
We’ll never know, I guess, since the history of my ancestry in Australia is largely poor, rural, uneducated and illiterate, meaning there’s not a lot of written records. In stark contrast, there was a whole bunch of people (maybe 100) at today’s plaque unveiling who are literate people with a passionate interest in our common ancestry.
It was a lovely day.
Oh and apparently I’m much younger than a few people thought.
For 205 years, James Rixon has been buried in an unmarked grave at Windsor Cemetery in Western Sydney. Thanks to the efforts of some keen historians and descendants, a plaque commemorating their lives was unveiled today. The people doing the unveiling are descendants of the five surviving sons of James Rixon and Amelia Goodwin.
I’ve only ever eaten durian in one of those sweet pancakes you will often find in an Asian bakery. I can vaguely remember the first time I tried it, thinking it was going to be one of those foods which smelled terrible, but tasted wonderful. My conclusion? It smelled terrible, and tasted pretty average.
I discovered yesterday I’ve been missing out on the more “superior” version of thefruit, the Musang King.
Musang King Durian
I learned this at a cooking demonstration by Jackie M of “Malayasian Heritage Cuise”. I’ve been following (and have chatted with her) on social media for close to a decade, but this was the first time we’ve met in real life. She does some terrific cooking classes which you can see on her website.
Now that I’ve learned a little more about durian, I’ll persist.
She also explained a few more interesting things about Malaysian food, including that sugar is often added to meat to make it taste sweeter. A lot of Western people don’t like sweet tasting meats, she told us, adding that her own taste preferences have changed in the time since she moved to Australia.
Jackie M cooks at The Grace Hotel
Her presentation was part of a whole weekend international celebration of Malaysian food. A significant part of this weekend was to promote Malaysian fruit, such as durian in Australia.
Nangchem
It was a lovely way to spend an hour or so on a Saturday afternoon, ahead of a big night, attending the opening night in Sydney of the much-hyped musical, Hamilton.
HAMILTON
It lives up to the hype.
It’s an interesting, and well told story of the late eighteen century in the United States, as told through the life story of Alexander Hamilton, one of the “founding fathers” of the republic, who later became President.
It has a wonderful, very contemporary musical score, with lots of great songs. As I watched it, I couldn’t help but think of the “revolutionary” way in which “Jesus Christ Superstar” incorporated modern styles of music into the format of a musical, or “rock opera” was it was called back then. One song “The Room Where It Happens” is stuck in my head today.
And the performance by the Australian cast was absolutely wonderful. Great singing, great choregoraphy, and beautifully staged. “The cast look like they’re having a lot of fun”, my friend who came with me said.
She saw the original musical in the United States a couple of years ago. “It’s as good, if not better than the original production”, she said.
Flawless. Highly recommended.
Oh, and we all got to wear (and keep) a Hamilton-branded face-mask!!!
The producer of Hamilton came on stage at the end of the show, extolling the virtues of this production, the only production of the musical being staged in the world right now. He also paid tribute to Australians who’ve “done the right thing” during COVID, to allow live theatre to return.
As Noah, my support worker, and I strolled earlier today, we got into a conversation about how drastically life changes when you move at a very slow pace. For Noah, this isn’t a choice; he needs to match my walking speed. Although I’ve become more independent in my walking, I still proceed at a rather leisurely pace. What might have previously taken 5 minutes to walk can end up taking close to 30.
During our morning commute, we found ourselves being passed by a whirlwind of people in a rush, most of them absorbed in their mobile phones. When you walk at a snail’s pace, you become acutely aware of the bustling world around you.
This contrast was especially pronounced as we traversed the Devonshire Street tunnel. While it was past the peak rush hour before 9 a.m., there were still plenty of hurried commuters.
In the past, my routine through this tunnel involved ordering a coffee via a mobile app at the tunnel’s entrance, which would be ready for me by the time I reached the exit. What would normally take two or three minutes ended up consuming nearly twenty. In the future, I’ll have to be more discerning about when and if I use the app, as it proved just as convenient to order my coffee face to face, without the “time-saving” app.
On the flip side, moving slowly can lead to unexpected interactions. When people have approached me for money, I had little choice but to engage in a brief conversation, whereas in the past, I might have quickly responded with, “Sorry, I don’t carry cash.” The response remains the same, but it takes a bit longer to express it to them. However, I’ve noticed that fewer people ask me for money, possibly assuming I’m in a dire situation due to my amputation, prosthetic leg, and crutches.
As I strolled down the street in the afternoon, I found myself in a lengthy conversation with a man about my situation, hoping he would eventually move on. He finally got the hint and bid me farewell with a heartfelt “God bless you.”
Later, on a bus, another man shared his story of breaking both legs in a car accident. Normally, I wouldn’t have engaged with a stranger on a bus, but today was different. He marveled at my ability to get around, remarking that when he was injured, he spent his days in bed, feeling despondent.
The words “remarkable” and “inspiring” have been used quite frequently in recent months to describe my situation, but they don’t sit comfortably with me. I’ve started telling people, “I’m just very determined.” While there have been moments when I’ve felt overwhelmed, I’ve been trying to maintain a positive outlook.
I received a message this week from a close relative who is nearly 90 years old, and it deeply touched me.
In March this year my daughters little cavoodle scratched me. Not a big wound. I left it a bit long to go to emergency. The smell was dreadful. Went to Camden emergency and the Dr said that is a dog bite. I was adamant it was scratch. Anyhow, went to Liverpool Hospital I thought was overnight for debridement of wound. It took 3 weeks to clean up infection and 3 more debridements and was mentioned I had to have a skin graft and this infection could attack the graft. Anyhow, I was very lucky not to be in your predicament. My granddaughter in law was a nurse and said this particular infection is very hard to control. I don’t think I would have been as strong as you if it happened. I was so very lucky James. You are my inspiration. I have quite a hole in my leg and they nicked a nerve doing the graft operation so half my right foot is numb, but I was a lucky one.
I’m glad that I’ve been able to make such an impact, though unexpectedly. Positivity really does rub off.
Everything that’s happened in the last few months has also (hopefully) made me more thoughtful and thankful.
Today, I had to return to the hospital for the “Amputees Clinic,” where various members of my rehabilitation team came together to assess my progress. The prognosis was positive. My ability to walk independently has improved, and my specialist doctor recommended that I can now use just one crutch when walking outdoors. He did express some concern about the possibility of ingrown hairs and commented on my leg hair. Personally, I’ve never thought of myself as particularly hairy, but due to the surgery, I have an unusual concentration of body hair in one area. We discussed various options, including laser removal, but decided that vigilant monitoring and occasional trimming would suffice. He also informed me that I don’t need to return to the “Amputees Clinic” until February, which is a significant change from the monthly visits.
Feeling a bit celebratory, I decided to treat myself tonight.
Sashimi from Ichibang on Crown Street, Surry Hills
After months of hospital and home-cooked meals or dinners with friends, I ventured down the street on my own, using just one crutch, and enjoyed some sashimi and gyoza. There was much to celebrate at my “party for one.”
Attending the annual Media Diversity Australia (MDA)forum today provided me with some terrific conversations about journalism, focusing on things like the “activist” label often applied to diverse journalists and the immense challenges of truly maintaining “impartiality.”
These discussions immediately sent me back to my university days, to core debates in journalism around notions of objectivity and subjectivity. In the days of learning the principles of the craft—the who, what, why, when, where and how—we were taught a seemingly simple, yet ultimately false, idea: that objectivity meant just presenting the facts, while subjectivity was dismissed as merely personal opinion. I knew even back then that for every fact, there were other ways of seeing it. Sure, black might be black and white might be white, but it’s in all that grey where we find the real nuance, and where the most important stories and truth often lie.
I can’t remember who said it, but someone summed it up perfectly. To be reporting that person x says it’s sunny and person y says it’s raining is not journalism: journalism is taking a look out the bloody window and reporting the truth.
The forum today brilliantly crystallised this vital concept. Genuine objectivity isn’t achieved by suppressing bias or blindly reciting “facts”; it’s the rigorous process of interrogating and balancing multiple biases, including your own as a journalist, and critically examining systemic biases like who controls commissioned stories in a newsroom.
This was the central heart of the conversation between Antoinette Latouf, an Australian journalist, author, and MDA co-founder, and Jan Fran, an Australian journalist and satirist. They discussed a core paradox: diversity is seemingly only valued “so long as it doesn’t challenge.” Amusingly, Jan Fran described herself as “the other one”, a reference to their shared Lebanese heritage, and which I thought meant she often went “under the radar” to the more well known and outspoken Antoinette!!
Antoinette Lattouf and Jan Fran
This perspective was emphasized by Nour Haydar, an Australian journalist, formerly at the ABC, now at The Guardian who spoke about an apparent double standard. While her personal experience of having lost her mother to domestic violence was seen as an asset to her work, she said her being Arab was simultaneously framed as a liability that precluded her from reporting “objectively” on certain issues.
It all boiled down to that one, unforgettable quote from the research presented at the forum: “The white colleagues simply do not interrogate their own internal biases, but constantly expect us to.” It’s a gut-punch of a line that reveals that value judgment and subjectivity aren’t flaws; they’re inherent in every journalistic step.
Despite the internal resistance within some newsrooms, the empirical evidence demonstrates the indisputable value of diversity in the media.
I was reminded today of Susan Marjetti’s incredible story at CBC Radio 99.1 in Toronto. Susan, a Canadian media executive, realised the station’s homogeneous line-up was becoming irrelevant, so she intentionally diversified the on-air talent. That injection of multiple subjective perspectives led to measurable success: the program became the number one radio show in Toronto multiple times. It proved that broadening the lens directly improves both the objective outcome and market relevance.
The argument for diversity is just as strong when looking at disability portrayal in media. I remember discussing this at a conference last year. People with disabilities make up a massive 20% of the population, yet appear in less than 1% of advertisements. This disparity, as noted by a panellist at a conference I attended, often comes from a simple, crippling fear of failure—a fear of “getting it wrong and being cancelled.” But groups like the Unstereotype Alliance have the data: authentic ads that reflect diverse subjective realities are simply more effective and lead to increased sales.
Rhianna Patrick, a former colleague, an Australian journalist and broadcaster who now works with the National Indigenous Radio Service (NIRS) highlighted the media’s failure to capture the nuance of the Indigenous ‘No’ vote during the Voice Referendum. This ‘No’ vote was driven by a range of different subjective reasons beyond the simple binary that dominated coverage.
Rhianna emphasised that continuous education is key. You don’t stop learning when you graduate from a journalism degree; you have to constantly update your theories and avoid clinging to outdated ideas about truth and fairness.
Holding the microphone, Rhianna Patrick as part an Indigenous panel.
I couldn’t stay for the entire day, but I am so glad I was afforded the time to go, listen, and think deeply about the career I’ve pursued for several decades.
And on a personal level, it was wonderful to catch up with two former colleagues, Rhianna, and Paula Kruger who is the CEO of MDA.
“Tom Hughes was Lucy Turnbull’s dad”, I whispered into the ear of my friend Graeme. Though it wasn’t specifically mentioned on the Mardi Gras History Walk, it was something I knew which added to the story. Historian, Robert French was talking about a meeting of the Liberal Party of NSW held in the early 1970s. Tom Hughes, as Attorney-General was considering a range of homosexual law reform, Robert explained, and was being opposed by conservative forces in the Liberal Party. The irony of the situation now facing Lucy’s husband, the Prime Minister, and the similarity to the situation facing her father almost fifty years ago was not lost on me.
There’s all manner of phrases about “learning from history” and how “history never repeats”. But, honestly it does. And if you look to history about how different types of people have reacted to issues/situations in the past, you can better understand human nature, and some of the human motivations for current issues.
And that’s why I like history in general, and the annual history walk for Sydney’s Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras, organised the by Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, in particular. I’ve been on a few of these walks previously, and they’re always very interesting.
Robert French is a gifted tour leader, providing the perfect combination of anecdote and understanding, locating the issues of the past within a contemporary context.
Drawing upon the work of some terrific people like Gary Wotherspoon and Lex Watson, Robert really makes history “live”. Even my friend who came with me on the walk, who was somewhat sceptical about why he should get out of bed earlier on a Sunday morning, said he really enjoyed the tour.
Next year marks forty years since the first Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras, and undoubtedly there’ll be lots of commemorations (and celebrations) around the event to be held in the first week of March 2018, and rightly so. But before Mardi Gras, there was a lot of other activist activity, and so while I think Mardi Gras is important, I think it’s worth recognising the previous work of lots of others, and that’s what you learn on walks like this. Fabulous stuff.
It’s been another day of doing nothing much at all. Well, not exactly nothing. I washed and ironed some shirts for work. I chatted to my sister and my friend Sue. I’ve watched some television. And I’ve been going through some photographs and old emails. But aside from that, it’s been a quiet do-nothing kinda day.
