I want to write about the war

Australia’s at war again, they say
But you wouldn’t know it.
You can’t see it on the streets
In the pub
At the park
On the train
Anywhere, really
It’s a silent war
A newspaper war
Goodies and baddies
A war we’re not meant to feel.

A million miles away bombs drop from high above
Some controlled by computers, some by Australians
Noble warriors of this patriotic team

There is blood.

Whose war are we fighting?
Who are we killing?
We don’t know.
They don’t know.
As it should be.

Back home, and morning doors are opened; plastic swords are sheathed
High definition cameras enter private spaces
Constructing a threat

Ten years ago we marched.
Half a city spoke
When (un)Australians still had voices.

Ignored, they returned to their houses
Now who is left to speak?
As left and right link hands and send us off to battle
Who is left to fight?

In Team Australia, dissent lives at the margins.
At times subtle: lone woman, midday sun, sacred flame, our flag (and hers).
At times intense: Brothers and sisters, split by a fence
In their hundreds
Denounce the West.
Rightly, yes, but how has it come to this?

m4s0n501

The problem with job interviews

I had a job interview last week. It didn’t go too well. This post will be another self-indulgent rant, so if you’re not into that kind of thing, return to Facebook.

Before I begin the rant, I need to acknowledge and accept the obvious:

The problem with the job interview was that I was rejected.

Just in case someone wanted to come along and accuse me of only complaining because I didn’t succeed. Well duh, that’s the point. If they decided I was the ideal candidate then I would have decided theirs was the ideal interview process.

But they didn’t. So now I’m going to complain.

The interview in question was for Teach for Australia. To provide a bit of backstory, I applied three years ago and got as far as the “selection day”, a swanky affair at a big corporate office in Melbourne with free tea and coffee and pastries (I foolishly bought breakfast on the way there, a n00b mistake) and sandwiches and a whole lot of people saying nice things and offering friendly advice and then asking questions like this:

Tell me about a time you have failed.

I was stumped. I don’t really do failure. I cruised through uni with the cushy and perfectly acceptable WAM of right-on-the-cusp-of-HD, drunk some beer, made a lot of friends, watched anime, travelled around the world a bit, destroyed my knee, took some courses here and there and you know, got by.

If I’d ever failed I must have forgotten about it and moved on. What’s failure, anyway?

The other question I stumbled over was even simpler:

Do you use a diary?

Good question. Not exactly. Kind of? I write lists. I have a notebook, I plan shit. I don’t forget my appointments. I know when I have to do something and I do it. Do I have a diary, like with all the dates and days marked out and everything? Well, um, no. Not technically. Not one with a black leather cover and the word Diary in shiny gold letters on the front, if that’s what you’re asking.

I failed.

I called them to get feedback and they said I was great at achievement but lacking in organisation and humility.

I now had an answer for the one about failure.

A few months later some genius took my note taking system and decide to market it as the bullet journal. An answer for the one about the diary.

***

So a few years later I’m sitting at the table waiting for the phone to ring, ready to go. It’s a phone interview. I’ve been through this stage before so I know what to expect. I should be fine, especially if they ask about failure. Or diaries.

But they didn’t. They didn’t even ask me the same questions as the phone interview last time. Not even similar questions. It’s basically that selection day all over again, on a broken phone line from across the world.

(I appreciate that I changed tenses for no reason and thus maybe wouldn’t be a very good teacher after all)

The nice man, whose name was either William or Liam and thus went unnamed for the rest of the conversation, got right into it:

Tell us about a time when you had to lead a team to accomplish a shared goal.

We were off and racing. Sure, I said, I can do that. I had a job at UTS where the aim was to ensure that nothing got too fucked up. I supervised half a dozen staff, we did our jobs, nothing got too fucked up. We went to the pub after work, had a beer, and did it again the next day. After a few weeks without fucking anything up, we took a couple of days’ leave and went to sleep.

Can you tell me a little bit more about the outcome of your leadership?

Well yeah, sure, I mean, I was the leader, and we didn’t fuck anything up. What am I, some sort of self-promotion guru? Not every job has metrics and KPIs and all that jazz,  and besides, I thought you were after humility. We just did what we had to do, got home at midnight, went to bed and started work at 7am the next day. Anyway I waffled on for a while about perfectly true but mundane things like writing new procedures and reports and having less fuck-ups than the year before but not having any numbers to prove it because, you know, that’s how the real world works.

In hindsight I probably should have mentioned diversity, but I’d already rambled on for long enough. Eventually I stopped digging and asked for the next question.

Tell us about a time in an academic or professional setting in which you had to overcome a difficult challenge in order to achieve a goal.

The Teach for Australia website tells me this question is designed to assess one of eight core competencies, resilience. Sadly, being a resilient person and being able to impressively answer this question are not quite the same things. Out went years of resilient activities that I did just because I bloody well wanted to:

  • Living in Singapore, Nepal, Canberra, the USA
  • Swindling visas
  • Riding around Lahore on a motorbike
  • Traversing India in a rickshaw
  • Travelling alone across Asia
  • Hitchhiking across Europe
  • Baking cheesecakes till my back broke
  • Falling in (and out and in and out and in) love
  • Fighting with the Indian police
  • Living in villages you won’t find on Google Maps
  • Being groped, more than once
  • Arguing with strangers on the internet

And so on. All out, to be replaced by ten minutes more waffle about the difficulties of writing an Honours thesis and managing my time and how, well, you know, technically you’re right, I haven’t even achieved my goal.

Epic fail.

Thank you for attending your recent phone interview with Teach For Australia. We enjoyed hearing about your background and experiences.

Unfortunately, after carefully considering all of your interview responses, I regret to inform you that we have decided not to progress your application to the next stage of the selection process. The reason for this is that the evidence you provided in the interview was not as strong as other candidates who we spoke to.

So the point of this rant is that they must have been asking the wrong questions, or looking for the wrong answers, because I’m the person they need, and they didn’t get me. I can’t be broken, because I’m the one writing this blog post, so I get to decide the rules. I’m also really tired and I’ve been staring at a screen all day and starting this post at this time of night really wasn’t a good idea.

And in any case, it doesn’t really matter. Teach for Australia’s market is people in a hurry: people who want to teach without spending two years learning to teach and people who want to do something more useful before they start their careers but don’t want to do something more useful badly enough to let it interrupt their careers.

That’s fair. Maybe the point of this blog post is that, unlike them, I’m hardly in a hurry. And maybe it showed.

A review of the “conscious box”

This post is going to be a bit of a deviation from my normal posts, so if you don’t want to read it, don’t read it!

A couple of months ago Grace and I both got sucked in by a Facebook ad for this strange product called a Conscious Box. Basically it promised to be a box full of goodies that you might like to try but usually wouldn’t, and most importantly it promised to send the first box for next to nothing. Anyone who’s been to a market with me knows that I don’t mind a good free sample, so we signed up on the promise that we could cancel before the second month and never have to pay for a box.

Well, we fucked it up. We went to Puerto Rico and when we came back we had emails saying our second box was on the way, and we’d each had $20 – that’s no small sum – taken from our bank accounts. We had a look around on their website and it seems like this happens to a lot of people, judging by the disclaimers and extensive explanations of the process (they bill on the first day of each month, so if you sign up at the end of the month like we did you only get a couple of days to cancel).

Because one of my favourite things to do on the internet is to write reviews of products, and because I couldn’t find a very good place to write a review of this one, I’m going to do it here.

And the summary of my review is: what a waste of money!

Seriously. As far as I can recall here’s what we got in the first box:

  • A shot of some quackish medicine that claimed to cure some kind of illness, but came with a disclaimer insisting that it wasn’t meant to cure anything at all
  • A banana and chocolate bar, which was delicious
  • A small packet of concentrate which could be turned into a lemon drink to soothe a sore throat
  • A few random teabags (I mean really fucking random: one had no explanation but we looked it up and it turned out it was for people who were trying to quit smoking! Another was a savoury tisane made from spinach and assorted herbs which also said you could use it to flavour your rice!)
  • A wet wipe or two (I haven’t opened the pack to be sure) made from bamboo
  • A small pack of a chocolate-like substance that claimed to help you sleep, but on closer look wasn’t chocolate at all (I can’t comment on the sleep because I get to sleep easily enough already, thank you very much).

There might have been a couple more things but that was about it, basically a bit of a laugh for $5 and probably just about paid for itself with the banana chocolate bar and some of the other bits and pieces.

But. This month’s box is getting judged to very different standards. Here’s what’s in it:

  • 1oz (that’s 28g) of “pasta chips”
  • Two shots of “Florax DS diarrhea relief” (remember that we have two of these boxes, so double everything) (also what a random place to discover another American misspelling!)
  • Some more random teabags (four to be precise, none of them as quacky as last time, which was kind of disappointing)
  • Two “Kramp Krusher vegetarian electrolyte chews”, clearly marked “FREE SAMPLES NOT FOR SALE”
  • A one-use sachet of “Via Nature Soothing Skin Lotion with antioxidant omega essential complex”, also clearly marked “SAMPLE – NOT FOR RESALE”
  • As above but “Moisturizing Skin Lotion with argan oil and hyaluronic acid”
  • Two individually wrapped squares of organic free trade chocolate
  • A tiny but cleverly shaped sachet of “Lotus Moon vitamin B hydrating gel”
  • An organic lip balm (okay this one is actually cool, properly sized and I will definitely use it)

Wow. I can’t believe I just typed half the words in there. If I had to add up the value this box will contribute to my life I’d go with about $3 for the lip balm, 10c each for the chocolate, the chips and the teabags and bugger all for everything else. If I were the type of person to get excited about beauty products I might get up to $4, and maybe a dollar more if I happened to regularly shit my pants (then again I’d probably already have medicine for it).

So there you go. If you somehow randomly found this page on a google search, here is your takeaway: You can order the introductory box and cancel straight away without feeling bad, you will get about what you pay for.

If you came here from Facebook, you may now return.

Five American culture shocks

A few people have asked me about the culture shock I’ve experienced since moving to the US. I always tell them that obvious things – right-wing opinions, guns, toilets that flush strangely, etc. – aren’t shocking, because we know what to expect. More shocking are the small things that are just as different, but that I could never have seen coming.

So here are five examples of real culture shock. They might not be the best ones, but they’re the ones I can remember right now.

1. The first time someone told me they don’t recycle.

To me this statement was about as weird/surprising/ridiculous as saying “I don’t put my rubbish in the bin, I go down to the river and dump it there instead.” How can people not recycle? Recycling isn’t something you choose to do or not do, it’s just something you do.

Or so I thought. Apparently only 30% of people in America recycle, even though all you have to do (in Richmond at least) is put your paper, plastic and glass in the green bin instead of the black one. Apparently that’s too hard for the majority of the population.

Now that I’ve heard this from quite a few different people it no longer shocks, only saddens.

2. The time someone gave me a mug of cold water and a teabag.

This whole experience was kind of weird. However I should note that I have nothing against the people who this story is about, for they are awesome people, and apparently this is quite a normal thing in America. But for me it was a terrible shock.

We were at a friend’s house and I was walking by the kitchen when our friend offered me tea, and told me to grab a mug from the dishwasher. I picked the most attractive looking mug and she told me to put it back: “That one has metal in it, it can’t go in the microwave.”

Woah. I knew this was a warning sign, but I didn’t quite know what it meant, and I guess I was scared to draw the logical conclusion. I picked another mug and looked around for a kettle – usually a pretty good start, I thought, having made quite a few teas in quite a few foreign kitchens.

There wasn’t one. No matter how many times I scanned the same benchtop, no kettle appeared. My bewilderment was clearly showing, for at this point our friend decided to take control of the situation. She took the mug from me, filled it with cold water from the tap, gave it back to me, and also gave me a teabag.

I was no less lost.

At this point our friend started to laugh. She looked at the microwave, and said something along the lines of “Um, haven’t you ever made a cup of tea before?”

“What do I do here?” I asked, eager to fit in and learn the local ways. “How long do I put it on for?”

Apparently the correct amount of time to boil a mug of water in a microwave is something you’re just supposed to know, because at this point my friend burst out laughing. It was obvious that I had no idea what I was doing. “Do I just put it on and watch until it boils?” I ventured.

More laughter. I decided to take the plunge.

It turns out a mug of water in a microwave takes a long time to boil. I think it was about three minutes, but I don’t think it actually ever boiled. It seemed to take a long time, and I was scared the mug would explode, so at some point I decided to cut my losses.

I put the teabag in and nursed the cup, waiting for my pride to heal. Our friend shook her head, wondering which planet this idiot had just arrived from.

3. The time a referee carded a player for saying “Jesus”.

And then stopped the game to explain that swearing was fine, but blasphemy wasn’t.

4. The time I saw this bumper sticker on a car.

Actually, I can put the image in the post. That would be revolutionary. Here it is:

I knew America was a pretty militaristic place, but nothing could have quite prepared me for the amount of joy some people seem to take in the deaths of others. This particular car (not the one in the picture – the one I saw was red) was covered in anti-Islamic stickers, many of which were similarly offensive.

On a related note, a neighbour interrupted us one day to have a big rant about a Coexist bumper sticker on Grace’s car. “How would you like to coexist with people who walk through your door and throw Molotov cocktails at you?”, he asked.

We didn’t have a good retort, so he kept going, saying something about Muslims and Gaza and eventually offering/threatening to throw a Molotov cocktail through our window so we could see what it was like.

5. The time we heard a chilling scream and my first instinct was to investigate.

I thought that was what you were meant to do when you heard someone who seemed to be in need.

Apparently not in a society with guns.

Grace talked me out of it and made sure I stayed inside. I ended up calling 911 to report what we’d heard, because I wanted to help in some way, and because it made me feel like I was in an American TV show.

Everyone we’ve spoken to since said we did the right thing. Apparently you don’t respond to screams unless you have a gun that you’re not afraid to use.

 

Why all weather is climate change

 A few years ago I worked as a bicycle tour guide in Sydney. Each day I took groups of a dozen or so riders on tours that took us along the shores of the harbour and through the CBD, stopping for lunch at a pub in the Rocks. This being Sydney, the weather was always on the menu: either it was perfect or it wasn’t, and either way people had something to say about it.

Often these conversations led to the guests talking about the weather in their hometowns. Whether they were from Amsterdam, London, New York, San Francisco, New Delhi or Tokyo, they invariably had stories to share of bizarre, unseasonal weather: snowfall in summer, heatwaves in autumn or cyclones in the dry season. On many occasions I saw groups of tourists with nothing in common, living in completely different climates, united by shared observations of the bizarre. Far from its usual role as boring filler, talking about weather got everyone going.

When I stopped working as a tour guide and travelled to India, a place I’ve visited many times, I noticed that people had become troubled by the unpredictability of the annual monsoon. In Mumbai I was told that traditional ways of predicting rainfall, which had kept people in good stead for many years, had suddenly stopped working. One year the monsoon arrived more than a month later than usual, and with much greater ferocity, causing floods in which hundreds of people died. The year I was there the rains arrived, but then stopped after a week, leading to widespread confusion among farmers who didn’t know what to do with their crops.

When I travelled north to Nepal I heard the same stories again. I stayed in a small village called Palubari, where people were still talking about a single day, two years earlier, when snow had fallen long after the end of winter. The villagers in that area rely heavily on potatoes: to give you an idea, the house I stayed in had a dedicated “potato room” where the year’s harvest was stored for several months. As well as making up a large part of the local diet, the potato harvest provides the village with one of its few opportunities to make cash money in the markets of Kathmandu. That one unseasonal day of snow had wiped out that year’s harvest, freezing the saplings and leaving the village critically short of both food and money.

These stories are of course anecdotal, but they start to form a pattern. When we put anecdotes like these together with the overriding scientific consensus, we begin to see that the strange weather events taking place in cities across the world are in fact part of a larger pattern. Across the world, uncertainty is the new norm.

Five or so years later, I find myself living in the USA, where a series of extreme weather events have paralysed cities across the country. I’m not completely on top of my American geography but all the news I’ve seen has been sensational: Snow here! No snow there! Power lines down here! Random hot days there! Homeless people dying everywhere! All of it has come with the message, sometimes implicitly but more often than not explicitly, that this is not normal. When it snowed in Tokyo last week I heard the same message.

The message I haven’t heard is that all this weather is part of something much larger. Every day weather forecasters get on TV and say “we’re going to have some unseasonal rain this week, because of this low pressure system”, or “well you might have thought it would never snow at this time of year, but tomorrow it will!”, but rarely do they go any further. What caused this unseasonal low pressure system? Where did this weird and wacky summer snowfall come from? Why is it that these “once in a century” events seem to be happening every second week?

We certainly don’t know everything about climate change, and not every abnormal weather event is a shining example of it. Of course there were ice ages, fires and floods that we couldn’t understand long before we started filling the skies with tremendous amounts of CO2: that’s half the reason we have gods.

But we do know, now in 2014, that every bit of weather that ever happens, anywhere on the planet, is in some way connected to climate change, and that climate change is in some way connected to us. When it’s colder than it would normally be, that’s climate change. When it’s warmer, that’s climate change. When there are no bananas for a year, that’s climate change. When monsoons fail and millions starve, that’s climate change. When it’s a perfectly normal, seasonal day – and there are less of them every year – that’s a reminder of what we stand to lose.