Prologue
This is a tale that needs to be read by people doing MBAs, and urban anthropologists looking for a thesis. Its culmination was me saying, in a heavy-hitters’ meeting, “Well, Ted, in that case, I must be an hysterical woman”, but to understand that, you definitely need a context. You need the whole tale: see the links at the end.
My parents’ idea of education was to tell me to go to my room and study. True, they taught me correct and proper speech, but what I did with it, using language as a tool and a weapon, was my own doing. They knew I was an expert debater and public speaker, but they had no idea that I was delving into books on just about anything, guided by a friendly librarian.
So I had an unusual education, and note that I would never equate schooling with education. My education took a turn for the better when my uncle got me work, straight out of school, working as a surveyor’s labourer in Papua, and then planting teak, also in Papua, with a gang of 36 rapists and murderers.
The survey part coincided with the onset of ‘the wet’, a time when rain boils up in the ranges, often dropping 25mm, an inch, of rain in 20 minutes or less. We would work from 0730 to 1300, then head for the Rouna Falls pub until the rain stopped, and then head back to finish the day’s work. The pub also sheltered a gang of anthropologists who saw me as malleable raw meat to indoctrinate, and I learned to observe the undercurrents in society. I owe those anthropologists a great deal.
I think that particular uncle set all of that part of my education up: I had three paternal uncles, and each of them had more influence on my education than ever my PTSD-riddled father did. Working with rapists and murderers (lovely people, all of them) also gave me other insights. Yes, I know it will take a while to get to the hysterical woman bit, but you need the background: just trust me.
Returning to Sydney, I set out, not to get a science degree, but to get an education, so I signed up with the student newspaper, honi soit, and got a later introduction to old-fashioned hot metal printing. I also scored my first academic failure, at which my parents gave up on me, so I joined the public service as a clerk, and as a ‘ginger group’ unionist, triggered an equal pay move that shocked many of my older male union colleagues. After hours, I studied, on and off, for an Arts degree, and I became a regular at Union Night debates.
I also took master classes in political intrigue from Jack Lang, an old war-horse of my preferred political party, the class being me and a later Prime Minister. The future PM took himself seriously, and I could see that unlike me, he had a lot to take seriously, so I went my way, and he went his. No names, no pack drill, OK? Still, keep in mind that I had expert training in arguing a case.
Having been disowned by my parents, I became the token white male in a house with four Chinese students and flourished. My charmingly racist mother complained that I “smelled like a Chinaman”, which was unsurprising since we ate Chinese food. Still, having realised that their attempt to break me with disowning had failed, I was lured back by the news that my father had terminal cancer.
There was other stuff I am leaving out, but I owe my parents nothing. I had luck, and a number of mentors, and my awareness of cultures beyond my own, my respect of those cultures, and my ability to think on my feet caught the notice of a union colleague, who lured me over into the Commonwealth Office of Education. My main role there was collecting overseas students, mostly post-graduate, welcoming them to Australia and settling them in, occasionally holding their hands. This was very much a task for a courteous and culturally aware quick thinker.
By the end of 1965, I had friends at the Indonesian embassy, and having a fair facility in Bahasa Indonesia, I conceived a plan to spend two years in Jogjakarta, tutoring undergrads in English and picking up what I needed to become a pre- and post-Islamic mediaeval Javanese historian, but there was a communist coup in Indonesia, and I had a sense that the people I knew in the Indonesian embassy might be a bit red, so I decided to use my money to go back to science.
My school mathematics teacher had been a dead loss, but with mathematics popping up all over the place, I added a year of General Pure Mathematics to majors in botany and zoology, but that pointed to a teaching career, so having milked the education system for a scholarship, I went a-teaching.
There is more to this story:
The GreatHSC heist of 1985, 2. A disabled number-cruncher.
The GreatHSC heist of 1985, 3. Applied anarchy and surrealism.
The GreatHSC heist of 1985, 4. The robbery.
The GreatHSC heist of 1985, 5. The repair job.
The GreatHSC heist of 1985, 6. The hysterical woman.
No comments:
Post a Comment