I like my children. They’re good kids on the whole. Not perfect but none of us are.

I’m proud of the girls they are turning out to be. They’re funny and focussed. They are stubborn and cuddly. They are kind. They take genuine delight in other people. They will tell me if they feel they have been wronged. They can rage with all the rage. They are amicable. They can be fierce. They are gentle. They are cheeky. They have great imaginations. They get hangry. They are loving. They are creative. They’re bonkers.

Like all children, their positives overwhelmingly outweigh their negatives. Children by and large are pretty good fun to be around. And my own children, well they make my heart happy.

I enjoy spending time with them. But I love that they are sleeping in their own beds now. I like that they get each other up in the morning and play happily together without needing us, their parents, to be there for everything. I relish that independence even when I see the chaos that results from them playing happily for two hours before we wake up.

I’m also done with being apologetic about liking my children.

If I can’t say great things about my child. I’m a shit mother.

Not because they are the greatest kids ever* but because they are my children. If I am raising children I don’t like, that I don’t delight in, that aren’t the very best versions of themselves – it’s because I’m an arsehole parent.

And you can quote me on that.

I want them to know that I always believe in them. I want them to say when they get older, “I knew my parents loved me even when I wasn’t being very loveable.” I want them to know that their parents always talk up them up to others, that we rejoice in them.

Trash talking your own children is shitty parenting. It’s small minded. It’s mean. It says so much about your own imperfections and prejudices and very little about them.

I’m not talking about acknowledging that they’ve been contraceptive some days, or that they’re driving you demented, or any of those things which are a normal part of relationships at any age. I am not talking about keeping it real or setting boundaries for them as they grow.

I’m talking about the parents that always find fault with their children. That speak about them disparagingly in front of them. That only share the stories retelling negative experiences. The ones that roll their eyes or tut righteously whenever they launch into a tale about their offspring.

There is so much joy in children and the adults they become. As parents our role is to focus on the positive and teach them to manage the negatives. It’s our job to love them stupidly and without reason. It’s our job to raise children we like. How can they be resilient adults if they are surrounded by negativity the whole way through their childhood?

All the science shows that being an arsehole to a child stays with them and informs their inner voice as they grow older. It affects their confidence, their sense of worth, their ability to form healthy relationships.

So no. I choose not to be that parent. The one that belittles their child. That doesn’t rejoice in them. That judges my child for their imperfections.

So yes, I love my children. I am happy to tell you that. I’m happy to share all the things about them that I love and delight in. I will shout from the rooftops about things they say or do if I am so inclined.

Because I want them to do that for other people.  And how can they do it if they don’t experience it?

I choose love. I choose pride. I choose happiness. I choose to embrace the people they are and the people they will become.**

     

* They are actually the greatest kids ever.
** Even if they grow up to wear crocs, vote conservatively and start a velour fashion label.

The front of both cars was missing, fluids ran down the road, and while somebody helped the driver out of the silver car, I physically wrenched the door open of the black car and helped the driver out. Both drivers were in shock, one had chest pains and one had a clearly broken arm.  I called out to a guy standing by to call the police and an ambulance.

“911?”

I think I can be forgiven for thinking very profane thoughts about people’s stupidity and the overindulgence of too many Australians of American crime shows in that instant but I just replied “No, triple zero.”

I wandered about helping where I could – rescuing groceries, pulling bits of car off the road, reassuring the driver with the broken arm, turning off the cars. Emergency services and tow trucks arrived. Cars were removed, roads cleaned, paramedics inserted drips, daughters arrived to collect parents and grandparents, and the police were there looking as if this was business as usual, not that exciting at that.

During all this I was at one point standing with the driver of the black car making polite chit chat and hoping he wasn’t going to pass out before the ambulance arrived, some people standing along the fence line watching the goings on, were chatting about what happened. They speculated about what had gone on and then as clear as a bell one said “Bet it was that guy that was at fault, bloody Asian drivers!.”

I felt the guy, whose name I now knew, stiffen slightly before the heat ran to his face.  I raised my voice and continued talking to him but I was fuming. Had I not felt at the time that it was entirely inappropriate to start a fracas beside an injured individual I would have had something to say. I settled with a dirty look in the right direction and right on cue the ambulance arrived, along with what I am happy to tell you was the most reassuring paramedic in Australia.

Accidents always make me feel discombobulated. People just continue driving around them, or watch from the sidelines. Even if the accident isn’t huge, it has a lasting impact on the people involved, whether its just inconvenience of a missing car or something more serious.

What continues to discombobulate me time after time is the blatant racism people with non white skin experience. This was an accident. Whatever happened, nobody intended for it to happen. Whether it was a momentary distraction, a poor judgement call re speed, whatever – it could have been any one of us. Our ethnicity is definitely no indicator of driving ability, or anything else for that matter.

I was cross with myself I didn’t say more to the idiot commentating, point out the added distress he caused to an already injured man suffering from shock.

The following afternoon, I was catching up with a friend as our children played together. She was talking about her business and how frustrated she has been with blatant racism recently. There was a toilet damaged in the block and one of the other business users accused her and her staff of squatting on it. Just because they are Australians of Asian descent. Turns out the damage was caused by an Australian of Celtic descent and all of a sudden it was no big deal.

I was in disbelief that somebody would come out and accuse people they work alongside, and have worked alongside for a long time, of damaging a toilet based on the possible toilet habits of non-Western countries, based on race. Totally flabbergasted. Appalled. Horrified even.

My friend said it happens all the time. When they opened a shop into one suburb, her husband who is an Australian of non-Asian descent, was told by some of the locals that they were glad it wasn’t ‘one of those Asians’ opening the shop.  And this in an area where the accents are still thick with the European countries from whence they came once upon a time.

None of us are local – bar the 2.4% of the population that have lived here for the 60,000 years or so prior to colonisation.

My friend said she was used to it. She had hundreds of examples – not all so blatant, but all leaving their mark. We moved onto other topics because like all gatherings of girlfriends it is possible to sort out world peace in a two hour catch-up, but her experiences have sat with me along with the driver from the black car.

I’m still dumbfounded by all that I learned this weekend. I really believe that ultimately people are good. I know we all have different experiences and that influences our outlook. But racism is so senseless. It just exposes ignorance.

I am aware of my white privilege. I am. (And if you’re one of those that don’t understand what that is read this great article to get yourself up to speed.) But I need to be more than aware.

I should have spoken up and called the man in the park on his words. I should not have allowed any doubt in the mind of the driver of the black car about whether or not I was secretly agreeing. I need to be vocal in my support of my friends so that they know that support is there. I need to call out casual racism in meetings, in conversations, in jokes.

I might not change people’s minds.

I might offend and I’m okay with that.

Because the ramifications of indifference and inaction are unacceptable. History teaches us that time and time and time again.

     

Apparently. Or it’s total horse-shit which is more likely in my view.

And then that stink ball man with a pen that The Australian insists on employing, drew a cartoon depicting our LGBTI community as nazi-esque. If you don’t know why that’s offensive, start reading a paper other than The Daily Telegraph or The Australian, or at the very least review your 20th century history and the people that were victims of the holocaust.

Bigotry in Australia is not new.

First we turned up uninvited and hated on the indigenous population because they were black and didn’t speak English.

Then we hated on the Chinese because they worked really hard at the jobs white Australians didn’t want to and also didn’t speak English, wore their hair long and wore pyjamas.

Then we hated on the Irish because they were all criminals and Catholics and knew all the lyrics to
‘Molly Malone’.

Then we hated on the Germans because they didn’t like the English and we had to go to war.

Then because we had nobody to hate for a few weeks we went back to despising the indigenous and started stealing their children and banning anybody that wasn’t white from coming here.

And then we got to hate the Germans again, and the French and the Russians. Then Japan got into it so we were able to hate the Japanese and anybody Asian just in case they were Japanese.

Then we hated the Italians and Greeks for coming here because we’d bombed the bejeezus out of their country so they turned up here and were prepared to work hard.

We also hated on rock ‘n’ roll for a while too just to mix things up again.

Then we hated the Germans for coming. Then we hated the Japanese for coming because even though the war was over we have long memories here. And we hated anybody that might be communist and we definitely hated on anybody that might be getting above themselves.  So basically black people and women.

And we started hating gay people because they started mentioning they were gay rather than it being the love that dared not speak its name.

And we hated on the Vietnamese because they turned up and wanted to work and not be at war.

 Then we decided to hate on the Lebanese and the Indians and the Pakistanis and the Sudanese and anybody that was coming here and making a go of it.

Then we decided we’d hate Muslims because of 9/11 even though Americans are quite good at killing thousands of themselves each year all by themselves, and then we decided that we’d hate anybody that tried to escape the war and make a better life for themselves. And when hating them didn’t work we just put them in concentration camps to make sure nobody missed that we’re arsehats of the highest order.

Then because we weren’t hating redheads anymore we voted one into the senate and she said we hate Muslims again and if we’re not careful we’re going to have a lesbian Asian Prime Minister.

Tell you what – if Penny Wong stood for PM right now I’d be voting her in quicker than Usain Bolt can run 100 metres.

That’s quick.

The sweet, undeniable fact is – if we let only people under the age of seven vote and make policies, we’d have marriage equality, we’d have a working refugee policy, we’d have our diversity represented in parliament, on television, in magazines. Because children don’t hate anybody. They learn that shit from us.

So here’s a fun game for you to help you focus on all the positives that Muslims, refugees and the LGBTI community contribute to life here down under. Let’s counteract the hate with a little bit of love.

The following Australian politicians, commentators, cricketers, actors, comedians, FIFOs, business owners, naval captains, army captains, digital wunderkinds, judges, social workers and swimmers are either from refugee families, are Muslim or identify as LGBTI.  See if you can work out who is what?

And then remember that you don’t give a shit but at least you’ve got some positive stories to share next time somebody says “What did Muslims/Gays/Refugees ever do for this country?”

1. Portia Rossi
2. Benjamin Law
3. Anh Do
4. Susan Cartland
5. Ed Husic
6. Carmen Marton
7. Yassmin Abdel-Magied
8. Bob Brown
9. Tim Duggan
10. Max McKenzie
11. Ruby Rose
12. Fawad Ahmed
13. Anthony Mundine
14. Cory Paterson
15. John Illhan
16. Mona Shindy
17. Karl Kruszelnicki
18. Les Murray
19. Madga Szubanski
20. Frank Lowy
21. Jordan Raskopoulos
22. Robert Simms
23. Waleed Aly
24. Courtney Barnett
25. Mariam Veiszadeh
26. Bachar Houli
27. Cate McGregor
28. Heiu Van Lee
29. Deng Adut
30. Michael Kirby
31. Ian Thorpe
32. Khoder Nasser
33. Nazeem Hussain
34. Usman Khawaja
35. Harry O’Brien

     

27 days ago I wrote a piece about living with depression and the importance of asking people about themselves.

12 days ago the piece was published and like many people I read what I had written, and truth is, I was slightly discomfited by my honesty.

Everybody has a talent!

I would never have been that honest normally. Self deprecating humour or conversation deflection are my special talents.

I don’t mind sharing stories about my mental health, but normally I do it when I’m feeling on top of things, not when I’m wading through the debris of my own malfunctioning amygdala.

I don’t mind admitting that seeing how low I went scared the shit out of me. Still does.

I’m in a much better place now. A combination my beloved man, new meds, my lovely psych,  and a truly tremendous amount of support from my friends. The kind that says I’m not alone. The kind that has asked what I can I do? The kind that has told me I am loved. The kind that has grounded me when I was not able to ground myself.The kind that has been kind.

So much kindness out there.

So much.

But what I wasn’t expecting was the connection. So many people that I knew, but even more that I did not know. They had walked my walk. Cried my tears. Felt my feelings. Wanted to say what I said. Found it hard to articulate. Said nothing.

The heartbreaking stories came from those that had said something and heard nothing but deafening silence in return.

Nothing from their families. Nothing from friends. Nothing from colleagues. Some even heard nothing from their partners.

And that silence made them feel like nothing.

My heart broke for these people. Because that is a terrible way to feel. I know that feeling.

I’m not being smug, it’s not like the world changed instantly for me writing so openly. There are many close to me that have not said a word in all the time they know I’ve been living with depression, and the years and experience have taught me not to expect them to say anything.

But some people did. So many people did. I was the recipient of so much love and kindness that I was, and remain, truly humbled.

So thank you, thank you, thank you to all of you that reached out.

Every word and every action was an extraordinary gift to me for which I am eternally grateful.

Because of you, I’m on the road back to me.

     

They still are. Unless it interests them. So I suspect they are destined to be Liberal politicians.

But I think I blog for the reason most no-niche bloggers blog. It’s not because we have anything to say that is going to change the world. We have nothing educational to say, we know nothing about parenting despite having children, we only exercise when we have to, we don’t care about cooking or paleo or cupcakes enough to write something of benefit to others.

We don’t slow our home, we’re not musical nerds, we don’t speed up our home. We’re not good at gardening, we can’t teach you anything except hard won advice like how to get a popcorn kernel out of a kid’s nose and never go to Hawaii without pre-booking the tourist activities.

We blog because we like writing. We blog because we have opinions. We blog because there is something inherently satisfying about taking the noise out of our heads and shaping it into something sensible, or at least coherent, and casting it adrift.  It leaves room in our heads for more noise or even just different noise.

I blog because all of us find it hard to say things sometimes – even chatterboxes like me. Sometimes it is easier to write about things than it is to talk about things. And if nothing else, blogging has taught me that in sharing my personal stories, it enables other people to share theirs. Because for the first time in FOREVER, they find out that they aren’t the only one who thought that particularly daft thing or went down that very dark path.

I blog because I care about certain issues and the only way to possible to connect to a wider audience with interest in the same issues is to put my point of view out there. Enable people to engage in dialogue, tell me I’m wrong, tell me I’m right. I have actually changed my mind about some things I have written about based on the information and feedback I’ve received.

I blog because I need a community. I’m a bleeding heart leftie with a big mouth, depression and to top it all off I’m an extrovert that works alone.  I don’t get to do water cooler discussion. I can’t be hating on the Bachelor or railing against xenophobic Australian policies to myself. If talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, turning the washing machine on so you have the comforting sound of company is probably a close second.

I blog because we need to challenge the status quo. Both our own and other peoples. Comfort zones are for losers. If I don’t challenge my thinking and opinions, how can I ever grow? If I was still the same person I was at 12 we’d all be in some serious trouble. The mid 80s in Australia were in no way the most enlightened of times.  Blogging gives me a way to put forward my point of view. It gives me a voice.

I strongly believe we all need to stand for something. Or we stand for nothing. I am incredibly aware of the privilege that I have inherited as a result of my birth and I find that blogging enables me to connect with people on issues that I would never have known we had in common if I didn’t write about them, because it was never going to come up in casual conversation.

I blog because I believe in the transformational power of stories. I blog because without it I wouldn’t have met some of the most amazing friends. I blog because without it I would not have had the opportunities to become a better person, a more informed individual and a more connected individual.

I blog because it is only in this space that I am truly unfettered, free to articulate myself, define myself and sometimes, expose myself.

I blog because of the voice inside.

Disclaimer: This post is part of the Shoebox Timeline competition for ProBlogger Event