Pathed by balcony and bathed in pink and orange glow, my walk to the drinking fountain is often met with beautiful sunrises which blanket the grounds of my school. Though today was met with something unexpected, perhaps more glorious than what was previously anticipated. On the third floor of my school facility, I watch below surely the most wonderful thirty-second interaction of the entire day. A father, having to be at work by 7:00 am, tentatively though trustingly releases his son into another day of exploration.
I reach for the tap to fill my bottle and miss, I'm so wrapped up in the moment of bliss unfolding below me. Dad kisses his son's forehead before reminding him about pickup time. "I'll be right here waiting, buddy," he starts, a stammer in voice. "Promise you won't forget," he concludes, almost pleading. By this time, I can't help but smile, my heart full of adoration. I've seen this scene many a time before, but never like this. The son has made his trek, barely fifteen metres when Dad, still standing motionless but full of emotion, makes one last effort to attain son's attention. His eyes are poised and body statue frozen. "Have a good day," he calls. Son looks back, "Yep. I will Dad". The water overflows my bottle as I snap back to reality. What a moment to witness. In my decade or so of being a teacher, I had been openly seeing this type of connection a lot. But never with Dad, always with Mum.
It was simply amazing. I quietly thanked this father (to myself) and used the inspiration to ensure one thing: that I never let my status as a "MAN" get in the way of my status of a "PARENT". This small snippet of my morning opened my mind to an array of memories and brought me to the question: when did the male stop showing this kind of emotion? Is there a rule where we, as men, are not allowed to? I wanted to investigate and what better way to do so than by using my iconic mate as a perfect side story.
Although it wasn't that long ago, I grew up in a time where men were men. Men had to be men and boys had to be mini men. I cannot say things have changed too much but they are changing, slowly. I still embrace the state of vulnerability and implore all to prioritise, wholeheartedly, the ability to form and hold authentic relationships. The rigour of our everyday lives must always come second to this. Despite this, there was a time when vulnerability was a sign of weakness and bravado outranked any form of sensitivity. The impact on my age bracket is severe; mental health taking its toll on our nearest and dearest, tenfold. I actually cringe at the thought of having to hide my sensitivity but that is how many around still behave. Think about the previous generation of men, the fifty or sixty somethings, and the environment they grew up in. Living up to the Bondsy wearing, bronzed chunderer from down under, who was funny, well built and extremely brave must have been excruciating. Always. I can't think how exhausting that would've been. One of my generation's many representatives, actor Justin Baldoni, has had a gutful of always playing the shirtless macho man, "I'm tired of being man enough, all the time". And aren't we all?
A close friend of mine and I recently chewed the fat about the way we, as teens, once were. We were strong, chauvinist and reckless; popularity swaying in our direction. We drank way too much, VB of course, and rebelled in almost all interaction with authority, except on the footy field. We lived like we were heroes and, despite behind closed doors our so-called admirers thinking we were crazy or jerks, we were glazed with glorious appreciation. We were alpha males, accepted for this and felt valued as a result. We were jocks, carbon copies of our fathers. The same fathers who probably had the same pressures in years foregone. This acceptance, from people, in all directions, is what drove (and has driven) this trail of masculinity for the ages. All we all ever really want as kids and impressionable youths (perhaps even as adults) is acceptance. Not for who we are but for who we think others want us to be. It tends to become a rotten cyclic notion and it needs to stop.
During this conversation, Robbo (hilarious we have such occa nicknames to coin our token of acceptance - something we also inherited from our dads - I get 'Bricka', a derivative of Dad's 'Bricko') and I talked about no longer feeling the need to impress with our drinking escapades and drunken tirades. Something surprising for most, as we prided ourselves with this very act for over a decade, so much so, I earned, justly, the term "Frank The Tank". It felt good to be accepted and feel valued for taking on Frank, but where did it all come from? Is this truly how we want society to be? Ostracising those who do not conform?
We complain about bogan-ism taking over the country and our reputation for unsolicited mistreatment of those beneath us as a whole but the mentality we have acquired through our short tenure as a country has not only been bestowed upon us from those before, we, as a nation have bathed frenetically in all of its hideous spotlighting. We mistreat our immigrants and visitors, despite recognising our laid back and easy-going personality as a strength; we welcome desperate ways to get ahead, by cheating, disregarding comparisons of our cheating, criminal and not so humble beginnings as a 'white' state. Our culture is rich with pride and history which dates back to the dawn of time, though we do our best to shunt or dissipate what makes us whole and great. We chop down those poppies who are tall and worked tirelessly for their worth, for the jealousy that rages within continues to plague our own progression. We sit in the shadows and whine that no one ever gives us a voice, a hand up or support, then shoot down any first sight of one with an ounce of moral courage. All this is just the beginning of one almighty shit show our upbringings have created, yet there is one ginormous thing we all should hang our heads and wallow for. For when all of this rears its ugly head, our own mothers still tell us we are all perfect. Oh yes, our humble and ever caring female. Our treatment of women is deplorable. For every show of masculinity and its pressures, we hack away at the beauty of femineity. Underprivileged is one thing, outcast is another, but the true show of us as a country, a society, is mistreatment of our girls.
A few years back, Robbo ran for a purpose, not just to show his strength and determination (something this brut was accustomed to) but to see the pain one's body can endure, physically and mentally. A raiser of funds and awareness for an amazing entity, Bravehearts, an organisation trying mightily to protect children from the pits of sexual abuse. This run was no ordinary run, and the fact that only thirteen runners took place epitomised its complexity and rarity. The task: run seven marathons in seven days. Oh yeah, did I mention it was done in seven different states, one each day? Just the thought of this is enough to make your muscles ache, your spine tingle and head pound. Who in their right mind would do this? Robbo would! Was this to prove he was truly man enough? I think so, but in the same breath, when he would be done, running his body into the ground, he would become a real man to a totally different accord .
Never have I known a more go-getting, inspiring self-believer. In fact, one of his drunken misdemeanours came from the cursing of his peers proving this very point. Robbo needed to be the man, at every opportunity, so when drinking onlookers posed a simple query with him, "you wouldn't do this Robbo!", the challenge was on. This applied in every situation and trust me, some of his "you wouldn't do this" accomplishments are now like folklore. This grit and uncanny need to prove others wrong opened his mind to new places, places he thought his intellect would never allow him to explore. The place this race took him was one of despair, darkness, isolation and emotional wreckage. Not because of the pain he was enduring over the nearly three hundred kilometres he had run, moreover because of the people he met and their stories of hurt. Their stories firstly filled his gut with agony, then filled his heart with admiration and his head with the drive. "If these people can go through that, such afflictions from others, I can surely keep running" he reminisced. "The worst thing," he recounts, "was the fact I hadn't been through it nor known of this type of behaviour from adults, grown men". You see, most of these runners, like Robbo, would have to endure relentless chaffing, staunching blisters and ripped skin, severe athlete's foot and unthinkable cramp, to pair with daily nausea, sleep deprivation, travel ooziness and baffling muscle soreness. This was something they had all agreed to do, on their own (sane) accord. What they hadn't ever signed off on was a different hurt. The pain of their childhood mistreatment. Then the stomach knots of self-shame, the ridicule of feeling the freak when thoughts of suicide and solidarity knocked down their resilience. This type of pain, a few runs, seemed a grain of sand on a beach in comparison. What Robbo witnessed during that time was life-changing. "Most of these stories were of males mistreating women". He remembers one female competitor wailing in tears during a circuit run (4 x 10.55km), somewhat because of an ankle injury, but mostly because that time, running all by herself had gurgled the pain and suppression from within. "It [howling] was almost unbearable to listen to", he recalls when running passed or beside her during that particular leg.
Each night, the group would delve into their own life stories; most were of abuse and most about the stigmas surrounding men being all powering and emotionless. The experiences were hard to listen to but had to be echoed. This run was making an impact on many and sending a message, a loud one of the hope for change... one bloke at a time. It is important to note, not all abuse is at the hands of men, but, according to ABS's survey on domestic violence in 2016, a staggering 77% of victims are female, at the hands of males. It is never pretty, regardless of gender, the point here is that as Robbo and I experience more in life, we have come to realise that our own education and upbringings could have played a part in the expectations surrounding the treatment of others, particularly girls. That country boy, scruff and rough, which has an abundance of advantages, may have been overexposed to a backward expectation upon how he should treat women.
True to his occa style, Robbo got a tattoo of his achievement but knew the permanency of his new addition would bear no comparison to the emotional scarring and traumatic permanency of the victims of which it represented. A greater awareness of the facts, a more emotionally intact being and a greater respect for minorities ensued this experience for Robbo. His parting with bravado was celebrated internally as much given kudos from beyond. Conversations stemmed about the nature of males verse the nurturance of this chauvinistic, bullish and boisterous behaviour inherently habitualised by men. When we grew up with those who care, we care. When we are exposed to trauma, we are traumatised. When we see strength in aggression and violence, we foster the behaviour. "Boys will be boys" is no longer an excuse for disrespect. If we show love for ourselves, as men, the nurturance of sensitive vulnerability will engulf those around us. I realise it is my job to break the back of an ugly monster that has exhumed from all corners of society's bedrooms. As educator, as mentor, as footballer; as author, as Dad and as man.
The question we have to confront is clear: are we man enough to be a real man? This means having the courage to be honest with others, to stand up for what we believe in and most of all be honest with ourself. We are all born with an ability to love, a dependency on others and the yearning for care. The way we are nurtured is completely up to those who love us. One thing is for sure, respect must be nurtured. If we cannot foster respect, in all we do, so that those beneath us can then grow into respectful beings, these vicious cycles of mistreatment may never alleviate.
I've grown up with one version of Robbo and now know the same being but a completely different man, yet I still respect him, perhaps more than ever. There's an old saying, which probably spawned from the same scripture as, "boys will be boys", but should cease to exist from all realms of an equitable society; it exhibits perfectly how this revolutionised bloke has changed. "The boy you see at seven is the man you see at thirty", a saying so true in general society but not for Robbo, not for I. If this bloke can change his perspective on everything, I can. We all can. We are not destined to treat people a certain way, we make a choice to do so. That includes ourselves.
So, why try link a converted blokey bloke to a dad dropping off a kid at school, to the treatment of women? It is quite simple. These scenarios all play out scenes of the past and of future change. The key is education, care and a nurturance of positivity. The amazing world we grow up in isn’t always really that amazing. Let us foster what is good and what is worthwhile, like equals. We preach respect and now it is time to practice what we preach. That dad showed me how all dad's should be: proud. Sensitive and proud. Be man enough!
All good men out there, who was the boy you were at seven and who have you become?
Beginning Teachers: P-Plates Please
After a reinvigorating second term, which saw me take on a practicum student, embarking on their last adventure (4th Year Placement) before entering the world of teaching, I sit and reflect. I watched in awe of this young budding nurturer who breathed life into my dying sense of hope in the system. This kind of teacher could just save the world in which we call our domain; she has awareness, respect, passion, enthusiasm, care and an uncanny sensitivity to the needs of each individual. It was indeed a very exciting display of development over her ten-week placement. What she did have too (which should never be under-rated) was the ability to listen. Something so simple, yet so very important in the future phase of her teaching career, for both classroom and staffroom. Taking on feedback and bouncing ideas around in mentoring sessions was a breeze and certainly got me thinking. It got me thinking about just what the impact mentor teachers have on the next generation of educators and I think I have solved the myriad of confusion as to why teachers fall victim to some of the most horrific statistics when in the first half decade of the teaching journey. "Stats?", you ask? Yes, stats like almost a quarter of teachers graduated since 2011 have left the profession and in that year (2011) alone, 31%. The stresses of the job, coupled with the patronising jibes (you know the ones: "Holidays! Are you teachers ever at work?" Or "I could easily be a teacher, they just play games with the kids all day, and get paid to do it"), have, according to the Hunter Institute of Mental Health, claimed up to half of all teachers in their first five years on the job. This is shocking though, for me, believable and certainly not surprising. The lack of skill, guidance and accountability play their role in making this first, and for some, the last stanza of the profession that much more difficult. I could sit and whine but that would serve no purpose really, we all know the worries of educators. But, after my recent experience, I feel it necessary to proclaim a solution of sorts. It goes like this… excuse the persistent 'P' theme - it all makes sense once you have read. Enjoy.
Perhaps projecting the persistent prominent problems with primary teachers when they inaugurate their professional passage is their lack of the 'P-word' principle to peruse and pursue most promptly.
When we say 'P-Word' what actually comes to mind for the new educator?
I'm going to explain the pilot of peppering 'P's' in primary teaching. It is a well defined, yet disregarded philosophy and practice that persistently pries with producing perfect primary practised professionals.
Possibly, 'P' stands for passion. This is one attribute new teachers are permeating profusely. For the beginning professional, it is clear there is no lack here and hence; teaching is promptly off to a positive commencement. If this quality remained evident amongst educators well into their second and even third and fourth decade of mediating youths then we would all be praising the peaches for the incredible school system we have. This is not only implausible; it is also far from the truth. At which point do teachers stop craving the progress of their personal practice? There doesn't seem to be a timeframe or passion clock but it is quite clear that a teacher's passion does fade or dwindle over the years of heading the learning experience of students. It is also definite that if educators do not at least lead their career with this 'P-Word' they may be in the wrong profession. The skills of a newly found fulltime teacher will come with another 'P-Word' we know as 'practise' (apparently this makes us perfect) but please allow me to continue on this pursuit for the tenuous 'P-Word'.
Passing conversations about education practice, behaviour management and the support of new educators come by often. There is always a theme and tone that overshadows positivity. Provision. Peer mediation, school's leadership and of course, principals are not giving enough support or guidance to their colleagues. Professional learning and development are not only underrated, it is under-utilised and absently encouraged. Once these leaders establish themselves at the top of the pecking order it seems the lack of empathy and direction is ever so present, unless of course, it is a professional requirement in order to progress careers further. Simple peer observation and friendly feedback allow for development and this, in its simplest form creates collegiality and leaves the door for better teaching practice ajar. The rigours of leading a school institute are demanding but this difficult task can be made easier through precise vision, attainable goals and ample professional development. Like in our classrooms, schools need routine, the members within need to know their place, need to feel welcome and ready to make mistakes so they progress through collaborative involvement. So please, principals and peers of beginning teachers alike, please acknowledge a set of 'P-Plates' on our newest comrades in our industry.
Palatable practice can be achieved with the previous ingredients; however, penetrating professional proficiency is not entirely a result of them. Parenting priorities are often not taken into account in schools. Should it matter? Yes and no. Yes, because trying to change or eliminate nurture can be a difficult, if not an impossible task. No, because your ability to truly make a difference in a student's school experience is up to the teacher, in its entirety. Creating ideals about the structure and class culture is a tough assignment but it is the single most important component in aiding the learning of our students. Does it teach literacy and numeracy? No. Does it offer room for progression in school life? Yes. Often this is the single biggest battle for early educators. There is an abundance of vigilant and perfectly planned teachers that enter the education field but they lack one thing. Control. No matter the proficiency of lesson structure and sequence of learning, the teacher will never be fully competent without control. This doesn't mean standing at the front of the room screaming and demanding respect so that learning can take place either. It is a clearly guided, self-maintained respect. Independent and responsible learners feel empowered by their rules, they feel encouraged to make mistakes within their environment, for the benefit of their peers. The classroom should be somewhere safe where ridicule is left at the door and the atmosphere is a warm, friendly haven. Sounds nice hey? How does this occur in a classroom of a newly trained teacher with no experience? Precise philosophy. This can only come from the system in which teachers and students take part in each and every school day.
Parting with pride and participating in precipitous, precedential proximity is preferred. Simply being there for beginning teachers is all it takes. Passing praise, deliberate positivity and perennial management of best practice should ensure our true 'P-Word' is apparent for the best success. And when this is done, planned proficiency is patent. Overwhelming support is truly what is needed, even when it is not needed. To know someone is always there, gives that sense of confidence, a desire to improve and harness good for everyone involved in the process. So, what is that magic 'P' word, after all of this pandering? 'P' is for probation. Not at all with any negative connotation, but moreover with preference to planned proficiency. Place positive probation at the pinnacle of priority and practised professionals will perform.
I sat in a meeting last October, where quite simply put, there was a huge elephant in the room; an insolvent culture. The leader, who had previously pushed such topics, along with wellbeing, equality and care, under the carpet, had now decided that, in light of some insipid outcomes on all fronts, it was time to check a 'culture' box. One of his several puppets infamously quoted a famous quote, "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and again expecting different results". At the time I cringed; my previous three years of hard work, toil and often heartbreak; continually battling with ostracism and dealing with my own moral courage had gone into this philosophy. I preached change, "it's hard but we all have to do it eventually…" I announced, to which many had critically denounced it, saying "there's nothing wrong with the culture" or "it's not your place…". Things since this meeting last October, unfortunately, have spiralled, almost uncontrollably, to the depths of the lowest point the entire institute has been.
Shortly after that meeting, masking strategies were put in place, of course, I watched cynically, my better judgment and personal mantra disagreeing with wholeheartedly.
And since, now being the middle of the following year, giving ample time to assess the impact of that "meeting to end all meetings on culture"? Well, let's just say, in the words of the great Albert Einstein, "May we all bathe in the insanity in which we all created…"
A short and sweet one today, leaving a little food for thought.
Many words have connotations; positive and negative, but none are blurred as to which connotation sits best for the word culture more. I guess there's confusion around this as those who seek culture for a betterment and end up seeking an abrupt exit from a dire environment, filled with negativity.
Culture; something I feel I aimlessly sought, has many facets to uphold positive progression yet probably the most effective strategy to obtain belief in a system that later brings about endless supplies of euphoric affirmation is the establishment of routine.
Many who set out to establish great culture most probably have great intentions but those who seek without effect fall victim to instilling repetition. Negative repetition, based on the ideas of few, or God forbid, one will lend itself to one thing and one thing only, egotism. Sure, ideas and implementation must all come from one but when dealing with many and that one deals singlehandedly with all, the path to success starts to crack. So, if leading this journey, be strong, set routines, establish standards (and bloody high ones at that) and stick to them, for the sake of all. If your standard fits many, make them fit all. No exceptions.
Culture is about precedents. Good and bad, they form the basis of what is required to achieve one's goals, in all walks of life. When something great happens, that "wow, that was unexpected…" take the time to sit back and celebrate it. Spend time giving pats on the back and words of affirmation because before you know it, the time to hand the bitter pill of failure will come. This is certainly an easier one to swallow having seen the high commendations for what is expected. If the failure comes first, then don't hold back, make it a precedent, and stay strong. Instill the message we learn from mistakes and then it's about the response. Always follow up the response with everyone within the culture's inner sanctum. Have them see that making mistakes is part of learning and that has allowed even further progression, that the mistake entitled one monumental precedent so it will not occur, with anyone again. If it does, there's a precedent. People hide from setting precedents and this alone may derail your desire to establish a routine driven culture of success.
There is no one way to establish good cultures but without the people at the top, making tough yet necessary decisions, they do not occur. Without the input, buy-in and a sense of value below, the culture is doomed from the outset. As a natural leader, I set about creating goodness in every way possible but by far and away the most important thing I do, as quickly as possible, I set good habits. Good routines. Repetition is nice for the continuity of a collective but is it really the basis of good culture? Set up a routine and you move forward, set up repetition and, despite at times feeling as though you are moving forward, you hit a corner and head straight back around in the opposite direction.
You know that feeling you get when everyone is following an action, fad or trend and you literally want to vomit? You know it will pass but you start to wonder why there is always these relentless trends amplifying negativity. Why won't those who bring about positivity in the world, even in the smallest of ways, catch a break? If only everyone would put as much energy into something good, worthwhile and which may actually make a real difference in the world, maybe then, the world would reek of magic!
Well, I have a message for all of you who continue to shine brightly without thinking you have made an imprint. For those who feel the energy-sapping goodness is running dry. I want you to think about the real reason you shed virtuousness on others, and finally, to never stop spreading your radiance. It's called…
"The 100th Monkey"
"Bang!" A long time ago, government forces were testing atom bombs in the sea. It was seen to be the best place to drop huge devastation as it was only near uninhabited islands which would not affect human life if invaded with radiation.
Because the politicians were so kind, they decided to re-settle the island near the testing site with monkeys. Not just a few, but about ten thousand. There was a freshwater source in the middle of the island and the monkeys could enjoy the delicious coconuts, which were aplenty on this island. Interestingly enough, scientists made daily trips to test the environment and to observe how the monkey colony was settling in. One thing concluded from their visits; the coconuts were extremely hard to eat as the rusks were radioactive. This could derail the entire re-settlement, taking down an excellent goodwill gesture in the process. Solution: teach some monkeys how to wash the coconuts thoroughly prior to devouring them. This was an arduous task and took over a month to establish the washing routine with just a small, nine monkey sample. The mission was a difficult one, re-settling an intoxicating environment but the government; scientists and environmentalist were resilient, it had to be done.
After six weeks, there was something peculiar in the science reports from the previous month and a half. Nine monkeys were rigorously cleansing the coconuts of radioactive remanence, making it easier for consuming and overall survival of the colony. The original nine trained cleaners turned into thirteen. It was a celebration; the mission was possibly going to work. Ten thousand strong, with many female nurturing babies, the colony needed this routine to survive, so having caught on, those extra four monkeys would now hold the key to clean coconut rusks and the survival of the island primates. The scientist made trips monthly for the next few months, what they found was amazing. On their returns they found nineteen monkeys cleaning, followed by thirty-four, fifty-seven, seventy-four and ninety-one. Then one-hundred, two days in a row. As incredible a breakthrough this was, showing that if one hundred monkeys can conform to this ritual and despite only one percent of the primate population having started the regime of cleaning for survival, it proved to the scientists that, perhaps in time, the monkeys would all be doing this life saving, revolutionary task.
It was decided to fund a venture to the island for a team of specialist researchers and animal conservationists over a twelve-month period. The team would rotate fortnightly and hence, give 24/7 access to the monkeys and their inspiring development. But after a staggering one week on the island, something truly mind-blowing occurred.
The team of scientists sent out search parties to different parts of the fresh water source on an overcast day. This day was to have the most amazing silver lined clouds for what they were to witness was truly unbelievable.
Although the time was stringently toilsome, often grueling, the scientists feasted their eyes on one special gathering. Ten thousand monkeys, as if in ritual, washing their rusks readying themselves for consummation. Over the next week, the same thing had happened, time and time again.
With what was a hunch originally, a distant "maybe", the looming survival strategy for this colony had worked tremendously. Each day, the primates would make their way to the fresh water and wash, it was now habitual.
Even if you think your positivity is making a limited impact, you must persevere, for one day, when you least expect it, the sun will shine upon you and the masses will worship your glory. Make good habits and in time your legacy will reign over all.
The title of this poem is brief, often resembling the representation of the issue it covers. The grief of thise whom have lost someone to mental health battle is arduous and ever-lasting. To help raise awareness of this day, a celebration of Kai-Fella and his Fund's aspirations, "Pilates For a Purpose" is making sure those whose voices have been lost forever, can still be heard.
Run away, it's there. Lurking in the distant ground, hiding from you underground.
"Stay away, I know you're there!" You scream with all distinction, calling out, it is following you around.
The day is dark, it is rank. All that I can see is a shadow in complete mist.
Doesn't help, I am lost. It's taking my existence, thundering my resistance.
Couldn't wait 'til I get home; for all my inhibitions, I hide amongst the linen.
What is this? I am spooked. I think that I have seen it but unsure if it is truly with me.
Open up, eat me whole. All of my intentions have fallen without mention.
I am gone, lost the war. If only you could help me to save me from what no-one ever sees.
In the dust, a tragedy. I watch over and smile for, every time you reach up to me for more.
Now I'm gone, you are lost. But the strength that kept me guessing has fuelled you for the bigger war.
And you will win, you will make the biggest of impressions. Awareness of it will conquer all…
Bullying is common practice in many walks of life. You yourself, I'm sure have fell victim to and been convicted of this awful act too. According to 'Bullying: No Way!', an Australian government initiative, in the education faction, report some very interesting data analysis. One in four children between the ages of eight and fifteen fall victim to bullying on a frequent basis and, get this; just 72% of schools report having bullies. We will digest these a little later but for now, think about this one last fact: 87% of bullying which occurs happen in the view of others! That's nearly nine times out of ten incidents in Australian society are done in the plain sight of day, for others to gawk at! What does that say about our school standards, our home expectations and our culture? It's really alarming; which leads me to this very evidential fact: Bullies Will Never Die! And, what is saddest yet, is the families of victims are often bearing the brunt of these acts as a result.
In the midst of our frantically paced lives, we withdraw ourselves further and further from others, yet, amazingly become more and more conscious of their thoughts and judgments. Our appearance, our possessions, our status. Of course, when there is so much pressure on us as individuals to adhere to social norms, a certain paradox falls into play; go under the radar to be noticed. Lay low until it suits us best, for we do not want to look uncool, out of touch or, heck, even wrong! So, with all this, our ego constantly runs, instinctively, on a defense mechanism - the flight or fight mode- taken to a new level; the play dead mode. We act as if we are non- existent in times of desperate need. The old, 'look, there's Spiderman!' you gesture subconsciously and take a sigh of relief when the crowd of conformists looks the other way, giving you ample time to slide away, back into the shadows. But when it's time, the spotlight of glory will shine upon you for the greatness you have bestowed upon the world around you! You just bought a new vehicle, your amazing island holiday was better than the sleep worthy experience in which others had at a corresponding time and even better, you met someone with a higher status than us all and you were lucky enough to grab a happy snap to flaunt on a platform of likable social media. A secretive self-loather portrays a confusing image of narcissism. So why do all these insults relate to us? Bullies will never die because WE are the bullies! For many reasons but for the most; we fit almost perfectly into that aforementioned 87%. We are the lifelong onlookers for one of the most horrific crimes in the history of mankind. It brings about more mental health issues than anything else, more deaths than road accidents and a more self-loathing state of mind than when getting fired or failing a test. Yet, despite all this, we still watch from the sidelines and let others endure. And the most prominent place this occurs? You guessed it…
Schools are places resembling havens; learning rich and warm, safe and nurturing, so why does so much bullying occur here? Well, there are obvious reasons; reasons that our leaders and representatives may use to more or less sweep the real, deep seeded issues under the carpet. One instance might be that children spend up to one-third of their childhood in these places. Another, schools are so unlike every other environment. Once school finishes and we enter life as an adult, we naturally find our niche, where like-minded people surround us. At schools, people from all walks of life emerge. This aids many an excuse-maker, leading conversations about bullying and differences in the opinion just natural passageway to growing up. But let's tell some hard truths here. These places, often, when nurtured and established in such a way, are idealistically utopian but most fall well short of the mark. Directly or not, bullies find solace in schools; festering negativity and angst amongst those around them. This isn't really news to us though, we all experienced it at school ourselves. Here's the issue; the stats suggest 72% of Australian schools report there is bullying in their school yard and classrooms, meaning 28% believe their institute does not. Talk about bystanding!
As the old saying goes, direct sunlight kills bacteria best. I call a call out! Bullies parade in the fear of the cowering of others. But are the bullies really to blame for bullying? It's a weird question to pose, right? We should be doing more for the bully; to educate, to care and embrace the strength of being different. And the schools who seem to be bully-less, let's call them out. Only positivity can be achieved; either we learn from their approach or they are pulling the wool! Together we fight against an issue swept under the carpet far too long. I feel the bully has a huge part to play in their very own existence. Who knows the tricks, the secrets and maybe, the reasons a bully behaves in such a way? I'll let you think about that. That sense of belonging (or lack of) may just be the cause and effect of this age-old curse. Only one thing is certain; unless something is done now, bullies will never die!
You won't have to look far when you leave your abode each day to find some form of inexplicable unprincipled deceitfulness. I, like you, live in an intriguing world; in a phase in which we shall look back upon and wonder why were we so pompously self-obsessed and vindictively keen to do whatever it takes to get ahead.
Social media entitles us to change the way we act, look and are perceived. We alter our personality to align with what is 'so hot right now'. We speak in jargon and moronic slang to fit a mould. Every day, we lie and cheat what is truly us. What has happened? Are we simply engrained to take the easy option and just pretend?
I awoke to the world today to a beautiful partner and one seriously energetic though gorgeous baby. Then, like most days, I check in with the latest from my technological sports' desk. Today was not only heinous, for what had unravelled over the previous twenty-four hours to greet my eyes from half way across the world in South Africa, it, at a deeper look is nothing more than to be expected from us really. Our culture is extremely public in disclosing disgruntled opinions and when things go wrong or get a little hard, we cover it up, we lie or we take short cuts. These are the necessary means in which to once more sit upon a throne of importance. So it is of no real surprise, our drama-laden Australian national cricket team is at it again - they are after all just a small sampling of our very own society, albeit polarised into the eye of, you know... a few billion people across the globe. So, whilst we digest what has happened with this cricket team over the weekend, let's understand why and more importantly, what should take course from the fallout.
For those whom have been living under a rock or simply gag at the thought of test cricket (many of us do), bear with me here, because there is a vital lesson for all Australians, young and old to learn from this. Accusations of an alleged plot by the Australian captain, good guy, Steve Smith and his leadership team have taken place to not only tamper with the ball in an effort to produce more bowler friendly outcomes and steer their team towards an unlikely victory, they have done so in front of over thirty cameras and most imperatively, whilst wearing our proud and iconic baggy green. These men have admitted their crime, but the question remains as whether they will do their time? On surface value, this is an ugly tainting of Australian cricket and those within the inner sanctum of the great sport, but delving deeper, it is not too dissimilar to the common folk of this great land and our day to day practice.
Sure, the ramifications of this hideous event will be and should be extensive but it also offers us a chance to reflect on what we've become as a society and the accepted culture in this bogan, ocker and sometimes narrow-minded 'land down under'. Although it's rare to see the donning of blue bondsies and mullets nowadays. We have become more accustomed to a clean-cut, well-manicured and precious, almost robotic personality. But, on quick roll-call, it's easy to see: that insensitive, backward thinking dickhead is still ever present. 'Why is this relevant to anything in the grand scheme?', you ask? Let us treat ourselves to a lesson in narcissistic nuisance.
In a world where cheating knowledge, qualification and looks is child's play, you don't have search long to see the obvious evidence of a society riddled with miniscule morals and 'whatever it takes' attitude to get the most by doing the least. Think about what the mining boom and bust has caused the past decade. The average slacker could assume his own throne within a huge mansion, look across million-dollar views and basically patronise others instead of planning for the future, working for a dollar and living the real Australian dream. These people had cash to blow, they had reputations to create and they had… kids. Kids that believe that life should be easy; their parents did it, so surely it can be inherited. To do minimal and gain maximal. Life is tough but in this little bubble, it wasn't. We spoke our mind because we had power and we were better than those who actually worked for their worth. And if we didn't have the best, we'd cheat. That gadget, that look, that life. Things are hard to attain and so they should be but, in this time, people rorted the system; the moralistic ecosystem was collapsing before our eyes. Then something gave. The bubble burst and things levelled out. Those who worked hard remained the best off and those who got lucky left the field of four-leaved clovers. But something didn't quite plateau back to normality: our willingness to do anything it takes to get to the top; the easy way. The saying goes, 'when the going gets tough, the tough get going', but, unfortunately, we had passed down some terrible traits and hence we assume a predicament. We cheat.
As an Aussie, I love a good underdog story. We all do. But underdogs weaken when things aren't done right. They feel the burden of moral courage (the ability to do the right thing all the time) when no-one else is showing it, weighing them down. So how do we solve this issue? Easy. We set standards, high standards. And if things don't work out, and when cheating has been used in the past and the thought crosses our think tank of 'where to next?', we set precedents. We make an example of what not to do. Sure, this is harder, but necessary.
In classrooms or work places I have known in my time, it is not uncommon to come across these such issues. In fact, it happens all the time, hence the aforementioned information about the culture of cheating. I see it daily, in many facets of my life. For cricket fans, we worry about the future and integrity of the game in our country, and rightly so. But think about it like a classroom with Steve Smith and his merry men, the students. We could quite easily let it slide with a slap on the wrist because we need this great man, he has learned his lesson, right? No. A student once openly said to me, "we know our boundaries and if we don't get into the trouble which was just, we just get worse". Same thing applies here. Same applies in life. If consequences, both positive and negative, are not achieved as a result of our actions a cancer (even if small) starts to spread. If not rectified immediately, like cancer, the toxicity develops.
In our society, far too often we accept shortcuts, the quick fix. In football clubs, we pass when given the chance to start a fresh and build culture; quick fix: recruit. Does this work? Short term, sometimes. Long term, no way, the same issues begin to rear its head over and over again. In workplaces, we see dodgy worksites, procedures and lack of accountability; quick fix: make over. Make the office or space look pretty to divert the real, deep seeded issues of competency and toxicity. When in friendship groups; youth or adults, there are always issues; quick fix: blame the other. It's laughable but so true. We walk away and continue finding the same issues with each and every friend we ever attain. Solution to all scenarios, change the root of the problem.
In light of the weekend's outrageous and unceremonious capitulation of our heroes' reputations, are we really at all surprised? I for one am certainly not. The real test is now for our general public to rebuild a trust and ensure the right thing is done here. Then followed through. In the past and present, we, as a culture, have swept these things under the carpet, turned a blind eye or blamed others. We took the easy route, we cheated. Don't agree? Take a look at the Sydney v West Coast game at the weekend. Sydney was too good, mainly thanks to one Buddy Franklin but that's not what was heard as the fans left the stadium on Sunday evening. It was the umpires' fault. We are all passionate and love winning, love getting ahead but the cost has become too much. It's not good enough, it never was!
There is a way back from this for Steve Smith. One cricket fan can look not too far into the past and remember Brendan McCullum; master blaster and all-round nice guy cricketer; a New Zealand captain and role model. He world loves him as a player, entertainer and as a person. Fact check. He, like Smith, took the competitive, 'win at all cost' mentality too far once upon a time also. Sri Lankan great and number eleven batsman, Muttiah Muralitharan naturally bowled like a magician but batted like a fifth-grade child. It was a dramatic and tense test match in Christchurch, New Zealand and this particular day, Murali starred with the willow. He blocked out over fifty balls to stay alongside his mate, champion, Kumar Sangakkara, who eventually hit a single to bring up a testing ton. The whole issue in this fairy tale story was that Brendon McCullum had retrieved the ball from an outfielder and, whilst the Sri Lankan batsmen went to celebrate Sangakara's feat mid-pitch, Brendan removed the bails and appealed. Technically, the ball was still in play and the umpires adjudged it out, runout. There was huge uproar; not because the wicket wasn't correct, but because McCullum, Kiwi hero had tampered with the spirit of the game. He resights ten years on, asking to turn back time. "Nearly ten years later I still regret this and hope I can be forgiven for breaking the code of ethics of the game. I hope I am a better person after what I have done". From then on, he led his team with a culture of tact, fairness and care. They played with a competitive edge and strong morale, they had principle. He set a precedent of his own poor decision and, for that, he was once more, if not more, loved. By all.
Steve Smith, on the surface, has done an unspeakable act, on the world stage. But at a deeper look, was he just doing what we all do as Australians? The game was slipping away from the Australian captain, something had to be done. He bent the rules. He didn't think about the consequences. He cheated. Winning and being the best is just so important to us, any measure seems reasonable in the heat of the moment. We now need to support the process and learn from these monumental mistakes.
This episode of horror on the international stage should offer us all an opportunity to reflect on how we act in our everyday lives. What do we want from our children when confronted by their very own Steve Smith moment? We've all been cheating for far too long. It's time to make a tough call people.
The first few weeks of the school year; early morning routines, strict bedtimes and stress that comes out your ears, for no real known reason. What can I say, it’s a tough period. You know you’ve done it before, but still each time it rolls around, it hits you like a tonne of bricks. And boy does it tickle our ‘touchy’ buttons – everything seems to make us cranky. Here’s how I reflect on snippets (only the best) morning school runs when this, the most stressful time of the year rears its head.
Screeching and ranting, foam coming from your mouth. Your feet aimlessly palpate the surface beneath it. The veins on your hand protrude with a mind of their own. Your knuckles rise and fall like magma brewing from its chamber. There must be a reason for this despondent shower of sweat, right?. You look left and see clarity, a free utopian oasis; your eyes grow like dinner plates and pupils open an orb of bliss. At last, you’ve made it.
What is going on? Let’s take it back about ten minutes.
You race through the corridor a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business, but there’s no time for old Time Rock by Bob Segar. You’ve an important event (some would say) to attend. The door closes and time slows down to a halt. Just as the door clicks shut in high tension, you squirm for the handle in a last gasp effort to keep the door from securing. In a split second, before the swipe of the hand is complete, your brain acknowledges you’ve not only left the keys inside, sitting on the table beside the door, it also admits defeat in that you are too late to save the door. Like a remote control’s slow motion mode, your hand continues its follow through, catching the handle, quite clearly too late. Time catches up and you let an instinctual and primal grunt. “Stupid” you reverberate in sync with a nasty slap upon your poor forehead. This can only mean one thing; Tardy Tim will continue his never-ending parade at work.
As if a light bulb suddenly appeared, assuming a halo, you remember the balcony door is left ajar. A quick glance at your time piece and it’s go time. You can still make this on time, you think as you collate all the things that would need to go right to forecast an arrival of punctual procession. You race around to the shed to arm yourself with the necessary tools for the forthcoming and swift break in. You reach for the ladder, unbeknownst to the hardnosed spider whose web you’ve just made a candy floss cone upon your arm with. You panic and spiral into a frenzy of aggression, dancing and prancing as if this sticky twine will somehow release itself with thanks to your sheer dazzle. Your cheeks are scorching red and your ears burn like sunburn. This little critter has feasted upon your skin, sending your immune system, along with your adrenalin into meltdown.
The surge passes, it was only an Australian native, lacking one red or white rear. The ladder plays its role and, like a cat burglar in his prime, you’re in. You collect your missing items and proceed, albeit ten minutes later than anticipated, to your car. Now on the road, what could possibly go wrong?
The car starts, little nervy, mirroring the owner yourself. Onto the road and the streets are busier than you remember last time you voyaged along these parts. You tap the top of the steering wheel in sync with the music. But like the song coming to an end, so to your patience. This may have been easier walking, you think. And quicker! Not much time, you imagine a game show watching your every move and the embarrassment of making one wrong move flutters around you like butterflies. You make your next move; a rash and abrasive one. You have never turned right on this journey before. It’s bold but it seems to be paying off. A short cut- designed to cut off part of the way and shorten the time of a particular trek, it's genius. Cruising along a side street, when you realise that red light, causing the back-up may have subsided by now, but you quickly erase the thought. You squash it with a motivating and reassuring, ‘you’ve made the right choice’ you nod your head in self approval and continue, ‘definitely quicker’. That’s when you see it, a red light ahead and you have to take a left to head back in the direction from before. You inhale not once but twice through your nostrils and then purse your lips. ‘It’ll be green shortly, I’m only third in line.’ The hardest part of this is the gap the minivan in front has left between them and the car in front. Although it makes no difference, the lights are censored and will most definitely change soon, you urge to sneak right up to the line, ready to pounce, yearning for poll position at the first flicker of green. To your shock, amazement and pure bewilderment, the arrow light does not change to green with the overhanging traffic light signalling forward only. The rage boils to your eyebrows; they furrow with angst and one single bed of sweat trickles down your forehead onto your cheek. This cannot be happening! It goes orange, then red, and again the cars flow from left to right and right to left. ‘Not long now’, you try calm yourself. Finally, the flow comes to halt and, at long last, a green arrow is coming my way… What the F#@K is going on?! There is a long, uninterrupted bleeping of the horn from your behalf! Inexplicitly, the arrow is not turning green. Infuriating heat radiates from your temples and you give up. You decide to just go around the turning van in front and head straight, you can always make a u-turn or left on the next street. Without having wriggled out two metres, you can see, bewilderingly, a space the size of a small farm truck in front of the van, ‘that incessant peasant!’, you think and let out an internal roar from within safety of your car.
You now slam your foot down on the accelerator and let your presence known. The jerk wasn’t even over the sensor – that whole time! Doesn’t he realise I am in a rush?
Finally, you wheel around the corner into the haven of, ‘I’m here’ to a surprisingly quiet and barely populated space. You pull into the carpark but find merely a handful of vehicles. You turn on your radio and hear a weirdly unfamiliar voice. The radio host finalises his segment and cuts to the ‘Sunday Morning Show’… Wait, “Sunday”?!
Our inner Demon wins again. Pathetic!
It’s not too uncommon to read blog after blog, listen to educators, lecturers and so-called experts in this field or another, and consume mountains of “research”. ‘Research suggests’ and ‘in a recent study… research allows us to…’ but the thing that truly matters when investigating the benefits of learning is one’s ability to love.
Books offer so much without ever asking anything in return. For its words act as a path into the unknown, its pages as a gateway to new pictures, words and sounds, all willingly being offered for your very own acquisition and regurgitation. The themes and messages seek relatability and its plot lines mesmerise our very idea of reality. When we learn to read, great things happen- “research” will tell us this; the vocabulary strengthens, the brain activates neural pathways stimulating both creativity and a worldly comprehension, so that we can better operate and navigate this complicated planet. “Research” suggests reading entices independent thought and prompts a heightened social skillset. It also concludes that from reading, one can access information in a way that imparts knowledge, hence leading us to a certain social status and bring about a scholarly opportunity into the future. This is all perceived as superior in some subconscious hierarchy, but why?
There is, however, an overarching all-conquering skill we gain from reading which we often take for granted, and inherently think comes naturally: the ability to love. “Research” suggests… well actually it doesn’t, but we know it happens. In every sense of the experience of reading.
Reading should be seen as a fun and enjoyable experience. It promotes story-telling at its finest. And storytelling, as part of our make-up, has enlightened love through the ages. Heck, you don’t even need the ability to read to tell a great yarn and people have been idolising story tellers since before books were even invented. But why does reading offer us such an authentic chance to love? Let’s indulge.
Firstly, reading is best done when with someone else. This experience alone can form the best basis of love and all of its might. Whilst the rest of the world indulges in self-obsessed whitewash, we listen intently to another; we watch for cues in a mood, tempo, and drama with adoration and best yet, we soak in all that is within a book through the eyes of another. We subconsciously learn to do all of these things filled with love. Together you learn to love the reading experience and overwhelmingly learn to love. Full stop.
Next, we unknowingly fall for our characters. There’s nothing quite like that unattainable protagonist within the pages of a book. We love their mannerism, their look and their confidence. We know they are not necessarily real but we tumble head over heels nevertheless. Without ever leaving the safety of this bubble in which we read, a never-ending addiction takes its course. Characters of every walk of life on earth (and beyond) are depicted right before our very eyes. Even the ones we hate, we love. For these special characters offer us a chance to forgive and understand that no two people are truly the same. We learn pain, resilience and triumph. We become a better person through the love of books. Then, as the book slams to a halt, our hearts shatter in need for more.
Lastly, books hide away values and life messages, sometimes innately. ‘Big deal’, you may think. The deal is; reading evokes emotion of all kinds; it makes our heart race when we least expect it and some may even relate to crying from the thoughts that a book’s tale instills in our imagination. Through these messages, we draw out the deepest of raw emotion and thus, learn to love a paperback’s content. Kudos to reading, how special!
So, what are you waiting for, get out and pick up a book? For the love of reading!