Proud to be Tasmanian?

Back in the day, back when I was about twelve years old, there was a show we all used to watch on TV, called “News Free Zone” (okay, it was a while ago. In the interests of full disclosure I have to admit that Mr. Google helped me out yet again with the name of the show, although he doesn’t have much at all to say about the rest of this post. The rest of this is all my thoughts and memories, so you’ll just have to put up with any inaccuracies).

Where was I? Oh yes.

Back in the day, back when I was about twelve years old, there was this sketch comedy show, and none of it is particularly relevant, except that it had this one regular segment called Australia Street, which chronicles the stories of the inhabitants of a share-house, each resident reflecting a state of Australia. Remember that show anybody? With the prissy Victoria Bitter, and Sunny Queensland with his floppy hat? Okay, it was the 80s. It was a long time ago. But it was kind of funny. And even if I didn’t fully get the jibes about the stereotypes of each state at the time, I did get the bit about Tassie. I was from Tassie. Heck, I was IN Tassie, and one thing I knew was that you don’t get many representations of Tasmania on TV or movies, or in stories.

So in this share-house on Australia Street, Tassie Franklin was a large hippy-ish woman living in a shed out in the back yard. She wandered in from time to time, eating an apple (Tasmania is famous for growing apples), and she’d say dim-witted, random things, and everyone would humour her for a few minutes and then tell her to nick off so they could get on with what they were meant to be doing. Something like that.

Good old Tassie. Left off maps and generally forgotten. Lives out in the back shed. In-bred. Two heads. Something about a convict past.

The other day I asked a friend who was born and raised on the mainland how she’d seen Tasmania while she was growing up, back in the 80s and 90s. I can’t remember the words she used, but the slightly patronising smile is one I remember from mainlanders years ago. The “oh, you’re from Tassie! How…sweet.” Like we were all a bit simple, a bit on the slow side. A bit not quite with it, with the notion that they should slow down their speech and thought patterns a little. My friend apologised, she’s a passionate Tassie advocate now, and I told her thank you, I was glad to hear that it wasn’t just my perception, or my own poor interpretation of memory. I remember visiting my cousins on the mainland and hearing that same patronising tone in their voices sometimes, or those of their friends. “Oh, you’re from Tassie. How…sweet!”

I remember the attitude back then, whether implied or spoken, that anyone with a brain gets out of Tassie as soon as they can. That the obvious step for anyone with some intelligence is to leave for the mainland. And many did. My friend questioned too, what does that do to a place when all the thinkers are encouraged to leave.

When we were in Canada we stopped at a bakery in a little town in Southern Alberta, run by an Australian woman, from Wollongong. We chatted a while, and she said “Tasmania eh? You don’t meet many Tasmanians!” We talked about how long she’d been in Canada (some twenty years now), and how she’d had a Tasmanian friend once, and how expensive it was to get to Tassie, which prohibited a lot of Tasmanians from travelling to the mainland, and limited others from travelling as often as they’d like. I remember the miracle that happened in the early 90s when budget airlines first began their Tasmanian operation, and suddenly poor students like me could travel, some for the first time in their lives.

I remember the feeling of “stuckness”, that of “missing the boat” because the man I fell in love with and married had no desire at all to leave Tasmania in spite of his wild intelligence. I remember feeling “dumbed down” by the sheer fact that travel was such a limited option. I remember resenting Tassie’s smallness, its apples, the vast expanses of treacherous water surrounding it, the attitude still of “Oh you’re from Tassie. How…sweet!”

Tasmania from space (source: Wikimedia Commons)

Tasmania from space (source: Wikimedia Commons)

I never chose to live here. I just…did. And after a while you learn to accept that people are coming now, moving TO Tassie and not just from it, intelligent people, thinkers, and not because they think it’s…sweet.

Here’s an amazing thing though. When I was in the US I met people who thought I was interesting, fascinating, exotic even, because I was from Tassie. I met people from cities wider and vaster than my entire state who thought I was the exotic one–not the simple one, not the stuck one, not the one who’s obviously inbred-two-headed-less-than-intelligent–the exotic one.

It made me think about Tassie differently. It made me see the stereotypes for what they are–stereotypes, from people who had little real experience of the a place rich and beautiful and steeped in history. It made me happy that, even if by default, I chose to live here. And, most importantly, it fuelled my desire to write Tasmanian stories.

I’m doing it now. I’m kicking off on a new novel, a Tasmanian novel, which is partly why I’m exploring these thoughts. I’d love to know how common these thoughts are. Are you Tasmanian? From the mainland? From elsewhere, and never heard of Tassie until you started reading my blog? Drop me a line. Help me with my research. Tell me YOUR Tassie story. Please?

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The purpose of stories

Do you think things happen for a purpose?

I do. And sometimes I wonder if that’s just because I’m left handed, and because I like finding patterns in things, and I know that other people often see the world completely differently to the way that I do, and that’s fine, but I still think that things happen for a purpose. And I find that when I can’t see that purpose, or lose faith that there IS a purpose, then I get stressed.

I got stressed when my boy was in hospital the other day, and not just because my boy was in hospital. I was stressed because it made no sense to me. If I believe God loves me, that He cares about my family, and bad stuff happens, where’s the purpose in that? Call me an over-thinker – after all, it was an asthma attack that would be labeled as mild compared to the episodes that some have gone through – but it made me question still. It made me think about all the parents in hospitals because their children have rampant leukemia, or are limbless, severely handicapped, on life-support, you know. I can’t answer for those parents, or speak for them, I can only speak for myself.

I found the purpose in my son’s hospitalization. It gave me three days to spend in a room with my middle child, my quiet child, my the-most-different-to-me child; the child I don’t want to grow up feeling like the overlooked or under-mothered child. Difficult though that time was for many reasons, that bit I loved. We’ve decided we need to do it again (without the hospitalization, that is) once a month. Next time it’ll be MacDonalds and a movie, just him and me.

The other day the battery in my car’s beeper-unlocky-thing died. It was pretty bad. It’s especially bad because out of the two sets of keys we had for that car one had broken off after a door-slamming incident (no joke, the key got caught in the door and snapped in half!) and the other had worn the rubber off all the little buttons so you couldn’t actually work the controls without having fingers the size of a two year old. Or, as we discovered, a small bit of stick. Suddenly I was reduced to the ignominy of carrying around two dysfunctional keys and a small stick to work them with. And then the catch that holds the boot closed (or, if you’re American, the trunk closed) stopped working. Like. I. Needed. That.

I’d booked a locksmith to fix the key thing for me finally – something we could afford to do now that we had a bit of extra money around. I tossed it up a bit, then cancelled him so I could take the car to the mechanics and get the boot looked at. Like. I. Needed. That.

Turns out I needed that. Turns out I needed that boot-needs-fixing-take-it-to-the-mechanics very much indeed. The boot problem didn’t take much, and cost me hardly anything (in mechanical terms) to fix, AND when our wonderful mechanic looked at our crazy key situation and the pathetic stick I handed him (Yes, I forgot I could key-lock the door. I carried a stick) and apologized because I’d had to choose him over the locksmith he looked at me and said “you know, I think I can fix that”. And he did. My wonderful mechanic told me all about how it worked, undid a few screws, did a bit of yada yada practical magic and bingo. My key works, and it saved me $150 at the locksmith. I see the purpose in the stuck boot.

Because of this, especially because of that stupid stuck boot, I’m believing that there’s a purpose for other stuff in my life too, the deeper stuff, the ugly parts of my story, sometimes the stories that haven’t got to the ending yet. That purpose probably isn’t for me, and it’s probably not going to save me money or help me buy groceries this week, but I believe that for someone, someday, somewhere, there will be a reason. I have been the one who benefited from other people’s stories in the past, and I’m grateful beyond belief for those times, for those stories. That is why, though sometimes it feels strange, and sometimes I don’t understand, and sometimes I go out on a limb with nothing more than a prayer and a gut feeling, I share my own.

How about you? Do you believe things happen for a purpose, or do you struggle with the idea? Do you think having a purpose helps in our suffering? Do you find it hard to believe if you can’t yet see that purpose?