#hatchmatchanddespatch — Public Fediverse posts

3/x

What years were the Reconciliation meetings?

I remember meeting up with a handful of other Anglo Australians in the library of the rural town near where I lived. It might seem ridiculous that a handful of white people should reconcile with each other about Australian history, but I like to think the meetings were useful in terms of learning more from each other about the truth, and strategies for trying to encourage change.

In every school tuck shop or factory lunch room there is invariably a woman one must describe as “top dog” — Unless there is a bloke in the room.

The top bloke at our first local reconciliation meeting began by informing us that there were no Indigenous people in our local government area.
I then informed him (and incidental others) that there were three at the local factory where I worked.
He then quoted census figures at me, and I lobbed the ball back over the net by suggesting there might be any of a dozen reasons for an Indigenous person not to identify themselves on a census form.
He snorted, but I did notice that a couple of other people seemed to hear what I was saying.

fin

#CensusQuestions #RamblingThoughtsOfATimeTraveller
#Auspol #HatchMatchAndDespatch
#Reconciliation
#WeFindWhatWeMeasure

3/x

What years were the Reconciliation meetings?

I remember meeting up with a handful of other Anglo Australians in the library of the rural town near where I lived. It might seem ridiculous that a handful of white people should reconcile with each other about Australian history, but I like to think the meetings were useful in terms of learning more from each other about the truth, and strategies for trying to encourage change.

In every school tuck shop or factory lunch room there is invariably a woman one must describe as “top dog” — Unless there is a bloke in the room.

The top bloke at our first local reconciliation meeting began by informing us that there were no Indigenous people in our local government area.
I then informed him (and incidental others) that there were three at the local factory where I worked.
He then quoted census figures at me, and I lobbed the ball back over the net by suggesting there might be any of a dozen reasons for an Indigenous person not to identify themselves on a census form.
He snorted, but I did notice that a couple of other people seemed to hear what I was saying.

fin

#CensusQuestions #RamblingThoughtsOfATimeTraveller
#Auspol #HatchMatchAndDespatch
#Reconciliation
#WeFindWhatWeMeasure

2/x
We can’t always get what we want, but I’m pretty sure that we find what we measure.

I don’t remember the detail, but the internet assures me 1976 australian census was huuuuge.

I was living in South Australia at the time, and married to a commercial fisherman. He was away at sea for anything up to 2 weeks at a time, and was not actually counted on census night in 1975. (oops, 1976) Also, my residential address was a shack on a mining lease, one of about 20 a little way out of “town”. The woman tasked with collecting census forms and accounting for discrepancies could not wrap her head around the idea Mr X had not been counted anywhere, and decided I should just not worry about it. Or perhaps she decided the inconvenience of obtaining an answer then returning to where i lived was more than she could be phukt with.
The important thing, for her, was that I would not run foul of all the laws promising to destroy me for lying on a census form.

At some other stage, Mr X must have been at sea when there was an election. He later teceived a form advising he had not voted, and asking him to tick a box that explained why not. He promptly solved that current problem, and all future problems, by ticking the box that said “Deceased”.
Some time later, there was a state election during which the cost and availability of fishing licences was a hot issue. Mr X told me I should vote for Mr Y, and I told Mr X (not for the first time) to “take himself in hand” (or words to that effect). Emily Davison had thrown herself under the King’s horse so I could vote, I told him, and I would do something equally drastic before I a) ever voted conservative, or b) let some bloke tell me how to vote.
I gave him yet another piece of advice, which was to dob himself in and reclaim the right to vote, but this advice, too, was ignored.

But I digress… The world was changing massively, and it made sense that the 1976 census should ask more and interesting questions, but following budget cuts by our new federal government, only half the data was ever processed.

Can’t speak for anyone else, but I’ve travelled a long, slow journey from “childishly honest” to “liberated indifference” in my relationship with the outside world. And so, although the old testament warns somewhere that we are (as individuals) “not that important”, I like to go for maximum impact when I answer census questions.
I might be Anglo Australian on census night, but I am also Spartacus.

/3

#CensusQuestions #RamblingThoughtsOfATimeTraveller
#Auspol #HatchMatchAndDespatch
#ItWasStillMostlyAPreDigitalWorld

2/x
We can’t always get what we want, but I’m pretty sure that we find what we measure.

I don’t remember the detail, but the internet assures me 1976 australian census was huuuuge.

I was living in South Australia at the time, and married to a commercial fisherman. He was away at sea for anything up to 2 weeks at a time, and was not actually counted on census night in 1975. (oops, 1976) Also, my residential address was a shack on a mining lease, one of about 20 a little way out of “town”. The woman tasked with collecting census forms and accounting for discrepancies could not wrap her head around the idea Mr X had not been counted anywhere, and decided I should just not worry about it. Or perhaps she decided the inconvenience of obtaining an answer then returning to where i lived was more than she could be phukt with.
The important thing, for her, was that I would not run foul of all the laws promising to destroy me for lying on a census form.

At some other stage, Mr X must have been at sea when there was an election. He later teceived a form advising he had not voted, and asking him to tick a box that explained why not. He promptly solved that current problem, and all future problems, by ticking the box that said “Deceased”.
Some time later, there was a state election during which the cost and availability of fishing licences was a hot issue. Mr X told me I should vote for Mr Y, and I told Mr X (not for the first time) to “take himself in hand” (or words to that effect). Emily Davison had thrown herself under the King’s horse so I could vote, I told him, and I would do something equally drastic before I a) ever voted conservative, or b) let some bloke tell me how to vote.
I gave him yet another piece of advice, which was to dob himself in and reclaim the right to vote, but this advice, too, was ignored.

But I digress… The world was changing massively, and it made sense that the 1976 census should ask more and interesting questions, but following budget cuts by our new federal government, only half the data was ever processed.

Can’t speak for anyone else, but I’ve travelled a long, slow journey from “childishly honest” to “liberated indifference” in my relationship with the outside world. And so, although the old testament warns somewhere that we are (as individuals) “not that important”, I like to go for maximum impact when I answer census questions.
I might be Anglo Australian on census night, but I am also Spartacus.

/3

#CensusQuestions #RamblingThoughtsOfATimeTraveller
#Auspol #HatchMatchAndDespatch
#ItWasStillMostlyAPreDigitalWorld

1/x

I used to love the 1967 TV show, Divorce Court.
Each episode was hosted by a narrator (Ron Haddrick, I think) and he would sit close to the screen, confidentially whispering the salacious details of some sordid relationship breakdown, sometimes looking at viewers directly through the fourth wall but for the most part unable to tear his gaze away from what was unfolding before his very eyes.
(My only visual memory of the show is of a court room, complete with a wigged judge and some bloke swearing he will tell the truth)
It was like The Truth’s advice column, Heart Balm, only more realer! (The Truth was it’s own special brand of “yellow journalism” — a newspaper people only bought “for the racing guide”, much the same way as people only bought Playboy for the articles)

(Shot in sequence at TCN-9 studios, Divorce Court was tightly scripted in order to avoid reshoots and video editing. This was due in part to the lack of video sophistication at the time. The series was produced on average at a rate of around five episodes per week, which were usually shot in one day. At one stage producers even managed to come up with twenty fully scripted episodes in eight working days.)

Divorce Court was, while quite surreal to me, about something I half-understood to be a “rich-people’s problem”.
My parents married in 1949, and produced 3 live offspring. My mother took my brothers and I and left, in 1954.
Working class people like my own parents were not exactly restricted to jumping broom sticks at the *beginning* of married life, but seemed to accept that, at the other *end*, new de facto relationships were more practical than trying to divorce.

Anyway, in 1975, thank Gough, the government introduced no fault divorce.
At some stage - not sure when - my mother wanted to re-marry, and prepared a Stat Dec explaining she had been separated for umpteen gazillion years and had no idea where my father was… and a few weeks later a sane Family Court judge granted her a divorce with no fuss.

Some time around the turn of the century, one of my brothers finally tracked down my father, who we learned was quite a practical man, having simply moved to another state in the 1950s and remarried in 1957. (and again, in 1970)

What’s that line? Bigamy may be one marriage too many, but monogamy is pretty much the same?

/2
#RamblingThoughtsOfATimeTraveller
#Auspol #HatchMatchAndDespatch

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Truth_(Melbourne_newspaper)

1/x

I used to love the 1967 TV show, Divorce Court.
Each episode was hosted by a narrator (Ron Haddrick, I think) and he would sit close to the screen, confidentially whispering the salacious details of some sordid relationship breakdown, sometimes looking at viewers directly through the fourth wall but for the most part unable to tear his gaze away from what was unfolding before his very eyes.
(My only visual memory of the show is of a court room, complete with a wigged judge and some bloke swearing he will tell the truth)
It was like The Truth’s advice column, Heart Balm, only more realer! (The Truth was it’s own special brand of “yellow journalism” — a newspaper people only bought “for the racing guide”, much the same way as people only bought Playboy for the articles)

(Shot in sequence at TCN-9 studios, Divorce Court was tightly scripted in order to avoid reshoots and video editing. This was due in part to the lack of video sophistication at the time. The series was produced on average at a rate of around five episodes per week, which were usually shot in one day. At one stage producers even managed to come up with twenty fully scripted episodes in eight working days.)

Divorce Court was, while quite surreal to me, about something I half-understood to be a “rich-people’s problem”.
My parents married in 1949, and produced 3 live offspring. My mother took my brothers and I and left, in 1954.
Working class people like my own parents were not exactly restricted to jumping broom sticks at the *beginning* of married life, but seemed to accept that, at the other *end*, new de facto relationships were more practical than trying to divorce.

Anyway, in 1975, thank Gough, the government introduced no fault divorce.
At some stage - not sure when - my mother wanted to re-marry, and prepared a Stat Dec explaining she had been separated for umpteen gazillion years and had no idea where my father was… and a few weeks later a sane Family Court judge granted her a divorce with no fuss.

Some time around the turn of the century, one of my brothers finally tracked down my father, who we learned was quite a practical man, having simply moved to another state in the 1950s and remarried in 1957. (and again, in 1970)

What’s that line? Bigamy may be one marriage too many, but monogamy is pretty much the same?

/2
#RamblingThoughtsOfATimeTraveller
#Auspol #HatchMatchAndDespatch

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Truth_(Melbourne_newspaper)