From Little Things Big Things Grow

Conveniently, the last week of lectures for my Indigenous Australia class overlapped with National Reconciliation Week. The week aims to bring Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander issues to the forefront, while recognizing their culture and history. Over the course of the, er, course, we discussed the disadvantages and injustices faced by Indigenous Australians in the past and still today.


Sometimes the discussions were really depressing. These are people who have had their land stolen, were victims of what was essentially genocide, have had generations of children taken away from them, and are still fighting notions of being second-rate citizens. But this last week has been especially positive, focusing on recent changes and optimism for the future. The Sea of Hands really embodies that.


The Sea of Hands, which began in 1997, is a series of public art installations meant to symbolize support for reconciliation between Indigenous and non-indigenous Australians. People write their names on plastic hands (red, black and yellow like the Aboriginal flag; green and blue like the Torres Strait Islander flag; and blue, white and red like the Australian flag) and add them to designs across the country. Right now there is a display on the front lawn of Sydney Uni’s Great Hall.


The design seems to be a lizard and includes the word “Sorry” since in February the prime minister gave a national apology for the “Stolen Generations” of children taken by the government away from families.

We also learned about GetUp! which is an advocacy organization that supports a range of causes, including those of Indigenous Australians. The GetUp Mob remade a Paul Kelly song, “From Little Things Big Things Grow,” that makes a good point and has been stuck in my head since we heard it in lecture.



“It seems to me if we can imagine the injustice, then we can imagine the opposite. And we CAN have justice.”
Paul Keating, Redfern Speech 1992

Putting the 'Study' in Study Abroad

My parents can be assured that the lack of blog entries recently means school has picked up and I’ve been trying to be productive. I’ve had heaps of reading and papers to do since Easter Break ended. (“Heaps” is definitely an Aussie phrase. I hung out with a group of college kids who said it all the time, as in “That’s heaps cool” and “I was heaps drunk.”)

Something the other American students and I have noticed is how much less Australians talk about their schoolwork. In the States, it’s always a competition over who has more to do. We stress ourselves out by constantly talking about school and how busy we are.

I don’t think Australians work less than we do, in fact, the courses may require more effort to really do well. But I think it’s more personal for Australians and not as competitive. This probably has to do with the grading system, which is very different from home. It falls more along a bell curve than the inflated grades in the U.S. Here, you can pass with a 50 percent and 65 percent is a “credit.” Most people are pleased with a credit. A “distinction” is usually in the 75-85 percent range and isn’t given to everyone. A “high distinction” is very rare.

A paper I know would have easily gotten an A at Mizzou got a 13 out of 20 here, and everyone said my “credit” was great for a first paper. It definitely changes how you think about grades. It’s nice getting As all the time at home, but at least here I know my “distinction” really means something.

Anyway, time to get back to my next paper.

Scones and Going Where You’re Not Supposed to Go

I approach life as if I’m always carrying a press pass. To find the story, you just gotta get in and start talking to people.

Yesterday Becca and I went up to the Great Hall on campus hoping we’d find a wedding in progress. It’s this beautiful Gothic building commonly used for receptions, and we’ve got this little project going on involving wedding photos. We see a man out front in a suit and tables of scones and tea behind the building. The organ swells and we wait for the happy couple to exit. But there’s no bride and groom, and we notice some people don’t seem to be dressed for a wedding. We're still very curious about the town car out front bearing an Australian flag and the royal crown instead of license plates.

As people clear the hall, I move closer and closer to the door trying to figure out what was happening. Becca is hanging back and I’m on the steps peering into the Hall. An usher, uh, ushered us in and handed us programs. He explains this was a reception for Dr. Catherine Hamlin, who founded a hospital in Ethiopia to provide free operations for poor women who have suffered injuries from giving birth. The fancy car was for Marie Bashir, the governor of New South Wales and chancellor of the University of Sydney. She’s the first woman to govern NSW and the first Australian governor of Lebanese decent.

The usher tells us this was a charity event with $50 tickets so he couldn’t “formally invite” us for refreshments. Of course, in my opinion, cordial invitations are optional. Becca and I began fanning ourselves with the glossy programs and moseyed on over to the scone table.

Wiping the jam and cream from the corners of my mouth, I suggest to Becca that we talk to some of the other guests. I don’t think she knew I was serious. (She’s only known me for a month.) The fact that we hadn’t been to the reception and couldn’t tell you a thing about the woman in whose honor it was held wasn’t going to keep me from conversing.

I turn to a little old lady and ask if she knew where we could set our finished plates. She didn’t know either but, noticing our accents, asked where we were from. We got to talking and a few of her friends joined in. The women all went to the same church, which raises money for the surgeries at Hamlin’s hospital. When they asked why we were at the event, we offered something vague like, “Oh, we just found out that it was one of the things going on around campus and thought we’d check it out.”

One woman, Jane, told us about her dessert parties that have provided funds for 19 surgeries. After hearing that we were studying abroad from the States, she said she we should talk to her daughter who will be spending next semester in Montana of all places. Before we knew it, Jane was explaining how to take the train to her neighborhood and saying if we called her when we got to the stop, she’d pick us up and bring us to the house. She mentions dinner or bbq, and all of her friends tell us what a great cook she is. Another says, “When Jane invites you over, she means it.”

Well, when an Australian invites me to a new part of town for dinner, I’m not going to turn her down. We get Jane’s information and make tentative plans to go to her house near Royal National Park, which I imagine is pretty classy.

And I thought the scones would be the high point of crashing the reception...