Boys hit. Get over it.
I sometimes wonder if life was easier when I was the only male in the household.
No matter the gender split, the more Wifey and I kept breeding, the louder things got. However, the addition of another male not just changed the dynamic, the dynamic was blown apart.
All kids go through phases, in stages. They do it in their own time, deal with it in their own way, as they develop the little personalities which will make them the big people they are destined to become.
The ages vary. Some kids will be biting you before you know it, others might never do it and for some, the quartet in this house for example, it is just a fleeting thing, not allowed to last long.
There are the ‘terrible twos’ complete with tantrums. There is spitting, both of saliva and as a means to expunge food from their mouths. There is the ultra cute period where they learn what it is to make people laugh, a phase which can quickly become an annoyance.
Like potty training, kids can be trained, their behaviour moderated. In the same way you convince them placing their hand on the element isn’t a good idea, sticking a finger in an electrical socket is foolhardy and poking a dog with a stick is just plan dumb, you can slowly have them coming around from the urge to sink their teeth into your flesh.
Children learn at their own pace, dictated to by the dedication and persistence of their parents and peers. A lot of their development is look and learn, doing as others do. Much of their behaviour is a direct reflection of our own, their parents, and those around them.
Accordingly, the ‘do as we do’ theory means we have to be the setter of example, but when the dynamic can shift so dramatically between participants, that is no mean feat.
The other day I was playing Zombie with the little uns. No, not the iconic 90’s track by the Cranberries, more the Dawn of the Dead variety.
Up and down the corridor I went, groaning and grumbling, arms outstretched and eyes rolled back. A passable impression if I do say so myself. All I lacked was the gaping wound to my skull, festering bite marks and dismembered limbs.
The E-Bomb screeched, clutching her hands to her face like an award winning B-Grade scream queen and ran for her life.
Our number three is a good looking kid. I can say that objectively, because she is. Unfortunately, she can be more than just a little annoying. Too cute though, and too big a personality to be listed in the credits as little more than an extra.
Come the slasher movie, staring our little E-Bomb, she will be quite the survivor. Maybe, out of a cast of say six or seven, she will be third last to be hacked to pieces. Not bad going.
But running and hiding won’t do her any good against the zombie horde. Or her Dad for that matter. I have a particular set of skills. I will find her.
The Wee-Man adopted a very different approach.
Fists were immediately clenched, raised to the top of his cheek bones. Just below eye-line. Elbows tucked in to his ribs.
In other words, great technique.
A deep rumble.
The Wee-Man, my Wee-Man…growling at me!
The fists stay high, the face behind those protective layers of clenched knuckles set, determined. Brow pinched together, jaw clenched, he advances…
Wee-Man doesn’t stride forward confidently. He is not placing on sure foot in front of the other assuredly.
Wee-Man is not gaining steadily, moving confidently, certain of his fate and mine.
Wee-Man is charging.
His forehead dips, chin down now, below the level of his gloves. His pace is electric from the start, the first stride purposeful and clear, as is his intent.
Wee-Man gains pace, within a small number of lengthy strides he reaches full steam, head lower still, brow knitted further. Still those hands remain high.
There is nowhere I can go.
No neutral or higher ground. No diplomatic recourse. I signal him but it is clear.
Wee-Man intends to ram me.
There is plenty of warning. He has hailed me with his growl. The only thing missing is a shot across my bow, but I have the sense Wee-Man has no intention of wasting ammunition.
Everything in his arsenal is aimed at me.
It isn’t like I don’t have options. I mean, what does a nearly three year old boy weigh?
I could scoop him up and deposit him in a place of my choosing.
I could set myself, let him fling himself headlong into the solid bony mass of my hip.
Damn it, I could drop my shoulder.
You know what I end up doing?
None of those things.
Despite clear warning, I am not set. Never mind the signals, the overt display of aggression.
I see it coming, but there is little, if anything, I can do about it.
So I do nothing.
Nothing that is, except get hit with a double-fisted power punch any Marvel superhero mutant would be proud of, straight in the midriff, with enough powered to damn near knock the wind out of me.
My Mother ran a childcare center for many years. More years than I comprehend being able to cope with. At some stage, it was decide to make the facility, if that is the right name for such an institute (that sure isn’t the right moniker) a non-hitting place.
Admirable, though I am sure difficult to administer and police, given the numbers involved.
Mum had several staff members helping her out. I just duck for cover.
Seriously, I can take it. I am not a big guy, not a powerfully built man. I am reasonably well padded though. That helps.
Wee-Man can rain blows on me all day and as long as he doesn’t make contact with my eyes, nose or baby-makers, I should be able to cope.
The same can’t be said for his siblings, even the older ones having issues when struck by the violent intent of the Wee-Man.
It isn’t all a nasty, evil desire to knock his opponents to the ground in a red mist of hate fueled rage. Sometimes it is a playful thing, getting just that little bit carried away…an excess of exuberance and excitement.
Sometimes, Wee-Man is just plain mad. It is on those occasions you need to have your wits about you, your reflexes honed.
Wee-Man is disciplined. He gets told off and it is damned hard at times not to smack him. We are not a smacking family, though just quietly, the option has not been removed entirely from the repertoire, despite legislation.
Wifey and I are in accordance. Kinda defeats the purpose, don’t ya reckon?
But hey, if his sister wants to have a crack back at him, give as good as he gets, chances are he will learn a lesson one way or another.
In the meantime, we went out and purchased him a pair of gloves and punch bag, Wee-Man sized. Maybe it is just going to encourage him, maybe he will channel whatever it is inspiring him to punch and hit.
One thing is certain, it won’t hurt as much!
Get over it, because right now, he is too short to duck, bob or weave.
Plans for the weekend?
I’ve used this forum and my limited readership, like a bit of cathartic exercise these last couple of days.
I have vented and released and I feel all the better for it. Now, a stunning Sunday morning has dawned, sun low in a cloudless Autumn sky.
This is gonna be a good one.
The same dogs down the hill are barking, the way they do on and off during random hours of the day and night. Hard to identify where their plaintive calls are coming from, as the plains below are smothered in a layer of mist. Or is it fog?
Roosters crowing, birds chirping, traffic stilled (not that we get a lot) and children stirring.
Today should prove riveting.
There are chores to be done, exciting stuff like laundry and ironing and vacuuming and maybe some gardening. As the breeze picks up, swirling away the mists below and the day warms the insects and birds into their work, we will share the load, so hopefully we are free of tasks by midday.
Wifey is at work. Her new role, shifts. It stuffs with her sleeping patterns, almost as much as a transitory two and a half year old does.
Will he need a nappy or is he down with the potty?
Will he sleep through the night or demand a cuddle, sometime in the small hours?
Will he accept a cuddle? Or is he going to want the comfort of a breast?
I’ll ponder all these questions and more, as I vacuum.
Cobwebs to be swept from the deck, with its attractive view simply a sideline, something peripheral. Cars to be cleaned, if we can be bothered getting that carried away, driveways swept. Even mowing the lawn, if I am feeling particularly motivated.
With a bit of luck and some coercion, the kids will share some of that motivation. We may get finished early, head out for the afternoon for quality family time, explore some of our locality.
Of course, it is half nine in the morning and I am still sat here sipping coffee. The television is on. But hey, the washing machine is on, the dishwasher too.
Not a great deal of progress to be found there and to be honest, how boring, how mundane, does the plan for this cheery Sunday sound?
Despite the little chips of progress I am making on the routine, unwritten to-do list, the whirlwind cyclone that is our children will destroy it all, in a matter of moments. Even their own efforts to help, responding reluctantly to orders and commands, delivered in an ever increasingly exasperated manner and tone, will amount to little once the shackles are released and they are free to wreak havoc once again.
I’m not looking forward to winter. The long, hot, dry summer we have enjoyed or endured as is your want, giving way to the relative cool and damp. Nearly April and still the sun shines, still the rains refuse to come, still the nights are not a great deal cooler than the summer highs of climes further south.
Long days, dark dominating light, lunar not lighter. Kids in doors more, both at school and at home. Closer, louder, smellier.
Grateful I am working again, torn at the way I have so readily adapted to being back at work, the way I am not missing all the bonus time with my kids, time I had as recently as the beginning of this summer, as much as I thought I would.
As much as I should.
Or should I?
Is my guilt justified? More-so, is it manufactured?
Am I really feeling guilty or am I actually relieved? There is certainly relief in witnessing my children carry on with their lives, as if my influence over the last year or so, the past few seasons, accounted as negligible at best.
I am happy. As much as any slightly over weight, balding yet perversely hirsute, middle-aged man can be. Happy, to have reclaimed a piece of me which was missing, absent without me even being aware it was gone. Until it returned.
Why do we do it? Why do we like to do it? (allow me the luxury, on this fine day, of generalisation)
Routine. Structure. Of course, income.
I am not robotic, no slave to a machine but I am happier, feel more complete, when I have dirtied my hands, when there is sweat on my brow, when my back is bent and aching.
I am never more satisfied when the job is done, my mind long since having turned to the next task.
But for all that, chores are different.
I could abandon the vacuuming before the plug reaches the socket. No guilt, no remorse. Let the dishes pile high, I will simply turn my back, not venture into the kitchen, stay clear of the laundry, letting the washing fester in a musty, damp, sad and sorry pile at the bottom of the machine.
Sweep the deck? Na, wait for the wind to really get going. Heck, it will bring as much crap as it removes, so why bother?
Make the bed? Na, I will be in it again before you know it, so the point is exactly?
The point is, Wifey’s shift does not last forever. She who must be obeyed will return to her domain, her lair, before the day is done and if the chores aren’t…this may may well be the last you hear from me. Bed made or not, I won’t be sleeping in it!
I have work to do.
( The views and descriptions of the author are in no way intended as an exact replication of Wifey…she is far scarier! )
I am not a great follower of the media.
My family life, home life and work all take precedence over what is happening on a current affairs level.
It stands to reason too, the way news is accessed these days has changed. I have read and heard much of what is occurring on a day to day basis, long before the six o’clock news.
As it stands, we don’t have a freeview box or sky in our house. To watch the news, we would have to stream it but at that time of the evening, our main meal is being prepared and eaten. The world can be doing whatever it wants, Wifey and I have four growing mouths to feed and there is nothing which will stand in the way of a hungry child.
Like most people, I am a fan of the distracting escapism a good movie or series can provide. Music plays a big role in my life and forms, in large part, the entertainment I might seek at any time.
If ever I do access any given media outlet, it is usually to find results on, or to follow live, one sporting event or another. Sports is the other thing I find a valuable entertainment.
Late last week would have seen the end of the test match between New Zealand’s Black Caps and Bangladesh. Ok, the game might not have stretched that far, given the current form of the respective sides but it’s cancellation, for obvious reasons, was a sad way for our international summer of cricket season to end.
I work in a rural location. I don’t have access to the AM network and I don’t have reliable cell phone coverage for streaming purposes etc. I do have FM capabilities on my phone and over the last week I tuned to Magic Talk.
The station, previously known as RadioLive, is part of the Newshub collection and in the past has captured my attention, as much for it’s presenters and hosts as for content. I am a fan of the input someone like Marcus Lush has on our airwaves, found a guy like John Tamahere refreshing, whether I agreed with him or not.
Those names have gone, however I was pleased to hear the tones of Brendon Telfer when I tuned in to Magic Talk, sitting in for Peter Williams.
Telfer is an intelligent man, thinks before he opens his mouth and has a broad range of tolerant opinions. He is a broadcaster who has been in the business for many years and as such, is an opinion I trust and a voice I was able to find comfort in.
I love the energy and vitality Duncan Garner brings, even if I at times don’t agree with him, and the balance he gets from the likes of Amanda Gillies, someone I feel is one of the better broadcasters and journalists out there currently.
And then there is Sean Plunket.
A strong, forthright, highly vocal and independent voice. A man I personally have struggled to like or listen to at times in the past.
Yet, conversely, he turned out to be the person who helped me the most to reconcile things over this last week.
I work alone predominantly. I have flora and fauna for company but can go days on end with little or no human companionship. I love it.
The problem with spending so much time on your own is the intensity your own thoughts can reach. Luckily, I have become very adept at moderating myself, tempering the type and direction my brain can travel. While it is fun to let the mind wonder and ramble, it can also be disconcerting and distracting.
Self moderation and tempering were just two of the traits exhibited by Sean Plunket, a man no stranger to courting controversy.
During his broadcasts, he was able to remain strong yet empathetic. He could lend a sympathetic and caring ear, take a breath, then be vehement.
I listened as the man crossed all sorts of emotional barriers, as we all were doing, yet he did it openly, in the public eye so to speak and he did so with a measure of reflective realism.
He was hurting, just like us and just the same as his colleagues. What a job they are tasked with, when the world suddenly crumbles around them and human tragedy is before their lenses, cries of anguish and fear and the wails of pain at he end of their microphones.
I have already praised the police, feel there is a need to strongly acknowledge the leadership of Jacinda Ardern, her government and the all the members of parliament. And now praise for our collective media.
Have we ever been so together?
We can thank that man for that.
Our media has played a key role in that leadership. Bipartisanship to the fore in our political realms and also in our newsrooms. Ego put aside, agenda’s postponed or cancelled altogether.
Plunket had the finger pointed at him. It didn’t take long for things to get personal, then political, despite the urging of the man himself.
Plunket stayed pious throughout but I fear was always fighting a losing battle. Hideous things were leveled at him as if his ilk, social commentators like him, somehow had blood on their hands, that he was as responsible if not more so, than the foul person who pulled the trigger many times over.
Through it all, Plunket, just as many others were doing, used his platform to spread a message of tolerance, of peace and love. He spoke of a commitment to togetherness, he stayed reasoned and calm, even as his voice cracked.
How the hell he stayed so strong ow any of our media representatives did, I really don’t know. One and all of them get my respect, from the sound dude to the camera operator to the presenter to the makeup people to the producers…a big heart felt thanks.
Sean Plunket sounds like a smoker. He sounds like he is not a bloke I might have a lot in common with. He sounds like a guy I would end up arguing with.
I reckon he is a guy who will buy me a beer, half way through that argument. He will gladly accept one in return and I think, if I saw him in that same bar a week or so later, we would be at it all over again.
A beer, a debate, even an argument.
A shake of the hand, a laugh and a smile.
To Sean Plunket….
Not sure I could have done it without ya mate. Not alone like I was.
But I didn’t have to go far to find a bit of support. I just turned on the radio. How old fashioned, how quaint.
Of course, I spoke with my wife, other members of my family, my employers and friends. People just as lost, hurt and confused as I was.
I imagine there is a someone for everyone at times like this. The days we have been through as a nation over the last week, proved just how wrong the gunman got it, just how perverse the response to an act of terror can be.
Now is a time for reasoning. For conversations to take place.
I needed a voice to guide me, to moderate me, to help me. As much by coincidence as anything else, Sean Plunket provided that voice.
I will never forget that, as much as the events of the 15th are indelibly printed on my brain.
Posted on March 22, 2019
It’s just a number, one of a several which struck me over this last week.
We have all, here in New Zealand and in the wider world, felt the impact one way or another, of the attack in Christchurch on a small segment of our society.
Until that fateful Friday there were an estimated 50,000 New Zealanders identifying as Muslim. By the end of that sunny Christchurch afternoon, the number was 49,950.
Mathematics has never been my strong point, but even I can see the massive impact losing one in ever 1000 is going to have. New Zealand is a small nation with a low population. The Islamic community is but a small part of us but it needs to be acknowledged, the Call to Prayer has been heard on these shores since the late 1840’s. As much a founding tenant of this nation as any other.
Twenty- one minutes. Quite a long time when you break it down. Imagine how much you can achieve in that time frame?
Given twenty-one minutes, the New Zealand Police were able to not only respond to the hideous scenes at two different locations, effectively and efficiently, they also had the perpetrator in custody.
Questions have been raised over whether there were more targets, or if indeed he gave himself up, but the fact remains, within twenty-one minutes the threat was eliminated.
Situation over and not a single further shot fired. Quite remarkable I reckon.
Well done NZ Police.
There many more numbers relating to this hideous event.
The number of people in our hospitals and morgues, mopping it all up. The support staff and agency personnel working with the victims and their families, the politicians and policy makers racing to change our gun laws. The number of bouquets and cards and messages lining Deans Ave and in Linwood.
The highest number is reserved for the throngs of people who have shown their support, love and compassion in a time when those traits were most needed.
The lowest number?
When the name and age of the youngest victim was read out, I lost it.
I had been saddened, had been angry and uncomprehending and had felt a sense of disbelief and loss and yes, my eyes had moistened on many occasions over the week.
But when a list of names and ages was released on Wednesday, read out on Magic Radio, detailing the first of the poor souls to be returned to their families, I broke down.
Not for long, not a complete letting go. I carried on with my work, only the full fruit of the surrounding Kiwifruits vines witness to my moment of grief.
I asked myself then and I still do, how does the death of an innocent child further anyone’s cause, in any way?
Of course, there is no rational answer to such a question because simply, the death of a child serves no purpose.
Yesterday I stepped away from work and with my family, attended the Whangarei Islamic Center.
Little more than a shed down a dusty drive in a light industrial area of town, we were one of the first to arrive in preparation to the call to prayer. We weren’t there ahead of the heavily armed police officers on duty.
Strange, how intimidating and how comforting that armed presence proved to be.
We read the tributes, were invited inside to take in the space and then a speech was made by a Palestinian member of our community, telling of the Muslim appreciation of the aroha they had been blessed with over the previous seven days. He spoke of unity, of togetherness and support and sounded every bit the hurting representative of a wronged group and very much a representative of hope and love.
There were many people attending, from all walks of life, adorned in scarves or without. people like me who had skipped out of work and were obviously planning on returning. People like my wife who donned a scarf and cradled two curious, shy and impatient children.
For two minutes we were silent (actually, Wee-Man failed bitterly in that regard).
there was a oneness in it, that silence.
Then the call to prayer.
I dropped the kids home, returning to work for the afternoon.
Life going as as normal.
Fleetingly, on the drive between Mosque and work, I thought it might be time to be done with it.
To be done with him.
Friday, the memorials around the country, the vigils at mosques and in the stadiums and town squares, all helped. A big step on the pathway of grieving and recovery that we all, as Muslims as new Zealanders, are currently on.
So, do we need him any more? Does he need to be in our courts?
Does he need to be in our headlines? Exactly where he wants to be?
How simple it would be, to just end him.
But, I am not the eye for an eye type. I think.
Now is a time for rational thinking. Acknowledge the grief and the hurt and the pain.
Acknowledge the anger.
The best we can do now is talk, ask the hard questions and not stop asking them until they are answered and most important of all, stop the voice of evil, the words of the wicked, so often the loudest, from being heard.
Wifey and I are pretty open with our kids.
There is not much we keep from them, no subject we consider taboo and no questions we are not prepared to answer.
Of course we moderate the things our kids have access to; what they view on television and the internet, what they hear when listening to music or podcasts or anything of the like and, as old school as it might sound, what they read.
There are themes and theories and ideologies and images and thoughts espoused through a myriad of media platforms, all of which are readily accessible on a multitude of devices, many of which can be housed in your pocket and held in your hand.
We have good kids, children still in every sense of the word despite the wide scope of information they have at their fingertips. As a reasonably cohesive unit, the messages from Wifey and I have been fairly consistent over the years, our delivery relatively level and our availability assured.
Yes, I could spend a bit more time involved with their homework, delve deeper into their interests or passions.
Yes, we could be stricter on some things and show greater leniency on others.
Generally, we have a fluid household, plenty of noise and activity always under at least an element of control. To quote Madness and their hit Our House ‘there’s always something happening and it’s usually quite loud’.
Like I said, good kids. No real dramas or concerns, outside of the myriad of things you might expect from a growing family with working parents.
When things go wrong, we are there for them. Open and honest and available. Wifey and I don’t have an explanation for everything and nor can we always find a solution. However, with a little reasoning, there isn’t much which can’t be worked through.
Every now and then, the big things come along.
Those moments you cannot be prepared for. Those times which catch you by surprise, no matter how organised and aware you might think you are.
You can’t have your finger on every pulse.
But, and what a big pause it is, there are some things as a aparent it is almost impossible to explain, to find reasoning in. Because, simply, you don’t have the answers.
How do you explain pure, unfettered evil?
How can you help a child understand the hate fueled ideology which drives a person to perpetrate such horror on a community, on a people?
Especially when you don’t understand yourself.
Tears have been shed in this house and will continue to be for some time I feel.
Good. We are crying as a nation and as a people. Tears for those who lost their lives, their families and friends and tears for all they knelt and prayed for in the place they went for solace, reflection and the place they went for hope and love and all the rest.
Number One cried today, the enormity of it all finally striking at here heart.
The pain was there on Number Two’s face when she first asked what was going on Friday evening. There isn’t a full level of comprehension for her and for that small mercy, I am grateful.
E-Bomb and the Wee Man are too young to comprehend anything beyond the vibe emanating from their parents. They get it. Something is wrong.
Something is very very wrong.
I have struggled to keep the language of hate out of my own words.
My voice has crackled at times, close to breaking, when I speak of these events. It is hard, particularly when you have to look a thirteen year old girl in the eye and see the realisation dawning in her that this world we live in, the one we all share, can house people capable of being despicably wicked, people capable of visiting hideous acts of cruelty on others. Innocent others.
I am glad they got this bastard alive. I realise it is what he wanted; his platform, his moment of infamous immortality. I hope he gives us the answers, even though we all know they will be the deluded ramblings of a crazed mind, little more than a jujmbled rehashing of the various messages of hate brought to us over generations of evil thinkers and doers.
But I need to hear it, as awful and insidious as it might be. Because I don’t know what to tell our kids.
I don’t know HOW to tell our kids.
We don’t shelter our four children.
There is no cotton wool enveloping them, they do not view the world through the shimmering haze of a bubble.
The temptation is to put the walls up, bring down the shutters, erect the barricades.
We won’t. There will be open and honest discourse as long as there are questions.
Our kids will be watched, a eye kept on them in the same way I hope all parents are watching over their children at the moment.
Kids see and feel, sometime more they we do.
All I can ask of my Wife and myself is that we do the best we can to raise well rounded children, ones we can send off into the world as well prepared as we could make them. Happy and healthy and open and honest and caring and loving and genuine young people, armed with open minds, good hearts and a smile.
We want them to see the good, in everything they do and see and all the people they meet. We want them able to cope, to have them ready for the big bad world.
Because yes, some of that world around us is bad. So mind-numbingly bad. And that bad world is no longer surrounding us, it has visited us, come to our shores and bought an extreme example of its evil with it.
Let our kids be together. Let them play, let them sit and chat and let them mingle and let them laugh and cry and do whatever it is they feel they need to cope.
Youth are doers and they will want to be active and vibrant over this issue.
As such, we will visit the Whangarei Islamic Center on Friday and we, as a family, will watch over our local Muslim community as they bend in prayer. We will bring nothing more than a smile, carry nothing other than hugs and strong shoulders, ready to be leaned on.
Will we see you there?
In the meantime, to the tune of Pink Floyd’s Another Brick in the Wall…Hey, World, Leave Our Kids Alone!
Is that true, what they say..there can be no winners?
On Saturday afternoon, the decision was made to cancel the scheduled round five Super Rugby match between the Crusaders and the Highlanders, set to be hosted at Forsythe Barr Stadium in Dunedin.
Media outlets cited the police as saying there were no official fears held for the safety of the venue, its patrons or the players. The decision to call the game off must therefore have been made over sentiment.
Commendable. There is no denying the depth of feeling flooding the nation given the events in Christchurch on Friday. As a consequence, we were all encouraged not to view, share or partake in the filth Tarrant posted online.
Good call. Who wants to see such grotesque violence anyway, despite the ghoulish nature many people have.
So, with one hand we are denying this freak of a human the platform he so desperately sought, yet it seems with the other we are giving him the and his actions the credence they so badly do not warrant.
I have always liked to think sports is impartial. Free of politics or the whims of society and it’s ever changing standards. Just a bunch of men and women and kids running, kicking, jumping, throwing and catching, using whatever level of athleticism required to undertake their chosen physical past time.
We have seen time again how people will always persist in drawing a llink between sport and the wider issues of the world and indeed more and more we see modern sports people wanting to use the platform they have through their game as a chance to weigh in with their opinions.
Cool. I am all for wider debate, for as many voices as possible in any given debate and for perceived role models, such as sports people, making the most of what is a privileged position. Think the statements by TJ Perenara around the rainbow issue as a prime example.
To me, it just seems calling a halt to a rugby game because of the actions of a nutter is out of place. The cricket test to be held at Hagley against the Bangladesh team, sure. There is no way that game could have proceeded. But a rugby game in a different city over twenty four hours later? Out respect for the victims? Really?
I sincerely doubt the victims and their families were giving any thought to any game. All cancelling the game has done is extend the reach of Brenton Tarrant’s actions, furthering his hateful message.
I will admit, there is an element of selfishness to what I say.
I was looking forward to the clash between the Crusaders and my Highlanders. We took them down last season and while I don’t think we were likely to this time around, we were in with a shot.
Under the roof in Dunedin, a big derby match, the night of sporting entertainment would have been a spectacle, the Zoo in action and students and fans reveling in the streets.
The type of spectacle we as New Zealanders are more used to seeing.
Just what the doctor would have ordered don’t you think?
As for the name of the rugby franchise from the Canterbury, Nelson?Tasman region?
I for one, no fan of PC excesses, think it may be time for a change…
Was I naive? Was I blissfully unaware? Was I ignorant?
The question of immunity is a gnarly one in New Zealand at the moment.
Measles has well and truly reared it’s ugly head as a problematic virus on our shores and re-ignited an immunisation debate, one which never really goes away.
My wife is a medical professional. Her mind works in the way of someone immersed in the jargon and language of her profession and those of the colleagues and others around her. She gets it, all the information. It makes sense to her as she has a mind trained to filter the dross and dredge out the important, relevant stuff.
To the layman, researching your way around the question of whether to immunise or not, leads to nothing more than a headache. Claim and counter claim, fact and counter fact.One study and trial versus another.
But even as a layperson, the evidence seems more than just conclusive. It is undeniable.
Jab your children.
Perhaps I am susceptible to a viral attack such as Measles. To be honest, I don’t really know if I have been fully immunised or not.
One thing I am all too aware of now, I am not immune to the hate in this world.
Was New Zealand ever that idyllic, peaceful, sweet and innocent South Pacific paradise we all like to think of ourselves as living in?
Simply, the answer is no. But comparatively, we don’t have a great deal to worry about and never really have. Not from the perspective I have anyway, looking out from my bubble of family and everyday life.
As a nation, we are not immune to the hatred and vile, violent and disgusting behaviours and attitudes that seem to purvey so much of the rest of the globe. It has reached our shores, this cruelty. This terror.
It is being said we all saw it coming.
Not this guy. I was not aware an attack of this nature was imminent. I had no idea, not even an inkling, there were people here in this country mad enough, angry enough, insane enough, low enough and organised enough to conduct such an act as happened in Christchurch yesterday.
Why would they be here? Why would they harbour so much hate, hold such evil in their hearts and minds?
Why would I, Mr Normal, Mr Average, Mr Everyguy, even suspect there was an element of New Zealand society capable of such an atrocity.
Don’t get me wrong. I know New Zealand is not perfect, that elements of our population are dysfunctional, for one reason or another. I know there is poverty and there is racism and there is violence and there is hate. I have seen examples of all of it and I am sure most of us have.
But, imagine the guy in the checkout queue in front of you is plotting, as he waits idly for the middle-aged part time working Mum to pack his groceries.
Plotting the purchase of mutiple weapons and the ammunition to go with them, the chemicals and the materials required to manufacture bombs. Plotting the logistics and programming routes into his GPS, taking note of timing and traffic, parking even.
Imagine that guy is plotting the death of as many as he can get. Imagine all that is running through his head, right as he is smiling at the checkout chick, politely declining a receipt, not having spent enough to earn a fuel discount.
A few days ago I might have been able to put my imagination to musings like that.
It would have meant little more than that. Random musings. A concept best related to another place; the States, Great Britain, Germany.
New Zealand? Nah mate.
Now, it is a hideous reality I am not sure I can fathom.
The sinking of the Rainbow Warrior was massive. It tore a big hole through this country as it did through the hull of the Greenpeace vessel.
New Zealand and New Zealander’s lost something that day. We were left exposed to the ugly truth of the world around us. A world, it seems, we cannot hide from, beneath veils of clean, green forest canopies and golden sand beaches.
That ugly world has spat in our faces again. A stench ridden, filthy, dirty and ugly reality New Zealanders…all New Zealanders most likely…probably never really considered. Or at least had stopped giving credence to.
The French assault on our soil, on our sensibilities, was a long time ago in the context of global conflict. Not forgotten but moved on, shuffled back to the places in our minds capable of reconciling the hideous and the ugly. But the shield of ‘It doesn’t happen here’ and ‘It won’t affect us’ has yet again shown it’s vulnerability.
Turns out evil does happen and evil will have it’s effect.
But I am not scared. I am not worried and I am not concerned.
The vitriol has already begun and the spats over keyboard comments are well under way.
Soon the talks will be more earnest and responsible inside the chambers of our lawmakers and politicians. Things will change, inevitably and some of those changes will be for the good and maybe some not so much. One thing can be assured, there will be a great deal of debate, a huge amount of reflection and doubt and uncertainty and yes, there will be fear and anger. Hurt. Every single feeling, each and every emotional response, is justifiable.
Will there be retaliation? We can only hope not.
Who do you fire back at? More innocents? More men, women and children, lost in the fog of prayer? Christians? Catholics? The great secular unwashed that is the majority of Kiwis?
I always thought of this country as a laid back, cruisy, chilled place. We are all too relaxed to care a great deal. Aren’t we?
Life is too good to be worrying about hating. If that is your thing mate, good on ya.
And you know what? I am still going to think of this country like that. Of Kiwis like that. We really are inclusive. We really are giving and accepting and understanding and caring and open.
Please, tell me that won’t change.
Should that headline read tears for Islam?
According to my wife it should. She sat in her favourite chair, our slumbering youngest nestled against her despite the persistent heat of a summer which refuses to give in, and wept.
As far as is known, as I sit and write, forty nine people are confirmed dead.
Forty nine men, women and children, literally on their knees in prayer, gunned down.
I don’t need to describe the horrors and nor do I need to decry them.
Done, by all the media outlets and all the commentators and all those with the tech and the wherewithal.
I am certainly not going to apportion blame.
I could point the finger at social media, which allows the like minded to agitate and to ridicule and to deride. Worse still, social media allows these people to congregate.
We could question gun laws, asking why there isn’t a register of weapons for every person issued a firearms license.
We could look to our police and our security agencies, our intelligence services and border control and government and policy, ask a collective why?
You can’t police the nutters. You can’t legislate for the insane.
You can blame the people pulling the trigger.
An extremist is insane.
Be they Christian or Buddhist or Catholic or Muslim.
Be as far right or left of the political divide as you wish.
Just not too far.
Be as devout and as pious and as proud of your chosen religion as you feel you must.
Where religion and politics intersect, be fervent and aware and earnest and also be open and appraising and smart. Stand your ground, by all means. All the while, let those around you stand theirs too.
There is plenty ground to go around.
I have been away from the keyboard for quite some time.
A new house, a new job, kids starting a new year in new schools in a new town. We have been busy, hectic at times and it pains me to acknowledge, it takes something like this to fire my emotional output.
Too often the word ‘tragedy’ is bandied about but now we have one, yet again in the city of Christchurch. So much that place has suffered and so often there are setbacks to recovery.
But, 15/3/2019 contained no force of nature, no random act of seismic power. People did this and they did it to each other.
I just don’t get it.
Video footage taken and posted by the perpetrator, as if his actions and those of his mates were somehow significant, as if they had some point, some depth we all needed to become aware of. Bad enough and all as he defiantly gives the impression he is proud of his actions.
And in so doing, he drives the final nail into the coffin which contained the innocence of this nation. The perceived innocence at least.
The New Zealand Wars, Tiriti o Waitangi, Think Big, Nuclear Free. Big issues, big standpoints with different results or none at all.
In regards to our nations stance on the nuclear issue, we watched a ship blown up and sunk in one of our harbours, at the cost of a life. State sponsored terrorism.
Now the argument, and the terrifying response, seems to be over immigration. Delivered to us, it would seem, at the hands of an immigrant.
How is Australian Immigration gonna like getting this one back?
Because our Prime Minister is right. Jacinda Ardern is correct in telling us that this man, immigrant or not, is not one of us. He does not belong.
If his colleagues are Kiwi born and raised, then they too no longer belong.
They are not New Zealanders.
Not true, died in the wool (merino) New Zealander’s. They are white trash filthy scum and white trash scum should be stateless.
I know New Zealand is not the land of milk and honey.
No, wait…it is!
We are Godzone, we are small and far away and exotic and beautiful and clean and green and we are friendly and accommodating and yes, we are innocent.
We are non-threatening and we are courageous and we are forthright and earnest, trying our best in every endeavour and we do get so much of it right.
We smile because, generally, we are fed and housed and educated and yes, we are loved.
Kiwis don’t fear you because we don’t threaten you.
Number One’s math teacher is Palestinian. English is not his first language and I think he knows some of the kids find it hard to understand him at times.
But kids don’t want to send him back from where he came. Kids want a day off to wave banners and moan about the environment.After all, aren’t numbers a language in themselves? A language I can’t understand either.
Think. How is his night? Does he spend his night in fear? Does he worry, as he bends in prayer, that all he will be delivered was a bullet to the back of his skull?
Palestinian mathematics teachers are welcome in this town, on this island, in this country.
Bangladeshi cricketers are welcome and Pakistani grocers and Afghani accountants Uzbek truck drivers and who ever from where ever.
Extremists from Australia or Christchurch or Matamata or Culverden or wherever, aren’t.
But this isn’t really about race or creed or colour.
15/3/2019 Christchurch was about ego. It was about exclusion and loss and a sense of entitlement, a misguided notion of where the wrongs of the world are and how best to put them right.
This was about kitten stranglers, about kids who used to pull the legs off spiders just to watch the poor creature, and the poor gathered boys and girls, squirm.
This was not about Islam.
This was not about New Zealand.
I watched rugby tonight. My kids watched TV. We ate as a family. We remained ‘we’ even as my wife’s tears were justified and I battle to contain my anger.
Tears for Islam
Tears for Christchurch
Tears for New Zealand
Yes, tears for the people and families directly involved. Tears for the police and emergency services and all those who will now be involved mopping it all up, no doubt for years to come.
Tears for humanity.
Just when will we get that right?
The following content may offend some readers.
Be warned. I sit down on a sunny morning, surrounded by a slumbering household, as nothing more than master of this keyboard. An over-weight, balding, arthritic, white, middle class (I suppose) male. And somehow, I am supposed to be apologetic for that.
Because I am white, older and was born and bred in the South Island, I am racist, sexist, misogynistic, ultra conservative with a big red streak emblazoned across the back of my neck.
I am the victim.
The victim of pigeon-holing. I have been labelled, my persona apparently so on display, the role I play in society can be summed up at a glance.
We all judge and are all judgmental. I get that. I do it too.
Everyone does and there doesn’t have to be any harm in doing so. If nothing else, it is a protective mechanism, one designed so we find ourselves in the company of like-minded people. An attempt, on the most part subconsciously, to group ourselves among our peers and avoid those with whom we may have some form of conflict. Sure, it is contrived, constructed, part of societal ‘norms’ we are conditioned to accept and rarely, if ever, question.
It means, because I hail from the south of this split nation and therefore my accent is different, I must be racist. It means, because I am of a certain age and skin colour, I must be conservative and materialistic.
It is assumed I am educated, have a job, am not divorced. It is assumed I drink Speights, when the reality is I have been steadily working my way through anything and everything crafty with a medal on it. I still like a cold Speights after a hard days work but given my middle aged spread, quality over quantity is a notion driven by health, as well as budget.
I am supposed to drive a hulking, modern, bright and shiny 4WD I don’t need, while the wife bops around in something eco-friendly, European. We might even have a boat or a bach or a combination of the two. Maybe even stocks and bonds, whatever that means, a rental property or two. Mum and Dad investors.
Our kids go to good schools and always have shoes on their feet and jackets to ward off the rain. They do, I was there when we purchased some of that stuff, but you try getting them to wear their protective layers when they are needed.
Basics, our budget is capable of that at least, even while we are not driving flash cars or taking island holidays.
Essentially, as my hair turns a distinguished shade of peppery gray (ok, what is left of it), because I can read and write, because I can spell and count, because I know how to communicate in full sentences using the English language, as my generation and the ones before recognise it, I must be a National Party voter. Or something like that.
One of my big regrets in life to date, is my inability to fluently speak another language or two, be it Te Reo or one of the romance languages. (If you can’t look sexy, why not sound it?).
No great dramas then. No real stresses. If I all I have to worry about is the my inability to babble away in another language, then there can’t be too much going wrong. Right?
Because, good people, their isn’t. Not really.
Of course, this process works just as well in reverse. All Maori can sing. All Maori have rhythm and can dance. (I can play the drums, meaning I know and have rhythm, as white as I am, but man you don’t wanna see me dancing!)
Generalisations like this make our little clusters of society struggle to mingle. Instead of celebrating differences, we look to segregate and marginalize and the fault is as much with the so called minority, as often as not. I witnessed it with international students attending Otago University. There was a reticence to socialise outside of the small cultural circle these groups bought with them. If they did, it was with other students from foreign cultures.
New cultures can be daunting. Language barriers can seem insurmountable. Establishing yourself in a new and foreign environment, even if it is just the neighborhood across town, a new town, or on in a whole other island, is no easy thing and of course trying to be a part of an already settled group structure, the new kid on the block, is a daunting task.
We have moved around enough over the last few years to note it is the new kids on the block who have the least issue with the new and the untried.
They don’t see colour like we do, don’t hear a foreign tongue like we do.
Kids aren’t blind and deaf to differences, but they are far more accepting, less concerned about the difference and far more interested in common ground. Play, sport, the classroom are all great levelers and children find their fit in no time.
There is always the loner, the one who doesn’t fit, who stands out via their desperate attempt to do exactly the opposite.
Don’t worry about them until the the teen years and in this country, don’t worry too much. Our loner, social misfits don’t have access to automatic weapons.
Adults find it harder to meet and greet for some reason. Caught up too much, maybe, in the preconceived and the contrived.
Workplaces provide an avenue to find new faces but mostly, it is done through your children, around the school and the community which comes from that. You meet parents, teachers and principals and bus drivers and neighbours.
All these new people might see you as this or that or the next thing. They judge you.
Just as you are sizing them up at the same time. First impressions and all the stigma which comes with them.
Yes, I am Caucasian and I come from ‘regional’ New Zealand.
Yes, I have a level of tertiary education and I have full time employment.
Yes, we own two cars and yes, every now and then we can head out for lunch.
Am I a conservative capitalist? No.
I am a left of center idealist, one who would go a lot further left if I wasn’t cynical enough to realise it probably wouldn’t work.
Am I racist, bigoted, aggressively or even just assertively hardcore in particular view or assertion? No. I am too busy for any deep thought, any particular take on any given issue. Four kids remember. Have I ever mentioned that?!
Am I ignorant or worse, abusive of other beliefs of cultures. No.
Confederate flags and muscle cars and sexist ideology aside, Dukes of Hazard was a cool show. I love pick-up trucks (utes) as much as the next man and will stamp my foot to country music if you’re going to play it.
That school community, those neighbours, will most likely see my wife and me as we are. First and foremost we are parents. Hard working, dedicated family folk.
Just like the ones sitting across from us at any given table, no matter where we came from and how we got there.
Hot enough for ya?!
Who doesn’t love it? Summer. And a bloody good one at that.
The 2018/19 summer is the first one I have worked in a couple of years and it feels like the holiday I was needing, without realising I was in need of one.
It is too easy to think the stay at home parent doesn’t need a break because, hey, it isn’t like they are working. My time in the crib, hanging with my crew, was the hardest work I have ever done.
Yep, you’re so right. I am too old and too Caucasian for that language.
There was nothing physically demanding about being at home, with a couple of little ones. Okay, a few of the physical attributes females are blessed with might have been handy. A hip or two might have taken some of the pressure off back and shoulders, a mammary gland here and there to placate wayward behavior or appease demands.
I might not necessarily have been fully equipped to deal full time parenting, though I coped. So did the kids!
I managed, in the same way I am not necessarily fully prepared to be as productive as I could be in my new role, but as I had to do being a stay at home Dad, I will learn and adapt and change and ultimately, succeed.
Being at work full-time does not mean I am any less a full time parent. Having a job does not exclude me from being a Father, nor does it mean I am suddenly ignorant of the trials of looking after a brood of kids during the summer holiday period.
The long summer break, for kids and parents alike, is all about prickles on the lawn, falling asleep in the car on the drive home from the beach.
It is trying snorkeling for the first time, testing out the new boogie boards, in waves you might not previously have been adventurous enough to venture into.
It is ice-creams, dripping down your hand faster than you can lick, one ice-block after another failing to quench your sea salt, sandy thirst, it is sweat and chaffing and barbeques and fresh green salads and dozing in the shade, as the birds chirp above and a hot Tasman breeze shifts clouds as lazy as your eyelids, from one bright blue horizon to the next.
The day done, summer is impossible nights, tossing and turning from fear of a settling mosquito, window wide to let in a drift of air no cooler than the heavy, sunscreen tainted wafts you want to escape.
Shut the window, ban the bug, toss and turn regardless, the heat rising from your sun-kissed skin.
For Wifey, summer is popping the cork free of the a chilled bottle of Pinot Gris, darling, a little earlier than might be otherwise appropriate.
For me, summer is a sleepy afternoon beer, warming the grill and waiting for the salads to be near ready, before standing dangerously close to the sizzle and pop of barbequed meat.
Summer is backed by a soundtrack of reggae and roots, the voices of Brian Waddle and Jeremy Coney.
Wifey cruises back to the vibes of Scott Bradlee and his hodgepodge of assorted vocalists and clustered instrumentalists.
Walks beneath a bush canopy, because it is cooler. Dining on the deck, in the shade and a cooler breeze. Indications it is summer.
Romantic stuff. All holidays and white sand beaches and fishing and the clink of bottles rattling together in a chilly-bin.
Of course, summer is stretching the budget, worries over childcare and the threat of behavioural hiccups among the wee ones, as routines are broken down and then suddenly reinstated.
You could worry over the effects of melanoma or the efficacy of your sunscreen. You could fret about what state work is going to be in when you finally get back there, or just how the kids are going to cope with a new year, maybe a new school.
Take ten minutes laying on the grass in the dappled shade of a plum tree and when you stand up, pick a few fruits for the bowl.
Twist the cap off a cheap Pinot, no one does corks anymore and don’t let that worry you.
Crack the cap on that first afternoon beer and down half the contents in a couple of mighty gulps.
Let the rhythmic squeak of the trampoline lull you, the cry of gulls, Tui, the screech of argumentative, sun frazzled children. Whatever.
Before long, routine takes hold, regathers it’s strength and starts to dominate. I can feel it doing that thing it does right now…
Until then, just because…