Come Gather ‘Round People
Two footballs and three frisbees relaxed on the roof of the school hall on polling day. There were many small dogs on leads, many sausages in bread devoured and much money donated to the school on this perfect autumn day. Kids played football and basketball, and the girls did cartwheels. I like voting, it’s a good feeling of being part of things. We don’t need slogans about greatness, we just need to mow the lawn and pay our bills and get the kids to school, preferably well fed. We need to be equal, solid people doing our best.
I was eighteen when I first voted for anyone, and it was Gough Whitlam. Single-handedly, I believed, I’d got him in, not bad on your first go. This meant free university education and Medibank. A heady mix for a kid from Footscray. He was a god to me. And the idea that it was compulsory made it seem to have been handed down to us. The thrill of it felt electric but then, like all thrills, they wear away and you don’t feel so much for them. Politics has come and gone in my life and mostly felt disappointing. It became like a band you used to like and had gone right off. I remember as a kid Dad sitting up on budget night with the radio beside him deciding what the year would be, how much of anything there would be. School shoes, uniforms. There was no childcare, so we looked after ourselves. In fact, Dad gambled most of his wage, so it was all a bit of a show.
When I had young children, it would have cost me almost as much as my wage to have them cared for. I soon decided I wanted to do that myself, but the cost was to my career. Now, nearly forty years later, the equation for my daughters is not so different. And the cost to career is the same. So much for politics doing something for women.
In the orderly line at the polling booth, the feeling was sensible and even respectful. Posters showed us how to vote and waiting was a reasonable part of it. We had voted at a new booth in our grandson’s school instead of our old seat of Kooyong. The staff woman in charge keeping us in line, smiled at each of us and said ‘Perrfect’ in that eastern suburban way, (a little Kath and Kim) and her lanyard was as shiny as her hair. There were pies for sale, but everyone was saving themselves for the sausages. Cakes were laid out for sale in cellophane, but they were pretty pricy.
When I did get to the booth after a long wait, it was cardboard and held up lightly on three of its corners. No wonder it was available. The pencil was tethered to string, but I did what I had to do. My husband tried to fold the senate seat sheet up for me, but I did manage that for myself.
I was in the UK in 2013 in early September and we had to vote. In our East London apartment, the tap dripped like a measure of time. I saw sandals passing by the basement kitchen window. Women swishing by in dark robes.
London was warm and pale grey. Early air laced with bugs. Doors open onto a low green garden. Two doors up people were working with hammers.
And then we went to vote. In the underground, trains appeared like sea creatures waiting on the hot grimy platforms as they carefully minded the gap.
In the rain, London shines silver and pewter. There’s a lull in so many people. When I saw my daughter in an orange coat, I felt l that I might fly.
Voting at huge sandy Australia House was daunting. Echoes of the colony still vaingloriously there. Posters of Kevin Rudd peered like white owls from the barricades. Volunteers flapped their papers. Sadly, no sausages.
Today the basil leaves in the grey pot are big green hearts and maybe some rain is about. The warmth is leaving, you can feel it. Still, I see small parrots in heart-break colours. I hear many birds gathering and calling, clutter on this clear day. Politics are a measure of sanity and despite a few wacky birds, I think we’re pretty sane in this the place where we live.