Rebecca Handler

The revolting behavior of powerful American men has been in the news a lot in Australia. Even people who had never heard of Harvey Weinstein aren’t shocked, given his position in Hollywood. One friend said, “I was a bit surprised by the rapes, but not really I reckon.”

The women I know in Australia are like women everywhere. We have all experienced inappropriate male behavior ranging from catcalls to assault. I asked a fellow parent what she thought about the #MeToo campaign. Although she saw value in the public discourse, she expressed concern that a rude comment was being put in the same category as rape. Another friend agreed and said, “We all know it’s everywhere. We just deal with it and move on.”

I have only lived in Perth for three years, but everyday feminism feels different here. Australia was the second country in the world, after New Zealand, to give women the right to vote in 1902. They elected a female prime minister, and have twelve months of parental leave and federally funded childcare. Aussies are fiercely self-reliant, and their anti-whingeing values discourage seeing oneself as a victim. The mentality is to fight back or soldier on. Recently I overheard two girls talking about a mean boy in school and their plan to beat him in a sports event.

Obama was President when we moved here. Then the election inspired women’s marches across the United States. I spoke to my daughters about the marches and feminism in general, but found it challenging to address problems my children don’t see in the first place. They had difficulty understanding why women need to fight for equality because inequality is so obviously wrong. My younger daughter is the only girl on her field hockey team. She told me she hadn’t noticed until I pointed it out. You can do anything, I told her. Of course I can, she said.

Recently my husband asked if a coworker or boss had ever sexually harassed me. He assumed I would have mentioned it by now, but had never asked me directly. I’ve worked with bullies and perverts, but thankfully I’ve never been in a position where, if I didn’t go along with some insane demand, I’d lose my job, or worse. But like other women, I’ve learned to navigate the world with the male gaze in mind. It is hard to imagine a future where we’re not objectified and stereotyped.

Yesterday, when hanging the laundry, I watched a redback spider immobilize its prey by repeatedly biting it on the head before dragging it back to the corner of my kitchen window. The redback is one of the most dangerous spiders in the world. Its bite causes fever, nausea, and, if you’re not in the vicinity of an antivenom, death. They don’t need hotel rooms and bathrobes.

00:00

We were instructed to use the toilet before entering the performance space. The piece will be 74 minutes, the woman in black said. If you have to wee during the show, you will not be allowed back in. Also, the piece will include four minutes of silence.

I am at the Tura New Music Festival to see a friend play in Michael Pisaro’s piece entitled A Wave and Waves. My friend is a professional musician and conductor. He plays numerous instruments including guitar, mandolin, and drums. Tonight, however, he will be playing the pebbles.  

As I waited to enter the Midland Railway Workshop, an enormous warehouse on the outskirts of Perth, I told my friends about the show I saw two nights ago. One musician used a hair comb, some alligator clips and a cello bow to make a variety of sounds on her classical harp. There was also a song called Concerto for Active Frogs where seven people wearing garbage bags croaked along to a recording of North American frog mating calls. On the way home, I asked my husband what he thought about the show and he asked me how much I had paid for tickets.

My feelings about music of this sort are similar to my feelings about deep fried Snickers bars or Michael Moore: unrelenting, but also why not and thank god.

01:00

The audience is interspersed among the 100 percussionists who are positioned in a grid formation. My friend is standing at attention, as if guarding Buckingham Palace. In front of him is a large tray with a sloped square piece of granite and hundreds of white pebbles. Another performer stands with a violin bow and a wooden block. I spot a man with an enormous ream of white paper and a woman with a bass drum. There are at least five other pebble stations, and a large digital timer affixed to the wall.

01:58

The piece started two minutes ago, but only now am I hearing a squeaky bowing sound. When I crane my neck to see where the sound is coming from, my neck cracks loudly. 

03:36

My friend is not yet playing his pebbles. His eyes are closed and he looks like he is meditating. I am concerned he will miss his cue to come in. I remind myself this is not my responsibility.

10:20

The man with the paper begins to tear one of sheets like he is slowly opening a candy bar. I remember that Halloween is on Tuesday.

11:40

My friend takes two handfuls of pebbles and slowly releases them on the higher end of the granite. The sound of cascading stones is pleasant and I close my eyes. In twenty seconds he is done, and returns to his meditative stance.

19:20

I have this plot issue in a story I’m writing. A woman makes a choice and I’m not sure it’s a choice she would make. I wonder how this character would feel about this show and I decide she would have left ten minutes ago. I close my eyes.

23:40

My friend starts with the pebbles again. I try to get his attention and he ignores me. He is taking this very seriously and I am a horrible person.

31:20

I am terrified I might fart. I don’t need to fart, but I know I mustn’t so I’m worried I might.

36:00

Four minutes of silence. I notice a performer in the back who has beautiful long white hair with pink and purple streaks. She looks familiar. Her eyes are closed and she is swaying slightly.

47:40

The music is steadier now and the crescendos feel like pressure points, sending warmth up my spine. My friend is vigorous with his pebbles and they are bouncing off the granite onto the cement floor.

62:20

I remember. Two years ago, I was on a bus in Perth with the woman with the long white hair with the pink and purple streaks. She was severely injured when the door ripped off her big toenail. I wrote a story about this incident and submitted it to two publishers. Now this woman is across from me in a warehouse playing a drum.

74:00

The piece is over but no one is moving or applauding. Someone finally starts clapping and soon the room erupts.

My friend looks tired from all the standing and pebble tossing. We congratulate him and ask to touch the pebbles. This was his second performance today, and now he is free to join us for margaritas. I tell everyone I’ll meet them out front and run to find the woman with the long white hair and the pink and purple streaks.

I am stuck in traffic on Thomas Street, thinking about missiles flying over the Pacific Ocean. I turn on the radio. One of the DJs is talking about the ruckus in his neighborhood. He lives near the beach in Scarborough where “there are apartments going up everywhere I reckon.” The construction starts early, and “not to offend the inventor of the circular saw, but the noise is driving me mental.” His co-host plays a clip of Bjork’s Oh So Quiet and they both laugh.

I roll down the window. A man and a woman at a bus shelter are smoking and checking their phones. The man scratches his crotch and looks up. I look away. 

Next to me is a parcel delivery van with a bumper sticker, “Commit your way to the Lord. Trust in him and he will act.” I question God’s role in the postal service, and think about the comedian Eddie Izzard who says he believes in people, not God, because “people show up.”

Recently, my family and I spent three nights on Rottnest Island, a small patch of land off the coast of Perth where cars are prohibited and furry quokkas roam the island looking like F.A.O. Schwartz escapees. We rode bicycles to the western tip and watched humpback whales and sea lions play. After dinner, the four of us changed into pajamas and piled into a hotel bed to watch Australian Survivor. My husband nudged me and showed me his phone. A 64-year-old with a stockpile of machine guns had killed more than fifty people in Las Vegas. I put my head on his shoulder as we watched Locky win his third immunity necklace. I didn’t want to leave this beautiful tiny island off the coast of the most remote city in the world.

The traffic starts moving and soon I am home. I feel something rustling around in my hair. It is a cockroach. Of course. There are hurricanes and dictators and gunmen so why shouldn’t there be a cockroach in my hair? It is half the size of my thumb and the color of grape jelly. I smash it between my fingers and wipe the whole mess on a tissue. As I stand at the kitchen sink washing my hands, I think about how we will soon leave Australia and return to the United States. We don’t know when. We are in a holding pattern. After three years in Perth, I miss my friends and family more than ever. I am worried that back in America, I will miss safety. This is what keeps me up at night.

Gay marriage is not legal in Australia. It is estimated that at least 70% of Australians support same sex marriage, and most politicians are also in favor. This month, citizens are receiving a one-question survey in the mail: Do you support a change in the law to allow same-sex couples to marry? The survey is voluntary to complete and costs $122 million (in a country of 24 million people). The result of the postal survey is non-binding but a yes result will allow Parliament a “free vote,” where politicians are expected to vote based on personal preference rather than party lines.

A survey on equal rights is demeaning, but as I said to my sneezy daughter last night, sometimes we have to take horrible tasting medicine in order to get better.

I show up at the Yes Campaign Call Center at five past five, which causes me mild panic because Handlers Are Never Late. I couldn’t find the building and was wandering around Parliament House dressed like a strawberry farmer in my overalls and boots.

People who run call centers should be given awards, because their job is to stand in front of two-hour shift volunteers and explain the same thing over and over again. Blond-haired Michael explains he isn’t gay but “can’t imagine a more important issue,” and Susan has an arm brace and introduces herself as “Susan who can’t stop talking.”

My job tonight is to cold call Western Australians and remind them to vote yes on their marriage equality surveys. “Before we jump on the phones, let’s introduce ourselves,” says Susan who can’t stop talking.  

Nicole, sitting next to me, is in her sixties. Her gay son lives in Toronto because “it is more of an open culture and he can be himself.” Her eyes well up. “I wish he could be treated the same as my daughters.”

I say my husband is black and it wasn’t that long ago that he and I wouldn’t have been able to get married in the states. “We tell our children it’s the same thing,” I explain, suddenly feeling emotional.

An Indian-Australian man and his partner of eight years who looks like Hugh Jackman finish each other’s sentences. “We’d like to get married,” Hugh says. His partner squeezes his knee and adds, “He just wants a big party.” Everyone laughs and then becomes quiet.

A pretty woman in a pantsuit speaks calmly as she tucks her hair behind her ear. “My sister is gay. I hate the survey. This is the least I can do.” She crosses her legs, sighs, and apologizes for being so negative.

Australians are positive people who shy away from conflict. In three years, I have heard of only two protests in Perth – one for the treatment of refugees, and another to keep a high school in its current building. More people turned out for the high school. My friend Celena and I attended a rally for marriage equality, which felt more like a family reunion. I was surprised by the low turnout and remembered a couple of years ago when close to a million people flooded the Perth streets to see gigantic French marionettes. “Bring a puppet, and they’ll show up,” Celena said tersely.

It is time to get on the phones. We are handed bottles of water and lollies. Susan who can’t stop talking says she likes to tell people that voting against gay marriage is “downright un-Australian” and Michael suggests we don’t engage with anyone who is voting no. “Just thank them for their time and move on,” he says, passing out scripts.

I make thirty-four calls, twenty of which result in voice messages. Of the remaining fourteen, I log eight yes votes, two no’s, two undecided, one hang up, and one giggly child who tells me his dad is next door and asks if he should get him. “No thanks,” I say. “We’ll call back.”

I speak to one woman for several minutes. She has already mailed in her survey. “I voted yes of course. Who wouldn’t?” I tell her about my phone call with a man who defended a local tennis champion who recently publicly argued against gay marriage and got tossed out of her tennis club leadership role (big news in Perth). He is voting no, I told the woman. “Good on you, mate,” she says. “I would have lost the plot on that one. What difference does it make to him?” I request that she remind her friends to vote yes. “They know to stay away from me if they’re not,” she laughs.

I speak to a man who hasn’t received his survey but is planning on voting yes. “Everyone deserves to be happy. I don’t understand the problem.” Another older man feels similarly and expresses it in a quintessentially Australian way, “I’m not really fussed either way.”

One man takes issue with the word marriage and therefore is voting no. I have a friend who also feels this way but I do not tell him this. I thank him for his time.

Between calls, I tap my foot to the hold music, “Signed, Sealed, Delivered.” Nicole and I agree that Stevie Wonder keeps our spirits up.

One man tells me he hasn’t decided how he’ll vote. I ask him if there’s anything he’d like to discuss. He sounds wistful when he says, “No, not really.” I thank him for his time.

Our shift is over and we take a group photo. Door knocking is this weekend and we are given posters and stickers before heading out into the dark.

Australia’s last nationwide opinion survey was in 1977 when citizens chose the national anthem (It had been “God Save the Queen”). The winning song, the current anthem, is beautiful and reminds me of “Auld Lang Syne.” My favorite line is, “With courage let us all combine to advance Australia fair.” Yes let’s.

My favorite thing about our Chinese exchange student is the way she says, “Of course!” in response to many of our questions. Do you like salad? Of course! Did you have a good day at school? Of course! She says it loudly and cheerfully, more like a life motto than an innocent response. It makes me realize how I must sound in French. Bien sur!

Our houseguest is fourteen, and is traveling outside of China for the first time. She is from Chengdu, a city of 14 million people, more than half the population of Australia. Chengdu is famous for many things including its enormous Buddha (“very, very big”) and spicy food. She is an only child, lives on the 36^th floor of an apartment building, and plays badminton and a seven-string guqin.  She attends school from 7 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. six days a week and has “much, much homework.” Her usual breakfast is dumplings and green tea, but when asked if scrambled eggs and toast would suffice, she declared, “Of course!”

My daughter and I picked her up in the pouring rain under the awning of a dilapidated motel near Cottesloe Beach. She was wearing baggy jeans, a navy blue sweatshirt that read, “When the clock back, what can I do?” and a sideways facing turquoise baseball cap that read, “Monsters University.” When she learned that her Perth host family is not in fact Australian, she clapped and grinned. “I love America! Taylor Swift!”

I stayed with a French family for a couple of weeks when I was her age. They put me in their guest room, far from the other children in the house, and showed me how to operate the bidet. I learned French reading Tintin and Garfield, and also because I was instructed to pronounce everything on the dinner table before I was allowed to eat. My French vocabulary is limited, but apparently my pronunciation is excellent. This is because I like to eat.

Although I placed English editions of Tintin and Garfield on her dresser, we are trying to make our foreign visitor’s stay as enjoyable as possible. We took her to a wildlife park to pet koalas and kangaroos, and tonight treated her to pizza. Her mastery of English is impressive, but we are relying mostly on sweets, Uno, and pop music for bonding.

I like making our guest laugh. Her cheeks turn pink and she covers her mouth. This happened yesterday when I danced in the kitchen to Bieber’s Sorry.

My husband and I have a mantra from the four months we lived in France: Yes is better than no. It reminds us to remain open to new experiences and helps to prevent middle aged stodginess that can sneak up on us like a bald spot. We love having visitors, and will miss this one when she leaves. Of course.