Bullying seems to be an impossible issue to resolve. I doubt that my article will do this, but I'd like to have a say at the very least. This is my first draft.
A high school boy recently lifted up a fellow student half his size and slammed him to the ground. Surprisingly the aggressor was also a victim. He had put up with bullies for three years and wasn’t about to take it any more. Victims worldwide and their families cheered. It was a cathartic moment for them. The media interviewed the boy who had ‘snapped’ his victim and the boy who filmed the event. It was the usual seven day wonder, but when the dust settled, nothing else did, nothing had changed.
The hero of the moment will probably get through high school without constant harassment, and his school will probably review its bullying policy but what about current and future victims? Nothing seems to have changed or will change for them. There’s anecdotal evidence that confronting a bully with his or her own medicine usually results in the bully backing down, but nobody with any common sense advocates violence as a way to resolve issues. It can result in tragedy for everybody, but what else is there?
Suspending students doesn’t seem to help, students don’t come back calmed down or contrite, rather the reverse. Mediation hasn’t proved to work and neither does walking away from a bully. However well-meaning schools are their anti-bullying policies are obviously inadequate. Cyber bullying has put things in a whole other realm, it’s all become overwhelming for everyone including teachers who haven’t got enough hours in the day to implement everything that’s asked of them and teach as well. I will say that I’m in favour of zero tolerance when it comes to bullies. Three strikes and you’re out. Find another school.
That only leaves parents. If you’re a great believer in nature and nurture, the bully has no chance. But even nature can be something if parents are supportive of their children and raise them to respect themselves and others. I don’t think that bullies like themselves.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
Old Farts
When I was a baby, or so I’m told, I was adorable. Doting parents hung on my every utterance, ‘was that dada? Did she say mamamama?’ I was a cute toddler and never short of admirers. I can’t imagine it now, but I used to be shy. But whenever I did have something to say, some adult was bound to turn to another and exclaim ‘did you hear that? However does she come up with those things.’ It was at the very least as if I had made some earth shattering rediscovery about the theory of relativity. ‘What a child.’
Same thing growing up. Rellos and family friends pinched my cheek and coyly enquired about boyfriends. (Euww). My friends and I had all the answers about life, love and the universe. Our youth and inexperience qualified us to pronounce on such issues. We felt sorry for our clueless parents and treated them kindly but firmly whenever they attempted to give us the benefit of their wisdom . When the tables were turned it was a shock to our collective system. Our children refused our hard won advice based on life experience; they’d already discussed it between each other.
The older and wiser I got, the less inclined people seemed to take notice of what I had to say. I had taken my youth for granted, I hadn’t realised it wasn’t going to last.
Now that I’m at the tail end of things, it seems that no one even looks at me. I’ve joined a grey army of invisible people plodding dispiritedly down that path of no return. Even within the family unit, when people do deign to notice I’m there, it seems that I have reverted to cute. Only they’re not hanging on my every utterance. My world views or political opinions are cute, my views on raising children are cute and my preference for old fashioned values is cute. All are code for old fashioned. When I walk down the street I’m just another old fart tottering past, just a bit of detritus in the way of the next generation’s aspirations.
Just as I was ready to stop fighting it and settle down to old-fartdom, an amazing thing happened. I was given a brand new chance to reinvent myself. I become a grandma.
Babies don’t know it yet that old and wrinkly means cute. They pay attention to the love. They hang believingly on every word you have to utter. They are fascinated with your out of tune version of Mary had a Little Lamb and ask you to repeat it as often as your voice holds out. And when I walk down the street, heads turn once more. I’m basking in the glow of my grandchild. People smile at us both. ‘Coochie coo, what a beautiful baby.’ We all beam. I become the baby’s agent. People ask questions and actually listen to the answers. It’s a brand new world composed of mothers and grandmothers having a confab at the park, pushing a swing and sitting on a see saw; at the library, choosing books, reading stories; on the bus singing songs to keep the babies and the other commuters entertained. If my mother and her grandchildren are anything to go by, grandmothers can expect to experience an ongoing relationship based on mutual love, respect and friendship. I’m only at the beginning of all that, but I hope I can make it.
Same thing growing up. Rellos and family friends pinched my cheek and coyly enquired about boyfriends. (Euww). My friends and I had all the answers about life, love and the universe. Our youth and inexperience qualified us to pronounce on such issues. We felt sorry for our clueless parents and treated them kindly but firmly whenever they attempted to give us the benefit of their wisdom . When the tables were turned it was a shock to our collective system. Our children refused our hard won advice based on life experience; they’d already discussed it between each other.
The older and wiser I got, the less inclined people seemed to take notice of what I had to say. I had taken my youth for granted, I hadn’t realised it wasn’t going to last.
Now that I’m at the tail end of things, it seems that no one even looks at me. I’ve joined a grey army of invisible people plodding dispiritedly down that path of no return. Even within the family unit, when people do deign to notice I’m there, it seems that I have reverted to cute. Only they’re not hanging on my every utterance. My world views or political opinions are cute, my views on raising children are cute and my preference for old fashioned values is cute. All are code for old fashioned. When I walk down the street I’m just another old fart tottering past, just a bit of detritus in the way of the next generation’s aspirations.
Just as I was ready to stop fighting it and settle down to old-fartdom, an amazing thing happened. I was given a brand new chance to reinvent myself. I become a grandma.
Babies don’t know it yet that old and wrinkly means cute. They pay attention to the love. They hang believingly on every word you have to utter. They are fascinated with your out of tune version of Mary had a Little Lamb and ask you to repeat it as often as your voice holds out. And when I walk down the street, heads turn once more. I’m basking in the glow of my grandchild. People smile at us both. ‘Coochie coo, what a beautiful baby.’ We all beam. I become the baby’s agent. People ask questions and actually listen to the answers. It’s a brand new world composed of mothers and grandmothers having a confab at the park, pushing a swing and sitting on a see saw; at the library, choosing books, reading stories; on the bus singing songs to keep the babies and the other commuters entertained. If my mother and her grandchildren are anything to go by, grandmothers can expect to experience an ongoing relationship based on mutual love, respect and friendship. I’m only at the beginning of all that, but I hope I can make it.
Monday, March 14, 2011
You've come a long way baby
The Australian Retailers Association has mounted a frantic campaign against plain packaging for cigarettes. It is fast running out of time because the Federal government will ban colourful cigarette packaging in 2012. I’m not sure who the Association’s audience is meant to be. Parents of young children won’t empathise, smokers don’t care and most non-smokers will be thrilled to have those cancer sticks in plain wrap and hidden well under the counter. Nobody cares, except perhaps civil rights groups, but I don’t think that when it comes to this particular issue they will have much influence.
The multiple radio advertisements I’ve been badgered with try to convince that plain packaging won’t work. That it won’t stop people from smoking. What the adverts and the Retailers Association fail to mention, for obvious reasons, is that plain packaging will crimp profits. When I smoked plain packaging and cigarettes under the counter would not have influenced me a bit. On the other hand colourful cigarette boxes work beautifully on beginners. When they get to the shop they will immediately know their preferred brand and they will be loyal to that brand to the bitter end.
Colourful packaging is the last hurrah as far as cigarette advertising goes. Now that accepting sponsorship from cigarette companies is on the nose and cigarette ads are banned, promoting cigarette boxes are all that’s left to the companies that produce them. If you’re a young person starting down that emphysema road, then cool is everything. If all packaging looks the same, where’s the allure?
I remember Virginia Slims. I loved them in the 1990s. They were long and elegant, reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s lighting up at the end of very long cigarette holders. (So elegant is that image that I've seen it trying to sell chocolate products.) I would hold my Virginia Slims a certain way, taking deep breaths and exhaling with my head tilted sideways and up and my eyes half shut. I felt really stylish.
According to Wikipedia, the brand was introduced in 1968 and marketed to professional women using the slogan ‘You’ve come a long way baby’. Later campaigns used the slogan ‘It’s a woman thing’ and ‘Find your voice.’ Wikipedia also states that ‘media watch groups considered this campaign to be responsible for a rapid increase in smoking among teenage girls.’ It must have been a promoter’s dream.
I think don’t think the Australian Retailer’s Association advertisements are working or will work no matter how much money is thrown at them. The Association lives in a world as we all do where to abuse an old cliché, advertising is king. Get the right angle on a product is the wisdom of the day then throw enough money at it and it will usually work. But in this case no amount of money that will help; there’s no empathy and no interest. As I said before, nobody gives a damn.
The multiple radio advertisements I’ve been badgered with try to convince that plain packaging won’t work. That it won’t stop people from smoking. What the adverts and the Retailers Association fail to mention, for obvious reasons, is that plain packaging will crimp profits. When I smoked plain packaging and cigarettes under the counter would not have influenced me a bit. On the other hand colourful cigarette boxes work beautifully on beginners. When they get to the shop they will immediately know their preferred brand and they will be loyal to that brand to the bitter end.
Colourful packaging is the last hurrah as far as cigarette advertising goes. Now that accepting sponsorship from cigarette companies is on the nose and cigarette ads are banned, promoting cigarette boxes are all that’s left to the companies that produce them. If you’re a young person starting down that emphysema road, then cool is everything. If all packaging looks the same, where’s the allure?
I remember Virginia Slims. I loved them in the 1990s. They were long and elegant, reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s lighting up at the end of very long cigarette holders. (So elegant is that image that I've seen it trying to sell chocolate products.) I would hold my Virginia Slims a certain way, taking deep breaths and exhaling with my head tilted sideways and up and my eyes half shut. I felt really stylish.
According to Wikipedia, the brand was introduced in 1968 and marketed to professional women using the slogan ‘You’ve come a long way baby’. Later campaigns used the slogan ‘It’s a woman thing’ and ‘Find your voice.’ Wikipedia also states that ‘media watch groups considered this campaign to be responsible for a rapid increase in smoking among teenage girls.’ It must have been a promoter’s dream.
I think don’t think the Australian Retailer’s Association advertisements are working or will work no matter how much money is thrown at them. The Association lives in a world as we all do where to abuse an old cliché, advertising is king. Get the right angle on a product is the wisdom of the day then throw enough money at it and it will usually work. But in this case no amount of money that will help; there’s no empathy and no interest. As I said before, nobody gives a damn.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Comics
My mother encouraged me to read whatever I wanted, including, shock horror, comics. Brave of her since her contemporaries didn’t see them as worthy fare for budding minds. Mum believed that anything that got me reading and kept me interested was good for my budding mind. I enjoyed the adventures, that the good guys always won and the illustrations.
The good guys don’t always win these days the lines have become blurred, more’s the pity. I don’t care for anti-heroes and if I wanted real life I’d pick up a newspaper.
By the time I got to adult books, the print industry had introduced paperbacks. They were and still are badly pasted together and not meant to last.
Adult hard backs used to be illustrated, copper plates, etchings, watercolour sketches and wood engravings but when the print industry moved away from hard back books we were told that illustrations were for children. And except for Penguin who colour coded their books depending on the genre the wonderful covers, the illustrations are gone. Now that we have e-readers we can forget about illustration or etchings. Not even a book cover to capture our imagination. I predict that we can kiss the print industry goodbye.
Reading comics didn’t rot my brain, they stimulated my imagination and encouraged me to increase my interests.
The worst thing about today's stories are that they are either educational or an attempt to push a particular political barrow. Finally the politically correct have found a way to improve our budding minds.
The good guys don’t always win these days the lines have become blurred, more’s the pity. I don’t care for anti-heroes and if I wanted real life I’d pick up a newspaper.
By the time I got to adult books, the print industry had introduced paperbacks. They were and still are badly pasted together and not meant to last.
Adult hard backs used to be illustrated, copper plates, etchings, watercolour sketches and wood engravings but when the print industry moved away from hard back books we were told that illustrations were for children. And except for Penguin who colour coded their books depending on the genre the wonderful covers, the illustrations are gone. Now that we have e-readers we can forget about illustration or etchings. Not even a book cover to capture our imagination. I predict that we can kiss the print industry goodbye.
Reading comics didn’t rot my brain, they stimulated my imagination and encouraged me to increase my interests.
The worst thing about today's stories are that they are either educational or an attempt to push a particular political barrow. Finally the politically correct have found a way to improve our budding minds.
The Bribe
A child tugged at her mother harnessing all the strength available to her 2 ½ year old body. This droopy diapered tyrant had quite a grip on the mum’s index finger and a look in her eyes that did not bode well for the future. She was determined to have it all her way and her mother was equally determined to show her that there was somebody else to consider here. For some of us waiting for our tram to arrive, watching the two personalities at loggerheads was a mix of entertainment tinged with remembrance and empathy. Been there, done that was the misty eyed consensus.
This wasn’t a David and Goliath story we were watching; the tiny tot hadn’t a chance. But while the end result was predictable, at least for the next handful of years, it was the way her mother dealt with the situation that made it interesting to watch.
It was a stop and start affair and the mum held out as long as she could. Now and again she bent and whispered something in the little girl’s ear, but when it seemed obvious that her strategies weren’t working, the mum reached into her carryall and brought out the biscuit of last resort. The girl took it and the mum lifted the distracted tot up and trotted off into the distance.
I leaned back and reminisced about the good old days of high ideals. It hadn’t taken long for them to take a battering. I had come to realise that a good mother was code word for managing to get through my day without too many blunders and that it was only possible if I had a good baby, code word for placid and sleeps a lot. As my children weren’t good children, I did what we all do when we have that epiphany, I adjusted my standards. It was the first of many times for me.
Having long believed that a tiny morsel couldn’t possibly cause me too much trouble, when my child finally arrived I was forced to face reality. My life was not going to be business as usual. I could no longer drop everything and go haring off on some jaunt at a moment’s notice and cooking was no longer well thought out three course meals but a repertoire of quick and easy recipes. Keeping house, a high maintenance job that required constant mopping and dusting left no room for playing, so until they started four year old kinder, I forced myself to spend a minimum amount of time cleaning (not really a chore) and dedicated the majority of my time playing get to know you with my children.
When it came to the biscuit of last resort, or in my case the chocolate frog of last resort, I preferred small distractions, code word for bribes, to a tap on the bottom. Until my children were old enough to be impressed with the I-will-brook-no-disagreement tone of voice that was the line I took. Not that I stopped reasoning, but like that mum I used a mix of persuasion knowing that sooner or later my exhortations would take hold and the occasional chocolate frog.
I can live with that sort of bribe but I don’t believe everything has a price. I think that paying children to help out for example is wrong. Some people say it teaches children responsibility but I think it smells more like blackmail (you won’t get that dollar if you don’t clean your room) than a lesson. I think the lesson learned should be that mutual expectations and obligations are expected on both sides.
I recently offered my two year old grandson with a chocolate button. He snapped it up and asked for more. I was caring for him and Eden was crying for his mum. The chocolate did its job. It worked so well that the first thing out of those rosebud lips whenever we met was chocolate. I adjusted my standards yet again. Now Eden gets a dose of The Tale of Mr Jeremy Fisher and sometimes we watch The Wiggles. It’s a personal preference, but I have found that I would rather be known as ‘nanna wiggles’, than ‘nanna chocolate’.
This wasn’t a David and Goliath story we were watching; the tiny tot hadn’t a chance. But while the end result was predictable, at least for the next handful of years, it was the way her mother dealt with the situation that made it interesting to watch.
It was a stop and start affair and the mum held out as long as she could. Now and again she bent and whispered something in the little girl’s ear, but when it seemed obvious that her strategies weren’t working, the mum reached into her carryall and brought out the biscuit of last resort. The girl took it and the mum lifted the distracted tot up and trotted off into the distance.
I leaned back and reminisced about the good old days of high ideals. It hadn’t taken long for them to take a battering. I had come to realise that a good mother was code word for managing to get through my day without too many blunders and that it was only possible if I had a good baby, code word for placid and sleeps a lot. As my children weren’t good children, I did what we all do when we have that epiphany, I adjusted my standards. It was the first of many times for me.
Having long believed that a tiny morsel couldn’t possibly cause me too much trouble, when my child finally arrived I was forced to face reality. My life was not going to be business as usual. I could no longer drop everything and go haring off on some jaunt at a moment’s notice and cooking was no longer well thought out three course meals but a repertoire of quick and easy recipes. Keeping house, a high maintenance job that required constant mopping and dusting left no room for playing, so until they started four year old kinder, I forced myself to spend a minimum amount of time cleaning (not really a chore) and dedicated the majority of my time playing get to know you with my children.
When it came to the biscuit of last resort, or in my case the chocolate frog of last resort, I preferred small distractions, code word for bribes, to a tap on the bottom. Until my children were old enough to be impressed with the I-will-brook-no-disagreement tone of voice that was the line I took. Not that I stopped reasoning, but like that mum I used a mix of persuasion knowing that sooner or later my exhortations would take hold and the occasional chocolate frog.
I can live with that sort of bribe but I don’t believe everything has a price. I think that paying children to help out for example is wrong. Some people say it teaches children responsibility but I think it smells more like blackmail (you won’t get that dollar if you don’t clean your room) than a lesson. I think the lesson learned should be that mutual expectations and obligations are expected on both sides.
I recently offered my two year old grandson with a chocolate button. He snapped it up and asked for more. I was caring for him and Eden was crying for his mum. The chocolate did its job. It worked so well that the first thing out of those rosebud lips whenever we met was chocolate. I adjusted my standards yet again. Now Eden gets a dose of The Tale of Mr Jeremy Fisher and sometimes we watch The Wiggles. It’s a personal preference, but I have found that I would rather be known as ‘nanna wiggles’, than ‘nanna chocolate’.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
If I had a dollar
If I had had the foresight to save a dollar for every time somebody asked me how I was, well you know how the rest of that goes. Having absolutely no foresight, I just kept on keeping on with the traditional responses without giving them a second thought (and I’m broke).
It’s touching how every single soul I meet wants to know about my health; the butcher, the baker, the candle stick maker and even the stranger on the street asking directions is interested in my well-being. I’ll admit there was a bit of a lull when I broke my arm two years ago. People didn’t seem to be asking me how I feel as often as they used to, especially after the second or third time. But my arm is healed now, thank goodness and I’m back on track.
Telemarketers want to know how I feel. They call to congratulate me on being chosen for a chance to win a house. To be in the running I only need to attend a short seminar and listen to experts discuss how I can build up my wealth. It doesn’t seem to put them off when I tell them thanks but I’m not interested because I am already so independently wealthy. When I suggest they could offer their services to the needy, they try to convince me that I could never have enough and that as Michael Douglas once said,’ greed is good’. They sound so sincerely interested in my welfare that it’s with regret that I hang up.
My doctor always asks me how I am at the beginning of our sessions together. She’s warm and caring and there’s no doubt that she really wants to know, but she also knows that I tend to overdo it so she times me.
I don’t want you to think I have a monopoly on compassion. I listen to talk-back radio and no matter what the program or the host’s constant response is, to that question, each caller is anxious to hear the answer for himself or herself.
The French say comment ca va? the Italians ask come sta? I seem to have stumbled on the secret to world harmony if we could only harness it, and to a universal empathy that has spanned the globe and all cultures. There’s no doubt about it, it’s a wonderful world.
It’s touching how every single soul I meet wants to know about my health; the butcher, the baker, the candle stick maker and even the stranger on the street asking directions is interested in my well-being. I’ll admit there was a bit of a lull when I broke my arm two years ago. People didn’t seem to be asking me how I feel as often as they used to, especially after the second or third time. But my arm is healed now, thank goodness and I’m back on track.
Telemarketers want to know how I feel. They call to congratulate me on being chosen for a chance to win a house. To be in the running I only need to attend a short seminar and listen to experts discuss how I can build up my wealth. It doesn’t seem to put them off when I tell them thanks but I’m not interested because I am already so independently wealthy. When I suggest they could offer their services to the needy, they try to convince me that I could never have enough and that as Michael Douglas once said,’ greed is good’. They sound so sincerely interested in my welfare that it’s with regret that I hang up.
My doctor always asks me how I am at the beginning of our sessions together. She’s warm and caring and there’s no doubt that she really wants to know, but she also knows that I tend to overdo it so she times me.
I don’t want you to think I have a monopoly on compassion. I listen to talk-back radio and no matter what the program or the host’s constant response is, to that question, each caller is anxious to hear the answer for himself or herself.
The French say comment ca va? the Italians ask come sta? I seem to have stumbled on the secret to world harmony if we could only harness it, and to a universal empathy that has spanned the globe and all cultures. There’s no doubt about it, it’s a wonderful world.
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