SWINE Issue 3 - Identity

swine identity

issue 3 • 2021

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contents Editor’s Letter • Jessica Murdoch

The Hallux • Imogen Lenore Williams

Waking Up • Mialeah Brett

Self Plagiarism Is Style - Alfred Hitchcock • Ayesha Shaikh

Comic • Julia Ghent & Gloria Ghent Mind Over Matter • Tayla Botelho

Waiting For The Wind • Madison Bryce

Pieces Of Me, All Of Me • Charlene Behal

Remembered Conversations • Jessica Murdoch

Can You Be More Pacific?

• Bradlee Jennings

Pride • Alex Edwards

Why The World Needs A ‘Name Dictionary’ • Tety Izzati Tiar Izam Me, On The Rocks • Ashley Bell Art • Sohani Muthuwadige

Interview With A Health & Accessibility Rep • Jessica Murdoch Vox Pop • Various Don’t Blink • Deanne Elizabeth

22 • Girish Gupta

how to submit: If you’d like to contribute to future print editions or get your work published on our website, please reach out and get in contact! www.swinemagazine.org/contribute editor@ssu.org.au

with thanks to our sub-editors: Zoe Sorenson Tina Tsironis Molly Davidson Madison Bryce Jessica Norris Deanne Jeffers-Barrett

T

he team at SWINE magazine would like to acknowledge the Wurundjeri People of the Kulin Nation, who are the Traditional Owners of the land on which the SSU’s offices are situated. We pay our respects to their Elders, past, present and future.

We also respectfully acknowledge Swinburne’s Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander staff, students, alumni, partners and visitors.

We extend this respect to the Traditional Owners of lands across so-called Australia. We recognise that sovereignty was never ceded. This land always was and always will be Aboriginal land.

NAIDOC Week celebrations are held across Australia to celebrate the history, culture and achievements of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. https://www.naidoc.org.au/

“

To me NAIDOC week is important because it is a time of celebration and time for Mob to come together. It is a time to celebrate one of the greatest and oldest cultures in the world. We, as First Nations people, love to come together.

We feed off being together and we love to share our culture together. NAIDOC week lets us be open with each other and is a time when we can share our culture with everyone else in the wider community. NAIDOC week is for us as First Nations People, where we are able celebrate together, not like other days throughout the year like Invasion Day where we come together to mourn our losses.

Pat Taylor (SSU First Nations Rep)

”

Rather than me listing a whole bunch of labels that I identify with, here’s a bunch of cool internet people that, at different times and in different ways, through their social media presence, Youtube channels, podcasts and/or writing, have helped me unpack and better understand different elements of my identity, and the things that matter to me:

@ajabarber @alokvmenon @fyeahmfabello @rosiannahalserojas @leenanorms @meghantonjes @thejeffreymarsh @officiallydivinity @femmmeow @kimberlynfoster @yrfatfriend @daniel_m_lavery

I’m definitely more of a visual person so I reckon it’s best that I show you things and people that have shaped me into the person I am today. My identity moodboard if you will. Enjoy!

I will also shamelessly plug my pet instagram because that is a large part of where my warmth and happiness comes from and I just want to share that with you all.

@_jasperandco @supercyclers @jahzz.art @subliming.jpg @rowenatsai @thesweetfeminist @thesundropgarden @jennamarbles @simonegiertz @danielaandrade @danenakama

A

s I’m writing the first draft of this letter, we’re currently in lockdown again.

It’s been fascinating to me, to see over the last year or so, how being isolated from our usual lives has affected some people’s concept of identity. When you take away your audience, what are you left with? It seems that many people have been able to take this time to think more deeply about that. And having time, in a way we haven’t always had it before, has given many people the opportunity to reflect and question, perhaps shift the way they think of themselves.

So much of our identity is tied to relationships – with other people, to the things that are important to us, with the places we spend our time. I know I’m not the same version of myself everywhere I go.

Additionally, with so much world-shifting change going on at the moment, it’s been fascinating (and sometimes terrifying) to see how actions, beliefs and viewpoints have taken on such strong power as indicators of identity.

It’s strange to me, the power that these things seem to have taken on. People building their whole concept of self around their opinions, ideas or belief systems. There were so many elements of this that I considered writing about as my submission for this issue. So many possibilities for things I wanted to explore and try to understand, so many ideas swirling and sitting just out of reach.

I wanted to write something about the moral panics over ‘identity politics’ (spoiler alert: everything is identity politics – we all have an identity, even if it’s the ‘default’ one – and everything is shaped by our positioning and viewpoint of the world) or maybe how over the past year or so I’ve been working really hard to shift my understanding of identity as an individualistic thing, to how we can work – live, thrive – as communities and how mutual aid and solidarity are the only ways forward out of this mess.

I thought about listing a whole bunch of labels that I identify with and I realised that it kind of made me anxious… A fear of being misunderstood if I wasn’t able to sit down with each person and explain more clearly what each of those labels mean to me. I do think labels are worthwhile. They can give

ed let le

ditor’s tter etter us little shortcuts to help us understand people. They can give us connection and community. But they can also trip us up if we have pre-conceived ideas about what those labels mean.

Does that mean labels are ultimately useless? I don’t think so. I’ve just come to understand identity labels as more like signposts. They don’t have to be hardline, definitive boxes (and you don’t have to stick with them if you realise they are too constraining and don’t fit or serve you anymore). Rather, they are more like guidelines. Indicators or starting points.

Puzzle pieces that make up the complex human beings that we are. After all, humans contain multitudes.

Join us in this issue as a multitude of human multitudes share some elements of what they perceive ‘identity’ to be. I’m leaning into the ‘glass half-full’ part of my identity, when I say I hope that you are reading this having picked up a print copy as we’re back on campus, or you’re listening in as Zoe is once again reading my editor letter at an awesome launch party – where I look forward to us seeing each other in person, figuring out and performing different parts of our identity once more.

Jessica xo

plucking my eyebrows was like pulling cobwebs from my eyes, at first it hurt but then more and more it didn't until it was just satisfying pluck, after pluck after pluck after pluck following the line all the way and fussing over the edges, smoothing a finger over the stings and calming the voices that yank at my skirts and my ropes, cut away to the ground where they will take root again, they will grow soon but not now Mialeah Brett

mind

over

matter

Ten years. I’ve lived with my anxiety for over a decade now. We’ve shared the same warm heart, owned the same endless thoughts and taken up the same space from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. I can’t imagine living a day without it. I’m not sure that I can even conjure up a memory where I feel the freedom and absence of it.

It has settled in like a neighbour next door.

Whispering in my ear like a friend, cold hands over my eyes like I’m blind; it's hard to remember that we’re separate.

Anxiety is like getting in a car where the driver is pumping the AC, blasting a foreign language on the radio, and staring at you instead of the road while flooring the accelerator. You know it's your car, you can try to grab the wheel or get out, but the driver is in control of it all. They know how to make your heart race and your head spin, and they’ll see to it that you feel pinned to the leather and suffocated by the seat belt.

Sometimes I forget it isn’t like that for everyone. For some, doing the small stuff is no big deal. Moments like walking into their local post office to return a package can be accomplished without overthinking the twenty steps it takes to get from the car to the store front. They can do it without sweating about the long lines of strangers, the shaking knees and knotted stomach, the rehearsing what to say, or the compulsive checking of address details.

As far back as I can remember, I’ve been this way. Wondering and considering.

Quietly watching the world whirl around me. Even when I didn't know much about anything, I was wading through each day with a clouded vision, blurred by a thick, stormy fog. I used to think this was just the way I would move through life, fumbling

through the mist, trying to make sense of the worry and doubt. Each day I would sit and watch my mind roll back the curtains to a film with every possible ending playing out loud at the same time. Quietly expecting any (and all) responses in the safety of my mind. Preparing for the worst and never expecting the best.

I remember the day someone else looked into my mind, projecting their conclusions and observations onto the canvas of my apprehensions in front of them. I still hold my breath when I let someone else into what feels like a sacred place, the blueprint of my biggest fears. As my mind learned to evolve, so did the rotation of receiving extra support. The cycle would pause when I no longer had anything to talk about for sixty minutes. Then, in three months’ time, when I could feel the sharpening grip tighten on my mind again, I'd be back in the armchair with a new, or familiar, face talking about it all again. The safety net for my mental health operates like a growing mosaic of all the faces I have confided in, those connections designed to comfort the loud buzz in my head, and the myriad of tools I’ve worked with over the years to heal.

I’ve learned the importance of slowing down the race to feel like myself again. Of jogging the final mile towards feeling okay, instead of sprinting before I can even see the finish line. But I couldn’t conquer that impatient scramble for a composed sense of cognition without the rich team of life cheerleaders and coaches I have found in my closest friends, and most trusted adults. They were there for me every time I thought I might burst from frustration or felt I had taken seven steps backwards.

They were there on the days when my heart felt a little too fragile to be alone. I had to

grapple with the ugly parts of my anxiety instead of expecting some miraculous glow up, in which I would wake up as a version of myself that floated by as a carefree, easy, nonchalant imposter. I made space at the table for the overthinking. I learnt to welcome the dimension and richness of each thought that could hold so much power. My saving grace has been the ebb and flow through the spiral, recognising it could collapse everything and fuel my restlessness, but it won’t, time and time again.

Treading water with a heavy mind can feel like you’re just waiting to drown.

But that slow, painful weight requires the gentleness of time and understanding for it to eventually float you like a lifejacket.

For those of us who often feel that the fundamental struggle of self-inflicted mind games characterises the limit of our worth or is a problem that needs a fix, don’t be hasty in dismissing this tenderness of self. Treating your heart with grace will deliver you from the tight confines of hurt and doubt. You’ll move through the day without a need to resolve, without the hasty fumble for steadiness and ease. There will be new insights, new light, new days.

Embrace the rise and the fall. Know that it will move through you, whether you want it to or not. Find the warmth you extend to others and release your intricate mind with that same kindness. Listen in, and see where it takes you.

Tayla Botelho

pie ce s

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e, all m of me f al

h Be ne

When people think of being C multiracial, they usually think in black and white. Or, something mixed with white. Imagine being an artist mixing paints, and only using black and white. There are so many other colours to choose from, combinations that can create an infinite selection of hues. Multiracialism can be likened to this concept. We can belong to a multitude of races, from any part of the world. For lack of a better phrase, it isn’t just black and white. e

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People are quick to romanticise having mixed children because it’s “exotic”, but they don’t know the circumstances and struggles being “exotic” entails. It can be as simple as microaggressions, strange glances, personal questions, and racist remarks from anyone, including those in your community.

As a child I lived obliviously, not

knowing that my parents looking different to each other was seen as strange. To me, they were just my mum and dad.

our related experiences, experiences that are only just beginning to be shared widely now.

“What are you?” is the question that gets asked the most. Growing up, I felt the need to explain myself by dividing my ethnicities into percentages. But as I got older, I realised that all these parts make me who I am, so why should they be divided? It is such an absurd concept, implying that some parts are more important than others.

Seeing people like me, outside of my family, is extremely rare. The time I felt I related with someone the most was when I saw 2021’s Miss Universe Philippines, who is Indian-Filipino. I felt so proud and as if I too was being seen when I saw her, representing her nation as a mixed woman. Before this, I can’t name another instance where I’ve seen someone just like me on television. But seeing a mixed person, whether we share the same race or not, makes me feel seen. I want there to be a day where mixed people can appear on TV and no one bats an eyelid, they’re just seen as another person.

Something so simple as a Disney sitcom, showing a family with parents of different cultures and based around a multiracial protagonist, would have meant so much to me as a kid.

Don’t be mistaken, my mixed Asian heritage is fundamental to who I am. But I was born and raised in Australia, and very much live an Australian lifestyle. Even though I feel Australian, there is still a sense that I’m not accepted because of the way I look. It’s an endless cycle of feeling like you’re not enough of anything. I wish that more of these stories were shared in the media.

I know I’m not the only person experiencing this same story, but it feels like I am. I have become accustomed to not being represented, but when I do think about it, I feel ostracised. The lack of representation is something I’ve become so complacent to, but when I do think about it, the rare time I do see someone like me, I feel like I have a place in the world.

Last year, an episode aired on SBS Insight where Alice Matthews, a mixed AsianAustralian, hosted an episode dedicated to sharing the stories of mixed Australians. My sister and I were over the moon to finally see this kind of media representation. I was so inspired, that after 18 years of living, I could resonate with something on-screen so deeply. I had the privilege of interviewing Alice and sharing with her how much the episode meant to me, and I could tell it also meant a lot to her. As did conversing about

I used to feel like I wasn’t enough of any race, but now I am at a point where I do feel like I am enough, and I want to celebrate everything that makes me who I am. I’m grateful that I can celebrate the triumphs of people who are Asian-Australian, and each of my ethnicities. My heart bursts with overwhelming pride and joy every time I see people in the media who represent any part of my cultures, as well as those with mixed backgrounds. That’s why I’m dedicated to celebrating the triumphs of others who have had the same struggles as me. I have come to understand that living my life, as an Indian-Filipino-Vietnamese-Australian girl, I am more than enough. But I also believe seeing others like me on screen is of benefit to everyone, and I want there to be a future where people can have a better chance to feel that way about themselves and their community too.

Bradlee Jennings

I was adopted.

Not only into another family, but into another country. Another culture. This can be a tricky undertaking.

Some folks say, “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.” I’m not convinced that’s true. My life comprises an unthinkable number of complex components, almost all of them fantastic. Yet, they are so widespread and atypical, that the whole of me can feel unsteady and alone. Still I sit proud, surrounded by more parents and siblings than I can count on two hands… and two feet.

So what happened? Everybody has their own primordial soup, simmering in the belly. Who seasoned mine?

Anzac Day ’82 saw me roaring onto this space rock and immediately given away. An American-Samoan baby with parents as white as white can be, I found childhood a tad peculiar. My adoption was never a secret, and as soon as I was able to comprehend the concept, they laid it all out for me, lest I start questioning why such brown skin was living in an alabasterpale home in Vermont South.

Along the way, my parents explained to me that contact with my biological mother was never broken. In fact, quite the contrary. It had been cultivated into a regular pen-pal type situation, with Mum relaying what life was like for a Melbourne pre-teen.

Afternoons spent kicking the Sherrin with Dad. The forever lingering aroma of hot oil from the fish and chip shop. Magpies and lawnmowers – two of the reigning

champions among the sounds of suburbia.

After being raised an only child (read: spoilt brat) for a decade, I met my biological mother Talaleu (Tellalay-oh), as well as two of my sisters and a brother, in a modest hotel lobby. They had moved to Auckland, and we were passing through. As it turned out, there were three more siblings that I would meet later that decade. But it was on that day, in that lobby, that the seed had been planted – I could actually feel my Samoan roots taking hold… just a little bit.

I spent my teens at private school in Wheelers Hill ostensibly wasting my parents’ money, but also apparently learning essential life skills – drums and guitar, sculpture and photography, how to sneak out of a house with loud gates.

Any attempt at academic study was met with shamefully diminishing returns.

I finally found my father’s side of the family, accidentally, on Facebook in 2012. Four more younger siblings whom I had absolutely no idea existed.

Though I was overcome with joy, I found some thorns among the petals. Not only did I miss meeting my biological father by two decades, I also missed meeting one of my brothers too. My father was at an umu (Samoan barbecue) when his brother in-law slit his throat from behind. And my brother, Harry, was gunned down by the police in Northern California.

The strangest thing, perhaps, is that Harry was also born on Anzac Day… four years after me. I’m not sure if that’s spooky or awesome. Either way, it’s bizarre. Surely just a wacky coincidence, but I like to joke that my father enjoyed getting frisky at the same gathering every year, with laser accurate results.

I eventually met my three surviving siblings when I moved to the states in 2014.

Knowing my entire biological family is both a blessing

and a curse. A blessing for the obvious reasons, but a curse because now that I exist in their bubble… I am forever the outsider. Constantly kicking the tires, constantly torn between two worlds. I’ve lived my entire life in one world, with a foot firmly planted in the other. It feels like I’m wearing mismatched shoes.

I get so much pure joy from simply sitting around with my biological family, listening to them speak Samoan – an intricate, sonorous cocktail of vowels and glottal stops.

But I don’t know what the fuck they’re saying.

I can’t speak my own mother tongue, but how important is that exactly?

One day I will learn it – hopefully while living there.

Until then, I remain the enigmatic long-lost brother who doesn’t know the language and dresses weird. We all have so much unconditional love for each other, yet the culture gap has thrust conditions upon us.

If I hadn’t have met my biological mother in 1993, everything would be different. The pull to embrace my homeland would not be as hefty. If I hadn’t found my baby sister Keisha on Facebook, everything would be different. The knowledge of a dead father and brother would be neatly stored elsewhere. I’m not sure where… but far away from me.

Still, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Whether I feel out of place or not, I’ll take the whole megillah. Warts and all. Tragedies have happened, sure, but a million cosmic dividends have taken their place. If some of these instances had slightly adjusted outcomes, I’d be a totally different person. A puddle of neuroses, congealing on a shit sofa. But I’m not that person. I cannot sanction that line of thinking. I am full of beans, inspired by everything and surrounded by unbelievable company.

Also my sofa isn’t shit, it’s just cheap.

why the world need a ‘name dictionary’

ds

W

hen we talk about identity, it cannot be denied that a first name is one of the most significant features of a person.

But wouldn’t it be nice if we understood the origin – and pronunciation – of everyone’s name? I have had this thought for quite a while, as I was gifted with my own unique name, Tety (considering I am a Malaysian).

My father is Javanese, which is an ethnic group from Indonesia on the island of Java, and he gifted me my first name in line with tradition.

With my name, I have experienced countless incidents I cannot forget. When I was in primary school, some older kids made fun of me (in Malaysia, primary school is attended by students aged from six to twelve years old). Before this incident, I thought ‘Tety’ was a unique name, and being only seven years old at the time, I didn’t realise that my name’s pronunciation is similar to the word ‘breast’ in the Malay language. For the Malaysian community, it is quite rude to say that word out loud in public, and only God knows how a naïve seven-year-old kid coped with this realisation.

However, this doesn’t bother me now, and I still allow people to pronounce my name in this way. Why? Because while some people will just make fun of me because they don’t know who I truly am, my other classmates and close friends know me well. They know how I feel when my name is pronounced

wrongly. Simply said, they know my true identity.

Another bittersweet moment related to my name occurred when I was in high school, when a teacher thought my name was pronounced as ‘Teddy’. At first, I was quite overwhelmed, as I never thought my name could be that cute. But, when I started college and university and begun interacting with more international students, I realised that plenty more people also thought my name was pronounced this way.

People clearly have their ideas about other people’s names. As you can see, some people think my name is inappropriate, while some think my name is cute. Others, as I also learned in high school, assume that my name is not my real name: ‘Hi, my name is Tety’.

High school senior: 'Sorry, but I need your real name, not your nickname’.

‘Yes, that is my real name’.

The senior was quite surprised at the time, and apologised for what had happened. But all these moments and misunderstandings have me thinking… wouldn’t it be nice if we all had access to a dictionary featuring the names, and their origins, of every single person in this world?

Maybe in the future, an application can be created, allowing us all to disclose the pronunciation and origin of our names!

Names can indeed be a big part of a person’s identity, and if we are given the tools to understand this aspect of a person before understanding, or assuming we understand, other parts about them, we can create a much merrier atmosphere for everyone.

Tety Izzati Tiar Izam

The perfect drink for celebrating not being late to that class for the first time in five weeks.

(Seriously, congratulations, that doesn’t happen often.)

Prep time: 1 ½ hours Ingredients: • 3 wedges of truthfulness • 30ml perseverance • A dash of jealousy • -30ml self-control • 20% staff discount • 1 slightly annoying Jack Russell with short man syndrome • 2 empty savings accounts • 4 pairs of Doc Martens • 1 sprinkle of achievement (optional) • 1 egg (for aesthetic purposes… duh)

Ashley Bell

Prepare your cocktail shaker and assemble all ingredients.

Begin by slicing your truthfulness into quarters and discard one (you won’t be needing that). Thoroughly squeeze the three wedges into the smaller half of your shaker.

Measure and add 30ml of perseverance.

This can be sourced from any half-finished DIY project and/or severely under-watered, probably dead, houseplant found lying around the house. You may need to source perseverance from more than one location depending on the level of completion of the DIY or the amount of life left in the houseplant. Add this into the larger half of the shaker.

Next, login to your boyfriend’s Instagram and scroll for approximately 15 minutes (less if it’s Saturday) to source one dash of jealousy. Acceptable substitutes as sources of jealousy may include: Snapchat, Facebook and day-in-the-life vlogs. Add this to the small half of the shaker.

Subtract 30ml of self-control. I’m not sure how, don’t ask me.

In a separate glass, combine your 20% staff discount, two empty savings accounts and four pairs of Doc Martens. Muddle with the end of a rolling pin or wooden spoon, before adding this mixture to the large half of the shaker.

It is vital this step is completed separately, to ensure the staff discount and self-control do not mix. (No need to wonder how the two empty savings accounts came to be…)

Repeatedly call the name of your slightly annoying Jack Russell with short man syndrome until you realise he’s too lazy to walk up the stairs. (This was never a vital ingredient, I just wanted to see you try.)

Crack one egg and separate the whites into the small half of the shaker. Discard the yolk. (That’s all, it’s just an egg.)

Top with ice and shake well for 30 seconds.

The squealing sound is normal.

Setting the shaker aside, fetch a rocks glass and fill with ice. Strain the shaken mixture into the glass and serve with a sprinkle of achievement.

Scull! (You’re probably running late to another class by now…)

Sohani Muthuwadige

22 Less than who I am, more than what you think You told me I was nothing, asked me to let it sink I breakdown late at night, you said it with a yawn You told me I’m no king, just another pawn My tears are no diamonds, and my smile has no shine I’m no single malt on the rocks, just another boxed wine My walk stinks of arrogance, and my talk of pride I’m the rule meant to be broken, not the law to abide My skin reeks of bruises, my fears irrelevant, like me I am hot water unbrewed and no one’s cup of tea My poems are mere words, my halo a big no You judged me by my cover, now read the prologue before I go Less than who I am, is more than what you think I’m more than I need to be, Darling, let it sink I broke down at midnight, was crisp as new at dawn Not a part of games you play; I’m no king, I’m no pawn All my emotions are a part of me, and I’m indifferent to what you say While you sip your soft drinks, you won’t understand my chardonnay My walk, my talk, my smile, you can’t take me as I am I’m me, totally authentic, unlike your godforsaken scam My skin is scarred and parched, but it glows in shades of bronze I’m a mocha with all the right flavours, unlike your bitter cons I’m an artist and I’m art, I’m a fucking glamour show I’m a book of 22, now wish you had read me, and watch me as I go An earlier version of this poem also appears in “Midnight in my Head” by Girish Gupta.

Girish Gupta

the hallux

Imogen Lenore Williams

Age 5

Age 10

I’m Right Big Toe. I have four siblings here on Right Foot, and five cousins on Left Foot. Right Middle Toe swears Melissa wears the shoes so we can have a dance party, but she doesn’t. We might be super important for Melissa, but she doesn’t think about us too hard.

I HATE winter, there’s no air, no sun, it’s freezing. We are shoved into suffocating socks and shoes, and I get squashed up against everyone. At home, Melissa wears dreadful slippers, and she goes through pairs and pairs because she still doesn’t cut her TOENAILS! Plus, they SMELL. Sure, we’re the reason they smell (we blame Pinkie the most), but what can we do?

Brain takes no notice of sweaty toes.

Melissa has the best pair of new shoes, light-up runners! Every step, lights flash on the sides, and they glow inside the shoe too. They fill our small, dark space with funky colours and turn it into a disco!

Pinkie Toe complains about the lights, says they flash in her face, but we don’t bother listening to little Pinkie Dinkie.

Age 6

Melissa’s had those runners for several months and now we’ve all become like Pinkie: big complainers! They don’t fit anymore! Our disco is getting awfully cramped. When it was just Pinkie getting squished, it didn’t matter so much, but now Index Toe and I are threatening to poke a hole out the front! Problem is, Melissa never cuts her nails. We tell Brain they need cutting but Brain says, “It’s too hard, I’ll get Mum to do it,” and of course Brain never follows up with a message telling Mouth to ask!

I sent Brain more messages today: “It’s getting cramped in here!”, “These shoes don’t fit!”, “I’m in PAIN here BRAIN!” but all I got back was, “NO! They look great!

I LOVE them! I’ll never get another pair like this!” What a fuss! Dealing with Head Office is ridiculous.

I love summer, for one reason: sandals.

With open-toe shoes, I can feel the sunshine. Surrounded by warm air, my siblings and I are happy, and we can chat to our cousins!

Age 14

Something new happened today. We walked Melissa to the bathroom and Bum sat us on the floor. Then Hands did something Brain calls "nail filing". Next, Hands painted our nails red. At last Melissa is paying more attention to us! We can finally stop carving holes in her slippers!

However, a bit of nail polish got on my skin and it felt cold and sticky. Filing is great but the polish is too much, it’s heavy and yucky. I sent a strongly worded message to Brain saying that I hate it, but she replied with, “Oi, you look fabulous, so you’d better start feeling fabulous too.”

Fat lot of good that complaint did. “I feel pretty fabulous for once,” said Pinkie, “and we shouldn’t complain about getting more attention.” Index told her to shut up.

Age 21

Melissa has discovered stilettos.

Melissa started going clubbing four years ago, and each year, her heel height has

increased. Index, Middle, Fourth Toe and I persistently send Brain: “PAIN PAIN PAAAAINNN!” but all Brain sends back is, “Nuh, they’re fancy, I’m taller, I look hot, be quiet”. Honestly, Brain hasn’t developed one bit.

Something even worse has happened! I have three hairs growing out the top of me, all very fine, but when Eyes see them, Brain insists on PLUCKING THEM OUT! She belittles my complaints about how much it hurts. “They look gross,” Brain retorts.

I say we should focus less on appearances and more on comfort. Middle Toe agrees, although Pinkie doesn’t. She’s given up worrying about pain after being crammed into the corner of every shoe for two decades.

Age 27

Over the years, Melissa has dated several people, but always briefly. I guess they are initially enticed by her stilettos or something, but they quickly move on.

Now, that’s changed. She’s met ADRIAN. Everybody thinks he’s wonderful! Brain thinks he’s wonderful, Hands both think he’s wonderful, and I won’t tell you what some other body departments have to say about him. But we toes don’t. Why? HIS toes. Adrian’s toes are brutes, his Big Toes especially. On the first night staying

over, Adrian’s Left Big Toe said, “What do we have here, some dainty little darlings?

Prettied up with their nail polish!” Fourth made the mistake of giggling, “Oh thank you!" Melissa had neglected to pluck my three hairs (she’d been preoccupied with hairs in other places). Adrian’s Right Index Toe pointed them out with, “This one’s not so pretty, look at those disgusting hairs!” and they all laughed. So I spat back, “Well at least I haven’t got toe jam!”.

Things quickly escalated into violence. The brutes started stabbing us with their lethal nails, and it’s been the same ever since.

Most mornings we hear Mouth laughing, “Adrian, I have cuts all over my feet, you must’ve poked me with your big toenails again!”. Melissa may laugh it off, but she doesn’t know what we endure.

Age 35

I just had a traumatic experience. Melissa went walking wearing thongs, and a cigarette butt got stuck underneath me! As she tried to kick it out, ash rubbed onto my flesh! Melissa washed me in the bath afterwards, but I feel as if it’s still there.

Not a fan of summer shoes anymore, too dangerous.

Also, Brain’s decided to marry Adrian.

Brain and I are not on good terms.

Age 63

It’s only taken six decades, but at last Brain has listened to my complaints, and put comfort first. Maybe because there’s nobody to impress – Adrian’s dead!

Brain’s go-to is now orthopaedic shoes, and I need them! I’ve been losing the padding underneath me, and it hurts to walk in shoes with no support. I’m dry and wrinkly. Fingers constantly lather moisturiser everywhere, but Fingers aren’t looking so good themselves. Pinkie is somehow the least wrinkly of us all, she says it’s something called "karma". I tried asking Brain what that meant but she never got back to me.

Age 85

Guess what? Melissa now uses a wheelchair, so we don’t have to walk her around anymore. I’m retired! I'm all swollen though, and Melissa doesn’t bother painting my nails. I try sending Brain messages asking for a trim, but all I get back is gibberish. A nice young man cuts our nails every month or two, and though that’s too infrequent, I’ve had enough of complaining. Besides, after years of dealing with Melissa, her Brain, Adrian and stilettos, leading a life of leisure is what I deserve, so I’m going to enjoy it.

i a g r a l is p f m l c h t e i c h oc “s - alf red k is s ty l e ” Imagine the voice narrating a monologue set to a reel of film. A soliloquy of your life.

Scenes that you choose: sitting on the swing-set as the sunshine envelops your skin; delicate lavender rustling in windy fields; dancing in the neon lights of the dark dancefloor; paint seeping between your fingers; running barefoot on the grass.

What would be the script?

I think there is meant to be no script.

Our lives are merely the aggregation of our choices and the sensory souvenirs we collect. Our present stems from our past and from the people that surround us, a microcosm of moments. The world we build for ourselves – big or small – with all its embellished and marred facets.

There may be a ‘master of suspense’ working His intricate hand movements as a puppeteer. Even if so, who’s to say that I can’t be the Ingrid Bergman with a taste for the notorious and the passionate?

For every moment, we can choose the soundtrack which transports us to that emotion’s trance. The emotion that fuels our artistic recreation. We try to hide ourselves, or parts of ourselves, in material objects even when we know we won’t be contained in these trivialities of time.

Our manifestation flows as energy and vibrations around us, as we traverse the undulating plains of life.

Wherever we go.

And so goes the transitionary nature of beings so perennial.

A second’s pondering can suggest the overwhelming realisation of our insignificant, atomic existence in a galaxy stretching a billion light years. Or, perhaps, that of our larger-than-life spirit. For each one of us is a hitchhiker in command of penning our own guidebooks.

In the oblivion of the subconscious, it is our identity which steers the pirate ship on the rolling ocean waves of our desires. Our wants and ambitions. Our judgements and our love. It is our soul which is tinkering at our already decoded anatomy, whilst devouring the treat of its stimuli.

Me? I’m warmed by the gratitude of having people I admire and cherish being happy and healthy around me. I am in wonderment of my privileges and the wishes arriving through the back door, as I sneak some new ones under my pillow. I am content, sitting at my desk writing this piece – enjoying my coffee as I reflect on the scenes for my film and choose the voice for my monologue. That is all I choose

to reveal about my identity, mon ami. As, for now, it is preoccupied by living in the moment and observing as my world so blissfully weaves on.

My identity hopes to be the director that brings my own hue, texture and stitch to that fabric of society. Measuring and cutting its dimensions from my past, where I come from, and the roof under which I grew up. I hold it close to my heart and enjoy and contemplate its company in times alone. Looking ahead, I gladly empty my cup to gear up for new learnings, something an evolution so rapid constantly demands. I am nothing, if not for my roots and teachings. If not for the blank script I attempt to write.

Self-plagiarism is the gutsy step into the castle’s moat, where the homage paid is in the form of having the confidence to be comfortable with yourself and share that authenticity with a genuine flair and humility. It is then that you can wield your style to frame that script. It is then that you discover your truth as you are able to choose the scenes to make up your reel.

I have chosen the thrill and hardships I want to experience and talk about.

What will you choose?

Ayesha Shaikh

waiting for the wind Madison Bryce

I

have waited for the wind with nervous anticipation. As I step into the kitchen and look out the window, I can see it barreling down the back paddocks, churning up dust, and stirring the dried, fallen leaves. I can hear the deep echo of the wind chimes from the verandah and the screen door shuddering, like the weather is trying to break in.

‘I reckon I’ll go today,’ I tell Mum, who is sitting by the window, pondering on some silent thought. She has forgotten about the coffee in front of her. For her sake, I try to sound resolute and sure of myself. I want her to be confident in me. I want her to know that I can move on.

‘I’m glad,’ she says, stirring from her reverie. ‘It’s the right thing. For both of you.’

Of course, she thinks it’s the right thing.

It was her idea. She said I’d be doing good by him, spreading a part of his ashes in a place that meant so much to us. Mum has a lot more faith than I do. Maybe she does know best, but some part of me can’t shake the feeling that if I spread his ashes, it’s as if I’m throwing him away, and in turn, a piece of myself. But I’ll do it anyway. I don’t think I can bear the weight of him anymore.

Since Dad died, it’s been the little things that hurt most. Things I didn’t expect, like not hearing his whistling in the morning, or not seeing his muddy work boots lying at the front door. Until their absence was inescapable, I’d never even realised they were so safe and familiar. Mum always seems calm, but I know she struggles just the same. The empty mug and puddle of liquid in the sink tell me she has made the habitual mistake of pouring two coffees instead of one.

I pull my coat around my body tightly and step outside. Dad’s ashes are tucked away in my back pocket. They are light as air, but weigh heavy as stones. I climb into his dusty old ute and realise it hasn’t been touched in weeks. I take a deep breath as I shut myself in. It still smells like him: grease, smoke and just a hint of coffee. I try to commit it to memory because eventually the smells will fade, just as he did. I feel as if I am breaking some unspoken law – I shouldn’t be in Dad’s ute without him sitting beside me. But I know I’m just delaying the inevitable, so I start the engine and pull out of the driveway.

I make it all the way up to the next town before I start crying. I’m amazed I made it this far. As I keep driving ahead, I still can’t quite pinpoint how I feel about this decision. I want to honour Dad in the right way, but the pile of ashes in my pocket doesn’t seem to connect with his liveliness.

The idea of watching his ashes disperse into nothing doesn’t feel reasonable. I have been waiting for the right opportunity, but I have also been dreading it. Fearing it. I take a left towards the state park without needing the sign. I know the way. We had travelled it so many times before.

In the spring, when life crawled out beneath the chill of winter, Dad would take me camping up here. This park was a special place for us. Even as other visitors arrived in the peak of summer revelry, it was still our place. They were just temporary guests amongst the great slabs of rock and golden wattle trees in our sunlit kingdom. I couldn’t possibly count the number of days we spent here throughout my childhood, hiking and sleeping beneath the stars.

I get out of the ute and stand at the foot of the path, bearing the force of the chill and the impending climb. The steep green cliffs rise up ahead. Enormous granite boulders that have sheltered thousands of years of history swell out from the earth and clamber over each other. The trees bend towards me as if they are eager for my arrival. I feel vulnerable in their shadow.

Years ago, they were witness to my utmost joy and freedom. Now, they are silent bystanders to my misery and privy to my deepest tragedy, as I prepare to scatter the remains of my father in some attempt at a meaningful gesture.

I make my way further up the track. The burn in my thighs reminds me that I am

Until their absence was inescapable, I’d never even realised they were so safe and familiar.

not the energetic kid I used to be. Recent months have made me weary and slow.

Still, I push on, only pausing momentarily for a wallaby, who comes crashing through the bush and pounds heavily across the path in front of me. I continue following the trails, where rainfall has created rivulets and indentations in the mud. The climb is steep and uneven, but I don’t misstep.

It isn’t long before I reach the caves. I try hard to remember the old stories Dad used to tell me. He’d fill my head with fantastical tales of a bushranger on the run, hiding out in the very spot where we stood, as he crouched in the darkness between large fissures of weathered stone. I remember the excitement, palpable, as we weaved and ducked our way over and around the site while he told his tale. Dad was so spirited, that the story of the bushranger and his treacherous crimes would come alive.

But inevitably, his attention would turn to another, more important narrative. There was a more profound history amongst these rocks, and Dad loved history even more than he loved a good story. Dad would make it known when he pointed out the scar trees, which had sections of their bark removed to make shields, bowls or other tools. I spot one now, a sure sign of the Aboriginal history and the spiritual veins that run deep through this land. They too, sheltered and survived in the unique geology of this place. Dad liked teaching me this. He wanted so badly to pass on the knowledge his mother had taught him, and so I used to listen to him wholeheartedly.

I finally make it to the lookout. The air around me settles into complacent stillness for the first time today, as if it knows I need more time with him. I stand, holding my breath and clinging to the cold metal rail.

A world, much bigger than me and this moment, stretches out before me. I can see trees and hills and so much green. And the sky so blue, like the ocean, like his eyes, like this feeling inside of me.

I remember Dad, every detail I can possibly muster, from the sound of his voice to the exact hue of his favourite shirt. I remember his smile, his laugh, his stories. I remember how he loved this place, and how he loved me. I remember that someone’s life and spirit is not defined by the body they rest in. My father and his memory transcend death.

I have been waiting for the wind and it is now that it returns. At first, it is so light.

A brush against my cheek, like a kiss, or a gentle tug against my clothes, like a soft

embrace. Then it builds, ringing out like the whistle of a wedge-tailed eagle. The trees bow in its presence, and I, stirring in fearful expectation, surrender to it. I pull my father’s ashes from my pocket and release him over the edge. He lands in the curls of the wind, pulled outwards and away, dispersing across the land.

As I watch my father fade, I expect to feel a sense of loss. He is, after all, disappearing into nothing. But I think I have finally figured it out. Reflecting on this place has helped me see how people and memories can become entrenched in time and place.

He is not gone. He is forever interlaced with our place.

In the end, the wind and I carried him home.

Jessica Murdoch

M

y granny has always been a storyteller.

Her memories are constantly being told, and retold, until they have become mine.

Like many oral traditions, she uses memory prompts – words, people, places – to spark stories. It’s cause and effect, muscle memory, each trigger sets off the story, without any conscious thought.

after she’s boiled the kettle and told me to rummage through the biscuit and lolly jars on the sideboard; after the conversation of whatever’s caught our fancy that day is through, we usually return to the classics – family histories. And whichever ones of As a young girl, having her drive me places those we revisit, can often be inspired by the always resulted in the same stories being conversation itself. Like, whenever we talk told. about feminism (which we often do) she’ll tell me about the remarkable relationship ‘Did I tell you about how these roads are the she remembers her parents had. pathways where rivers used to run? Millions of years ago this area would have been 'My Dad was a wild man. Hellfire Jack underwater, and sea creatures as big as this they used to call him. But oh he loved my car would have existed here.’ mother. After my brother was born, he would still go to the pub after a day’s work.

Since she has stopped driving, she often That was normal for men folk then, but she finds herself in the passenger seat, which tamed him. She told him she wasn’t coping really just gives her more time to focus on with the new baby at home on her own. She the landmarks that are the touchstones of so needed him to come home earlier!’ many family histories.

‘But did she tame him?’ I protest. 'The idea ‘When I was a little girl, we used to ride our that it’s somehow a woman’s job to tame a horses along this road. It wasn’t a road then man? It sounds to me like she just told him of course, just paddocks as far as you could how she felt and he respected that. It was see.’ actually equality and respect, not “taming" or control.’

It feels like that one doesn’t have a particular landmark, just anywhere in Pascoe Vale is She smiles. ‘Maybe you’re right.’ And she enough to trigger it. launches into another memory.

‘Down that street and around the corner is In more recent years, she might pause midwhere my aunt used to live. We’d go there sentence as she starts a story. every week. It was one of those houses that had the shop in front.’

‘Have I told you this one?’

That’s in Moonee Ponds, and it’s not that shop front, but that sort of talk always sends me flashbacks of her old bookstore.

I was barely old enough to remember and I wonder, how much of those flashes are memory, and how much are just memories of being told about them?

Too many people have rolled their eyes as they’ve heard a familiar story too many times.

But I always tell her, ‘Maybe. But tell me again.’

After all, that’s how you commit them to Whenever we meet together in her home, heart.

I get asked every so often whether pride events are still important.

Do we still need to celebrate being queer?

When I hear these types of questions, I think about all the pride events I have attended and what they meant for me….the most recent being Midsumma Pride March, held on the 23rd of May in 2021.

The march was a great event which ended up having around 8000 marchers from about 240 groups and a couple of hundred spectators. As one of the marchers at the event, it was amazing to attend – especially after the wild year that was 2020. Being part of the march, you can feel the love and support that exists, and for a moment you forget about the rest of society and just focus on the fact that there are other people like you with similar experiences.

When you live in a society that is run by rich, cis white men, a society that doesn’t understand you or your experiences, being in an environment that makes you feel included and a part of society is a

huge thing. Pride events are a celebration, but they still act as a form of protest against a society that doesn’t accept us.

This is what pride has always been about.

Queer people fighting for equal rights and acceptance in a society that doesn’t understand us. That fight isn’t over but also, sadly, we have our own problems accepting others, which continue to persist in the queer community (as in the community more broadly), including racism, gatekeeping of queer identities, and ableism. These things work to further isolate queer people who don’t fit into the more widely understood boxes of queerness or who aren’t cis or white, and who don’t have disabilities. These are issues that the community needs to work on.

I love being part of the queer community, however at times I am ashamed by the behaviours of some its members. Instead

of letting this dishearten me though, I see it as an opportunity to become better informed and then pass on that knowledge – something I work towards in my role as the SSU Queer Representative. I try to pass on knowledge about our history to those who are new to the community or want to become better allies. I also work towards finding out how we can better assist those who are marginalised within the community.

All of us deserve to feel safe and accepted for all elements of our identity. While we continue to fight for acceptance and recognition from wider society, it’s also important for those of us who understand what it’s like to be excluded, to ensure that we don’t continue to perpetuate those feelings of erasure or exclusion in our own communities.

Alex Edwards

Josh Daniel

Interview with a Health & Accessibility Rep JM: Hi Josh, thanks for meeting with us! Tell us about how you became the Health and Accessibility representative – how did you initially get involved with the SSU? JD: Hi Jessica. I started with the SSU three years ago as a volunteer, helping out with the morning breakfasts each day in the Hammer and Swine, as well as the weekly Wednesday BBQs. Initially I started volunteering as a way to make friends outside my course and meet likeminded people!

JM: What does your role entail, exactly?

JD: In my role as Health and Accessibility Representative, I am a voice for all students with a disability when advocating to the university. I regularly meet with university staff from Swinburne AccessAbility, and discuss concerns students have to try to make Swinburne a more accessible place for everyone. When most people think of accessibility, they think of a physical place, but that idea is rapidly changing. For example, a big part of my role that people may not realise, is to help make online learning accessible to everyone.

JM: What do you think are some of the most important considerations for the university, in relation to making Swinburne and all its programs accessible for all students and staff?

JD: While I know many people hate online learning, it can be used as a way to assess Swinburne’s online accessibility, and the accommodations reflect ways that education should be open to all. Due to the pandemic, lecture recordings are now the norm and should stay this way in the future.

It’s amazing how it takes a pandemic to get these simple accommodations! However, while this is a great first step, much more needs to be done.

One thing that I think goes hand in hand with lecture recordings are transcripts from those recordings. Transcripts could really help students follow along with what is happening on their screen and better understand the content.

JM: This is your second year undertaking an SSU representative role – what are you most proud of achieving in this time? Do you have any specific goals you’re looking to achieve this year?

JD: While most of my 2020 term was online, I was lucky enough to get back to campus in 2021 before the snap lockdown.

In Semester One 2020, I was able to have a physical O-week relaxation station but in Semester Two we went online, and I ran a really informative session with Swinburne AccessAbility and GradWISE (a graduate program designed to helps graduates with

disabilities thrive in graduate jobs and entry level employment).

I have spent most of my time so far establishing, and then this year strengthening, connections within the University, so we can see real change on accessibility issues. I have established connections with AccessAbility and their Careers Hub, which both aim to help students with a disability. It’s a natural team-up and I look forward to working with them more.

JM: What is one suggestion or piece of advice you would offer to Swinburne students wanting to involve themselves in the student union movement?

JD: The SSU has a fantastic volunteer program, and you may see us at the daily breakfast from 8:00 – 10:00am on campus at the Hammer and Swine, or on John Street at our Wednesday BBQs. Just come up and have a chat to some of our fantastic vollies and reps. Volunteering is a fantastic way to get started in the SSU and the broader union movement. So, if you’re passionate about helping others be the best they can be, while also growing yourself, just chat to us! You can also express your interest in volunteering on the SSU’s website.

JM: This issue is about identity. Do you think that language and the labels we use are a really important part of identity? Sometimes people can feel worried about ‘getting it wrong’ when they are talking about accessibility and disability…what advice might you give to

someone who wants to be a supportive ally/ advocate, but who may have concerns about using the right language?

JD: In my opinion, labels have both positives and negatives to them, but that may be exactly the reason they are used.

Labels, on a surface level, can let you know what condition or disability another person has, and how best to treat it. Most importantly, labels help build a sense of community, and remind you that are not going through this alone.

On the other hand, I feel labels can be used in society to put people into boxes, and that is where the stigma of having a disability can come in. When society hears the word ‘disability’ they think they need to treat us differently, or that their lives are better than ours, just because they are ‘normal’.

Society needs to unlearn the stigma around disability. Disability is not a term to be afraid of, it is a term to be celebrated. We are not second-class citizens, and you are not better than us just because we happen to have a disability. We are all human, we just have a few unique differences that make us who we are. These differences need to be accepted and included, not shunned and swept under the rug as if it is a difficult topic which is better left unsaid. Just like you, we are trying to live our lives.

It's this stigma that often stops people with a disability from fully accessing the community. We may skip out on an event because we don't want people to freak out as soon as we show a sign of disability and have them start treating us differently when

we don't need to be. So we stay home as people will judge us and make assumptions on what we can and cannot do, and often those assumptions turn out to be wrong.

The saying ‘never judge a book by its cover’ is extremely relevant here, as people should never make assumptions without knowing the full story.

While language and labels are important to an extent, they are not the be all and end all if you don’t get them correct. The important part is you are helping add to the conversation and you are helping to get our message out there. If you do get it wrong, people may correct you and that is ok! Don’t feel down for something you don’t know, but at the same time be open to feedback. Remember that most times if we are correcting you, it is not you as a person who is at fault, it is the message itself.

JM: Media can be a big part of shaping our identity. You’re a big movie fan, can you tell us about a film that you feel has been important to you?

JD: Wow, there are so many! Where do I begin? Of recent times I quite enjoyed Pixar’s Soul. I think it has an important message about finding yourself and what makes you unique and how those things can be different for everyone. It also talks about purpose and has a really strong message about that. Is it cute? Yes. Did I cry while watching it? Also yes.

tell us about a piece of media that defines who you are

Maziz

Computer Science (Games Development)

Battlefield - Jordin Sparks.

The lyrics in this song define me. I am very protective about certain things, like my friends and keeping a relationship alive as possible. I just hate it when people mistreat other people.

It really gets on my nerves and makes me want to do something about it. That's why my friends love me, because they know I’ve got their back, and will defend them to the end. In the love department, I tend to stay away from arguments as much as possible because I don't want a stupid conflict to end something beautiful.

Ayesha Computer Science

Ashley Media Communications and Design UFO - Sneaky Sound System It’s a bold statement to make but this right here is THE song. Why? Plug in the aux, pop this on, and the amount of people who’ll swarm to the dance floor, from all corners of the room, makes it all worthwhile. That moment best describes me. Quietly waiting in the background for my moment, and when that moment comes, I’m in the middle of the room dancing like it’s a year 6 disco.

Her doe eyes turn with a smile, breaking the fourth wall, to forge that amiable and mischievous connection with you. Amélie’s naïve fabric makes me optimistic that life’s desires can be made true, and are just one small effort away. The film’s camera work swings you along with her plans and gives you an insight into how she observes reality.

Comptine d'Un Autre Été was my first and most beloved piano piece from the movie.

It brings its essence, lingering through the meanders and silences of my own life.

Manaswi Civil Engineering

Elise

Communication Design I am naturally a nostalgic person, however, the lockdowns have really made me appreciate the good old days much more, which is why Aquilo’s So Close To Magic best describes me. To me, this song perfectly encapsulates the experience of nostalgia with the chiming instruments and story-telling quality to the lyrics.

I feel like I am real life Anne from the series Anne With An E. The way Anne loves flowers and poetry and the sky and stars and the moon and always gets excited, I guess that’s me.

don’t blink.

A birthday cake changed over years Faces smiling back; the film camera flash Great uncles, aunts and other old dears Handwritten cards loaded with cash But don’t blink or you’ll miss this

Playing Goodies and Baddies, playing Mums and Dads To Spin the Bottle, Seven Minutes in Heaven Word processing, typing games on keypads Role playing, a bit of fun now, later obsession But don’t blink or you’ll miss this Schoolyard days spent in striped blue slacks and dresses Stink bombs in locker rooms, fist fights Teenage drama, adolescent messes Bullied and suspended for the holes in my tights But don’t blink or you’ll miss this Myspace page-coding and pages never loading A virus in the shape of a glittery pink cursor Limewire pirating and illegal downloading Social media, a revolution or precursor?

But don’t blink or you’ll miss this

Summers spent walking down suburban streets Hand in hand with a best friend Suntanning on a sun-kissed beach No sign of leaving, no reminder there’s an end But don’t blink or you’ll miss this Hooning in cars, not a care on the street Not a thought in our head Just desire in our feet Stopping when the rear-view lights up blue to red But don’t blink or you’ll miss this Dancing all night in a sweat-cloaked room Uber Pool with mates to the next place Head rolling, belly laughing, certain doom Electricity and hypnosis filling the space But don’t blink or you’ll miss this A press conference with a North Face jacket Pandemic shut the world we knew down A five-kilometre radius is our straitjacket Waiting for the next international plane to touch down A reminder; if you blink, you’ll miss this Deanne Elizabeth

@swinemag