Manganinnie

 

I have just re-watched a film, after 37 years, called Manganinnie.  I have a strong memory of seeing this film when I was in Grade 6, in 1980 and my sister in Grade 5; my mum kept us from school to take us to see this movie. It was the story of an Aboriginal woman whose tribe is driven from the land on which they lived in Tasmania. She was the ‘fire-keeper’ of the group, she transferred the fire from one to the next. Not knowing how to make fire, they had to keep a fire-stick going. Manganinnie finds a little white girl with red hair, Johanna, after Manganinnie’s tribe has been ‘disappeared’ (driven off and murdered) and Johanna follows Manganinnie into the bush.  It appears to be many months that Johanna lives with Manganinnie in the bush, learns the language and custom of the ‘singing river people’ and in the end, Manganini returns Johanna to her own family and leaves to die. The way that Manganinnie rolls over and dies in the film has troubled me. How convenient… the Aboriginal woman has ‘realised’ the time of the ‘singing river people’ is over… and she dies. The end.  There was so little mourning for her, except by Johanna, and certainly nothing for her people. The whole fact of the murdering of Tasmanian Aboriginal people is glossed over with off-screen violence, a couple of gun-shots and the unanswered question of what really happened to Manganinnie’s tribe.  Perhaps the optimistic viewer might decide that they got away, phew! (Got away = driven off land, by the way. Hardly a good option.)

It has mystified me, as an adult, that my mother took me to see this film.  My mum was no activist with regard to Aboriginal rights or health or ANYTHING. For my mum to take us out of school for anything was simply unheard of. In fact, I remember only one other time going to the cinema as a child and that was to see Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday. The cinema was not something my family had spare money for. But, somehow, this film warranted our time and attention…and money.  I seem to remember Mum feeling that this was something that the school should have taken care of, exposed us to, initiated the conversation about.  But, we never, EVER  has this conversation at home. Not once. Never.

I was reminded of all this the other week when I dropped my daughter at a friend’s home and I met the parents for the first time.  We stood in their front yard and chatted about the schools in the area, since our daughters went to different ones, and they spoke about how much they liked their chosen private Christian school, where they were happy she was ‘learning good morals’. This conversation also included not wanting to give their money to the “Chinese people” who had the local Fish and Chip shop, because “why should they?”.

Are they hoping their daughter will not learn this racism from them?  Is this one of those ‘morals’ they were talking about? Or, were they just talking about the skirt length of the uniform as opposed to the state school’s…  because that came up in conversation as well.

This idea that the school is supposed to be teaching something that somehow we’re not able (??) to teach at home is hitting me between the eyes.  We hope our kids will not be arseholes… I’d be mortified one of mine uttered the words “I’m not a racist, but…” but for crying out loud! It’s up to US. Not the school.

So, I’ve got the DVD of Manganinnie now, and I’ll be sitting with the kids to watch it and telling them that people who looked like them and me did these awful things. My school didn’t tell me that. My parents didn’t tell me that. I don’t want the same for my kids.

Sorting the Washing

Like many people, I put off sorting the washing until we’re all squished at one end of the dinner table eating tea, while the pile of clean clothes looms over us; threatening to consume us, absorb us, like some multi-coloured, fabric Blob.

It’s not that I hate the job, it’s just that it’s not that urgent. Like geologists, we’ve all learned how to decipher the stratum of the great pile, to work out where we might find the black bike shorts or where we might plunge our hand in to extract a pair of white socks. Taking core samples that end up piled on one of the dining chairs.

I have a system when I finally get into sorting the washing, working left to right, youngest to oldest, and front to back, undies to pjs. Which is probably why I am still the only one who does the job. They’re probably all scared they’re going to get it wrong. Apparently I get it wrong all the time.  My two eldest girls take their piles and then there’s a secret swap between their rooms, a sort of black market of knickers.  They don’t want to hurt my feelings and they’re happy with the system as it exists.

Eldest daughter has taken to wearing her dad’s t-shirts, so I have no idea what belongs to whom anymore. If I put something of his on her pile, she’ll claim it forever. I figure the safest thing to do is put them all on Dad’s pile and let him deal. At least we’ve all survived the phase of women’s and girls’ size 10.  Sometimes I’d be staring at a piece of clothing for 3 whole minutes trying to work out which daughter they belonged to.  Those super-skinny jeans really can look like they belong on a 10-year-old.

Sometimes, in my silent musings while I sort, I am struck by the differences in boys’ and girls’ clothing and I line up the boys’ size 6 shorts against the girls’ size 10 shorts and want to take pictures. I want to write a tirade against the inequality of children’s gendered, sexualised clothing.  The boys’ rashies (supposed to prevent sun damage) which reach their elbows or even their wrists, and the girls’ rashies that have ruched sleeves only just covering their shoulders…

But then, I’m tired. And I’m looking at the clothes in front of me, one week’s washing: washed, dried on the line, brought in flat (let’s not iron), piled high, sorted… and I am struck by more immediate issues.  Like, why has Dad’s pile got 14 pairs of socks? And, bloody hell!!! Why the hell has the youngest’s pile only got one pair of undies? Again?

 

Pipsville

Most people born in the Sixties were given the name Debbie or Andrew. Mostly Andrew. I was named Philippa, told people my name was phi-li-puh when they called me Pip and then decided in grade six that from now on, I would be known as Pip.  I like the name Philippa, but I just sort of don’t recognise it as me. Once, in my teens, a message came through a party, “Philippa’s dad is here” and I passed it on. “Philippa? Philippa? Your dad is here…. oh wait…”  If I get a phone call and they say “Hi! Is that Philippa?” I hang up. I don’t know you and I don’t want whatever it is you’re selling.

I didn’t know any other Philippas or Phillipas or Phillippas or Philipas growing up.  Or Pips.  I heard of Pips, but they were mostly dogs. I was a solo Pip. The only one in class. The only one at school. “Is that your real name?” I felt special when we did Dickens’ Great Expectations in class and I got to read the part of Pip.

Later, when I worked at a bank, I twice answered phone calls from branch staff who insisted they knew me:
“Hello, Vouchers Melbourne, this is Pip speaking.”
“Pip?  Pip!  Hi! It’s Rachel.  What are you doing there?”
“Err, hi. Sorry, who is it?”
“Rachel. At East Melbourne.”
“Ummmm…”
“Pip! It’s me! Rachel! We were tellers together at East Melbourne.”
“Errr, no. I’ve never worked there. Must be another Pip.”
” … ”
Because, there couldn’t possibly be another Pip in the bank.  I searched the bank’s internal email list and found four Pips in my city building. I even met one of them; she had a brother called Andrew.

But now, I live in a small town of about 3,000 people.  When I first moved here, I joined a playgroup with my little boys and met Pip, who was a local through and through. That was a bit weird. Then there was Pip, the kindergarten mum.  When we walked into the pub together for a kindergarten function, people chuckled, “Pip, Pip! Hooray!!”  These days, I say good morning to that Pip and another Pip on the way to school drop off every morning and Pip’s surname is only one letter off mine! My daughter found a dog and brought it home. I called the owner and it was Pip. My sister lives in France and met… Pip from my town.  These are all different, separate, individual Pips. There are more I haven’t had contact with yet, but I’ve seen their names on the local Facebook buy/sell page.  I counted eight of them, not including me and a few I haven’t already mentioned.

What the hell??????  Why is my town Pip-central?  What is going on?

I mean to investigate. I am hoping to have a Pip-gathering, a Pip-dinner and do a Pip-interview.  I am guessing that I am probably about ten years older than the other Pips, which probably just indicates that my mum was ahead of her time.  (Go Mum!) Watch this space.