Comments Off on The Serious Business (and Subsequent Party) of Mullets: a History
BCE: An evolutionary need to keep vision unobscured while warming the neck and shoulders may mean that sporting a healthy mullet was simply human nature. Reports of this style crop up from prehistoric periods, to Ancient Roman pantheons.
The 1970s: The great resurrection. The modern mullet would be nothing without Goblin King and glam rock legend— David Bowie. Blurring the lines of masculinity and femininity, the brassy orange signature of Ziggy Stardust quickly shot the hairstyle into the public eye.
Honourable mentions: shaggy, feathered fringes as seen floating across the foreheads of Jane Fonda, Stevie Nicks, and Siouxsie Soux. Even with bangs covering their eyes, they had true vision – a fashion foresight that was set to last.
The 1980s: The golden era of mullets. With the economy booming, business was good. And so was the party. Mullets were being rocked unabashedly, on the heads of athletes, yuppies, rockers, and country singers alike. Mullet stocks were on the rise and rise. No longer just for the bohemian, the bi-length cut became cemented in mainstream vernacular. Rob Lowe and Patrick Swayze set teenage hearts ablaze with shoulder-skimming locks.
Down under, a certain Working Class Man fronted the movement for mullets amongst regular Aussie battlers. Jimmy Barnes defied OHS rules as well as traditional short-back-and-sides in his power ballad that came akin to a national anthem.
The mullet also found itself rooted in LGBT subcultures, where the style caught on in lesbian communities as a queer-coded fashion statement. Subverting the heteronormative male gaze, an unorthodox hairstyle was a way to subtly signal at one’s alternative identity.
The 1990s: The dark ages. The value of stocks and mullets suddenly crashed. The haircut became culturally bankrupt, derided, and maligned. All but Billy Ray Cyrus abandoned the look. Where before, this distinctive haircut marked unironic masculinity, pride, and a devil-may-care rejection of conservative fashions, it now fell on deaf ears. Negative stereotypes of US ‘rednecks’ and Aussie ‘bogans’ crashed their respective pickup trucks and utes right through the hallowed halls of iconic mullet history.
With mullets now adorning only the barbershop floor, it seemed the party may be over for good.
The 2000s: Radio silence. Beiber bowl cuts and emo swoops hinted at the edge of mullethood, but never quite carried off the same carefree charisma.
The 2010s: All quiet on the western front. High-maintenance styles – quiffs, precision undercuts, man buns – were all the rage. Mononymous-named icons Zendaya and Rihanna both debuted mullets on the red carpet during the mid-2010s, to little avail. However, a little further east, rumblings of a resurgence had begun to grow. The style made an occasional appearance in South Korean popular culture, with K-pop idols like Big Bang’s G-Dragon daring to pull off the controversial look.
The 2020s: The renaissance. Whether it be a renewed acceptance of fluid gender expression, a 1970s revival via mechanised trend cycles, or the genetic raw sex appeal of the Cyrus bloodline – the mullet is back, baby! Much to our parents’ collective horror, the new wave of high-low hairlines have millennials and Zoomers in a chokehold.
Private-school jocks à la Bailey Smith, and tote-bag-TikTok-twenty-somethings; once divided, now alike. There’s a 90% chance either you (or someone you know) has shown a picture of be-mulletted Billie Eilish to a hairdresser in the last 12 months.
And that’s without acknowledging the big bad unprecedented times that have loomed over our world since early 2020. When you’re stuck in the ever-revolving door of the pandemic, giving into shaggier styling seems the sensible thing to do.
Within the ANU community, the return of the mullet could mean many things.
For Jackson, it meant:
“Looking in the mirror and being confident. It means no more getting sunburnt on my neck, it means I can dress any way I want to, it means getting comments in public and from my friends. It means I may not get that job I’m going for but it also represents my personality perfectly and is a large part of who I am.”
Another student, Karolina, expressed that:
“Running with the most aerodynamic hairstyle that exists was the greatest joy I have ever experienced.”
For me, what started as a way for me to rehabilitate heat-damaged hair, also restored a damaged trust in natural femininity. So now I listen to Greta Van Fleet, and wear shoes a lot less.
For a lot of people, the draw of a mullet was probably a chance to have a bit of a laugh in admittedly dim times. Post-ironic or not, there is something magical about gathering around the kitchen table armed with overgrown hair, kitchen scissors, and a dream.
Originally published in Woroni Vol.72 Issue 1 ‘Evolution’
“You’re Indian, right?”
“No, I am Sri Lankan!”
“Yeah, same thing.”
So, where is Sri Lanka, you may be wondering? Well according to Google, Sri Lanka is located 65km off the coast of South-East India. Sri Lanka has its own distinct culture and geography; hence it is not India. Please stop saying so for future reference. Thank you.
The first six years of my life were spent in this beautiful country. I have fond memories of eating malu paan (fish bun) and chocolate pineapple gateau in my Montessori. With bakeries found on every corner and street, I can guarantee the best-baked goods probably come from Sri Lanka!
But like all good things, my time in Sri Lanka ended when my parents decided to immigrate to Australia. As soon as we arrived, we were taken aback by Australia’s weather, as winter was unheard of in Sri Lanka. In Sri Lanka, it is either hot, wet, humid or all of them. While we waited in the airport, we pondered how technologically advanced Australia would be, considering we had just come from what the World Bank considers a ‘developing’ country into a ‘developed’ one. As we roamed Sydney the days following our arrival, the once futuristic vision I had of Australia with flying drones and cloud-touching skyscrapers was shattered. From what I could see, it was pretty much Colombo, except with not as much traffic or cows on the roads. I learnt that Australians like to keep their cows in paddocks near the roads.
But weirdly, I was never homesick since we found a little, quaint Sri Lankan community in Sydney and from my experience, most Australians welcomed us with open hearts and minds. But the real kicker to my sense of self came when my parents decided to move out of Sydney into Canberra, Australia’s National Capital. Here I was, naively thinking that Sydney was the capital. As we drove into Canberra, I remember thinking that there were a lot of trees for a capital. Little did I know that the abundance of trees was trying to make up for the lack of people in Canberra. The first thing I noticed when I arrived in Canberra was that it was run like a country town. Everything was so far away, which was a stark difference to how things operated in Colombo and Sydney, where everything was within walking distance, or at the very least a ten minute bus ride away.
I finally became aware of my surroundings and myself. I quickly noticed that I didn’t have as easy an access to the delicious Sri Lankan food I had been consuming my whole life. To add to this dilemma, my neighbourhood was quite boring, to say the least. Growing up in Sri Lanka, there was always some grand and colourful festivity happening down the street. Fun Fact! Sri Lanka has the second-highest number of public holidays in the world, so you know they know how to celebrate! Anyway, I found it hard relating to kids my age as a diet of Kollywood and Bollywood made me numb to things that kids my age would normally squirm at. Honey, that spider doesn’t scare me! I have seen a man’s head get chopped off on-screen at the age of five.
A couple of years later, panic set in for my parents as they realised that both of their children had forgotten the little Tamil and Sinhalese we knew. In their last attempt to connect us to the motherland, they enrolled us in Tamil school. At first, both my sister and I were not happy as who would want to go to school on the weekends?! But in hindsight, I am forever grateful for that period in my life as not only did I get a little taste of Sri Lanka, but I found friends that understood the struggle of not being brown enough.
When parents of South-Asian descent migrate from their homeland, they generally take an idyllic view of the ideals and values they practised in their country and set this as the standard for how their children should be brought up in the new country. This cultural and generational gap becomes a great breeding ground for an identity crisis (sparkle emoji), creating a disconnect for their children between what’s considered their environment and home. This further leads to feelings of duality, where the children cultivate different personalities to assimilate into their environment, hence feeling like they don’t belong anywhere, i.e. feeling not brown enough.
The thing with trying to conform in such a way is that you tire yourself out rather easily, succumbing to your own negative emotions. But, I have realised that the point was never to fit in, but rather learn from our respective cultures. Both cultures have so much to offer and can live in unison to help you grow into a better version of yourself. For example, through my Sri Lankan heritage, I have learnt the importance of family and spiritual connection as we value the time with loved ones and that we always have faith. This is complemented by the values I have learnt from living in Australia, where the power of camaraderie has shown me how to live a more fulfilling life.
Thuis… wat een mysterieus woord, ik denk niet dat het woord een mening hebt die iedereen mee eens kan zijn. Het kan zo veel verschillende dingen betekenen. Is het waar je woont? Het land waar je een connectie mee voelt? Of is het gewoon het land waar je woont?
De lucht is helderblauw, geen enkel wolk in zicht. 40,000 ft in de lucht, ik vlieg over de Black Sea, en ik voel me tot rust, weg van alle problemen en vrij letterlijk in een ontsnapbaar object. Ik ben opweg terug naar huis, Australia. Maar, als ik het woord ‘huis’ zeg krijg ik een raar gevoel.
Is Australia echt mijn thuis?
Mijn hoofd gaat terug naar de vakantie die we net hadden. Nederland was mooier dan ooit. De knapperig koude winters brengt plezier naar mij, het is altijd een hoogtepunt van de vakantie. De lage temperatuur biedt een contrast tot de warme Australische zomers. Als de Europese zon opkomt, het werk van de vriezend temperatuur van de nacht daarvoor zie je pas voor het echt. Toen een heldergroen, het gras is nu onherkenbaar, een laag van ijs er op moet me denken aan de spinnenwebben in Australia. Geuren vullen de straten, als of mijn neus met mij speelt. Open gordijnen laat families zien, lekker aan het ontbijten, echt iets Nederlands denk ik. Toeristen zouden het een lack of privacy vinden, ik vind het geweldig.
Nieuwjaarsdag is altijd een feest in zichzelf. Iedereen een ‘gelukkig nieuw jaar’ wensen, zelfs vreemde mensen die je tegenkomt in de straat, de geur van vuurwerk nog fris in de lucht. Nog lekker snel wat eten van nieuwjaarsavond voordat we weer een jaar moeten wachten. Veel fietsers kom je vandaag tegen, iedereen terug naar huis naar een lange avond. Of misschien nog snel een paar vrienden of familie opzoek gaan, een voel van geluk is in de lucht, wat een mooi gevoel.
Ik voel thuis, maar wat eigenlijk is thuis denk ik?
Herringen van mijn opvoeding komen terug. Straten helemaal in oranje. Oranje speelt vanavond, iedereen vol met hoop en spanning. Het voelt alsof het hele land het twaalfde man is, zingen en schreeuwen voor ons land. Lekker een potje trappen naar de wedstrijd was altijd leuk, snel wegrennen als een auto er aan kwam. Soms stiekem een sneeuwbal gooien naar de auto’s, en snel achter de boom verstoppen. De voetbal stickers bij Albert Heijn verzamelen, wisselen met vrienden, zo snel mogelijk het boekje klaar hebben. Lekker naar de wok met de familie, altijd veel eten halen, onze ouders ons waarschuwen om niet ziek te woorden. Al die leuke dingen, weg, toen ik 5 was, naar Australia verhuisde.
Ik ben best wel benieuwd naar de woordenboek mening van het word ‘thuis’. “Woning waar je woont en waar je je prettig voelt”. Ik denk hierover na, kan eigenlijk een mening genoeg zijn voor zoon ingewikkeld woord? Voor een iemand zou dit genoeg zijn voor het woord, maar dan weer niet voor een andere. Het woord moet je veel over nadenken.
Ik vlieg terug naar Australia, helemaal aan de andere kant van de wereld, meer dan 16,000km vanuit elkaar, alsof het een andere wereld is. We zijn daarnaartoe verhuist toen ik 5 was, dus heb meer dan de helft van mijn leven daar gewoond, maar het voelt nog steeds raar, ik voel gewoon geen connectie met het land. Ik ben hier zelfs geboren, het land heeft een groot invloed op mijn leven gehad. Wakker woorden in de warme zomers was altijd erg, het huis al gevuld met warme vochtig lucht geen moment van koelheid. De fans werken amper, alsof ze het ook te warm hebben. Mesen lopen langzaam door de straat, hopen dat ze nog snel wat frisse lucht krijgen voordat het te warm wordt om naar buiten te gaan. De zon is helder en creëert een zee van kleuren overal waar je kijkt. Mesen zoeken water op, als ze maar wat cooling krijgen. Veel mensen gaan naar het winkelcentrum, wat heb je daar? Air conditioning…… De cricket is bijna op elk tv-scherm die je langs komt en de barbecue ruik je in elke straat. Je merkt echt dat Australiërs in super veel manieren gebruik maken van de warme zomers, toeristen zouden het niet aan kunnen. Ik vindt het indrukwekkend.
Ik weet nog goed mijn eerste dag op school in Australia. Niemand was mijn vriend en het land was nog behoorlijk raar voor mij. Maar nu, 13 jaar later, kan ik er wel om lachen, als ik met mijn vrienden daar over praat. Mijn eerste voetbalwedstrijd was in Australia en ik weet nog goed toen ik een ‘six’ kreeg en een 50 tijdens een cricketwedstrijd. Wilde zomers zullen me nooit ontsnappen, lagen en lagen rook overal waar je kwam, het hele land kwam samen om het land te redden. Lekker fietsen met mijn vrienden in ‘the bush’ in plaats van de kleine Nederlandse straten, langs de gums trees, ertussen door racen, de geur van eucalyptus te sterk voor mijn neus. Ik voel me eigenlijk best wel gelukkig als ik zeg dat ik in Australia woon, maar het lukt mij nog steeds niet om te zeggen dat het mijn thuis is.
Je identiteit is vaak gekoppeld met een land. Een blik naar iemands paspoort en er komen meteen stereotypen naar boven. Vooral in vandaags hypervigilant wereld is iemands identiteit misschien nog belangrijker. Voorzichtig, hou ik mijn Australian en Nederlandse paspoort in mijn handen, als of ik ze op een weegschaal zet. Welke ben ik meer trots op? Welke is belangrijker in mijn leven? Alle twee hebben ze een groot betekenis voor mij. Maar is een groter? Vaak word ik gevraagd welk land ik vandaan komt, “The Netherlands” zeg ik altijd.
Ik voel leeg als ik erover na denk welk land ik eigenlijk vandaan kom. Instinctief zegt dat het niet het land is waar ik woon.
“Down under” wordt het genoemd. “The Great Southern Land”, maar al dat ‘charisma’, zo aantrekkelijk voor zo veel mensen grijpt met mijn ‘inner self’. Ik voel eigenlijk amper een identiteit, of misschien denk ik gewoon te veel voor dat woord. Maar nee, thuis is meer dan een gebouw dat veel geld waard is. Ze hebben een emotionele mening. In Australia heb ik nooit een leuk moment met mijn familie kunnen delen. Ze wonen hier niet….. Maar Skype en FaceTime denk je misschien, dat is anders. Je kan niet herinneringen maken via een video call, het moet een fysiek onderdeel hebben. Ook heb ik nooit met het hele land dingen kunnen vieren. Australia Day dan? Denk je misschien. Maar nee, ik voel echt geen connectie. Het komt nieteens dichtbij in vergelijk met koningsdag. Alle straten oranje, de verjaardag van onze koning vieren. Het Wilhelmus met trots zingen, en lekker eten.
“Welcome to Sydney airport, we do hope you enjoyed your flight and to all Australian residents, welcome home”
Ik voel dat welkom, maar ben ik echt thuis? Ik ben sowieso fysiek terug in Australia, niet meer in het neutraal vliegtuig, maar mijn identiteit snap ik nog steeds niet. Ik weet dat misschien en dag komt wanneer ik moet beslissen tussen de twee landen, maar voor nu accepteer ik dat ik twee huizen heb. Australia en Nederland.
Thuis is echt een moeilijk woord, ja, het kan gewoon het huis zijn waar je woont, maar de mening van het word is veel dieper. Een ding weet ik zeker, er is geen beter gevoel dan om thuis te zijn.
***
Home is a mysterious word. I don’t think anyone could agree on a single definition for it. Different people understand the word and interpret it in different ways. Is it the house you live in? The place where you feel the safest? The country you feel most connected to? Or is it just simply the country you live in?
The sky is bright blue, not a single cloud in sight. At 40,000 feet, flying over the Black Sea, I feel at peace, at rest from life’s troubles whilst quite literally sitting in an inescapable object. I’m flying back home, to Australia. However, mentioning the word home gives me a sense of unease.
Is Australia really my home?
My mind drifts back to the holiday I had just been on. The Netherlands was as sublime as ever, enticing me to give it all my attention. The crisp, cold winters fill me with joy and are always a highlight. The cold temperatures offer me a sense of contrast to the sluggish heat of the Australian summer. As the European sun rises, signalling the start of a new day, the work of the previous nights’ freezing temperatures is revealed. Once a vivid green, the grass now seems like a foreign, introduced species, full of a dull white layer of ice that reminds me of the spiderwebs in Australia. Smells rich and diverse fill the streets, ruffling my nose. Open curtains reveal families having breakfast, brightening up the whole street as the warm house lights beam onto the footpath. Tourists find it an intrusion of privacy— I find it lovely.
New Year’s Day is a celebration in itself – wishing strangers a happy new year, the smell of fireworks still fresh in the air, finishing the final celebratory foods before they become irrelevant. ‘Big Sale’ signs dangle in shops celebrating the start of the new year, bicycles flood the street, friends and family visit as many people as possible in one day, the feeling of happiness fills the air. While the temperature makes my body shiver, the sense of community gives me a powerful feeling of joy and happiness, making me feel at ease.
I feel at home, but what is home?
Memories from my early childhood echo in my mind. Whole streets decorated in orange, as the national football team competed against the world, it felt as if the whole country was part of the team, with occasional chants and angry shouts flooding onto the footpath. Juggling the football in the street with neighbours, scurrying to safety when a car approaches, occasionally throwing snowballs at them, hurrying behind the trees to hide. Collecting stickers at the supermarket, trading with friends, racing to finish the collection book first. Monthly family gatherings at the local Chinese buffet, constantly eating food with my cousins, our parents warning us not to get sick. All stolen away when, at five years old, I moved to Australia.
Curiously, I look up the definition for home; “the place or region where something is native or most common”. This resonates with me for a while, but can one definition evoke meaning to such a powerful word? One person’s home may be different from another’s. The word requires deep thoughts and self-reflection.
I’m flying back to Australia, all the way to the other side of the world. Separated by 16,000 kilometres, it is almost a world on its own. I moved there when I was five. I’ve spent more than half of my life there, yet an absent feeling fills the air. I struggle to have a connection. My place of birth, this country has had a big influence on my life. Waking up on a hot summer morning I always agonise. The house is already filled with humid hot air, there’s not a moment of relief. Fans working overtime to provide some sense of treatment, but to little avail. People trudge along the street, hoping to get some fresh air before the heat becomes too much. The sun beams bright, creating a sea of bright colours wherever you look. People flock to water sources, desperately searching for relief, the local shopping centre provides endless air conditioning – some may say there’s no better place to be. The cricket fills TV screens, while the Barbeque works endlessly to provide summer feasts. Australians will take advantage of summer in any way possible. Tourists will find it unbearable – I find it lovely.
Vividly, I remember my first day of school. There was no one I could call my friend. This country was still strangely unfamiliar to me. Yet today, I can truly laugh at myself when talking to my friends about that first day. My first club football game was played here, and I was filled with joy when I hit a six to achieve my first half century in the national sport, cricket. Wild summers will never escape me, layers of smoke engulfing everything, the whole community coming together to protect our land. Bike rides with friends were in the bush as opposed to the Dutch streets, weaving in and out of the giant gum trees, the smell of eucalyptus too strong for my nose. I feel a sense of luck when I say I live in Australia, but can I come to the conclusion that it is my home?
Your identity is often linked to place. One glance at a passport can reverberate into lasting stereotypes for someone you perhaps have never even met. In today’s hypervigilant world, our identity is perhaps as important as ever. Cautiously, I hold both my passports, almost creating a balance scale. Which one am I prouder of? Which one has a greater weight in my life? Both have had a tremendous impact, but does one prevail? I am often asked what country I am from. I instinctively, immediately reply with ‘The Netherlands’.
A sense of emptiness fills me when I think about what country I truly belong to. Instinctively, I know it’s not the country I live in.
‘Down Under’ it’s called, ‘The Great Southern Land’. Yet its charisma, so appealing to many, grapples with my inner self. I feel a lack of identity and I wonder, am I overthinking the concept of home? But no, our homes are more than a financial asset – they have an immeasurable emotional meaning. In Australia, never have I been able to share memorable moments with family or celebrate events with the whole country. But what about Skype or FaceTime? It isn’t the same. Creating memorable moments can’t be achieved with a simple call, it requires physical presence. What about Australia Day? People celebrate that, right? Yet somehow I don’t feel a connection. Not even remotely does it compare to Kings Day, during which I feel a real, strong connection. Celebrating the birthday of our king with the whole country is truly an amazing feeling, streets filled with orange, singing our anthem with pride while feasting on Dutch delights.
“Welcome to Sydney airport, we do hope you enjoyed your flight and to all Australian residents, welcome home”.
I feel that welcome, but am I home? I am physically back on Australian land, no longer on the stateless airplane, but my sense of identity is still unclear. I know that one day I might have to come to a decision between the two nations, but for now, I accept that I have two homes. Both the Netherlands and Australia have a deep place in my heart.
Home is a deeply under-considered word. Yes, you may relate it to a place of living, but the concept is far deeper. It’s not all about the physical aspect. One thing is for sure – whenever you feel at home, there is no better feeling possible.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
February 14th, Valentine’s Day. It’s almost midnight. I come home after an evening out with friends. Our own little ‘Galentine’s, so that we do Valentine’s the right way by celebrating our friendship. So we ate, then got ice cream, then did some karaoke. A good time, all in all.
I check my phone as I sit down in my room. I have several unread messages from my friend from back home. She seems kinda annoyed that I haven’t responded.
“Hey sorry, I was out haha. What’s up?”
“Ohhh with friends? Busy celebrating Valentine’s Day?”
“With friends lol”
“Does Valentine’s Day not ring a bell?”
I frown at my screen, confused. Was I supposed to wish her a happy Valentine’s? Had we scheduled a video call for the 14th that I completely forgot about?
It suddenly clicks, and I smack my forehead. Then, I smack it again, and a couple more times for good measure. In the panic of my epiphany, I had dropped my phone. I pick it back up and start typing frantically.
“Oh my god.
I’m an idiot.
IM SO SORRY
I LOVE U A LOT OKAY
MY BRAIN IS JUST DUMB
HAPPY BIRTHDAY”
I feel like the biggest, most heartless, most unforgivably callous fool in the world. She, thankfully, is graceful about it and responds with an “IKR 😂”. I promise to get her cake from Australia. She says it’ll do as an apology.
We talk on the phone for a while. She sends me pictures of her chill, at home, (kind of) quarantine-friendly celebration with a handful of friends. As I browse through them, I feel a small sadness creeping in. It isn’t big, nothing too overwhelming. Just a breeze’s worth of melancholy. One that lingers instead of just blowing over. Cold enough to make me long for a sweater. It is a familiar feeling.
As we keep talking, other friends come up. She tells me some of the things she knows about how their lives are going. I make mental notes of my negligence: several other birthdays forgotten, a wedding I couldn’t attend but should have sent my best wishes for, college acceptances and job placements that I definitely should have known more about. A long list that I must attach to an older, even longer one. At this point, it is probably long enough to stretch between India and Australia. Perhaps, I could lay it down and walk across the ocean on it. But I do not know if that would solve everything. It is easy to blame things on the kilometres between us but maybe the real distance is the one between thought and action.
When our call ends, I pull out my post-it’s and mark some important dates on my calendar. I set reminders on my phone and send out a few messages. Tiny steps. Nowhere near enough to cross an ocean. But, if I take a few more, I will be a little further out, a little more under the sun. Perhaps it will be warmer there.
I get everything I want.
I understand how that might sound, but it’s true. If I want that scholarship, I’ll get it. If I want that internship, I’ll get it. I’m not a straight HD student, or a straight Distinction student for that matter — I simply write well. I can talk my way through any selection criteria, any interview panel, any phone call. This seems great, and I bet you want to know my secret, but if I’m being honest, there isn’t one. Though I have gathered a few tips and tricks along the way which I would like to share with you.
One
Find a new best friend.
Who should this best friend be you may ask? ANU CareerHub, obviously. I check this godsend of a website every week, without fail. Next, research the employment avenues your academic college offers. For example, the CBE Global Talent Portal and the COL Legal Vitae are incredible avenues to explore current job opportunities. Create a LinkedIn profile, trawl through Seek and Indeed — do it all. You’ll be surprised what you can find when you’re actually looking.
Two
Document your life story and lock it away for safekeeping.
Jot down every opportunity, experience, or job— however minuscule— that you’ve ever had and attach them to the classic selection criteria. The compulsory ‘youth leadership’ program you attended in Year 10? That was extremely challenging and required a high-level of independence and maturity. The 10-day school trip you took to New Caledonia for French class? That explored your comfort zone and taught you how to adapt to new and unfamiliar environments.
Your life experiences don’t need to be special, they just need to sound special.
Three
Think outside the box.
As soon as I was accepted into the ANU in 2019 I began job hunting. I knew Kambri was about to open and I was determined to work somewhere in this ‘bold new campus experience’. I found one relatively ambiguous and uninformed news article highlighting the first few vendors to open up in Kambri and within days I had found a Kambri vendor’s Facebook page, set up an interview and soon after the job was mine. This all happened in January of 2019, so it’s a little too late for you now. That’s okay, think further outside the box. Handing in your resume to the cafes on Lonsdale Street isn’t going to get you to where you want to be. Before you say it, no, Kambri was not my forever-plan, but I was able to draw upon my ‘unique understanding of the ANU student experience’ to receive another job offer for a marketing role on campus, which was exactly what I wanted.
Four
Forget everything I just said.
All of the above is genuinely helpful and it has made all the difference in my career, but it hasn’t actually helped me. After a confusing and wholeheartedly what-the-hell 2020, to put the cherry on top of the cake little old me decided that she had no idea what she wanted to do in life.
I was suddenly questioning everything.
Should I quit my internship?
Should I defer uni?
Should I spend all my savings?
I spent my summer days crying down at the Cotter (very coming-of-age film of me) and feverishly writing in my journal, but nothing seemed to help me find an answer. I guess questioning your future is a rite of passage for all 20-somethings, but this was never where I was meant to be. It’s taken me a long time to accept that I need to make a change in my world, but I think I’m at a point now where I’m excited to leave everything behind.
So here are my steps for success. These may not (should almost certainly not) apply to you, but this is what I hope will work for me.
Quit all jobs*
Defer my university program
Travel Australia
I guess the most important take away from this is that you can beef up your CV as much as humanly possible, you can receive every accolade and opportunity under the sun, but you can’t satisfy the suffocated feeling inside you that wants to truly live.
I was the girl who knew exactly where she was going, exactly where she wanted to be. Right now, this girl has no idea about anything, but she’s pretty excited by that.
*A note to any of my current employers: this will be occurring in Semester 2, 2021. I promise to give you ample warning and I hope that I can work with you again in the future.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
It had been one of the words I had studied in my Chinese script lessons, with red brush strokes gently carving the translucent parchment paper.
家
‘Jiā’
Home.
As my fingers traced and drew the word, I noticed the small horizontal stroke at the top enveloping each edge of the bottom section.
A little top hat, I thought to myself, a tiny roof for a home.
Inside and underneath it, the family unit stood protected and embraced. I imagined each of the delicate brush strokes stemming from the vertical stroke to be like the venetian pattern engraved on a fallen leaf. Each connected and protected; they gracefully stood together.
I held tightly onto the word in my heart when the real estate agent first showed us into our two-storey house in the south of suburban Sydney, complete with four bedrooms and three bathrooms. It even had a backyard with neatly trimmed hedges and a front yard lined with magenta geraniums. The yellow sunlight shone through, radiating a warm lustre and reflecting the beams on my Ma’s face.
The house echoed the clamour of our clumsy footsteps.
After having lived in a tiny government owned apartment for the first ten years of my life, this would be the place where we would build our own first home. Together.
As the days swung merrily by, the unfamiliar spaces grew to become more normal, more ordinary. We grew into the new space quickly, like an old musky couch furrowing deeper back into the walls. My parents were too focused on working, finding a way to make ends meet and keep the family alive. This in combination with the lack of garden space they had known growing up in a run-down apartment in crowded Shanghai, meant that the flowers were never tended to, nor were the bushes trimmed.
Often, I’d cry out in frustration to my Ma Ma, and demand to know why we never took better care of them or gave them the attention I thought they deserved.
“Why can’t we keep the flowers alive?”
“Can you even keep yourself alive?” my Ma would snap back in response.
I think now that they simply never had the time to worry about frivolous things, like adorning their life with beautiful geraniums. They had, after all, grown up in Mao’s Communist China.
And so the magenta geraniums that once sat boldly in our front yard, soon crawled quietly into the space they occupied.
***
At school, I found myself often wincing submissively in shame when the other kids at school asked what my dad did for work.
Some proudly boasted, “My dad works as a lawyer.”
Others beamed, “My daddy is a teacher.”
I quickly brushed aside the questions when they arose. I wanted a ‘white’ dad, who wouldn’t make me solve maths problems during my school holidays and spend my weekends jumping from a whole day of English tutoring on Saturday to Chinese school on Sundays.
At home, I quietly listened to my Ba Ba’s coughing and wheezing as he suffered alone in the gloomy corners of the house. His lungs had given way because of all the smoking, and soon enough, he was diagnosed with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. With the smoking also came the dental care. One bad tooth infection would spread quickly through his entire mouth, until it ravaged through and left nothing but empty black holes.
Each night, my Ba would brush his teeth hunched over the steel sink, pull out his porcelain set of teeth and plonk them into the jar of salt-water. He would smile at me with his lumpy gums, when he caught me watching curiously from afar, and I would hesitantly offer a toothy grin back.
The rare moments I did see of him were slipping past in the afternoon as he packed his fraying backpack and left for a night shift at the paper printing factory. The muscles of his face were still heavy with drowsiness from the evening before. There were barely more than a few meagre words exchanged – the uncomfortable silence was an unexpected guest that had somehow wedged itself in the empty distance between.
His face had quickly grown sunken in, and half his eyebrows were missing. He, an already tall lanky man, had lost more than fifteen kilograms in the space of a few months because of the combination of the endless health issues and working tirelessly. His head hung low and his shoulders heavy; it would be a long night of labour at the factory.
One day, I had carved a smiley face in the flaky red bean pastry that my Ma had made. She neatly packed three of the pastries in my Ba’s backpack.
“I was so tired from working and it was so dark outside,” he said to me the next day, “and then, I see the smiley lian. When I eat it, it also make me smile too.” He held my gaze steady through thick lensed glasses.
It was such a meagre act, but it reminded him he was not so alone in this world.
Whilst other dads played soccer on the weekends and their kids sat firmly on their shoulders, my Ba Ba’s shoulders carried the burdens of working multiple labour jobs to mend the tears of a struggling family.
***
It was many years later when my parents finally saved enough money to be able to take us on a month-long holiday during the summer break of 2010. We didn’t do any of the regular things the other tourists did in the bustling city of Shanghai.
My sister and I incessantly complained to our Ma.
“Why can’t we be like normal families? Why can’t we take a holiday to Europe, where we can stay in nice hotels?”
“Yeah, I wish we could go to Europe,” pouted my sister, “even the Gold Coast would be so much better cos there are theme parks there.”
“Ah, staying here is much cheaper, we don’t need to pay for hotels here.” she replied. “Going on holidays will be so hard.” A few moments passed, and she exhaled a long breath and added: “We have not seen your Na in such long time. She hobbles around this lonely apartment all by herself.”
As I lay staring at the concrete ceiling that was splattered with specks of mould, my eyes began to wander around the dimly lit room. The room smelt strongly of a burning incense that my Na said would heal anything, even the distance between a family.
The streetlights outside flickered in a constant motion, with the pale light casting shadows on my mother’s still face beside me.
Here we are, I thought as I pulled the red woollen blankets closer to my face, the home-town of my parents.
To fill our empty time, my sister and I found ourselves sitting on the olive-coloured couch with our wrinkled Na, watching Chinese television together that I could only partially understand. From cartoons about courageous monkey kings, to poorly made crime shows, to Han Dynasty romance dramas; these were the stories that continued to captivate me.
Over the dinner table, the stories continued to drift through. My Ba Ba chattered with liveliness to his friends and his sisters in smooth Shanghainese. His eyes creased with delight and his shoulders sighed in response as he relished on the foods he had grown up eating. An assortment of green leafy vegetables smothered in oyster sauce and meat encased in thin rice flour pastry. He gleefully slurped up the bone-broth noodle soup.
This time, when he offered a smiled at me from across the room, the smile reached his eyes and creased the corners of his thin lips.
All the while, my sister and I found ourselves bragging to our cousins about how wonderful Australia was. We reminisced about the balmy evening sunlight on the golden shores that we basked in, as opposed to the thick grey smog and pollution here. We boasted of coming home from Sunday Chinese school with a delicious pizza waiting for us every week for lunch.
“Pi-zza is for rich people here!” my cousin cried out in between mouthfuls of rice, “It’s like a high-class restaurant because you sit down and they serve you. Do you know how many hours we’d have to work to be able to eat at Pizza Hut?”
I caught my sister’s eye from across the table.
They didn’t need to know that pizzas in Australia cost five dollars and was, in fact, fast food for those with little money.
Perhaps, we were rich after all.
***
Like the food, the world around me felt familiar but also foreign. People didn’t speak English, which meant that the words I wanted to speak only tumbled out clumsily.
I clung tightly on to my Ma Ma’s hand on the Metro Station, gazing at the characters that flashed up on each stop. She was agile and swift here, knowing all the right words to navigate us to this part of town and how to order all the foods from the street markets vendors. I, on the other hand, felt as though I was swamped in water and treading just enough to keep my head afloat. I didn’t know how to ask for directions or even how to figure out how to catch the bus to the shops. I gulped and managed to fumble a few words that would immediately be drowned out by the engulf of the busy cityscape.
“Korean or Japanese?” asked the old man sitting beside my sister and I on the bus, overhearing the muffled English phrases we snuck to one another.
“From Australia,” I replied, as I reached up to touch the end strands of my black hair.
His moon-shaped eyes stared curiously back at me.
***
When we had returned to the familiar pockets of suburban Sydney, the geraniums greeted us with a solemn sadness, and diligently retreated into their unobtrusive position.
After all the five of us had lived in the cramped one-bedroom space in Shanghai, I vividly remember the feeling after setting foot back into my house. My house seemed to have physically expanded, as though it was much larger than when I had left it in my memories. The walls had grown, and the spaces fell quieter without the animated chatter of the rest of my family.
My parents softly unpacked the assortment of Chinese ornaments they brought back and had haggled the sellers from the market with. A humble cabbage made out of jade, a bottle of Moutai and a new set of decorative chopsticks. The eclectic ornaments sat neatly in our red rosewood cupboard for display and would rest alongside our swimming trophies and the seashells we had picked up from the Sunshine Coast.
The red shelves were soon filled with a multitude of things that spoke of dreams of a previous life, or perhaps it was the life they never had the chance to continue living. This was a corner of our home in Sydney that had created only but a mere semblance of the home they had packed up and left behind in Shanghai.
As the evening gave way, the four of us gathered around the round table. We sat huddled over bowls of plain rice congee with chopsticks in one hand and clutching a steamed meat bun in the other.
“I dreamed that we were all back there. Back home,” my Ma Ma faintly whispered, her face pale like thin pieces of billowing parchment paper.
No one could muster a reply. I felt my lips tremble with unspoken words. I continued to concentrate carefully on each grain of rice in my bowl as I dug through the slush with my chopsticks, waiting for the silence to linger and fill the vast space around us.
When the gathering dark fell like a curtain, I crept up the stairs to follow the dim yellow light that illuminated my parents’ room. From the smallest corner of the room, I could faintly hear weeping.
I caught a glimpse of my mother – she was hunched over, her head bowed and her figure prostrated. A faded picture of my Na hung on the left-hand side of her dresser. On the right, the magenta geraniums hung limply in a blue and white porcelain vase.
She had missed
家
‘Jiā’
Home.
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Since childhood, I have wondered if I am beautiful. I watched white Disney princesses with thick blonde hair being rescued by handsome princes. With my tan skin, slanted brown eyes and black hair – would Prince Charming stay to rescue me, or would he not bother – my non-whiteness marking me as not pretty enough to save? I become acutely aware that I am other to whiteness and that the male gaze skids over my body differently compared to my white friends. I learn words like orientalism and concepts such as yellow fever. I do not really understand what they mean until an old white man compliments me on my ‘exotic beauty’ as I serve him at work.
There I am: thirteen years old, earning minimum wage at the Manuka McDonalds, a strong Aussie accent, and yet somehow, apparently, exotic. The concepts familiarise them to me as I am told that I am pretty for an Asian. I quickly learn to associate my beauty with my race – beauty & race – race & beauty. Even so, without completely understanding why still, I am grateful in a twisted way that I am seen as beautiful. Colonialism, the patriarchy – the dominance of the white male as the arbiter of all that is beautiful and ugly – I have yet to escape their clutches. In the end, I am grateful to be recognised in a sea of whiteness, blissfully, naively, ignoring the undertones of othering and stereotyping that accompanies this mark of recognition.
But things become complicated after my lupus diagnosis. You see, it all starts with alopecia – severe hair loss where strand by black strand, my hair fell out in clumps, leaving the milky white (the only whiteness I possess) of my scalp exposed. This was the first step. A gauntness follows, caused by feverish nights and loss of appetite. Peeled lips and cracked skin. I am too tired to reach for my glass of water, let alone apply some Lip Smackers to my lips. Beauty has fled the scene. I feel like a caricature of illness, all balding head, aching joints and shadowed eyes.
A month after my hospitalisation, I’m browsing in a bookstore. An old high school teacher that I admire stops and asks me how I am. It is a complete coincidence, one that pleases me. I cannot help but spill it all out – the lupus, the fevers, the hospitalisation. I paint a pretty picture of the last few months, largely spent lying horizontally. Illness is my perpetual bed partner. The teacher is reassuring, sympathetic – all that one could have hoped for as the audience of my pitiful act. She tells me that while I may not be well, at least I look well, and that in itself is something to be grateful for. She reminds me in that gentle, wise tone, that beauty is ever so fleeting, especially for those who are chronically ill. She looks over me and praises, ‘at least you still have your beauty’. I am soothed from the compliment. Like warm milk, it nurtures a battered sense of self.
Beauty and race now become entangled with health and illness. The truth of the question – am I beautiful? – becomes even more difficult to answer. Perhaps this is because I always thought beauty to be a signal of health, vitality and youth. With my aching joints, arthritis and rheumatism, I am not healthy. The truth of the matter is, with my health gone, I no longer feel beautiful.
I remember loosely Anne Boyer – an American writer who wrote about her cancer journey in her book The Undying, that one of the things women grapple with is the loss of their beauty after illness. I read those words in my hospital bed, cementing to me how fleeting my grasp, however warped and uneducated – on beauty was. I wish to look at beauty now as a sign of strength, beauty as survivorship, of fledgling good health. Then I look at my hands in the shower, holding another clump of black hair. It is difficult to reconcile the strands with beauty. Difficult to hyphenate beauty and illness. I think to myself, you cannot be young, pretty and ill.
Such a defeatist attitude my brain tells me!
My brain, alongside my body, are tired from navigating the politics of prettiness. There is no end to this Venn diagram – no truth to answer the question of who is beautiful and who is not. Do race and illness make you less beautiful? – I do not know – a truth that remains unanswered within the confines of this white, ableist and patriarchal society.
But perhaps a greater truth of beauty is revealing itself. One that matters more than the one that is unanswerable. That beauty – my own beauty – was indeed always in the eye of the beholder. That power, to be seen as beautiful or not, always belonged to someone or something else; the male gaze, an inhibited society, other women and now, illness.
I think back to my old high school teacher. You still have your beauty. If I remove the pronoun, it just becomes beauty. Abstract. Not my truth. Not my anything.
I relinquish any hold I used to have over it.
The Venn diagram is no more.
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While thousands of kilometres divide Granada’s Alhambra and Jerusalem’s Al-Aqsa mosque, they are united by a shared artistic heritage: that of Islamic Art. For many, Islamic Art conjures a monolithic oriental tableau of divine geometry, shaded patios, and shimmering works of tile. Indeed, while North Africa and West Asia have often been featured in Australian news reports as convulsive and divided lands, the popular Western perception of Islamic Art, that of a unified body of work, provides a unifying riposte to the news.
How correct is this perception? How unified is Islamic Art, and how valid is the term? In reference to these questions, I contend two claims. The first, that the term Islamic Art behaves like a “floating signifier:” it is a term that vaguely refers to many venerable artistic traditions in an unclear way. The second, that this floating signification begets a paradox: it is valid to refer to all of the traditions within Islamic Art as Islamic Art, but it isn’t to refer to Italian, Dutch, and French art as “Christian Art,” even though arguably Islamic Art displays more diversity than “Christian Art.” This is not to say Islamic Art doesn’t have its place as a term: however, there is great diversity that this term veils through its contradictions.
Firstly, what is a floating signifier? A signifier by itself is a particular form of individual thought, word, or sound that refers to the signified, the thing or concept that is being described. When I say “read the latest edition of Woroni,” the word Woroni is a clear signifier that refers to the signified, the latest edition of Woroni. A floating signifier, however, is a “a signifier with a vague, highly variable, unspecifiable or non-existent signified,” says Daniel Chandler. The way “socialist” is used to refer to all kinds of inconsistent political systems based upon how someone got out of bed, and nothing else (hahaha, just kidding…unless?) is a pretty good example of a floating signifier.
Why do I think the term Islamic Art is a floating signifier? Simply because it is logically a deeply contradictory term. The term “Islamic Art” implies that all its art is singular, while in reality its arts are spectacularly plural. For example, most instances of Islamic Art could be accused of being un-Islamic by different forms of Islamic Orthodoxy. It might surprise some readers, but in Iran, there are actual paintings (with faces!) of the Prophet Muhammad and Ali (a central figure in Shia Islam, and the rightful successor to Muhammad as Imam in Shia thought). Many Sunni sects would deem such art as haram and un-Islamic. Yet this is Islamic Art. This is an ambiguity problem. There is no internal logical consensus over whether certain kinds of Islamic Art are Islamic or not.
In the boundaries of the geographic Islamic Art world, there is also a problem of vagueness. The term Islamic Art implies that the art of places like Northern Iran, Azerbaijan, and Eastern Turkey should be more similar to the art of places like the Alhambra in Spain. However, miniature painting techniques, shared pre-Islamic myths, and a very specific Caucasian style actually tie the arts of these three regions to their Christian, non-Islamic neighbours: Armenia and Georgia. The Islamic Art of this region is more similar stylistically to its neighbouring Christian Art than Islamic Art from much of the Islamic World. How can some Islamic Art be more similar to some non-Islamic art then most Islamic Art? This continuum between the non-Islamic art of the Christian Caucasian world, and its Muslim neighbours creates a line drawing problem. Apart from the religion of the painter, the stylistic criteria that divide Islamic Art from non-Islamic art are often vague. Wouldn’t it be less vague to just call the art by what it is: Caucasian, Persian, or Turkish art? Much like it is done in Europe and the West?
Of course, this is not to discount the shared signatures of Islamic Art, such as the four-part garden, mosaic work and water features, which derive their origin from Persian, Byzantine, and Western Roman traditions. However, the diversity and multiplicity of Islamic Art are no different, if not greater, than those in the Christian or Western world. And yet, we seem to realise the dangers of applying a floating signifier to the art of the Western World by not referring to all of Western art as “Christian Art.”
In Islamic Art’s case, the contradictions inherent in the term suggest that an orientalist otherising-rooted in the same geopolitical and economic logic that created the Middle East-was responsible for the strength of the term.
This is why it is imperative that art collections in our neck of the woods curate art from across the Islamic Worlds. The cultural multiplicities, nuances, and contradictions are rich, beautiful, and often surprising. Clash of civilization theses, stereotypes about Islamic iconoclasm and dourness – these all become laughable when gazing upon miniatures of poets and scientists pouring wine, dishing out romantic advice, and playing games of chess. Since both Christian Art and Islamic Art suffer from floating signification, there is more to unite than divide. Long may artists honour this unity, and paint over the naysayers.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
Comments Off on The Uniting Force of ‘Normal People’: A Review
In a speech given at the Oxford Union in 1995, film director Krzysztof Kieślowski made the following remarks. “It comes from a deep-rooted conviction that if there is anything worthwhile doing for the sake of culture, then it is touching on subject matters and situations which link people, and not those that divide people. There are too many things in the world which divide people, such as religion, politics, history, and nationalism. If culture is capable of anything, then it is finding that which unites us all.” This year’s BBC/Hulu adaptation of Sally Rooney’s Normal People could not have better captured the essence of Kieślowski’s words.
Never has a programme been as popular on the BBC’s streaming service iPlayer. Having garnered over 16 million views on the platform in its debut week alone, it went on to enjoy similar success in the US. All around the world, people have united in sinking themselves into the heart-wrench that accompanies the on-screen duo of Marianne and Connell. Not uncommon among viewers is a yearning for the story to end hastily — the suffocating pain often edges towards the unbearable. Yet, unflinchingly, we are entirely consumed, resistant to rise above the surface.
Set in Ireland, Normal People follows the lives of two young students as they progress through the confusions of their tumultuous relationship from young adulthood, to high school, and to the halls of Trinity College Dublin. It tends beautifully to the matter of what it means to be loved, unloved, in love, out of love, beyond and between. Vividly painted is a picture of the ecstasy that first love produces. Haunting is the rendition of the agony that follows from it’s capitulation. These themes, ubiquitous in their appeal are helped along masterfully by careful direction from Lenny Abrahamson and Hettie Macdonald.
Each time we are confronted with the most private moments of our two main protagonists, nothing appears rushed. There is always a lingering feeling of pleasure or melancholy to be found, and conversation is paced lethargically so that Marianne and Connell sound and feel real. The authenticity of this pacing is deeply affecting. It may very well be us in that room. How could we not care for them so?
When it comes to the sex scenes between Marianne and Connell, there is no doubt that they are a resounding breakthrough. Every inch of every frame seems to have been cautiously crafted as not to trivialise their sex lives. Contrary to current TV trends of expedient intimacy, there are no lustful cuts to their sex and instead the buildup is always purposeful. The nudity finds itself more to be a matter of sincerity than to be cheaply erotic. These delicate, sensitive scenes are then deliberately contrasted with the cold cut-away passages of Marianne’s more abusive sexual relationships in what really does become exceedingly heart-breaking. Full kudos must be given to the intimacy coordinator Ita O’Brien who demonstrates quite compellingly that setting boundaries and allowing actors to feel comfortable while filming sex scenes makes for an enormous impact on the overall quality of their performance.
Perhaps the most touching element of the series is how courageously honest it endeavours to be. Marianne and Connnell are smart people who make stupid mistakes. Though it may be tempting to criticise them for their lack of communication, which admittedly could have prevented a great deal of otherwise unnecessary suffering, it eventually becomes clear to us that there is more often than not a difference between what should be true and what is true of any given situation. Where most of our lives are not perfect and escapism might be the natural antidote, Normal People offers us none whatsoever. It rejects the lifestyle porn that so often monopolises the small screen and instead seeks to challenge us by hitting where it hurts.
If the success of Normal People had to be attributed primarily to one particular factor, it would not be the lockdowns that have swept across the globe and forced us indoors, nor the popularity of the novel on which it was based. Normal People stands on its own right through the universality of its themes and the honesty of their depiction. As Kieślowski would go on to say. “And there are so many things which unite people. It doesn’t matter who you are or who I am, if your tooth aches or mine, it’s still the same pain. Feelings are what link people together, that’s why I tell about these things, because in all other things I immediately find division.”
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
Parties are probably the best part of everyone’s life right? Okay, maybe not for everyone, but for quite a few people. For me, partying is like a hobby. Seriously, I mean it. A hobby is something that helps you relax and that’s exactly what a party does. So parties are kinda important for me. But when the great tragic year of 2020 arrived and brought this pandemic with it, my life was turned upside down. Everything closed. Shut down! Stay at home. Go out only if you need groceries. That means no parties! Oh no!
Things started getting more normal after a couple of months and I saw a post on Facebook: ‘O-Week Party’. Finally, it’s happening! God knows how happy I was! But wait a minute — what do I see? A zoom link in the description? A zoom link? Oh. An online party. I have to admit, I was a bit disappointed. I mean, come on, how can someone even have a party online? That sounds so strange, right?
But after months of being locked up in my room and being disconnected from the outside world (seriously, how can you even feel connected with other people when most of them have their videos turned off during online lectures?), I finally had a chance to do something. I decided to give this online party a shot. I literally had nothing to lose.
So I get ready and put on my favourite dress. That was the best part. It’s cold outside and if it were an in-person party, I would have had to wear my awfully heavy coat. But hey, since I’m at home with my heater set to maximum, I can wear whatever I want! Already one advantage of having an online party. I get dressed, put on my make-up and, instead of leaving my room, I sit at my desk. I open my laptop and bam! I am at the party. “Cool!” I think, “That actually saves me a lot of time.”
Now we are at the party. There are around a hundred people there, but you can see only a few. Thanks, tiny laptop screen. Everyone has turned off their mics so you receive a silent welcome. Gosh! Remember the days when you would walk into the elevator at Marie Reay and go to the 6th floor, which would be filled with people? People crowding around the food and the drinks counter, people talking to their friends. No matter how much you hate that noise, it does set the mood for the party. But here, with all the microphones muted and only a couple of faces on the screen, you start feeling a bit awkward.
Shall I turn off my video? Wait no, this is a party and not an early morning lecture. I can’t, it would be so stupid! What was the point of getting dressed then? I can’t!
I don’t turn off my video and just sit there on my chair, staring at the screen. Soon, the party begins and the host starts talking. Feels like the start of yet another lecture. Then the lecture ends and the party begins. First some dance workshops (they actually teach you some dance moves!) and then the DJ and when the DJ is up, I start dancing in my own room. There are people, but all of them are on my laptop and their audio has been muted, so I feel like I’m all alone. I go on dancing for a while and once I’m tired, I leave the zoom meeting and turn off my laptop.
Well, that’s how my first online party was. To be honest, it wasn’t that bad and since that was the only way to have a party, I couldn’t complain. But was it the same as an in-person one? No, of course not. I know in recent times, everything is online and technology has been a boon to us during this pandemic and it’s all thanks to technology that we can even have parties etc. But is it equally fun? No. Whatever you say, you need actual people around you to have fun and not just some muted faces on a laptop screen.
Parties, I believe, are the best place to socialise and meet new people, make new friends and begin your uni life with a bang. This, of course, is not possible in online parties. Online parties lack the personal element. Actual parties have a different vibe that make the party lively, while online parties feel just like a lecture. A fun lecture, but still a lecture.
It did indeed feel great to have an online party after three long months of being at home, but it still felt as if something was missing. The party noise, the chatter and gossip, the food and drink stalls were all absent. They are the life of the party and a party is incomplete without them. So, no matter how great this online thing is, it will never be able to truly replace the essence of an in-person event.