Magpies, Ministers, and My Daughter's First Political Meltdown

Or, How My Daughter Discovered Australian Politics (and Ran Screaming)

Last weekend, Australia held a federal election. Normally, I don't pay much attention to these, on account of being part of the under-represented political majority (i.e., I’m not a millionaire). Plus, there's a fairly dramatic cost-of-living crisis underway in Australia, and the two major political parties aren't terribly incentivized to do much about it.

Saturday—election day—was lovely. The journey to the local school requires a half-hour walk through a public park. It feels like walking through the countryside to a small, rural school—though we're in the middle of a major city.

My wife came with me because she's one of those old-fashioned Americans who still thinks democracy is a good way of doing things. Here in Australia, voting is compulsory and happens on weekends—when people with jobs can actually turn up to the voting booths—so arguably, the election process here might be more democratic than she's accustomed to.

This is Rainbow Forest Park, through which we walked.

So, we walked for half an hour through fields and trees, with magpies and cockatoos flying overhead, and when we arrived, we immediately purchased Democracy Sausages which have become a super-important aspect of elections in Australia. What does this mean? It means that voting day in Australia has the redolence of backyard barbecues.

You get a sausage with fried onion on a slice of white bread for about $3AUD—less than $2USD. But there's also a bake sale going on, and we picked up three lamingtons for $5AUD, which was an absolute bargain. (Lamingtons are pieces of cake rolled in chocolate icing and flakes of coconut, and really taste much better than they sound; if you haven't had one, you are missing out).

The nice people working the poll couldn't find my last name. This happens every time. They call others over and everyone looks and looks, apologizes, and then, eventually, after ten minutes and a few suspicious looks, they finally find my name. I nod patiently, walk over to the voting booth and vote for the Greens.

When I went back outside, I rounded up my daughters, who had found some friends, and rescued my poor wife from an old man who, having learned she was American and thus not voting today, became determined to explain to her the intricacies of cricket.

Then we all walked back home. More magpies and cockatoos—and by the way, cockatoos really are a raucous bird, aren't they? They're always carrying on a bit much about something or other. All the way home a flock of seriously divisive cockatoos harangued each other, for no good reason.

Days in Australia can be indescribably beautiful and dreamy. I mean, I say "indescribable" though I know I could, in fact, describe them; I just don't feel like it would contribute much to the narrative... which is, as ever, racing on.

Election Night Drama

After dinner, I turned on the television to watch the news. The last time I did that was during the last federal election. That television is otherwise only used as a streaming device. I don't watch broadcast television or even cable. My daughter, Boudica, was so entranced by the novelty of the news that she came and sat beside me.

Then, after not even four minutes of watching people on television talking about Australian politics, she got up and started yelling about how awful it all was, and ran out of the room in tears.

I sent Hattie to check on her; she returned with the report that Boudica had thrown herself onto her bed and was "sobbing and inconsolable." Hattie, feeling uncertain about the entire thing, set about creating a small survey for her sister to fill out. I didn't know this until the following day when I found it on her bedroom floor.

(I spoke with my friend Byron earlier today, and he raised an interesting point—he enjoyed my last newsletter but was struck by the likelihood that people might think I'm exaggerating the events of my life. He speaks regularly with my children, so he knows the levels of absurdity with which I must contend. Then he mentioned my novel, The Harvard Skull Fiasco, as supporting evidence, because people would assume there was a lot of hyperbole in the narrative, when there really wasn't. Byron is among a dozen or so other people who is fully seized of the fact that my novel—the first satire of Harvard University—was a faithful representation of our experiences there. It makes Byron seem to want to stomp and yell with frustration, and I'm glad of that, because if he didn't feel that way, then I'd probably have to do it. So, thanks for doing all that for me, Byron.)

It appears I have digressed. Boudica was on her bed, sobbing and inconsolable, and I'd decided to let her be. She becomes a teenager next year, and I expect such scenes will recur with greater frequency. I can't always be running in to reassure her about things—especially when those things touch upon Australian politics. Fortunately, she soon decided she missed me and came out and apologized, admitting she didn't know why she had felt so overcome with emotion, and that it might be hormones.

I gently explained to her that it isn't her fault, that this was just her first encounter with Australian politics, and that running shrieking from the room is merely a signifier of mature intellect. I assured her she'll learn to cope with it, in the fullness of time. I explained that there are, in fact, coping mechanisms; then I remembered that there's no whiskey in the house, and that my wife has decided we should limit ourselves to only two bottles a year. Then I, too, wanted to run down the corridor and throw myself onto my bed, sobbing.

A Political Education

On the television, people were discussing the vote count, which was already under way. Boudica suddenly had many questions, so I narrated matters for her.

"First observe the journalists panel, and note it is composed of four women and one man. This is symbolic of the fact that in Australia, women have approximately four times the credibility and authority of any man."

"To the left side is a conservative Senator James McGrath. A horrible person—"

"Daddy!" exclaimed Boudica. "Don't say people are horrible."

"—which I know, because I went to school with him, for one year, in the 1980s."

"Was he a bully?"

"Oh, no. He was the kid who stood behind the bully and smirked. I recall witnessing this with my own eyes."

"He was like Crabbe and Goyle, in Harry Potter?"

"No, those kids had muscle. McGrath was the weak-chinned, pimply kid who yelled out things like 'good one, Goyle!' whenever the latter said something stupid or repugnant."

"Did they bully you?"

"No, but kids like him are the reason I hate bullies so much. I never liked that school. It felt like everyone was in Slytherin and I wanted to be in Gryffindor."

Boudica had a laptop in front of her, open to Wikipedia. "It says here, he went to work in England for Boris Johnson, but was fired for saying not-nice things about Caribbean people."

Then she read from Wikipedia out loud: "McGrath was defended against accusations of racism by his boss, Boris Johnson, who stated, 'James is not a racist. I know that.'"

I smiled at her. "One day, Boudica, on the other side of your university education, you will know exactly what Boris was saying there."

"So, the Liberal National Party isn't great?"

"I mean, it depends. Do you own several investment houses? If not, they have nothing for you. I mean, unless you don't like immigrants."

Boudica looked horrified. She is, like me, well-disposed towards people in general, and many of her friends are immigrants. Her father was an immigrant for about eighteen years and, if he's lucky, he will one day become an immigrant again.

"Alright, tell me about the Labor Party," she said.

"That's who is in power now. They also seem to be winning today."

On the television, Senator James McGrath looked a bit damp around the eyes. The four female journalists were looking at him with shark-like smiles. The dislike they felt was palpable. Boudica noticed and my wife, passing through the room, pointed out that they probably once all would have voted for the Liberal Party, but now they vote for independent parties. And she would explain why when Boudica is a little older.

On the television, Senator McGrath did not look happy.

"Let's not rush to any conclusions," he said, referring to the votes his party wasn't receiving.

"The Labor Party," I said to Boudica, "is supposed to be the party that looks out for ordinary workers. But somehow they became more conservative, apparently—at least, in the two decades I was living overseas.

"Houses in Australia are now fairly unaffordable, and grocery prices are through the roof. They've had three years to do something constructive about it, but I'm unsure if they have, or if they are, as individuals, poor enough to notice. I think there's a perception that many Labor ministers have real estate portfolios, which means they will not be 'personally incentivized' to make houses more affordable."

I looked at Boudica; she has seen the tent communities appearing on the fringe of Brisbane. She knows that there are working people living out of their cars here, because I tend to bring it up if she ever complains about anything too silly.

On the television, Senator McGrath was talking about the Greens. "They're horrible people!" he exclaimed, and then thoroughly explained how unpleasant he thinks they all are.

"Keep talking," I muttered. "Keep endearing yourself to potential voters."

"Didn't you vote for the Greens?" asked Boudica.

I nodded. "So did your 82-year-old Nana. She'd have been upset if I hadn't. Do you remember when we arrived here? I kept swearing about how expensive the buses and trains were?"

She nodded, primly. "You need to stop swearing so much, Dadda."

"There is much with which I must contend. Anyway, the Greens were applying pressure to the Labor Party, so the latter stole a bunch of their policies to spite them, and long story short, it now costs us fifty cents to ride the train for an hour to visit your Nana.

"Anything that compels the Labor Party to do the decent thing is okay in my book. Also, if I didn't vote for the Greens, I'd have to answer to your Nana."

It would be an exaggeration to say the Greens exist to hold the Labor Party where it is, and prevent it from turning into a second conservative party. But not a massive exaggeration.

On the television, James McGrath looked utterly sick.

"What's he talking about?" Boudica wondered.

"He's just trying to change the topic from the fact the Liberal Nationals are losing. What he just said then—and I can't believe he said this—is that he deeply admires the policies of Ronald Reagan and George Bush."

"Who?"

Can you see how parenting can be really tough?

In my two decades in the United States, I never heard anyone say anything good about Ronald Reagan. In fact, it has become almost traditional over there for any American, when saying something negative about their country, to begin by saying, "well, it all goes back to Reagan, you see..." And when that happens, I promise, you can reliably expect to hear something pretty wild.

But at roughly this point, Boudica fell asleep. The election was called for Labor.

Senator James McGrath sat bleating about how it wasn't yet over, even as they crossed over to the Prime Minister's acceptance speech. And as far as speeches go, it wasn't a bad one. I know very little about the man—I really try not to get mixed up in Australian politics, you see; my job is to make people happy, and theirs seems to be, well, something altogether different. He seems like a nice man, and I hope he does something about the cost-of-living crisis, but I'm not holding my breath. [Here's a link to his speech, for the curious.]

A Sweet Ending

So let's recap. On Saturday, I went on a bit of a walk with my daughters, and ate two Democracy Sausages. Hattie and Boudica disapproved of that because they are vegetarians, but I simply told them, "not all of us are as well brought-up as you two." Also, when I got home I ate a lamington, which I'm not allowed to do because the sugar has a weird effect on me. Or, as my wife assures me, "it makes you want to get into fights with people." I mean, I was definitely not allowed to eat the lamington anywhere near the polling booths. One time, I ate lamingtons with some of my colleagues at Harvard Medical School, and I was so argumentative afterwards, they all decided that I was "absolutely positively missing an enzyme or something." Ha, like they'd know anything.

My point is, it was a nice day... and they happen now and then, and when they do, we should all stop and give thanks. For me, I got to witness the (reasonably) good people win for a change. And also, I got to sit for a few hours with my daughter and watch this deeply unpleasant kid I went to school with endure one of the worst, and most humiliating, evenings of his entire life... on live television in front of an entire nation.

The lamington? That was just chocolate icing on the cake.