Public Address - Club Politique (Home)

Metics Fourteen | Jul 17, 2006 19:37

The first question to answer is "what in the hell is a metic anyhow?" More than a couple of people have mentioned that one. In a nutshell 'metic' is a Classical Greek word for 'resident alien'. When applied as a label it indicates a person who is only a partial citizen. Perhaps they aren't allowed to vote, or aren't allowed the full spectrum of rights the average democracy extends to the average citizen.

It's an interesting concept, because it helps to highlight the precarious position of all kinds of individuals resident in a population. Recent migrants, refugees, some minorities, all kinds. Metic becomes a word that points directly at the stigma attached to not being an 'authentic' citizen. And not being authentic or real carries all kinds of problems.

Let's look at Rosemary McLeod's bizarre column in the SST this weekend for example. I'd like to know how heavily she was edited on this one, because it reads very, very strangely. To begin with, this myth of the homosexual agenda is a strange one, and is more a dogwhistle than reality. I consulted a friend who until very recently worked in the Parliamentary precinct, and asked what Rosemary might be driving at. Between us neither could think of anything other than two events that directly addressed a 'gay agenda'. The 1980s homosexual reform, and the civil unions fracas. That said, she did point out that there is a very strong gay presence in the current Labour Party, this in turn 'flavours' the party room.

My response was, "who gives a shit?" They can be dressed in pink tutu and carry fairy wands for all I care, as long as the Government is run in a orderly fashion, and according to set rules. How in the hell Rosemary gets from Tim Barnett's 'gay agenda' amendment to the Crimes Act to effectively excusing the violent death of a gay man is insane. Sure, we can assume rough trade is little dangerous. But so is bungy jumping and internet dating.

In this scenario gay men are effectively metics. They do not have the rights you or I take for granted. If I was stupid enough to wander down to Marion Square here in Wellington and pick up a sex worker it would doubtless be dangerous. But to be murdered by that woman would be inexcusable. No court in the country would let her off. Even had I threatened to treat her violently and she acted in apparent self-defence, my sexuality would not likely be brought forward as evidence for the defence. In the context Rosemary mentions the words 'menacing male homosexuals' are a disgrace. 'Menacing male' is relevant.

Enough has been written about this topic already, but you get the picture. Gay people often do not have the same rights you and I do. A lot of ground has been covered over the past couple of decades, and there are still plenty of people out there willing to admit they aren't entirely comfortable with 'homos'. But just get over it for Christ's sake...

Maybe the issue is that we do need to affirm the rights of straight men. So let me start. Guys, it's OK to be a straight man. No one thinks that anything is wrong with straight men. Hell it's good to be a man! But difference is a good thing. Who cares if your brother, uncle, dad, cousin or grandad is gay?

You see, straight men are not metics. The world is made for straight white men. Straight white men are the unit standard when we do things like make laws and write rules. If you can't get a job, it's not 'the feminists' holding you back. If you can't get into a uni, it's not some 'maori quota'. If you can't get onto the local rugby team because you're too white and wee, it's not the fault of some big Islanders. Be a man and suck it up. Work a little harder. Try a different code. You get the picture.

Again, 'gay' is always outside the norm. Conventional wisdom says that homosexuals are outside the boundaries of the everyday citizen, and the rules are written for the everyday, middle of the road Joe Bloggs. Tim wanting to amend the law to stop reduced sentences for the murderers of gay men is not an act of extremism. If you could matter of factly and violently bash someone to death for the sole reason you're scared of a poke in the bum, Hopawate would have been history a long time ago.

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The Cure for Tinea | Jul 10, 2006 19:25

Someone I know recently moved to Australia, probably following sterling advice he'd spied somewhere, but promptly decided to pack it in and move back to the glorious Wellington weather. Naturally this isn't for either of the obvious reasons, that Australia is crappy and full of Ockers, but because there were too many poms. Go figure that one out.

In all seriousness, I'm sure that his decision to move there was based on his experiences as a young lad, full of English pounds and partying in some of Australia's greater tourist traps. What it made me think of is the way there's simply no going back to our good ol' days.

Pretty much everyone has them, or should have, whether it's the few years before you go getting someone up the duff, or the years you spent as the popular college kid. They always sit there, reminding you that life can be an endless lotto moment without care or responsibility.

That in turn made me think about why people come back to Godzone after time away. We've all done it. You purge all the gear you don't need, sell the rest, and off you set for shores unknown. Itchy feet, probably the New Zealander's greatest asset. If we all stayed we'd freaking hate each other within five minutes. That or start breeding with our sisters. Take a look at what places like Texas give to the world if you need proof of that...

And there it is. New Zealander's need To go overseas to stop us going stir crazy. But when it all boils down to it if you're a real New Zealander you have to come back. There's no two ways about it. Even if you think you've chosen to stay away you'll always be thinking about the place. You'll always feel the presence of New Zealand there, just under you skin, always causing an itch you can't always get to. It'll perch on a branch near the back of your mind whispering sweet nothings, nudging you gently with reminders of endless hills and empty beaches.

It was a strange thing for me. Someone asked me at the weekend where I felt the yearning and I answered glibly, but there was some truth in what I said. I did feel the longing behind my ears. It was a tightness, an irreconcilable tension. It grasped forward to my brow, only to release me when tales of home sprang from a friend. When pictures recognisable only to a true Kiwi appeared on billboards or the telly. They soothed me. They pierced the veil of ignorance blinding the people around me. They brought me closer to home and smoothed the yearning in a way big money never could. Hell, when did money ever soothe yearning?

Ignorance you ask? Not ignorance in a spiteful sense, but the ignorance of lack of experience. How can you explain Kiwi summers to an Ocker who bathes in sun year round? Those days of needle-sharp sunlight. So, too, short and hazy. The bite of salt water crisp and clean. Black sand. White sand. Grey sand. The smell of Pohutukawa baking.

And the yearning never left me. In the first few years the glamour of what I was doing pushed it deeper. It buried it at the bottom of an explorers pack. The forgotten momento of my person. Lurking there, springing out occasionally during a long stay, admired, and returned for future perusal.

The second place the longing sat was my shoulders. On the days when the alien places I travelled to became too much. When they slumped me forward. When they sat upon me to remind me I was a stranger. A welcomed adventurer perhaps, but a stranger nonetheless. On those days the yearning would lift me up with smiling memories of rainforest canopies and the wafting mist of the the bush floor. I would give myself over to it and it would grant me verdant and silver wings. I would rise in my mind high above the pale greens and luscious reds to glimpse the rising hills and clustering isles. I would pause there long enough to again feel the warmth being at home, and sink back to the quagmire of alienation.

And so I came home. When the sweet nothings became too much. When the pull of the yearning became too much. When it reached too far into my daily life to ignore, a foot-stamping, petulant child, I returned.

Do I regret it? Sometimes. But the yearning is quieted, and peace is a beautiful thing.

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