Why am I so angry?

 Do you want to know why I am so angry?

I’m angry because a few years ago, I missed out on a much-wanted and much-deserved promotion. Not because the successful candidate was more experienced or innovative or committed than me. No, it was because he was a man.

Because he was young, malleable and marketable, and because he was not a difficult woman - like me. Or so I was judged to be. And that makes me angry.

I’m angry because I then had to call out this poor behaviour and endure a lengthy process through the anti-discrimination tribunal, one designed to fob me off and wear me down so I would just give up. That ultimately confirmed that men in power could declare their processes were better than most, leaving them ultimately unanswerable to their decisions. 

I’m angry because their response to changing workplace culture was only actioned through a pathetic, twenty-minute online module that was a tokenistic, superficial - and one clearly and hastily constructed in order to tick a box - introduction to workplace equality. 

I am angry because people who knew discriminatory questions had been asked in interviews were happy to laugh and talk about it afterwards, but when it came to the crunch of telling the truth in a tribunal they declared they ‘could not recall’ the conversations and refused to speak up.

I am especially angry because that ‘party line’ emerged from a toxic, behind-closed-doors office space of men who have power. They know it and they use it. To fuel their own egos and belittle others. It was that same space that created the false narrative of difficult women in the first place, led by one vile and vindictive individual.

I am also angry to see people in positions of leadership who are lazy and ineffectual, who have no promised ‘vision for the role’ but have the job because they were tapped on the shoulder and urged to apply. Because the boys' club was jostling into positions.

I am angry to see people - men - in positions of senior leadership who come late to work and leave early to drop off or pick up their kids from school. Why am I angry about that? Because for years, I left home early and suffered the stress of managing the fine line between dropping one child off not too early at school but not too late so that I would be late for work, and then dropping a second at child care before I made it to work. On time but harried before my day had even begun. Because I did not want to be judged at work for being late. For having my kindergarten child catch a bus from her school to mine because I did not have the luxury - or the audacity - of leaving early to pick her up.

For being told in a previously unsuccessful application for a leadership position that perhaps when my family circumstances were different - that is, when my children were older and I had fewer maternal responsibilities - I might reapply. For hearing other women in my workplace being told they were not suitable for leadership roles because their family situations might inhibit their ability to do the job.

I am bloody angry that I have heard men denigrate women in my workplace and other men have laughed and joined in and not had the guts or the insight to call it out.

I am furious this year because I have been encouraged to ‘show what I can do’ in a program I am running because I was angry and upset that I missed out on another - because a man, in leadership, ‘wanted it.’ And so he got it. Even though it was my initiative and my push to sell it. I am really angry that I have to work harder than others to prove myself. Still, after all these years.

And all this for what? Because I know that when that position comes up again, I won’t get it - no matter what experience, commitment, innovation and collaboration I demonstrate. No, I won’t get it because a leader’s male ego will be injured if he admits he made the wrong decision, and so the same lazy leader will be reappointed.

And so I will remain angry, and disappointed, and hurt. But I will not give up. I know my worth, even if 'some men' don't. Even if ‘some women’ are unwilling to stand up for other women out of their own sense of fear or threat.

Oh, and one more thing … I’m angry that I can’t share this story publicly because I know I will be quietly punished for doing so. (But I am doing it anyway)

I too know that evil thrives in silence, Grace Tame.

What's Your Dream for 2018?

 

My sister shared a pic yesterday as a New Year inspiration – 365 new days, 365 new chances – which really sang to my soul.  So, if we really do have a new chance, a new opportunity of choice for every one of the 365 days that will be our own story of 2018, what do we dream they might be? 

I am going to set myself the goal of finding the one new chance in every day of this year.  Today, it began with some quiet reflection (with the inspiring backdrop of Tasmania’s stunning East Coast – my soul’s haven) on what I might do differently this year.  What can I look for, be open to, try in each new day that dawns?

I think what I might do is create a dream jar, and each time I think of something I would like to do, learn, read, write, whatever, I will write it down and put it in the jar.  Then, on those days where I might need to remind myself of the chances that exist in each new day, I can dip in to the magic jar and remind myself of something that I have noted as a special opportunity to live more fully. 

My first goal is to use my diary to keep a personal record of each new day’s moment of potential.  So, day one, January 1, 2018 is this:  365 days, 365 chances.  The full moon of possibility.  Tonight’s glorious moon, shining on the dark waters of the ocean below, is a visual manifestation of the new year’s pure white promise.  Yes, that moon shape is a littly blurry and there are clouds on the horizon, but these are not grey but rather silver and shining with their magical potential.  They are the imprecise lines and shades that are the nuances of the life we live.  The as yet unrevealed details.  Embrace them, make them.  Dream them and live them.

Hello, 2018, let’s see what sparkles we can see, what magic we can make x

Stories of the Relics

Two sennights ago, I had the most fantastic opportunity for a Ross writing immersion.  For those who know my story – literally and figuratively - you will appreciate what an amazing experience this proved to be.

As part of the TATE?UTAS Ross Symposium, I was able to spend time in the town, deliver a presentatiion on my passion and pass some precious time exploring the relics.

Here is a version of what I experienced and shared ...

It began with a night's accommodation at the utterly charming property of Somercotes (one I simply must repeat!)  What a delightful setting, and a terrific chance to steep myself in the modern day context of my own 19th century novel. 

A significant highlight was the chance to enjoy some precious time before the day’s literary sessions amidst the relics of Horton College.  Major bucket list TICK!

How authentic and quaint is this ?????

And the surrounds were stunning ....

Writing About Place ... 

Re-inspired by my jaunt to the Melbourne Writers Festival in August, wich offered some amazing inspiration regarding the importance of place in writing - an idea that featured across the entire range of author presentations I attended, with both national and international writers

The idea of place as a character in itself within a story - alive, complex, tangible and unique - was one I explored in my own writing, which began with a place ...  Scenes and chapters in our own local, state and national history - the untold stories - are a terrific source of inspiration!

What stories lay waiting to be uncovered in the relics?

For me as a writer, recreating our past through stories and keeping our history alive before it disappears forever is a particular area of passion and interest, one I was excited to explore when I began my MA with Rohan Wilson …

A childhood spent growing up in Evandale no doubt fuelled my fascination with Tasmania’s past from an early age – especially historic buildings (and even more notably grand ones!). 

My Relationship With Tasmania's Past ...

Fallgrove, Clarendon House, Franklin House and Entally were all so close, along with those lesser, quieter buildings in local streets, all surrounded by the midlands of Tasmania.

Personal ancestry. William Henry Clayton, the second son of Henry and Mary Clayton, was the architect who designed over 300 Tasmanian buildings including The Launceston Hotel, Chalmers Church and Wickford, the family property built at Norfolk Plains in 1838, before he emigrated to New Zealand

There are fascinating stories already existing within these two personal threads. 

What others are as yet untold?

Following my discovery of the initial image that sparked a story I was desperate to learn more. 

Research.

The research process began where I imagined myself in the writerly footsteps of Hannah Kent and Kate Grenville – but in a Tasmanian context

Sources of information - 

  Local LINC library.     TAHO (field trip planned!)

  People -  Archivist Keith Sykes, Historical Society publications 

The Treasure TROVE

(long may it live!)

This led me on a deeper digital trail to a myriad of amazing repositories …

~  Newspaper articles – including scandalous letters to the editor

~  UTAS eprints, Library Open Repository – letters and photographs

~  Victorian Police Gazette – the language of the period, inquests, deserters, crimes

~  University of Melbourne Library – historical map of Richmond, Hawthorn, Yarra

History Revealed Itself ... that crumbling arch was once THIS!!

Horton College

~  Exclusive boys boarding school in the midlands of Tasmania, two and a half miles south of Ross, that operated in the second half of the nineteenth century

~  Established when Captain Samuel Horton, of Somercotes, made a donation of land and a sum of money to the Wesleyan Methodist Church

~  The foundation stone was laid by Captain Horton on January 6, 1852, but the building was not completed for another three years due to a delay caused by the Victorian gold rush

~  The first student. “John Manton aged 11 years admitted 3 October 1855”, one of 770 boys who passed through the College, with an average of 50 students a year, mostly Tasmanian but also a number from Vic and NSW

~  During its 38 years of existence it was home to a succession of boys – many of whom became successful doctors, barristers, merchants, well-known clergymen and various other creditable professions

- Subjects included Latin, Greek, French, Algebra, Trigonometry, History, Geography, Arithmetic, Writing, Grammar, Scripture along with Music, Drawing and Drill

~   Closed 1892 after the retirement of Willam Fox, Head Master of 26 years, financial decline and the establishment of rival schools in Hobart and Launceston

~  Demolished in 1920, most materials sold, the College bell went to Hutchins School in Hobart, while some of the bricks were taken to Launceston, becoming part of the wall of the Mary Fox wing of the Methodist Ladies College in Elphin Road

From the Horton College Journal .. 

Jun 16, 1857     “James J Turnbull ran away from College.”

Dec 21, 1858     “Thomas Melville dismissed from his situation in deep disgrace                             and heavily in debt.  A desperately bad man.”

Sep 23, 1859     “Mr Maxey, the Head Master, left to the great satisfaction of                               the President and Masters who had all been insulted by him.”

Oct 14, 1881     “Two of the boarders, Frederick Walter Dally and George                                     English Herbert Fulton died.  In the former case death was                                 caused by accident, and in the latter it was the result of                                   disease … the moral effect on the boys was most [important].”

The Beginnings of a Story ...

Having gathered together all sorts of articles and pictures, I began to imagine my own version of Horton College.  I created maps and family trees which I collated together with my cuttings and scribblings in a notebook.  I then began to set in motion the ideas that had begun to bubble away in my brain in my process of ‘magpie nesting’.  Finding the right mix – the historical evidence of setting, characters and events scattered within a narrative arc that came from my own imagination.

As the story started to take shape on the page I began to assemble my cast of characters – students, masters, servants … But stepping into the centre stage spotlight appeared 16 year old William Learoyd, bringing with him a large helping of dramatic tension.

On the UTAS eprints repository, I found these wonderful letters which gave voice to the students.

“I received thy letter in due time and am very much obliged to thee for the photograph.”

“I wish Papa would write oftener for I have written two letters to which I have received no answer.”       

                                    (Aha!  William)

“On the 23^rd of 9^th Mr Robert Crawford aged about 19 who was the head waiter of Horton College died suddenly at about 5 in the afternoon …  I suppose thou hast seen all the particulars in the newspapers …”

“On the 5th of November we had a holiday and we made a large bonfire on the top of a high hill and the wind drove the flames amongst a lot of dead trees and set fire to them. The boys had a great many fireworks and we had a great deal of fun in letting them off.”

Shaping the Narrative ...

Chapters constructed around the snippets I had discovered in my research – the flash flood of the Macquarie, the fire on the hill, the masters behaving badly, a tragic death – but with William’s experience of this new environment providing the perspective, the lens through which all this is narrated.

Having William sent to Horton from Melbourne demanded (of course!) a reconnaissance mission to find where he came from – and details of the dark reason behind his move to Tasmania.

Miriam’s character materialised later in the process (a little bit of me in the story) For me, her emerging role within the narrative became necessary  – but she needed to add something to the story. Her modern day sections alternate with William’s as she goes on her own Tasmanian trail into the past.  It is Miriam who finds closure for them both – laying to rest ghosts of the past.

The End of the Journey ...

Well, I’m yet to get there … although I know where I’m going, along with Miriam, and where William has gone.  Amdist the daily routine - the bread and butter stuff of English teaching that interferes with our dreams of living the fantasy of writing full-time - William whispers to me from time to time, waiting for me to resolve his story.  I have promised him this summer ...

~   All That Remains   ~

"All that remains today of Horton College is a crumbling portico arch evident on the Midlands Highway just south of Ross.  It was once a grand building, established with a donation by Captain Samuel Horton of Somercotes, an exclusive boys boarding school that operated from 1855 to 1892.

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In 1868, William Learoyd was sent to Horton from Melbourne after a terrible murder near his home above the Yarra.  He struggled to adapt to the change, finding himself suddenly alone in the isolation of the Tasmanian midlands, but slowly began to make friends in this distant colonial outpost.  However, a series of traumatic events and conflicts led William to ultimately run away from the college and he was never seen or heard from again."

Getting back in the zone ...

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Desperately keen to get back in the writing zone, I thought I’d begin with revisiting my research scrapbook – the history that inspired me to write the story to begin with …

Many local Tasmanians – and former Taswegians, along with visitors to the state – might recognise this image.  It is the remains of a crumbling arch, located on the Midlands Highway just south of Ross.

When I first saw this relic, I was immediately obsessed.  (And yes, I now like to think of myself as the next Hannah Kent ;) ).  Perhaps many were intrigued by the mysterious arch; some even interested in what it represents.  How many people know that it once was this building?

 

This building was, in fact, an elite boys’ boarding school in the mid to late 19^th century: Horton College.  Somewhat starstruck by the magic of such a place, I began researching in earnest!  Trove, Launceston LINC and a phone conversation with a former Scotch Oakburn archivist with insightful knowledge of the College led to a gradually accumulated wealth of knowledge and inspiration on the school, its history and its context.

Studying my Master of Arts in Creative Writing  - under the guidance of the brilliant Rohan Wilson and a peer group of inspiring and amazing fellow writers – offered me the opportunity and structure to really immerse myself in this ‘cracker of a setting’ (cheers, Rohan). 

An array of articles, photographs and the Journal of Horton College document have provided me with so much information and so many ideas!  I just LOVE the idea of recreating history through fiction (yes, I am musing on the idea of a future PhD along these lines!)

 

I visualised a student, William Learoyd, of an eminent family, who had been sent (exiled) to Horton from Wesley College in Melbourne after witnessing a terrible crime.  I sought to blend his experience as a traumatised sixteen year old with factual information I had uncovered about the College.  This has been such a challenge and a delight!  Flash floods, fake masters, court cases and questionable student deaths have provided so much material to work with.  What a gem!!!!

On a trip to Melbourne, I spent a transporting afternoon roaming the banks of the Yarra River and elite streets of Hawthorn – Shakespeare Grove, Isabella Grove and Coppin Grove – imagining from where my protagonist, William, had been sent.  This experience also led me to formulate a ‘present story’ – yes, I am now writing what I want to read – in which a contemporary relative of William is uncovering his life story.  Yes, I confess that her voice mirrors my own, and it adds a contemporary and contrasting dimension to William’s story that I love.

I will be back with more :)