10 things you don't forget about growing up in Housing Commission
I don’t think I endured an exceptional childhood, insofar as poverty, dysfunction and hardship is concerned.
The way I prefer to phrase it, I grew up in an environment that is more common than we Australians like to admit.
And certainly, people elsewhere in the world do it much tougher.
The trigger to me writing Poolhall, Jail, Library was exactly the sense that, out there, were a lot of voiceless people who grew up living in Housing Commission, being raised by a single parent under duress, barely scraping by and struggling to defend themselves against the world.
Early feedback from readers has revealed even some of my long-term friends – especially from rugby league – battled almost identical issues, much to my ignorance.
But you don’t read or hear about this side of poverty in popular media right now. The Daily Telegraph, 2UE, A Current Affair and Sky News won’t be bringing this into your lounge room or workplace.
And on the political stage? Please, we live in the era of apathy. It’s celebrated.
Let it be said, I dislike blatant welfare scroungers as much as the next person.
Yet, as someone who has seen almost every living family member on government payments at various stages, I have to contend there are reasons the social welfare system needs to be upheld and improved.
Maybe selfishly, I see it as being all about the kids and the next generation.
If you keep giving those on welfare bare bones and telling them to make broth, it will be the kids who suffer more than anybody.
When you remove the next generation’s social mobility, you remove hope, and I think you remove our own desired perception of what it means to be Australian.
Forgive me for the lack of attribution, but I’ve heard a saying to the effect of: “If you live in a mansion with poor neighbours on each side, then who lives comfortably?”
It’s in the interest of all classes, all income brackets, to maintain a minimum standard of living, and to provide as fair a platform as possible for every child to succeed, even when their family structure malfunctions.
A strong, harmonious society depends on it.
Below, I’ve plucked out 10 memories of growing up in Housing Commission for which I’m sure many people will have similar anecdotes.
Most of these are fleshed out in greater detail in Poolhall, Jail, Library – a story that’s not exceptional, but is told in a way that is intended to be an exceptionally evocative read.
1. Eating cat food
This is my classic poverty story. Like the ones your grandparents tell you about sharing one pair of shoes with all their siblings. If I only have time to tell one story that defines the depth of desperation we reached, I tell the one about my sister and I eating cat food off the neighbour’s back porch. This wasn’t two toddlers. I was almost eight at the time and was fully aware of how depraved our actions were at the time. We’d been eating Weet-Bix and hot water for almost a fortnight by then and cat food seemed a palatable option.
2. Asking for ice cream until Mum cried.
That same year I can vividly recall pestering my Mum for a 40-cent ice cream. Yep, that betrays my age doesn’t it? I pushed and pushed until she broke. “I don’t even have 40 cents. If I had it, I’d buy you one,” she said with a pained, tear-riddled face. A lot of weeks were like that. Resources were rationed and there was little margin for error. My Mum had not asked to be single with two kids and no job, but there she was trying to make a fist of it.
3. Everyone is on edge and extreme things happen
Emotions run high when financial pressure builds, bad decisions are made and the smallest things set off chain reactions. In my current job I help disseminate studies on all manner of things and one that sticks with me is about the inextricable link between poor socio-economic groups and abuse. “Perpetrators target low-income single mothers and children who are socially isolated and have poor self-esteem. The greater the number of non-biologically related males that enter a home, the greater the incidences of abuse in all forms,” is one paragraph I extracted for a press release. It comes to me so easily, because I purposefully saved that report to my hard drive at home. I’m growing angry just typing this out and having flashbacks to being at the front counter of police stations and sitting in court.
4. Not having transport
In all seriousness, in 12 years of schooling I can count on one hand how many times I got a lift to school from a relative. My Mum never drove and couldn’t have afforded a car if she did. The amount of times I remember us getting two interconnecting buses or trains somewhere as a family and having to wait around for what seemed an eternity was immense. And, so, the cycle goes. The poor have less time and reduced opportunity to make up the ground they’ve already lost. I rejoiced for the occasional Wednesday when my friend’s father would swing past to give us a lift – usually so his Dad could perve on the lady that liked to sunbake topless in the front yard around the corner!
5. Archaic electronics
We didn’t have a television for around six or seven years. When we did buy one, it was the smallest size possible. My schoolfriends refused to come over and watch TV because they had to squint to see it. I can remember my cousins getting a CD player close to 10 years before we did. I actually love the sound of vinyl, but at the time I had a chip on my shoulder about this fact. The big one that left a mark was never having a computer at home all throughout my school years, even when I left home to go to university. I hated that fact and grew to resent a lot of people because of it.
6. Hand-me-downs
People the world over will be nodding their heads at this one. It’s a ritual that binds us all together, even many of those from well-to-do backgrounds. My Mum’s general code was that she only tended to buy new clothes if they were absolutely necessary for school. I can remember being 11 before my Mum spent $10 on a pair of runners for me – and they were second-hand Pumas from St Vincent de Paul! The next year she went crazy and spent $14 on Aerosports. I must have been a good kid that year.
7. Our most elaborate holiday was to Gladstone caravan park
I think we went away a grand sum of four times when I was a kid, which isn’t something I’m particularly bitter about, but does tell a story. Some of my best mates were flying to America and Europe every second year. I can remember the first time I drove to Sydney as a 21-year-old being invigorated by how far I’d travelled, seeing as the furthest south my family had ever been before from Brisbane was Tenterfield. I didn’t catch my first plane until I was 23.
8. Missing out on school camps and sports teams
In the first few weeks of high school, we were all invited to attend a camp that was meant to unify and bond all the new students to the school. Out of 80 or so kids, I think there were four of us who couldn’t attend because our families couldn’t afford the fee. This happened fairly frequently with excursions and extra-curricular activities. Truthfully, it is one of the things that burnt me most, because it led to being ostracised and identified as a ‘povvo’ kid from the outset. Later, I was to lose a love interest because I couldn’t afford to go on a particular camp.
9. There are actually incredibly happy times
Contrary to everything just listed above, some of the happiest moments of my life were from the poorest years. When it feels like it’s just your little broken family fighting against the world, the smallest victories count three-fold. There was love in those moments that is extremely rare. The sensation of being pulled close to my mother and exchanging a prolonged hug seemed amplified in those times – whether she was consoling me or vice versa.
10. The weird reminders that live on
As Poolhall, Jail, Library reveals, there was an elaborate and elongated path to overcoming some of the negative remnants of my childhood. Part of the beauty and joy in the story is just that – the path to truthfully moving beyond the misgivings of self. However, as much as I view my life in almost two completely different halves, I will admit there are tiny, unnerving things that still creep back from time to time. One of those is a feeling I get when I have missed a meal or two and am starting to get genuine hunger pains. It is like a singeing memory where I can smell, feel and see exactly what was happening 30-odd years ago. It drops my mood and takes me a few seconds to recompose. From experience, I know this is the worst time to consume alcohol. For the most part though, I know that time belongs in the past and the feeling dissipates quickly.
Poolhall Jail Library is maniacal, darkly humorous and shocking. A captivating true-life story told through the eyes of mother and son, lifting the lid on what really happens in the suburbs. Click HERE to order a copy in paperback or eBook.