The school’s within walking distance of our house and, while we didn’t buy here specifically for the schools, the high level of facilities available in the area did sway us. Neatly enough, these facilities included this public primary school that seems to have great input and engagement from the surrounding parents and community. It has a poncy new gateway, newish prep building that stunned me with its technology and friendly classroom spaces, and separate subject classes (French, Art, Music, Motor skills programme…). I’m so out of touch with contemporary school education and expectations. I’ve been ensconced in universities and I didn’t think I’d be having kids, so never paid much attention to what went on in the sector (terrible, I know. More guilt, please).

Once we started having to think about things like the quality of local schools and where we are intending to send the children (she has a little brother), I started divulging to other parents my mild angst about it – foregrounding it with a mea culpa about being a ‘slack parent’ who never looked any of this up earlier. I never actually believed that I was being a ‘slack parent’, though, even as I said this to people.

I was never going to be a “book your foetus into the best grammar school in Melbourne” kind of parent, and I do care about schooling/education and where the kids ended up going, but I wouldn’t have moved houses if the local schools proved to be not A+. I’m a big believer in meeting schools at least halfway by providing a domestic space that strongly encourages learning and diligence. Whether we successfully do this or not is another thing, but I don’t think that getting a child into an uber-performing school necessarily means the child will be uber-performing.

During one of my angsty chats, a colleague mentioned that her brother-in-law had used his computer-fu to put together a googlemap mash-up of primary and secondary schools and their LSG (like school group) ratings. The LSGs indicate the level of cultural diversity and social assistance in various schools. For example, the school our daughter goes to is a “5″, which means it has low number of LOTE (languages other than English) students. It’s an interesting resource.

We like the area we’re in so much that it’d take something seismic to move us out, so knowing the category is just a detail that’s nice to know and not a driving factor in whether we send her there. One thing I do wish was different: The level of racial diversity in our area doesn’t seem to be that high, even though it is a very multicultural set of suburbs (with some of the fastest-growing Indian communities in Melbourne). It is a facet of our neighbourhood that is changing, but it’ll probably be another generation before its effects are more fully entrenched.

I’m sometimes as excited as she is about school, thinking ahead as I do to the huge number of things she’ll be learning.

One thing that I have to learn though?

To let things go when she tells us of the various schoolyard injustices and name-calling. I suspect it takes practice to filter out the static of everyday argy-bargy, yet keep note of possible ongoing issues.

Here’s an excerpt from the book:

Out hatched Babies One and Two,
as perfect as can be,
But Mother T was horrified by Baby Number Three.
And she grumbled, “He looks weedy,”
and she grumbled, “He looks weak.”
And she grumbled, “What long arms – and look, his mouth is like a beak!”

“He just needs feeding up,” said Dad
and gave the babes some meat.
The first two gulped and guzzled
but the third refused to eat.
And he said, “I’m really sorry,”
and he said, “I really can’t.”
And he said, “This meat looks horrible. I’d rather eat a plant.” 

Donaldson is the Children’s Laureate for 2011-2013 (Quentin Blake, another one of my favourites, was the first Children’s Laureate in 1999-2001). If you, like me, had no idea there was a Children’s Laureate, you’ll want to know that they “[receive] a bursary of £15,000 and a specially designed and inscribed silver medal”. Along with much adoration and many library bookings over their term, I’m sure.

We’re a household that has The Gruffalo as a book, DVD, and we went to see the live show at Gasworks Park last year (which was excellent fun).

This book doesn’t seem to get as much exposure as the others in Donaldson’s stable (like the Gruffalo stories), which is a pity. It’s one of our family’s staunch favourites, along with another bargain bin book that involved counting with (Egyptian) mummies…but more on that one another time.

One of the best things?

Having more in-depth access to Jonathan’s brain. He has a zealous appreciation for creativity and initiative and this leads him to know and find many things that are new to me (I live such a sheltered life). I’ve just joined a group he’s in that takes in art exhibitions at lunch times.

The latest thing he shared with me, just late last week, was Lucy Naughton’s flickr-blog. I don’t know if there’s another name for what Lucy’s put together, but that’s what I call it. She posts photos (many of them are of herself) accompanied by prose that’s often evocative and engaging. A few have nothing beyond a title; many have mini-essays.

Being in peak-grant-application-review mode + endeavouring-to-be-better-at-blogging mode at the moment, I’d only intended to skim the offerings at the flickr-blog. It proved too fascinating and I was drawn under straight away. I’m hooked.

Most flickr accounts I’ve browsed through are images only, with utilitarian captions; they serve a mostly archival function. Some have a few lines about the significance of the photo, or note the challenge/competition for which it was taken. Not Lucy’s.

There’s something very addictive about reading Lucy’s imagery and writing. I’m drawn to her honesty about life’s travails, unpacking of everyday anxieties and juxtaposition with sensuous (sometimes flagrant and exposing) pictures. Her photos are often complex counterpoints to, or triggers for, the writing that follows.

As I mentioned before, I lead a sheltered life, and am woefully unaware of much internet phenomena. The kind of thing Lucy does could be as common as dirt but, to me, it’s a fascinating personal project that I’ll be following from now on.

A few of my favourite entries so far:

• Introvert (13 December 2011)
• Living in a box (January 2009)
• Seeing Red (21 March 2008)

One thing I semi-resolved to do this year (my commitment is stunning, I know) was to write more and to do it for fun, not academia.

The past year has taught me one thing and that is this:

I don’t think I can do worthwhile academic writing while I work full-time in a non-academic job AND want to keep evenings and weekends for myself and my family. Academic articles/chapters and the heap of reading that should inform them just isn’t on the cards.

I don’t want to change the balance of my days (which I’m loving), or shut the kids out on a regular basis while I pursue a line of research/writing that I’m considering untenable and (dare I say it) pointless for my current circumstances.

What I want to do is spend more time developing my non-academic writing habits.

Since June 2011, I’ve been writing regularly for The Research Whisperer (weekly posts). I’ve never had to have this kind of writing discipline before; I’ve always had to write in my job, but it wasn’t to a schedule, like a blog.

I like the scheduled-ness. A lot.

Over my academic years, I’ve written fiction off and on.

The furthest I have ever travelled into a project is eight chapters. It was a horror novel that I started about seven years ago; the narrative had spectral possession, university life, and a total Gary Stu of a protagonist. I had an excellent time writing it. It was a creative phase that included researching collector’s Bibles, remote islands off the coast of Newfoundland, missionary contexts, and local histories. There was even some ‘faction’ involved. It was miles away from the ‘paranormal romance’ narratives that have flooded the market recently; at heart, I still think of it as a ‘Brisbane novel’.

Other than that backburner book, which fell into the too-hard basket when the narrative threads didn’t seem to be leading to a convincing conclusion, there was some flirting with fan-fiction. This reference will remain cryptic; have to say, though, that I re-read some of it the other day and really enjoyed it.

I’d like to change my writing habits, and channel them usefully. My self-set challenge is to complete a novel this year.

This new and narrow focus on writing a novel meant that I was motivated enough to begin before the Write Nights (see below) started. I had a short story that I was trying to complete, thinking I’d ‘stepping stone’ the scale of writing projects. Now, however, I’ve folded that into the first chapter of the novel. It works well.

To give my NY’s resolution a chance to find its legs, I’ve started some new habits.

First step:

I’ve set up a weekly writing evening with a neighbourhood buddy. A ‘Write Night’, if you will. The venue is local, and we do a ‘shut up and write‘ format with half hour blocks. I was hoping we didn’t do what we usually do when we get together, which is talk, talk, talk. I was keen to get these started, and we’ve now had two of them. The first lived up to my fear of the talk talk talk overwhelming actual writing time. While always lovely to catch up with this friend, I walked away from the night feeling a smidge despondent because my expectations for the focus on writing and getting things on the way weren’t realised. We only managed one writing span, even though we were there for about two hours. The second ‘Write Night’ was much better. Less talk and two 30-minute sessions. I can see myself getting into a productive rhythm with the writing project(s), with the sessions kicking the material along and also adding to the bristle of ideas and possible narrative avenues surrounding the work.

Second step:

My default evening activity these days is to fire up the laptop and work on the writing. I can do this in communal surrounds (e.g. loungeroom with others there watching whatever they want), especially with my increasing cache of Friday shut up and writing experience at the cafe. And I look forward to it.

Third step:

Keeping a notebook for ideas and text fragments. I know this is basic, and I have a gazillion nifty little books collected over the years (and gifted to me by those who know about my stationery fetish) for expressly this purpose. But I’ve never really used them.

Roll on, Write Nights!

Teacup ride, primary school fete || Photo by Tseen Khoo

The other day, I was reading this post about fool-proof parenting and, though I didn’t always agree with it, the final item has stayed with me and encapsulates how parenting is reliably made easier for me: “Revere play.”

It’s an exhortation that is hard for me to follow most of the time, feeling as I do that there’s never enough time to get my own things done, or craving down-time as I always do.

The kids’ exhortations to come and play often catch me when I’m just home from work, or I’ve just settled down to read something (possibly browsing junk-mail – I’m not that ambitious). My immediate response, which I often tamp down, is ‘No’. I’m slowly training myself to be better at embracing the moment because, when I do ‘revere play’, it can be (and usually is) grand and energising. And the kids’ pure delight at having me join in their games is precious.

Since having my first child at the end of 2006, one of things people keep saying to me about our family outings is that they are chances to “relive our childhoods”. It’s the kind of small talk that people indulge in when they see me with the kids, or hear about one of our child-friendly jaunts. I never say it, but I often think to myself, “It’s not really reliving my childhood; I never did those things” (e.g. went camping or had expectations of Santa [cf. this post]).

Other well-intentioned small-talk includes “that’s such a good age” (at any age) and “they grow up so fast”; both  clichés are absolutely true, as is the way.

Kindergarten pick-up and drop-off times are prime breeding grounds for these kinds of conversation. I rarely partake because I’m not the primary carer, so am rarely there. When I do turn up, it’s awkward. The mummy cliques are already in place and I’m not in any of them, and probably never will be.

Many don’t even know whose mother I am, and those who place me often initiate conversation as if they’re talking to my partner (i.e. mid-conversation). I don’t have the energy to tell them that sometimes I don’t know what they’re talking about (along with not being on kindy shuttling duty, I’m also not on dance class shuttling duty, or fully briefed on all playdate options).

I also don’t know the names of all the kids, or their parents, or who the grandparents belong to. I feel slightly ashamed that I don’t know, then am quickly irritated that I should feel I have to know these things (welcome to my psychological spiral!).

Strangely enough, like many things these days, this post has turned into a discussion about parenting and the odd spaces that mothers who work full-time outside the home sometimes occupy.

I’ve had two conversations recently (with other full-time working women) where this topic took up an hour or so of intense consideration. Much of it involved divulging our mutual, guilty, and traitorous thoughts (e.g. each wanting ‘a 1950s housewife’…).

Perhaps I should give in and devote a whole post to it.

A Few Right Thinking Men (Sulari Gentill) [Image sourced from www.sularigentill.com

The reasons why I was interested in, and got excited by, Gentill (besides her being Australian and a woman):

1. Reviews spoke about her meticulous approach to the history in her crime fiction,
2. She was born in Sri Lanka, and
3. The main character, Rowland Sinclair, was not a PI or police officer but an artist, aristocrat, and amateur sleuth (I love an amateur sleuth).

When I first started reading A Few Right Thinking Men (AFRTM), I had to adjust my pacing expectations. I’d just been reading some contemporary crime novels where the pacing was very fast and content deliberately shocking. Gentill’s work is more considered and takes the reader on a mellower ride. She evokes the 1930s Sydney arts scene and various suburban traits subtly, and captures the events that caught the popular imagination in a compelling way (e.g. the controversy of building the Sydney Harbour Bridge and its subsequent opening).

I enjoyed getting to know the protagonists, their politics, and the broader context of Australia during the Depression (of which I was woefully ignorant). Gentill has an adept touch with the historical flourishes and weaves them into the narrative arc well. In clumsier hands, this kind of material can be difficult to wade through. Too much setting up of the context means to me that the author isn’t paying attention to the mode they’re writing in; after all, it’s not a textbook. The complicated politics and factions of the time, which make Left and Right politics today seem incredibly mediocre, are fascinating.

Gentill’s writing brought forth this sociopolitical context and tone, and she populated the story with well-crafted examples of the extreme characters to be found on all sides of the political public sphere. I particularly liked the range of class details the story contained, and the fact that Rowland wasn’t above being critiqued by his friends. His extremely pampered position in society enables much of the plot, and Gentill is careful to present him as eccentric for his class (i.e. happy to ‘slum it’ with hedonistic creative sorts) but not a superhero (e.g. the close encounter Rowland had at the 50-50 club with a member of the sensational ‘razor gangs’). The nuanced way Gentill writes Wilfred (Rowland’s conservative older brother) is also indicative of the character complexity she achieves.

For the most part, the narrative suspense was well retained. There were only a couple of points that stumbled for me: one was guessing the ‘mistake’ that was made with regard to the murder (while the novel’s characters were still talking me through possibilities), and the other was the denouement where Rowland’s unconventional artist friend, Edna Higgins, seemed to slip out of character.

Overall, though, I really enjoyed reading AFRTM and will be seeking out the others in the Rowland Sinclair series: A Decline in Prophets (released July 2011) and Miles Off Course (Feb 2012). A fourth book is also planned for 2012 release.

"Latte + 1 sugar for Jen"

When I was ordering at a busy cafe the other morning, I did what I usually do: I gave my name as Jen.

“Jen” is my coffee name (see photo on left).

I started using it about ten years ago, when coffee-carts on the university campus became all the vogue. I discovered that I’d often be holding up tetchy, under-caffeinated queues with the repeated pronunciation and spellings of my given name for my order. It got rather tedious.

I had used “Jen” years before that, as a one-off thing for a job that involved a lot of cold-calling (*shudder*). I quickly got irritated with always having to enter into a conversation about my name with perfect strangers with whom I would never again cross paths. At the time, offering a fake name felt like an efficient compromise to get through the job.

It also felt like I was ‘selling out’ my heritage for convenience’s sake. Which, to some extent, I was. I’ve made myself more convenient for the society in which I live. That said, my day is less frustrating when I occasionally swap my name with another that’s instantly understood and easily spelt; so, I’ve made my everyday less annoying in general and means I choose my battles. Is this pandering to hegemonic expectations? Self-policing or internal colonisation? A smidge of all these things? Possibly.

Coming from an academic field that interrogates cultural identity politics, notions of authenticity, diasporic ‘fluidity’, etc, I had to stop myself from shoring up this post with numerous references and quotes from critics. I will, however, point you to this great post (with its bevy of spot-on links) at Calvin Ho’s blog, The Plaid Bag Connection.

These days, I’m “Jen” when I’m in a place where they yell out your name when your order’s ready; perhaps once every few months – hardly grounds for feeling culturally amputated. At least no-one’s telling me I must do something more drastic about the situation, or taking racist liberties with how I want to be identified.

For those who don’t know, my given name is Tseen-Ling. I drop my second name (Ling), and am usually Tseen Khoo. Those who have zealous knowledge of the way Chinese names are traditionally ordered often call me Khoo because they think this is my personal name (with Tseen as my family name). This usually indicates:

a) they don’t know me at all,
b) they don’t know many Malaysians (‘Khoo’ being the ‘Smith’ of Malaysia…), and
c) that I will laugh at them (though I occasionally like the Tom Brown’s Schooldays tone of it).

I know my name is a bit tricky, but please don’t do the following:

1. Assume that your making up a pronunciation is better than asking me how I pronounce it.
2. Correct me on how I pronounce my name. This often happens. The ones who usually correct me? Older white guys, many of whom are university Sinophiles (surprise!). I probably have bastardised the pronunciation, but it’s what I answer to, y’know?
3. Tell me it’s weird, awful, or makes your life hard (makes your life hard?!). I’ve had a neighbour (back in Queensland) tell me that my parents were cruel to give us such WEIRD names. This woman also thought I was the hired help…or maybe a ‘working girl’ (her to me after living next door to us for almost a year: “You actually live here?”).
4. Get angry at me when I have to correct your spelling of it. Most often, people have to re-start and cross out the “Ch…” they started with.
5. Presume I’m a “Mr” (or that I’m necessarily male because I’m a “Dr”).
6. (on the flip-side) Tell me it’s the most gorgeous, amazing name you’ve ever heard. Shyeah.

I’m not precious about my name, and I don’t expect anyone to know how to say it or understand why it is what it is. I think expecting the world in general to be attuned to your particular cultural resonance is a big, vain (in both senses of the word) hope. I also try not to take up too much room on public transport – correlation?

Some folk are appalled that I change my name to something more ‘palatable’; they make me feel like I’ve lost authenticity points. But you know what? I don’t need my everyday to be a constant series of corrections and explanations, a draining and pointless agitation for the sake of another person’s notion of authenticity.

That’s why I sometimes game my name.

I’m not ashamed of my name or intent on ‘whitewashing’ my identity. And just because I’m cool with being “Jen” in an occasional coffee queue? This doesn’t mean “Tzeen”, “Chin” or “Tssen Ko” is ok.

[Oh, the irony of doing a spellcheck on this post + having every instance of my name highlighted as 'incorrect'...]

Something I may not have specifically stated in my last post is that all my reading for the challenge will be in the form of ebooks. I haven’t actually read a hardcopy book since…2009? This is something I’m mildly ashamed of because I have a whole shelf dedicated to the books I’ve received for birthday and Christmas presents, and I know they are sulking. My buddy, Boy Meets Book, knows me way too well and gave me a voucher to buy ebooks for my last birthday. This hardcopy book drought may be broken very soon, though, as one of the presents I received recently was Death Comes to Pemberley by PD James. PD JAMES does P&P! I was a helpless squeeing fangirl at the thought…ahem. So, yes. This James book is begging to be read. I also have Michael Ondaatje’s latest looking accusingly at me every time I walk into the study.

I’ve been meaning to list the possible books I’ll be reading for the AWW 2012 Challenge. I’m happily scavenging recs from the AWW Challenge goodreads group, as well as in the flow of the Twitter streams, so this listing is highly provisional and grounded in authors rather than specific books. My list will include:

• Sulari Gentill (as mentioned above) – Only heard of Gentill very recently, and her first two novels are out. Apparently, she has her 3rd and 4th books coming out this year, the over-achiever!
• Kerry Greenwood – Have read all of the Corinna Chapman series and am taking my time moseying through the Phryne Fisher books. Haven’t read any others, though, and this may well change.
• P.M. Newton – Have had The Old School on my to-read list for a long time – since it came out, actually!
• Tara Moss – Her new book, The Spider Goddess, is recently out. I’ve read every Moss book thus far. I never expected to do so.
• Kylie Chan – The covers of Chan’s books have always made me do a double-take. One part of me sneered and thought, “Orientalist trash!”; another part of me squeed and thought, “Orientalist trash!” First up here, I must state that I haven’t read any of Chan’s work yet so my impression is based purely on the book covers (and we all know the dangers therein…). The intercultural aspects of the novels (and author, it must be said) intrigue me.
• Leigh Redhead – I’ve never managed to read one of Redhead’s books, even though I’ve been wanting to for years.
• ETA: Melina Marchetta – She’s already on my goodreads list!
• I’m much less informed about the area of Oz women’s romance, but am wading around in various rec. lists.

Our family had businesses there. They were ‘family businesses’. They did not do well. Bad things happened, financially and within the extended family. I don’t think I ever got over it.

The Gold Coast to me means cheap’n nasty deals, trashy flashiness, decaying holiday apartments, and areas peopled by the Bill Hunters of Muriel’s Wedding. Surfers, in particular, makes me both anxious and sad.

Which is odd if I stop and think about it because my cousins and I used to spend time in Surfers, at the (then) new and exciting giant kids’ centres, where there was room upon room of computer games and pinball machines! We had a cache of tokens each (the cheesy name of the place is on the tip of my tongue…) and we’d spend hours immersed in the air-conditioned depths.

Asian kids go to the beach and ensconce themselves in a building. With computer games. It’s a classic tale.

I feel like a cliche because I don’t really like hanging out at beaches, or appreciate much of beach culture. Perhaps it feels too loud and confronting. For me, Hell is a crowded summer beach. An undeniable component in beach/surf aversion is my abysmal eyesight. I’ve worn glasses since I was in Grade 8 and – except for a brief dalliance with contacts for a few years – I’ve always worn them and HAVE TO wear them. Without my glasses, I’m almost legally blind. So, the idea of bobbing up and down in the waves and not being able to see whether I’m within cooee of the flags is a long-standing anxiety. I do love the feel of being out in the sea where the waves are swelling; that’s where I used to float with my sibs + stray cousins on the rare occasions when we managed to get out of that giant kids’ centre.

My current experiences of the Gold Coast include regularly staying with my partner’s mother in a retirement village that’s in a suburb close to certain theme parks, but not the beach. The sometimes extreme dynamics of retirement village politics and the minutiae of the residents’ everyday irritations stops being entertaining after about three days. That’s when I start getting kind of stabby and resentful.

There’s a strange pathology among the residents where they declare loudly and constantly that they hate people poking their noses into their business, then they proceed to stand at the window and give you a blow-by-blow account of what the neighbour opposite is up to (who has visited them lately, what was said at that visit…you get the idea). I have started theorising that this kind of common skewing of reality warps one’s engagement with ‘normality’.

For example, normal social (and survival) considerations about how loudly one should talk trash about the very muscular person with the large tattoos who just walked into the fish’n chip shop where you’re trapped and waiting in line. Things like that.

My ideal holiday spot does involve being near deserted beaches and low-key takeouts, corner shops that sell Golden Gaytimes, and no clubs or pubs too close by. All in all, it definitely means not a holiday at any of the Gold Coast stretch.

The last time I read for a challenge was in high-school and I was fundraising for something worthy. I’ve avoided them till now because:

a) the challenges never engaged me,
b) I didn’t like feeling like I was under the gun in my leisure time, and
c) I didn’t quite see the point of the challenge’s outcomes (when it wasn’t a straightforward fundraising read-a-thon-type gig).

So, what has changed?

Well, I’d have to say it’s partly Twitter and its ability to create instant cohorts, momentum, and connections that cut-across so many traditional social barriers. I like the idea of blogging alongside others who are doing the challenge and taking on their recommendations and suggestions. This blogging challenge format has been around for ages, and I’ve seen it used for projects such as book writing (e.g. NaNoWritMo, AcBoWriMo), crafting, baking, and other pursuits, and I’ve always liked peering vicariously at the results of others’ efforts. Thought it was time to step away from the sidelines.

Another reason that’s led me to take up the AWW2012 challenge is that, since I started commuting to the CBD and reading on my phone, I’ve churned through novels at a rapid rate. I read the entire series of ‘A Song of Ice and Fire’ (aka Game of Thrones series) – 5 novels – in an unhealthily short time because I was totally sucked into Westeros. I’ve also discovered Tess Gerritsen, finished all the Corinna Chapmans to date, read the biographies of Tina Fey and Simon Pegg (not to mention Gok Wan and Stephen Fry), consumed The Passage (Cronin) and am most recently reading Zone One (Whitehead).