Nice white ladies

Well, I really gave and got a cracking example of white privilege and entitlement on my latest trip to Centrelink a week ago.

Let me just backtrack briefly to my latest podcast obsession: it’s called “Nice White Parents”, and if you’re a person of colour, it’s really going to grind your gears with recognition, and if you’re someone like me, it’s going to make your toes curl involuntarily with recognition . But more on this later.

Anyhoo, I had an appointment with Centrelink at 10am, to finally provide them with the identity proof I needed for my carer’s payment for Dad (God rest his soul). Unfortunately, after staying up until 1.30 that morning going down a Poussey-Washington-rabbithole (don’t ask GF), I emerged from my coma at 10.30am-whoops!

I’m not too chipper in the mornings anyway, so first I thought about phoning them to let them know. It took me a while to remember that contacting Centrelink anytime is as likely as locating Peter Dutton’s heart, so after about 10 minutes on hold I thought it might be quicker to just jump in the car and head down there.

So, I got to the front door where a jolly Father Christmas-type doorman asks me if I’ve been over/seas/east/in contact with anyone with Covid etc etc, so I naturally just start banging on to him with the whole rigmarole of missing the appointment, I’m late, I’m a ditz yada yada;  cue charming, voluble white lady hoping to ease her way into the maw of hell that is the Centrelink office.  He kindly directed me to a check-in counter, where I started the routine again-I don’t have much of an indoor voice, so pretty much every poor, damned, desperate soul in the joint had heard my puerile excuses by the time I finally took my seat to wait. Oh, this was AFTER I had asked him if I would have time to go and pick up my bike from the bike shop.

No lady. You’re ONE AND A HALF HOURS late for a scheduled appointment. How about you sit yoursel’ doon and wait your turn?

Actually, that last bit I said to myself. The man at the counter had vaguely said “sure, if you like”; but fortunately I had already had the chat to my inner Karen and sat down in my socially distanced chair, to try and wait like I should have been doing since 10 am .

Next minute, a small Asian lady comes out the front and whispers “ Rhys….Rhys?”. Now this chubby ol’ white lady ain’t gunna stand for no whispering, and hell, we’re all busy important people here, so naturally, out I roar in my best, bossy, white lady voice RHYS??!!!!

Jeeeeeesus….even I could immediately notice how easy it was for me to channel the people in the Nice White Parents podcast, and I can tell you, my motivation wasn’t  just to help out the lady. No siree, it was clear in that moment that nobody but me could run this darned show, youse are all just lucky I’m here! !  It was freaky hey.  So then Father Christmas steps in, to see if he can find the elusive Rhys, drawing a blank as well, but not before he had walked up to the only Aboriginal person in the place, a middle-aged man, neatly dressed in a charcoal suit jacket and jeans,  to triple check that he was not, in fact,  Rhys…

Mate.

 I.Know.What.My.Freaking.Name.Is.

Only, of course he never said this. He just calmly told the bloke what his actual name was, before continuing to sit quietly in his chair.

This may all sound a bit ho-hum to you;  like, apart from me being a bit loud and annoying, what was the problem with my jumping in like that?  (I’m hoping that you can easily see what the problem was with the doorman approaching only ONE person in particular to check that he knew what his name was.)

The problem was not my natural extraversion and loud-mouthery.  I could have been a highly extraverted person of colour in another life I guess, but therein lies the problem.  In that case, my loud voice would have been perceived not as leadership, but nuisance; and more likely, threat. I opened my mouth, knowing implicitly that my loudness was going to buy me attention, service and results. I was not going to be pinged by anyone for taking over. I wasn’t going to be seen as entitled, or uppity or aggressive.

And guess how long it took me to be seen by someone?

6 minutes.

When I left, my mate in the suit jacket was still sitting there like a stale bottle of piss.

Figure that out if you can.