Living an awkward life is like trying to open a new box of tissues. You tear off the cardboard but the plastic is being difficult and suddenly your fingers are stuck between the two flaps. “Fuck it” you think, “I’m half way there”, so you continue to fumble your way down towards that holy grail which is the first tissue. Your fingers brush against the soft paper so you try to pull it out, but the stubborn thing won’t budge. Beginning to lose patience, you pull it put more hurriedly, yet somehow it’s stuck inside the box. People are starting to notice that you’re battling a tissue box, and that the box is winning. With one final, mighty tug you stand victorious, the tissue in your hand. Yet alas! What you thought was the tissue is just a small chunk you’ve managed to tear off. And worst of all, now your nose is overflowing with mucus because you’ve taken so long to tear out half a fucking tissue.
Australian. What does that word really mean? I’ve always been fascinated by the concept of being an ‘Aussie’ ever since I realised I was the only kid on the playground with brown skin. I’ve always identified with being Australian; I was born here, I have the same ridiculous accent and prefer wearing thongs over shoes. But ever since I was young I’ve been made to feel like I was different for how I looked. Sure, I’ve had my share of overt racism thrown my way, but what disturbs me more is the more common form of subtle racism. What I’m referring to is the term “They were ‘Aussie’ looking”.