I have written a series of articles that have been light-hearted, nostalgic and often a small attempt at humour.
They do not seem to do well. I wonder… is it because life is so serious, so terribly concerning, so very, very troubling that we nudge levity aside and simply say, “No, I am so busy being worried and angry that humour has no place in my life for now”.
Or is it that we are frightened? We have to be so careful with our words. Everything we say is under scrutiny from the Thought Police.
I am in Australia at present, visiting with one of my daughters. What the hell is going on in Australia and what the hell is going on in New Zealand where we are too frightened to laugh, too frightened to get angry and too frightened to act on our outrage at wrongdoing?
For instance, I rang a government department to report child abuse last week. The parent, who I am assuming identifies as a man, is in sole custody of two wee girls and a young lad. He is of a darker complexion and both the girls are very blonde. His verbal abuse of these little lasses is horrific. I have rung the police. The minute I am asked what the father looks like, what age he is, how he speaks, I am told that it is a matter for social workers because he is not physically abusing the children. It would seem that verbal abuse is not a police matter if that verbal abuse is from the mouth of a chap from a non-Anglo Saxon background.
I rang the appropriate housing department and complained with great caution of course, and was told that it was probably a matter for another department. No one wants to do anything about anyone from a non-white background. Quite what department I should go to, no one seemed able to say.
I try, as best I can, to keep upbeat and find a laugh somewhere in this sea of misery we call life but that is better referred to as existence. I search for things that make me smile, yet my search is becoming more like looking for unicorn horns.
It is not going to happen.
Little girls are being tortured by a father figure who is an angry bastard, a drug addict, a drunk, a desperately unhappy chappie or all of the above. Quite frankly, I don’t give a shit if he is just a tad depressed or a wee bit under the weather. I don’t care if he is a druggie, an alcoholic or a twisted bugger who needs to simply pull his finger out, get a job and get a life. I don’t care about him. I do, however, care about those little girls.
But, from my experience this week, dealing with trying to report this situation, it seems that I made a big error. I told the police, Child Safety and other governmental bodies that the “Dad” was of a shade of grey, bordering on rather dark.
The minute I said this, there was something worse than silence. I was told that perhaps I needed counselling and I was intolerant of cultural differences.
When the murder happens, I wonder what department they will blame?
