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Today I'm feeling the effects of the earlier part of the week. Some of it is physical, but some is emotional. Some of the emotional I can talk about - and it will quite possibly get me in trouble. It has before.

Lots of people around me are using 'white' as a generic term for all kinds of different people and in each and every case the term is linked with lack of experience of racism. 'Whites' do not suffer from people hating them for their background, it seems. Coincidentally, in class yesterday, a student was asking about the Shoah and we talked about the Dunera boys.

When we were discussing stones being thrown at Jews in Australia, someone said, "You mean that as a metaphor, of course."

I was flummoxed. Later, Mum said "You should explain about the security system the Jewish Museum has to have to save its stained glass windows," but I was thinking about people. I was thinking that the throwing of stones can happen in Australia.

Eventually (after maybe three seconds) I found myself replying, "I've only had a stone hit me the once." The stone hit my glasses and bounced off and caused much blood, for it then hit the side of my head*. That 'much blood' led to a complete cessation of stone throwing at me during secondary school, for which I am very grateful. My sisters apparently have never had stones thrown at them (or if they have, they've not admitted it) and my nephews have experienced eggs rather than stones. All this was in Melbourne, centre of Australian multiculturalism. It's why we have defamation laws and why the Jewish community has had more recourse to them than most: violent prejudice is not solely concerned with skin colour.

Apparently, though, no-one throws stones or molotov cocktails at Jews, even when they do, for we are white. Or they have not done so for so many years that no-one in living memory has suffered (just over ten years, in my case). And the Shoah is not evidence of prejudice.

All this has arisen this week in more than one context, and is the chief reason I'm grumpy. It doesn't help others who suffer much worse racism than I have to claim that my life experiences are not true because of the colour of my skin. It's perfectly possibly to fight racism without hurting others and diminishing what has happened to them.



*Or there may have been two stones. As the target, all I know was my glasses being hit and then my temple and then there being an inordinate amount of blood. I was very lucky that this was the 70s and my glasses were plastic.

(no subject)

I just realised what week this is. I always get miserable on the days between the secular anniversary of my father's death and his yahrzeit. I have a candle for Monday and when that has burned into nowhere, I shall be my usual self. Until then, I shall be thinking about him a lot.

I was, in fact, remembering him without looking at the date, which just goes to show that some things are engraved deeply onto us. The comments about racism have been going on for weeks and I have sensibly thought about those who are hurting now and how the hurt causes them to make those comments and trying not to worry about it. When I miss Dad, though, everything becomes personal.

On his birthday, I tell bad jokes, but now, alas, I just wish I could chat with him. He had a long and painful death and it was a relief to see him free from the cancer, but I will always miss him.

What was my father like? A bit like me; a bit not like me. Like me, he really enjoyed the company of people. He went overtime with his appointments and with messages for there was always someone interesting to meet and to chat with.

His intelligence was more with his hands than with his intellect. He was bright, but not good at exams. He was one of the best dentists ever. This is not my view - it was the view of so many people. Patients would travel halfway across Victoria to see him and be referred to him when they couldn't take treatment by anyone else. He failed his final exams, though, more than once. He was always very surprised when I did well at exams: his mind wasn't the right shape for that sort of test.

If he loved something, he would hide his affection quite often behind sarcasm. He'd claim to sleep through music (which he did), but he also attended every concert he could, even when there wasn't much money for anything.

If he was proud of something I did, he never told me, but his patients heard about it incessantly. At his funeral I discovered all sorts of half-strangers knew stuff about me that I hadn't realised Dad cared about. Some of them still ask about those things when I run into them, half a lifetime later.

I didn't actually inherit his sense of humour. My natural sense of humour is gently ironic and still appears from time to time. I miss him so much though, that from the moment he died I started making puns, for puns were one of his favourite forms of communication. As a result, his sense of humour has become welded irrevocably onto my own and he's always with me. This annoys some people, which would have delighted Dad no end.

He made his morning coffee in a saucepan, and it was Turkish. A mug full, to get the day off to a proper start. I suspect it was one of the very few habits he got from his father. I shall make myself a mug of Turkish coffee right now, and drink a toast to him.

(no subject)

I've finally got my act together. The first section of the day was about bits of work and now I have a list (of course I have a list) of what must actually be completed by tomorrow night. It's not a long list, but it's a very solid one, containing some big items and two rather recalcitrant ones. About the only thing I'm guaranteed between now and tomorrow night is not to get bored!

In a totally unrelated thought (it came up while I was checking bibliography) I want to warn some people against diatribes targeted at writers who are self-published or who set up family firms in order to be published. This practice is not new. One Samuel L Clemens, in fact, set his son-in-law (I think it was his son-in-law) up. It wasn't only Clemens' work that was published, but still, it demonstrates that the structure of the firm doing the publishing is not necessarily an indicator of the quality of the published books.

This is yet another reason why we need robust criticism, of course, for we need to be able to judge books on their own merits, not by the family affiliations of the publisher.

For my next trick, I shall wend to the ANU and teach my students the openings of novels and maybe a couple of other things.