Public Address - Club Politique (Home)

Metics Nine | Nov 01, 2005 15:52

To recap, this series about metics centres on the now thoroughly rehashed idea of national identity.

In a nutshell, my journey started with the question of what it means to try and 'fit in' to a nation? How do we measure our nationality and what it means to us, the odd-assortment of individuals and groups that contribute to New Zealand and environs on a daily basis?

This process almost inevitably leads along a path towards questions of power. Who gets to call the shots about who is, and who is not, and genuine New Zealander? Over the past few 'Metics' blogs I've tried to argue that it's most often citizens of the country who determine membership. The catch in this equation though has proven to way in which this contest for membership is so random.

An email received in the past couple of weeks is fairly instructive.

In response to my suggestion that New Zealand seems to have advanced from the bad old days of assimilating 'the Māoris', a reader wrote an email (and yes, it does happen. Not all blog response happens between alternately slightly estranged and deranged commentors). This email questioned my suggestion, and claimed the example of the seabed and foreshore legislation as an example of a 'pom' telling Māori what they could and couldn't have.

The 'pom' in question is Dr. Michael Cullen.

Now, from reading Cullen's biography he was born in London, and I know his family emigrated to New Zealand when he was aged 10. So technically Cullen is indeed a pom. But, this leaves us with the question, when does a person start to assume the identity of the place they've spent the greater part of their lives?

Within the framework I've been discussing, the emailer's intention was to deny Cullen 'belonging' to New Zealand. The interesting thing is that I've seen this particular emailer claim 'New Zealander', 'Māori' and 'Pākehā' identity at varying times on the interweb, but we'll let that one slip just for the moment. All those identities aren't 'pom' though, which is important.

Again, my main argument has been that identity is never set in concrete. It in fact waxes and wanes, and takes on all kinds of forms, depending on what people want it to represent for them, or what they want to appear to be. Consequently, to the emailer, Cullen is in reality a pom. Dr. Cullen on the other hand, probably considers himself a New Zealander. I dunno.

"So why is this important?" I hear you ask.

It's important because there are ways in which we can all be denied belonging to an identity we all take for granted. And that denial can be used to prevent us all from claiming the right to participate in our democracy.

What the emailer in question was saying is that Cullen had no right to make legislation here in New Zealand because, being a pom, he did not belong. Cullen, after having served 24 years in parliament, was not a 'real' New Zealander. Doesn't that perplex you just a little bit?

It perplexes me. As an example from my own life, I can trace ancestors on both my mother's and father's sides to the signing of the Treaty. You'd think that pretty much establishes my credentials. But no. Because of a quirk of fate, I was born in Sydney, and took up residence some seven months later. Consequently I am frequently labelled 'an Aussie'...

Should I ever be denied the right to speak publicly as 'a New Zealander' because of that quirk, I would be a little peeved.

And there's an ancient word for the odd 'within and not within' status that foreign birth grants people like myself and the good doctor. You guessed it, the word is a metic. Well, technically, metic means 'a partially enfranchised citizen of a Hellenic polis', but try saying that one very fast after a few single malts.

Now, if it makes things a little difficult for me and Dr. Cullen, where does it leave Tze Ming? Or Keith? Or Russell, who I hear was born in a leaky sloop outside the Economic Exclusion Zone. It's rumoured he came bearing a typewriter and telephone, in preparation for the coming of the 'the sacred glowing word-picture information gatelaneway'.

In a way, we could all be metics, only sharing enough ties to the remainder of the nation to maintain an at times tenuous claim to belonging. Each and every one of us threatened with denial of the right to speak to, or on behalf of, the greater whole.

But naturally it's never that simple.

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Hapless Misadventures | Oct 26, 2005 21:34

If there's anything that stops your life from getting boring, it's the company you keep. I know that sounds trite, but when your flatmates are the one thing keeping you from mind-numbing boredom, you know that TV needs a better schedule.

Ok, I'm the first to admit that waaaay back in December/January I was starting to talk seriously about making the transition to living on my own, but the move to Wellington and associated costs pretty much put the kybosh on.

When you step back and take a long look at it, a bloke beginning to approach his mid-thirties shouldn't really still be sitting on the porch drinking Tui and wolf-whistling at 'the ladies'. So I don't. But, I am still sharing costs with three others.

Luckily we're all the 00s equivalent of yuppies, with reasonable jobs in the city, adequate disposable income, a literally brand new flat, and no dependents. Naturally this increases the level of irresponsibility to heights unknown back in the days of student miserliness.

Why just the other day I was attending work drinks beginning at 4pm. By 4.30 my pod-mate, who was setting a cracking pace, had us two pints down, and we were only just beginning. By 8 (or 9?) I have a vague recollection of trying to respond to a very important question from a relatively senior manager.

"Che, what's your plan for the next five years? Do you have a specific ambition here at [prominent financial institution]?"

"Why yes [insert name of manager], yes I do. I've thought very carefully about my role here at [prominent financial institution], and I figure there's only one approach to really focussing one's drive. And that focus is domination, ABSOLUTE WORLD DOMINATION, MUAHAHAHAHAHA. [prominent financial institution] is just the beginning!!"

I figure you might as well hit the ground running in these situations. After that little performance absolutely anything even slightly crazy I do for the next year or so should be very small beer indeed.

Look, I've seen that Leon Rouge ad, and I think the man is onto something. Maybe. Or it could just be I have a habit of saying stupid shit when I'm getting loaded.

Speaking of embarrassing moments, and flatmates, one of the current crop moved here from the last place. We had to get out of that one on account of the landlord wanting to renovate and actually live in the place, or something.

Anyhow, during the clean-up process pre-eviction one of the girls found a box of magazines hidden way to the back of the under-stairs closet. The top layer was merely the occasional FHM and guitar glossy, but she became instantly suspicious, and left the box be.

As I remember it, it was Friday night before she informed us of the presence of the material in question, and chose to tell us after a few beers were being shared by myself and the current flatmate who also moved here. Since the only other guy in the flat was out somewhere, it naturally fell on myself and current flatmate to investigate, concerns about Whitetail spiders being what they are.

Well, we dragged the box out of the depths, after a small diversion involving the need to find a torch of some kind. We used the screen on a cellphone, and lo and behold, you guessed it, porn. Lots of porn.

I don't know who in the hell buried all that stuff back there, but damn... so. much. porn. Shifty bastard.

But, in the interest of trying to identify who the culprit was, we (including the female flatmate) thought we better take a wee lookie to try and isolate patterns. Within 10 minutes the evidence container is on the coffee table, half the lounge is covered in magazines, and we're laughing our asses off trying to find which magazine is the dodgiest.

Which is difficult, because they're ALL pretty dodgy.

At which point the other male flatmate strides into the room. With his Christian girlfriend from England. Who's just flown into the country and is meeting her first New Zealanders.

"Guys! This is [Christian girlfriend]! And this is.....

what the fuck is all this shit?"

Try having that much fun when you live by yourself.

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