'Magnetic Headache: A Type of Love Letter' / Leslie Gurusinghe
Magnetic Headache: A Type of Love Letter
I am the type of person who likes to get into staring competitions with Rothko paintings. Who finds himself at the back of a romance novel missing the point. That thinks Moby Dick is unreadable, and understood less of Dark Emu than he cares to admit.
While it may seem obvious, I don’t think I can blame the countless lockdowns, Negronis, obscure Tik Tok stars or my general lack of exercise for the growing plaque of white noise that is building up inside my mind. I think it’s the inescapable reality that I need to consume mindless entertainment in order to stop myself from thinking. This type of entertainment is decaying my thoughts; a once perspicacious young man, I am now a dullard. I find myself in the strange position of only being able to communicate through sitcom one-liners that I’ve somehow memorized from the late 90s. (I’m starting to wonder if the point of swallowing Tide pods was to help clean out this plaque.) Lucky for me, the combination of existential dread and determination make for good bedfellows.
Australia is an impressionist painting and we’re all drinking out of soup cans wondering why the picture doesn’t match our expectations.
When I was young and well before I was cognisant of internalized racism, artistic merit and Robert Walser - my stream of consciousness was forced into two world views and I’ve been unknowingly code switching ever since.
For those of you unaware, a rough definition of code switching is when a Person of Colour (POC) accentuates certain parts of their personality to be more inline with expectations of white culture (think flag raising ceremonies) or black culture (think 90’s hip hop). A useful adage is ‘too white for the black kids, too black for the white kids’. For People of Colour there is no off switch, the closest we get is dry elbows. Yes, you can try and cover up with layers of Kathmandu to fit in with your white friends but every time the words ‘duck down’ rings in your ear you can’t help but think of Duckworth’s verses on ‘Duckworth’ at the end of ‘Damn’. For those of you forced to code switch everyday, you’ll have understood the above references and for those of you who didn’t - go ask a Person of Colour about K-Dot and how they feel about Kathmandu clothing. If the above reference frightened you, it might be time to leave your cocoon and learn about butterfly culture.
“Australia is an impressionist painting and we’re all drinking out of soup cans wondering why the picture doesn’t match our expectations”.
Due to the circular nature of cancel culture, slam poetry, and Stravinsky's Firebird, I find the need to disconnect more compelling than ever. Entertainment for entertainment’s sake is controlling my capacity to capitulate and compartmetalise my role in the colonizer conversation and all I really want to know is St Kilda ever going to win a premiership? I am looking for representation in the media and slowly starting to find myself. Films like ‘Crazy Rich Asians’ while dubious in artistic merit do a lot for moving the conversation forward. People of Colour can now ask themselves ‘why not me?’ rather than ‘why never me?’ Cultural movements like Hamilton do wonders for giving diverse talent opportunities to work at the pinnacle of entertainment, while still being ‘The Great American Circle Jerk.’
I am complex because humans are complex, and I think we forget that. But it’s worth stating that you probably shouldn’t turn a Jordan Petterson opinion into a truism or base your whole personality around OFWGKTA.
Today, unlike those who came before me, I can reach middle management, even if only to appease the tokensitic appraisal of soft white underbelly institutions. My middle class upbringing in both white and migrant Australia only allows me to succeed in a world as far as I've seen those who look like me succeed. Now thanks to contemporary pop culture television I have the option to be a populist POC personality. Of course, that is, until they remind me I grew up in Ferntree Gully and ask me about my appearance in the movie Fern Gully. Credulity for credibility is just capital!...ism.
Pop Culture aside, I'd like to share something personal. We’ve all had unwanted racist thoughts apparate in our minds, thoughts you would never speak out loud, some may be innocuous and some probably scare you. All the things you’ve thought to yourself about brown people, I've had that vitriol spit in my face. Comments such as ‘your skin is the colour of poo’ or ‘stop taking our women’ or most common, ‘go back to your homeland you Southeastern Asian cat’ (yes, I’ve cleaned up the syntax and language here.) These statements while ignorant and gross are probably more common than you think. Some people in ‘Diverse Narrm’ just don’t get it, they can’t see themselves in others. (Fun fact: Biggie Smalls 1996 smash hit - ‘Big Poppa’, was written about Jeff Kennett.) These people are damp sheets drying in the rain. I can accept stupid because stupid has a capacity to learn, grow and educate over time. What I can not accept is those who stand with stupid.
What hurts me the most isn’t the words or insults that are thrown around in my direction, it’s the self hatred that I wore when I was younger. The harsh reality that the damage I did was from letting myself wlit in the shade, afraid to express myself in fear of retribution. I remember how I stayed out of the sun in summer so my skin wouldn’t darken or wore white tees and long pants to hide my brown skin. (In case you haven’t picked up on it, I'm somewhere between a red Lindt Chocolate and Caligula.)
My head is like mud, a thick mush that cuts corners and colours me from the inside. It moves slowly around my mind and picks up on everything, this mud doesn’t miss a beat. Then when the sun finally shines and dries it all up, all that’s left is fertile soil for the worst thoughts I have about myself to continue to flourish and grow. Australia has tall poppy syndrome and it’s burying us in the dirt, pulling us further down until we forget how to grow together.
It’s fiction that makes me unhappy and I love a sunburnt country.
Australia forces me to live between two worlds and in turn I am rewarded with self preservation and protection, the same way time’s arrow neither stays still or reverses. I'm merely marching forward to whatever ‘hot take’ comes next. Ask yourself, is fire still fire without the heat?
What worries me is that people who are new to the code switching conversation think we are pretending, I assure you we are not pretending. Hamlet spent four hours musing on whether to act or not and people still think he is pretending. Choosing a world full of black, white or coloured would not be an accurate representation of the vibrancy that lives within me or within all migrants. Equal representation will lead to less code switching and create stronger minorities, if that scares you then so be it. Being male, tall, white and handsome will no longer give you an advantage (Sorry boys, it’s time to find a new Hinge identity; and while we're on it, why does the app allow you to select Caucassian? Who’s that for?) Entertainment for entertainment's sake might be the best way to achieve representational parody amongst us all.
I ask you to reconsider your solipsism, the hypocrisy of it all.
Australians’ everyday teach me that an impression is enough, that an impression can make you feel more than the thing itself, that my mind is better mapped in landscape not portrait. That engaging with art and seeing ourselves reflected in it makes us human. Through less code switching and striving for authenticity I am able to create a better sense of intimacy within myself. I'd like to live in an Australia that accepts all aspects of my past, present and future. For now though, the codes still switch back and forth and my happiness is relative to my personal history. Maybe one day I'll be able to switch off completely, and embrace the louche of the southern cross tattoo.
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Indigenous Social Justice Association - fighting to stop Indigenous deaths in custody
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