Monday: I’m on a train after finishing an interview with Radio National’s Life Matters about my book on child protection and adoption. Suddenly, a young man — long hair dyed black, too much foundation, and evidently in need of a shower and change of clothes — flops down beside me, announcing he’s bored and wants to chat.
Fanning himself, flamenco-style, with five takeaway menus, I notice that one sports a yellow Post It Note with the word ‘Probation’. I can’t help feeling like I’ve been caught in a The Kiss of the Spider Woman remake.
My phone rings. The caller and I discuss the RN interview and relevant topics. As soon as I hang up, my travel companion apologises for eavesdropping and starts to tell me, unprompted, about what happened to him in foster care.
He says that Ray, a security guard, and Helen, a school principal, were the kind of people he would want his own children to go to should he ever have kids. This was because Helen used to kiss him goodnight. Because she had done so, he had temporarily stopped wetting the bed.
But when DoCS had sent him back home, his father had “@#$%ed everything up” by molesting him again. His grandfather had known, but hadn’t called the police as he’d promised. Nor had his mum come back, like his father had promised if he “would just let Dad…” He added that this is why he can’t trust men, “which is pretty bad when you’re gay.” I can only agree.
He changes the subject. He says he has an appointment at the Rental Tribunal this afternoon, but is on his way now to his probation meeting. He is late, but hasn’t been able to call ahead because of a problem with a pay phone, but will at least make it this time. Not like last time, when he was so hungover he fell asleep and woke up at “Thornsby”. I correct this to ‘Hornsby’, and he apologizes again — this time for being dyslexic.
We arrive at his station and he gets up to go. But not before yet another apology … for having over-disclosed the reasons “why I am a [derogatory name for homosexual].”
As I watch him depart into his chaotic life, which I doubt is going to get much better anytime soon, it strikes me this is the third conservation I’ve had this morning about child protection — and it’s not yet 10.30 am. But this one hasn’t been about my book; it has instead been about the rawest of raw material … material that is highly relevant to the subjects the book discusses.
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The raw material
Monday: I’m on a train after finishing an interview with Radio National’s Life Matters about my book on child protection and adoption. Suddenly, a young man — long hair dyed black, too much foundation, and evidently in need of a shower and change of clothes — flops down beside me, announcing he’s bored and wants to chat.
Fanning himself, flamenco-style, with five takeaway menus, I notice that one sports a yellow Post It Note with the word ‘Probation’. I can’t help feeling like I’ve been caught in a The Kiss of the Spider Woman remake.
My phone rings. The caller and I discuss the RN interview and relevant topics. As soon as I hang up, my travel companion apologises for eavesdropping and starts to tell me, unprompted, about what happened to him in foster care.
He says that Ray, a security guard, and Helen, a school principal, were the kind of people he would want his own children to go to should he ever have kids. This was because Helen used to kiss him goodnight. Because she had done so, he had temporarily stopped wetting the bed.
But when DoCS had sent him back home, his father had “@#$%ed everything up” by molesting him again. His grandfather had known, but hadn’t called the police as he’d promised. Nor had his mum come back, like his father had promised if he “would just let Dad…” He added that this is why he can’t trust men, “which is pretty bad when you’re gay.” I can only agree.
He changes the subject. He says he has an appointment at the Rental Tribunal this afternoon, but is on his way now to his probation meeting. He is late, but hasn’t been able to call ahead because of a problem with a pay phone, but will at least make it this time. Not like last time, when he was so hungover he fell asleep and woke up at “Thornsby”. I correct this to ‘Hornsby’, and he apologizes again — this time for being dyslexic.
We arrive at his station and he gets up to go. But not before yet another apology … for having over-disclosed the reasons “why I am a [derogatory name for homosexual].”
As I watch him depart into his chaotic life, which I doubt is going to get much better anytime soon, it strikes me this is the third conservation I’ve had this morning about child protection — and it’s not yet 10.30 am. But this one hasn’t been about my book; it has instead been about the rawest of raw material … material that is highly relevant to the subjects the book discusses.
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