Club Politique by Che Tibby

I think quite a bit about what it's like to grow up in a small place. The expectations people you know place on you, and the way in which all your actions have these unforeseen consequences.

It's a bit like a weird cross between the butterfly effect and Chinese whispers. Every time you bump into someone in the street it can lead to another person you know repeating the things you've said, or done, back to you through the filter of half a dozen conversations.

To be completely honest I got the hell away from that kind of place pretty much as soon as I was able, but the memory of being an unwitting part of a larger whole, an inseparable part, remains acute. And it's a strange memory because while I'd like to think that I was at the centre of that community, the truth is that circumstances left us at the periphery.

Regardless, if you've ever been really close to a group of people, you'll know what I mean when I say that angst of separation from a community abides. Whether that community is an extended family, formerly unknown kith you tie yourself to in a big city, or as simple as the guys you regularly have a beer with, losing that tether to a wider group is never a gentle transition.

The difference between my situation and that of someone who is forced into separation is that I chose to walk away from my hometown. And we all own our choices, right?

I suppose the answer to that one is, 'usually'.

What makes me think about the need to leave though is that my gut told me I had no other real choice. If I was to ever achieve any kind of happiness, then escape was the only other option. It was a simple as stay and never grow, or leave always wondering about what could have been.

And wonder I do.

I wonder mostly about the people I've left behind over the fifteen years of wandering, and if they really understand why it was that I was driven to keep moving. I wonder if they truly understand what it was I was doing 'out there'. Hell, I wonder if I knew exactly what it was I looked for.

But in a way, that's the part of the human psyche we all struggle with, the uncertainty that our actions are taking us away from the comfortable and known into territory dangerous and disconcerting. There's times though when change is the only thing we want to embrace, times when the stupor of day to day life threatens to collapse you beneath it's weight. Times when just the act of acting out a life you feel you've never wanted stands astride of you, pushes down on your chest, suffocating.

I saw that fate waiting for me at nineteen, bailed, and never looked back. Or never until very recently I suppose. Why in the heck else would I leave the much bigger city for Wellington?

Even then, it's choice I made of my own volition, because my need to return to New Zealand finally far outweighed the desire to stay away.

And that's the core of the issue I suppose, the way in which so many opposing forces pull us to and from the places we see ourselves in, and the repercussions that follow. I've seen times when others I know have had to make that decision in circumstances far more fraught than 'moving out of home', times when the separation is more agony than angst.

Surely they make these decisions for reasons their own though? It doesn't make the space they leave behind in the community they've separated themselves from any less tangible, be that community kith or kin, but it says something about the gravity that has drawn them away from that place.

It also doesn't make the Chinese-butterfly-whispers-effect any easier for the departed, but reasoned understanding of what it was that drew people out of your circle, or more precisely what it was that prevented them from staying, would provide comfort to both you and them?

Because maybe, just maybe, a reason can fill the space they left. A reason that can in time squeezed out when you welcome them back. Because if an empty space is there, then surely it means the community you both know all too well is surely missing them, and wants them back?

And because if you know they belong where an emptiness crouches, then perhaps you should let their place itself travel with them, because to do otherwise would be to lie to both yourself, and them.

Do a drama next? Please? I can sell you a great script...

One of the great things about being about being near-completely directionless for the better part of your life is the range of jobs you end up working. And there's been a few. More than a few in fact.

Worst job? Hard to say really. Auckland Co-Op Taxis was shit. Gardening was mostly shit. Tauranga Milk Factory was pretty bad. Picasso Café in Auckland was bad. So, so many mice. Damn I hated having to dispose of tiny carcasses every day. Kitchen handing at retirement homes wasn't crash hot. Anything to do with Kiwifruit wasn't great either.

Regardless, and whinging aside, the one thing every job has in common is a boss. And bosses are something I've been thinking about lately. God they can be assholes when they choose to be. One of my favourites was a café in Auckland where every single day, just five minutes before lunch, the boss would freaking lose it. Why the hell the guy was in service is beyond me. Dude... you knew that people were going to be streaming in the door at twelve, why the same shock every day?

Fact is, way too many think they'll retire from the rat race and 'open a café'. The number who subsequently 'close a café with a substantial loss' is a fine testament to naivety.

I learn from that experience that 'knowing what you're in for' is the number one requirement for any job. If you walk into a workplace with the wrong kind of expectations you're due for a rude walk-up call.

Some bosses on the other hand have been actual mentors. The trick I learnt is that all any decent boss wants to do is hang out with the team. In fact, it's one of the markers I look for in a workplace. If the boss is just slightly aloof, so as not to appear like they're trying too hard, but still just slightly 'one of the crew', while not giving away their persona of authority, then the workplace will probably be good.

It is true that being a boss is a lonely occupation. The careful balancing act between being and not being one of the team is something I'd not like to try without a few more years on me, and a much greater understanding of the way people think.

Regardless, the things I've learnt from good bosses range pretty widely.

A gentle, well-directed word has twice the effect of a screaming rant.

Preparation for the day ahead, both mentally and in actual planning, is the key to a happy workplace.

Knowing what customers and collegues will ask you for, however crazy, is essential to always staying on top of your game.

Always hold something back. An employee surprised and admiring of your 'action to save the day' will stay loyal.

Never appear to know more than you actually do, if you don't know, say so. You can always employ someone who does.

Let your employees know that you appreciate them. If this means summoning the occasional tear of joy at staff functions, terrific.

An employee might cut you with a knife or scald you with a litre of boiling water. Unless they meant to do it, don't lose your rag. Just take the piss out of them for at least a week. Maybe two. Depends on how bad the injury is.

On the other hand, we've all had to deal with the little Napoleons of this world. The power hungry little men or angry sisters. The obnoxious fat bastards. The petty, grabby, vain, obtuse or insane megalomaniacs. The anti-social ones who were forced to open their own business because they never learn to play well with others. The manager-built-into-their-own-fortress (and who uses it as a safe haven to torture his minions). And the worst? The tight-fisted thieves who'll work you like a slave, then short-change you on pay or conditions.

And my advice for dealing with the difficult bosses? Deal with them as little as possible. Sorry, that advice is a little lame, but hey, every situation is so subtly different. My own answer in the past has been to simply split. I'll give 110% to a decent boss, and more if they're actually some kind of mentor. But if I'm dealing with a raving fool, a manipulative son-of-a-bitch, or outright dickhead, then I either down-tools or start planning my exit strategy.

Maybe the general answer is to treat that nazi boss as a teacher as well? I know that the biggest idiots have made good and positive contributions to the way I think about and approach other people, if not only as an indication of how not to act!

After all, life is too short to suffer fools gladly.

I've been looking for an angle into this blog for about an hour, and I just can't seem to find one. Maybe it's the lack of beer. Who knows?

In a flurry of, "crap... that's a definite beer gut..." I gave up the amber fluid except for weekends and social occasions, and bought a packet of herbal tea. I already regret it. Herbal tea is delightful and all, but... beeeeer...

Originally I was on the verge of a little rant about Treaty politics and the need to recognise that Māori do have a distinct place within New Zealand. If you're the sort of person who just plain doesn't like Māori, or thinks that Māori culture has no inherent value, then it's highly likely that you oppose recognition of Māori distinctiveness.

But, frankly, I'm just not up to it today. I think I pretty much said it all there. No value? No Māori.

Regardless, it still gives me the shits that people continue to question the place of Māori in New Zealand. No, 'shits' is the wrong word. It exasperates me.

Let's put this one in context. I'm not the biggest fan of Ranginui Walker. Back in 96 I went to ask his advice about an issue I was struggling with, and he pretty much just looked at me like a big cracker, gave me nothing, and shooed me out the door. That said, I'm beginning to understand his concerns about recent entrants to New Zealand.

One thing I thought a little 'radical' back then was his concern that immigrants, South Africans if I remember correctly, would not value Māori, and agitate against hard fought gains. It saddens me to continue to see evidence of this happening.

I've struggled with this idea for years, and my predisposition towards always thinking the best of people has made me want to think that time will bring people closer to the New Zealand I grew up in. A New Zealand where biculturalism wasn't a lip service paid by bureaucrats, but was the simple act of knowing who you're speaking to, and knowing who deserves respect.

By way of example, in the house I grew up in, visitors were paramount, and it's a value I practice to this day. Visitors to my home get the food from my plate. They get the most comfortable bed I can offer them, even if that means I sleep on the couch, or worse, the floor. They stay till they wear out their welcome. They have fresh towels in the morning, and I switch off the lights at night. The art of hospitality is a virtue all too poorly practiced in some quarters of New Zealand, and all too rarely.

Crap.

I'm in the middle of the rant I said I wasn't going to have... is giving up a having a quiet beer a bit like giving up smoking? All 'bear with sore head' behaviour?

Anyhow, to make a long story short I'm just plain fucking sick of it.

I'm sick of white people one generation removed from a horde of Coronation Street watchers whinging "but I'm indigenous". Just keep believing that one, it won't make you any less white, but bloody good on you.

I'm sick of recent immigrants trying to stake their claim to belonging by sticking it to Māori. That competition for the bottom rung of the ladder bullshit has got to stop.

I'm sick of well meaning white liberals trying to force a misconceived, half-arsed version of indigenous culture down the throats of Taranaki rednecks. People, those dickheads are never going to learn. Let's just concrete over parts of Wanganui and start again.

I'm sick of petit bourgeois Māori screaming 'racism' every time someone questions some dodgy bastard using 'Treaty rights' as an excuse to feather their own nest. A crook is a goddamn crook.

I'm sick of white people living in white enclaves in the whitest cities bitching that 'there are no real Māori'. Go spend a weekend in Ruatoria, asshole. Hell, go spend a weekend in the freaking Upper Hutt to get you started.

I'm sick of racist snobs using smart talk to justify their want for assimilation. Prof. Jeremy Waldron, that means you. Piss off back to Columbia University and goddamn well stay there. You are officially New Zealand's own Germaine Greer. And a word to the wise, I've seen first year students at two Melbourne Universities taking your arguments to pieces with ease.

Look, I was in Otaki visiting relatives no more than a month ago, and sat in a room where the only person who couldn't kōrero was yours truly. Ever felt like an idiot? Try having three year olds looking confused (and slightly bemused) when you can't understand their miniature vocabulary.

Meanwhile I hear hypocrites singing Po Karekare Ana, and mimicking the Waikato haka, whenever they step outside the country, only to have them scream 'One Nation' every time the subject of a distinct Māori society is brought up at home.

Those three year olds are one small part of the future of New Zealand, and you'll take their culture, but try to deflate the tools they'll use to drag that culture back from the brink of extinction?!

AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHH!!!!

fuck..... anyone have the number for AA?

As I mentioned the other day I've very recently taken up full-time employment in the Public Service. I had been occupied in a number of short-term contracts prior to my current employer, [prominent financial institution], but this is my first 'grown-up job' since finally giving up on academia.

Now, seen as there has been a bit of a kafuffle in the blogsphere recently I thought I might share my own approach to handling the main issue getting between me and this keyboard, the Public Service Code of Conduct. And hold on there State Services Commission employees!! I'm not about to take this one to task, I just thought that I've dish out a little advice to aspiring and current bloggers who might share my employment in the State Sector.

The first thing you all might need to know is that Che Tibby is the name on my birth certificate. If one more person suggests I changed my name to be more 'hip' or 'left', I'll have a freaking aneurysm. What this means to the real world though is that I don't get to hide behind any stupid pseudonym. But it also means that any of the stupid things I might say are likely to end up being brought before my bosses.

And there's the crux of the issue. From what I gleaned in reading about the blogger who recently lost his job, it looks as though he said some venomous things about his workmates and bosses. From my experience with dealing with the Right Wingers in the blogsphere, this is hardly surprising. Some people are just born idiots.

The rule I like to apply in my personal life is this: I do my utmost to never, ever say something about someone behind their back I wouldn't have the brass to say to their face. If you've heard from somewhere that I've said something about you, if it's true then I'll say it to you in person. And I extend that rule to the interweb.

So, if you aren't prepared or able to front up to your workmate and call them a frickin' tosser, then WHY IN THE HELL ARE YOU PREPARED TO PUT IT IN A BLOG? That makes you either a coward, a petty gossip, or a munter, your choice.

OK, the Code of Conduct. Pretty much the first thing I did when I got the full-time job was to make an appointment with my manager and let him know exactly what it was I had been writing. As it was I had it confirmed that I had been turned down for one job specifically because of Club Politique, so I wasn't prepared to have it become an issue at my new place of work.

Also, if you have a blog of any profile at all, make sure you put a big mention of it in your CV if you intend to continue writing to it. It would be a foolish workplace indeed that tried to reprimand you retrospectively for something they must surely have taken into consideration when hiring you.

That said, the Code of Conduct establishes a very, very clear obligation for you to not bring your workplace into disrepute. Moreover, it also states explicitly that you are not to use the access to information you gain as a Public Servant for either personal gain or to embarrass the Government.

Naturally you're only human, and the Code deliberately leaves room for you to freely express your opinions and to participate in the political life of New Zealand. But, as was pointed out to me by a radio personality this past Sunday, the inability of Public Sector employees to directly criticise the Government of the day does effectively act to constrain a large number probably well-educated and informed citizens. So before you go making fully frank observations about things you might not be entirely happy with, think very carefully about the trade-off you've made.

Although the Code does prohibit a certain degree of outspokenness on the part of Public Servants, it's something necessary for the Government to maintain trust in the fairness and impartiality of the bureaucracy, whatever the party in power. And again, it doesn't mean you can't participate in politics, it just means you don't get to be a radical idiot about it.

Now, despite the seemingly widespread opinion that I'm some sort of communist, that opinion is wrong. I am a liberal. I believe and practice the liberal values of freedom of speech, freedom of expression, freedom of association, and perhaps the core tenet, absolute freedom of choice. There is one more, collective responsibility, but that one starts to slip towards philosophical communitarianism, and we don't have time for that argument.

And how do I reconcile these values with surrendering some of my ability to speak openly? Because I made the choice to do so. No-one held a gun to my head and asked me politely to become a Public Servant. Much like the trade-offs in freedoms we all make to belong to society, trade-offs like taxation, limiting anti-social behaviour, and acceptance of majority decisions, the trade-off in being a Public Servant is that you have to curb your more extreme opinions.

[Prominent financial institution] has been very tolerant of the minimal public profile Club Politique provides me, and in return I have agreed in writing to three main constraints. Firstly, I will not represent any of my personal views as those of my employer. Secondly, I will not bring the Government of the day into disrepute by my actions. You could also kind of call that one 'just act with a little decorum'. And thirdly, pretty much the moment I get a position with the word 'Senior' in the title the dream is over (because at this time it will become very difficult to have my words not construed as government opinion).

OK I hear you say, if that happens why don't you just pick up some stupid pseudonym and start somewhere else? Because that path is a haven for assholes. Does the world really need one more slightly deranged and/or disaffected apparatchik spouting bile?

Anyhow, I hope my take on the matter has been helpful. If you are looking to become a Public Servant just remember to keep everything above board, and you should be right.