Club Politique by Che Tibby

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.

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.

I have the cure to bird flu. Now, because I know there are a lot of scared and nervous people out there, I've devised a seemingly simple set of solutions to the issue of this pesky avian virus, and as a public service I'm willing to share them with you, dear readers.

Oh, and all the googlers who happen to stumble over this blog in a vain attempt to find a cure for a virus that only seems to be killing credit cards just at the moment, read on.

Well, with my infinite wisdom I've noticed the main flaw in the avian plan to dominate the globe. In order to die of bird flu, it seems that you have to:

A: Wait for the only probable mutation of a virus into something transmissible between humans.
B: Get sick.
C: Not get better.

As far as evil plans go, that one's pretty damn lame. No giant lasers, no curled little finger, nothing. But what do you expect from a scheme hatched by chickens?

So, there's a number of points at which we can stop these peckers from getting their plan into action.

Let's start with point A:. As it is, bird flu can be transmitted to persons who spend time in close contact with some species of fowl. Now, I don't know about you, but my only close contact with any type of fowl is usually leaning over it, and about to stuff it in my mouth. That or looking at it conveniently plastic wrapped and refrigerated.

As far as I know, no one has been infected with the virus from eating an infected bird, so that leaves us with one good solution to the problem.

Let's just eat the [cl]uckers. All of them.

Actually, that's kind of a Final Solution, and has no doubt already been suggested somewhere, but I doubt the H5N1 can survive both deep-frying and the Colonel's dozen-odd herbs and spices.

But, failing that, there is another solution.

Just don't get sick.

Seriously. Just don't get sick. IF the virus actually evolves into a form allowing it to be transmitted between humans, of which we currently have no evidence of, then the main answer is to just avoid catching it. Eventually the strain dies out and then sweet as, back to my plan number one. Lunch.

Apparently you can avoid the flu by washing your hands frequently, and being careful about touching your face after touching things like door handles and railings. Simple.

But, there are some people who do get sick easily. So, if bird flu takes off, just lock your granny in the back room with a port-a-potty and a microwave. Flick ready-to-heat meals and the occasional Earl grey teabag under the door and she'll be safe as houses.

And the last point. If you do get sick, then get better. People get fevers to kill the flu. If you get sick, stay really warm, in fact too warm (but don't overheat yourself into a stroke), and take heaps of vitamins, eat REAL lemons, and whinge to your mum.

And bugger the economy. Stay home and watch TV. The economy will recover. The Round Table might become frantic about share prices, but they can go get stuffed.

The thing is, in order to catch the flu, you have to be exposed to it. If the sick people stay home, they can't infect others.

But, what if your pesky neighbours decide to come round and check on you? What if you don't even like them, but are worried they'll turn up to pester you while you're feeling like crap?

Thing is, guard dogs don't work. One slab of gravy beef and Brutus turns into a Chihuahua.

Keeping to the theme of today's blog, there is a avian solution.

Peacocks make excellent warning alarms. And with bird flu out there, they'll scare the piss out of any nosey neighbours.

There's a bonus as well. If you don't like your neighbours, or if it becomes too much of a nuisance, you can always just chuck the peacock over the fence.

Hell, even governments do that sometimes.

Yet another interesting speech this week. Hat tip to No Right Turn, who pointed to this speech By Dr. Michael Cullen subtitled 'Reflections on NZ Politics and History'.

Actually, if you have an interest in reading politics, and are happy to wade through the great number of speeches on the Beehive website, it's a veritable gold-mine of information. Naturally it contains all the spin in the world, and members of the Government of all persuasions talking on all kinds of subjects, but if you can't cut through that kind of stuff you're probably not an authentic politics geek.

Anyhow, Cullen. I thought I'd bring this speech forward for your consideration. Mostly because I think it's a subtle but good representation of the contrary viewpoint I mentioned briefly when discussing Bill English's speech.

As I waxed lyrical in All New Zealanders English's point of view can be interpreted as being centred on a future in which the current diverse elements of the population gradually coalesce into a better, more collective whole.

Regarding the Treaty, English was happy to point out to me that he does not consider that we'll all evolve into a 'sameness'. Rather that Waitangi was not a sound pivot on which our future development should turn. Instead, he thinks that we are better negotiating between ourselves, as a nation-becoming, on terms suitable to all. Waitangi seems to kind of 'get in the way' of equitable relations.

It's an interesting perspective that seems, to me, to strongly represent what many people in New Zealand think. And as I said the other day, it is a valid point of view. Flawed, but no more flawed than the contrary POV posed by Dr. Cullen in the aforementioned speech.

Let's face facts. As I was driving at in All New Zealanders, absolutely any effort at nation-building, from whatever beginning, will always run into that inevitable tide called time. All that which we now consider rock will one day be sand. But sweet as, I like beaches.

Naturally I hit English up for an interview for Public Address. I think he's still making up his mind. Any Club Politique reader is welcome to send a VERY POLITE email to his address at parliament and ask that he free up some time for a new project I'm trying to get off the drawing board.

English did however also point out to me that he was interested in sameness in as far as it meant one standard of citizenship for New Zealanders.

This is the idea that creates the greatest connection to Cullen's speech. Whereas both are happy to acknowledge the contribution to New Zealand history brought from offshore, our ancestors of the mind, there is a sharp divergence in the 'imagining' brought by either party to the issue of present and continuous nation-building.

If I sketch with a crayon, Cullen's take is one that emphasises the benefits of biculturalism and continuing diversity, while English's emphasises the benefits of not locking ethnic groups of any sort into cubby-holing.

Now, I know to many readers this sounds more or less like 'warble waffle warble blah', but the difference in the two points of view is absolutely fundamental to the future of New Zealand, and is much, much larger than the contrary positions of the Labour and National Parties.

It seems to me that many New Zealanders are simply confused by what all this race relations talk is all about. More often than not they get on with their neighbours, be they Māori or whatever, and can't understand why politics is getting in the way.

There are any number of specific takes on how politics intersects with race. The key to understanding them though is the way in which power becomes a determining factor in people or groups talking to one another. Who gets to decide whether Māori continues to be spoken as national language, for example? Who gets to exert the power necessary to make that decision stick?

The days are long gone of Māori being told this and told that, hopefully to never return, and both the speeches mentioned here acknowledge that. And we're left with the question of the best way to include Māori in the post-colonial New Zealand we've all become accustomed to.

What I see then are two contrary perspectives about to where the power moves. Does it stay with the minority in a kind of joint-sharing arrangement (biculturalism), or does it brought in from the cold and incorporated into the fabric of the future New Zealand?

In a way, we now have two archetypes for race relations. Two poles between which to build that big slingshot to the future. Hell, I have my own opinions on the matter, but that's a subject for another day.

If you're at all familiar with Wellington, the one thing you'll always recall is the high freak factor.

There's blanket man, who has a surprising number of mates to hang out with on Tory Street. Science guys, if you ever wanted to harvest the gene for 'hardy', go to that dude. Five minutes without a cardy in winter and I have the sniffles. Blanket man? What, five or six years flashing noodle from under that rug? He'll probably be the only one of us to survive the Bird Flu.

Then there's the old codger who plays air guitar and amplifies the sound of himself making up lyrics to almost completely unrecognisable hits. And the two pillows for the "busking" money. What, he makes that kind of racket and is afraid of the sound of coins hitting the ground?

Then there's Kenny, still trying to get his amplifier back so he can croon in Courtney Place. A little moustachioed dude who was just turning into a street kid when I lived here back in the early 90s, still out there, and Mad Marty, a idiot savant who apparently took too much LSD back in the 70s or 80s.

Actually, this guy is pretty interesting. I tried talking to him when he turned up to a party I was at in... 92? Anyhow, he can give you the square root of any number you name, and carries this book full of fractal drawings he's whipped up out of equations he's done.

So, so weird, but so, so cool. All I remember was trying to make sense out of what in the hell he would like to be able to say, if he hadn't fried his frontal lobe in Alice Springs or somewhere (obviously a wee Jesus fixation there, 40 days temptation and all that). He had these eyes that spoke intelligence, but somewhere in there two power points just weren't, quite, touching.

A couple of days ago I saw a new one. It was this woman, average height, but dressed entirely in camouflage. Camo hat, camo tunic, camo trousers, camo ammunition belt, the whole picnic hamper. Like an olive green and tan shadow slipping through Manners Street, blending effortlessly into the, well, grey.

And, it just wasn't really working for her as a fashion statement, you know what I mean? I'm not exactly Yves St Laurent myself here, but damn, what in the hell was she thinking?

And then it dawned on me, and how could I miss it.

Big arse.

Damn that thing was big. Big like two panda bears fighting under a lumpy duvet big.

Again. Camouflage not working.

On a less cruel note. The other hard case situation was heading out of Courtney Place and overhearing a conversation between this young guy, his mates, and two hapless women.

The guy had bumped one of them by accident, and she might have felt his jewellery. Big gold thing, sparkles, the whole nine yards. She turns, sees him, becomes instantly less pissed off, and asks, "What's that?"

He says, "It's my bling".

"Bling?" She says, "What's a bling?"

"Bling, baby! Bling! This ring's worth more than all that... that... Glassons shit you got on!"

Yup. Very bling.

We were livin' large on a No.1 Bus to Newtown.