When Michael Met Mina (14 page)

Michael

Andrew, Carolina, Li and Kahn have been visiting more frequently since Dad's return from overseas. I've been coming home to find them sitting around the dining table that's been converted into ‘organisation headquarters', discussing strategies, media campaigns and policies with my parents. They're all convinced that
Don't Jump the Queue
will deliver them a national profile, which could transform them from an obscure organisation from the suburbs to a movement that people could take seriously – maybe even, with enough members, transform them into a political party.

Nathan responded to their presence the way you might react to a sudden infestation of ants in your home. Unsettled and put out, he tried to get rid of the invasion with his own version of Mortein. That is to say, he threw a terrific tantrum at dinner and told them all to go home.

When they all left, Mum and Dad had a long and patient chat with Nathan. My help was enlisted. Nathan eventually came round to the idea that the house will be a flurry of activity as Aussie Values gets bigger. The compromise was that the ants would be contained to certain days of the week. And the rules around PlayStation time would be relaxed. I'm pretty sure that was the clincher.

I arrive home from work tonight and find Andrew and Carolina in the family room with Mum and Dad. I'd forgotten it was a designated Aussie Values evening. Andrew sees me walk in and asks me to help them update the organisation's Facebook page.

‘Michael's
brilliant
with technology,' Dad boasts. ‘He's always had a unique way of being creative and seeing things from new angles.'

Genuinely chuffed, I grin at him. ‘Thanks, Dad.'

I give Mum a look as if to say,
See, it might not be so bad
, but she just shakes her head and signals with her eyes not to open the topic.

I show Andrew a few tricks with the Facebook page. He wants me to upload some memes he's taken from the English Defence League website, but as one big collage so he can use it as the background picture. I play around with one of my programs and start to insert the memes into a single image. I start to read them as I transfer them across. A sick feeling lodges in the pit of my stomach. I realise that I'm seeing the memes from the point of view of somebody like Mina.

I feel conflicted and dirty, helping Andrew out. I fiddle around a bit more but the feeling gnaws at me. I pretend that the program crashes and lie and tell him I'll work on it overnight.

*

‘As in Q for Queen – sorry?' I say at work, leaning back in my chair to look up at the ceiling. ‘Huh? Q for
cube
. But cube is with a C. Yeah, it is. I'm pretty sure I know how to spell cube. Okay, right. Next. A for apple.'

Finally. Progress.

‘Next. N for
what
? N for envelope?' I want to pull out my hair. ‘Okay, you know what, this phonetic spelling thing isn't working. Just tell me your surname and I'll figure it out myself.'

I get through the call quickly. All that torment for a thirty-dollar donation.

Anh, who's always pacing around the call centre hoping to catch one of us out, hovers near me, eavesdropping. He doesn't even make an attempt to be discreet.

‘Yes, we're collecting money for guide dogs. No, the money goes towards training. Oh, are you okay? Excuse me, sorry . . .' The woman is crying on the other end of the phone. ‘Sorry, have I struck a raw nerve or something? Are you blind? Oh, sorry, I didn't mean . . . yep, sure, I'll put him on.'

Reluctantly, I wave Anh over. ‘She wants to speak to my supervisor.'

I've been forewarned that this is the most annoying outcome of a call. Anh's impressive death stare confirms it.

He takes the call.

He calms her down
and
manages to get a fifty-dollar donation out of her.

I don't understand. He has zero people skills with his staff.

‘She wasn't blind,' he says, giving me a cold stare. ‘Her dog died recently. Notice I finished the call within time. That's because I pretended to care about her dog dying but didn't give her a chance to tell me all the sorry-arse details. Toughen up or they'll have you by the balls.'

He walks off.

I figure I'm sounding too young on the phone and that's why nobody's taking me seriously. So I fake a British accent (because who doesn't take a British accent seriously?) and sure enough the money starts rolling in.

*

The house buzzes with a frenetic energy. There's something in the mood that I can't quite put my finger on, until it hits me one night as I listen to them deep in conversation over a dinner of Thai takeaway. This one time Dad took me to a house auction up the road from our place. It feels like that now. Like they're all bidding furiously, except it's not to buy a house, it's to stake a claim as the
most worried citizen
.

Andrew raises his worries about the economy and Carolina bids with her worries about multiculturalism gone too far. Li jumps in, worried about border protection and too many Asians buying real estate, and Kahn meets him with ‘Australia's turning into an Islamic state' and ‘the government's given up on the “battler” '. Mum's worried that Australia is being bullied by the UN and it all swings back to Andrew, who's worried about Africans on welfare. As for Dad, he's worried about recruitment numbers. In other words, I think, they want more members to worry with them.

I can feel their anxiety, the way it travels through the room, like some kind of mobile energy, touching one person and then moving on to the next.

I watch them, fascinated and enthralled, as I slowly eat my pad thai.

Kahn suddenly sits up straight in his chair, drops his spring roll onto his plate and beams out at us all. ‘I forgot to tell you, there's been some gossip about a new Islamic school opening out in Jordan Springs.'

Dad considers him carefully. ‘Really? Jordan Springs?' He looks surprised. ‘They've reached as far as there?' He shakes his head.

‘I'll look into it,' Mum says.

Andrew's livid. ‘If we can get enough grassroots resistance, we might be able to wake people out of their multiculturalism coma,' he says gruffly.

‘Medically impossible,' Nathan declares in a bored tone. ‘You can
induce
a coma, but you can't
wake
somebody from one.'

The way I feel now, I'm beginning to think that maybe, just for once, he's wrong.

Mina

Irfan's brother, who lives in Pakistan, is losing his battle with cancer and so Irfan catches the first flight out. Baba hires a casual chef in the meantime but I step in to help out too. The
News Tonight
program hasn't affected business. We're just as busy as usual. Paula was right. The program ran, talkback radio picked over the scraps like vultures over a carcass, and then everybody shifted their hysterical what-is-Australia-coming-to? panic to the next target.

Last night we finished up late at the restaurant. Baba tried to persuade me to go home early but I insisted on staying back to help out. I wake up early to finish an assignment, and go to school on three hours' sleep. I'm paying for it now, dozing off in class, doing that embarrassing head-bopping manoeuvre that you better hope nobody catches on their phone. Paula nudges me in the side during first period.

‘Oi, wake up,' she hisses. ‘Ms Hamish is on the move.'

My eyelids are heavy. I yawn and shake my head to try and wake myself up. I get through class thanks to Paula, who prods and pokes me whenever I start to fade out again.

‘Don't forget
Don't Jump the Queue
tonight,' Paula tells me when the bell has rung and we're walking to our lockers.

I grimace. ‘Sadomasochism on a weekday. Just. Great.'

*

I'm in a good mood when the last bell rings. Ms Parkinson was impressed with my work in English and read it out to the class. There's a spring in my step as I head towards the school bus zone.

As I turn the corner of the main gates I almost collide with Michael.

‘Oh, sorry,' we automatically say at the same time.

I continue walking in the direction of the bus stop. I can hear his steps close behind me.

It's painfully awkward.

He must sense it too. ‘This an okay distance for you?' he calls out cheekily.

‘Yep,' I call back.

His persistence amazes me. I remember his Facebook wall. He's out of his mind if he thinks I can ignore it all.

‘Just a warning,' he says from behind. ‘I'm gaining on you, but it's only because I've got longer legs.'

‘Oh, this is just ridiculous!' I stop in my tracks and face him angrily. ‘Do you seriously think we can be friends again? If that's even what we were before?'

‘I'm curious. What's your apology quota? Is there a certain number of apologies before you accept?'

‘So how's Aussie Values coming along?' is my response. ‘Gaining more
comrades
?'

‘Yeah, great, we'll be taking over the country soon. All fifty of us.'

‘Oh, too bad,' I say. ‘You need to vamp up the campaign, Michael. Go picket a halal kebab van or reclaim Vegemite or something. Oh, maybe
Don't Jump the Queue
will boost your numbers! Exploit refugees for votes. Impressive.'

Chastised, he stares at me.

‘What do you want from me?' I say, wearily. ‘I don't get you. Why are you even talking to me? I represent everything and everyone you and your parents stand against.'

‘My parents aren't bad people, Mina. There are all kinds of people in the organisation. They're not responsible for every member.'

‘Maybe not. But they're on the ugly side of a debate. That's enough for me.'

‘I'm not exactly the best person to explain their policies, but they're not racists, Mina. They're not white supremacists like some of the mob you hear about.' I stare at him blankly as he blusters on. ‘Just the other day they were telling me about how they believe in diversity.' He then tells me a story about asparagus soup. I don't know whether to scream or fall over in hysterical laughter.

‘So let me get this clear, Michael. Australia is a big bowl of soup and Aussie Values is about protecting the asparagus from an overzealous pepper or cardamom pod?'

He shifts from foot to foot, practically writhing in agony under the weight of my gaze. ‘Look, I'm beginning to realise I don't necessarily feel comfortable, even agree, with everything they say.' His voice falters and he looks away. I'm about to respond but then he flashes an angry look at me. ‘You know, I get you've been through hell and back but you could stop being so goddamn pig-headed and actually appreciate that we don't have a choice about who we're born to, or where. This is me, okay? I'm white and my parents started Aussie Values. I'm sorting through that, and it's not easy thank you very much, so it would be helpful if you quit acting so bloody condescending and superior.'

I see red. ‘You want
me
to make it easier for
you
to confront your privilege because God knows even anti-racism has to be done in a way that makes the majority comfortable? Sorry, Michael, I don't have time to babysit you through your enlightenment. The first step would be for you to realise that you need to figure it out on your own!'

I storm off and just make it to my bus, a rising pressure building in my chest. I blink back hot tears, determined not to let anybody see me like this. I feel ashamed of myself, allowing somebody like Michael to affect me so strongly.

*

The nightmares return tonight. I'm trying to save Hasan from sinking in the boat. I swim towards him and make it in time. I grab him and suddenly we're sitting on the shore and I'm cradling him in my arms. My chest explodes with happiness and I look down at his face. But the baby I'm holding is faceless. I scream and scream.

Michael

I play hard at our game tonight. I'm unstoppable out on the court, raging at myself and the world. Mina's words are like blades that keep on slashing through me every time I recall them.

I arrive home that night to a full house. Jazz music is playing from our sound system, the usual Aussie Values' devotees are over, sipping wine, nibbling on a spread of fancy appetisers.

Mum notices me first and grins at me. ‘Jump into the shower quickly, honey, and then come down to watch! It starts in half an hour.'

A wave of nausea rushes through me.

I can't even enjoy the escapism a long shower offers. Nathan has been sent to bang on the bathroom door and demand I hurry up and join everybody.

‘Okay!' I holler.

I get out of the shower, dry myself off and throw on some boxers. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, stare at my reflection. I'm fit and strong. I study hard, get good marks, can code, draw and game with the best of them.
I'm a dutiful son, a good big brother. But suddenly it all feels like a character profile of somebody else. I feel shallow. Because I have no idea who I am or what I believe in any more.

I get dressed and trudge downstairs. Everybody's gathered in the living room, waiting. Terrence calls my phone, but I ignore him. So he sends me a text message:
Cheering you on loser.

I don't bother replying.

Carolina pats the space next to her on the couch and smiles at me.

‘Come on, Michael, sit down!'

‘It's okay, thanks. I'm just going to heat up dinner. I'll be back.'

I heat some leftovers and return, cradling the bowl in my hands. I stand at the back of the room. Mum and Dad are cuddled up on an armchair. Andrew, looking intense as usual, has a notebook in his hands, ready to record his notes so he can write a review on the organisation's website. Nathan is sitting beside Carolina and they're in deep conversation. The others are spread across the rest of the furniture, or on the floor, sipping their wine, munching on their mini quiches and pastry puffs, laughing among themselves. Everybody's relaxed and happy.

Finally the program starts. I cringe as I see a shot of myself with Mum, Dad and Nathan in the opening credits. It will have to be ripped off like a band aid. I'll only be on there in the beginning, when they're building the family drama element to it all, before Dad takes off.

When I appear back on the screen, it feels like the band aid is ripping off skin. I can't stand it, but I can't look away either. ‘
Just because we want to protect our borders doesn't mean we're heartless. There are wars all over the world. More and more refugees. There has to be a limit or we'll be flooded
. . .
yep
. . .'
The camera zooms in on my face then. I look nervous and self-conscious. Then the camera cuts to a shot of Dad in Iraq, surrounded by a group of malnourished kids, some of them grinning up at him, some of them staring blankly at the camera. They're grabbing at his shirt, pressed up close to him. He's smiling down at them, trying to look cool and composed. At one point another group of kids rushes over to him and Dad looks like he's about to lose his balance.

‘See that juxtaposition!' Andrew cries. ‘That's what you call good TV.' He looks at us all, triumphant. ‘Just that shot alone on the back of Michael's excellent point,' he looks over at me and nods proudly, ‘gives me confidence the producers aren't bleeding hearts.'

It's perfect reality TV. Dramatic, shocking, raw, intense. My phone is filled with text messages from friends:
You looked good! Good point you made, mate!
Your dad's awesome!
My Facebook wall has more mixed responses. Some of the more random people I've added over the years aren't impressed.
What about Australia's international legal obligations? Bet your dad would change his mind if he actually had to stay back with those refugees in Iraq, hey? I'm unfriending you, you dickhead.

I watch with bated breath as Dad and the rest of the group are quickly bundled into an armoured personnel carrier and driven away from one of the camps after they've been alerted to a possible ambush. It feels surreal, watching Dad on screen. Watching him try to contain his emotions, deal with exhaustion and fear. One of the other people in the group, Gary, is opposed to Dad's politics, and they get into fierce arguments on camera, the others in the group either joining in, or holding back to watch on. No matter how hard Gary comes at him, Dad responds calmly and coolly, even while he's sitting in a leaky boat, or huddled on a desert floor eating scraps of bread with a bunch of Iraqi refugees. A part of me is proud of the way he handles himself, even if I'm not proud of his politics.

I can't point to where Iraq or Indonesia or Afghanistan are on the world map. Politics here bores me, let alone keeping up with other countries. But something's shifted in me. This must be what living in grey feels like.

As I watch the images unfold on the TV screen, and listen to the arguments among the participants, I realise that I know so little.

And that knowledge gives me hope.