Poverty porn

Yesterday we were going to stage a poetry reading, but went to TTP instead.

On the way back we cruised the outer suburbs, where the grass is yellow and the speed limit climbs to 80, and manufacturing towers reach upwards on the northern horizon.

I work out there sometimes so I know the geography pretty well. It was a bit like tourism, five eastern suburbs kids crammed into a car, staring at the wildlife. I felt a bit queasy, like I was betraying all the good, decent people I’ve met out that way since I started at my job.

Alice Miles called Slumdog Millionaire poverty porn, but this was the real thing. Nobody meant it seriously, but that was half the trouble to me. We watch two little boys thwack tennis balls with cricket bats, while dad and grand-dad sat on low lying fold out chairs, stubbies in hand, or the toothless mother leaving her five year old sitting on the burning sidewalk while she dashes into the street to check for the oncoming bus. I don’t know about anyone else, but I was quite desensitised to the tragedy of it. I was safe behind my car’s tinted windows and locked doors, free to drive the kilometre or so back to tree-lined inner suburbia, Cibo coffee etc etc.

Still more perplexing is that word, tragedy, because what do I know? They could all be quite happy and may well be a lot better people than I am. And THEN, I run the risk of elevating that life to some place of impossible privilege, unreachable to me and my private school diction and Country Road wardrobe. Where do you strike the balance, between sympathy and apathy and respect and girls from Greece who think that poor is cool?

Anyway, poetry readings. Let’s get to it. I’ll bring the Neruda.

P.S. Bjorkent, you are a persuasive fucker.