Broccoli Hates Me

Broccoli, apparently, is good for you. The greener and crisper the better. It’s a message that has been handed down from generation to generation since the magical vegetable was invented. And I actually like it. I can even eat it raw without ranch. How’s that for healthy?

But there’s a problem: bugs. I don’t mind the occasional critter that might have needed a ride to the grocery store. And I might even be able to forgive a broccoli-colored worm that might stroll from the florets after I take it from the fridge. (True story.) It makes sense given the fact that broccoli comes from the ground and all.

However, a recent go-round with a head of broccoli was, perhaps, the most traumatic experience involving food in my life ever. (Followed in a close second by numerous attempts at white fish that end miserably with a pile of overcooked mush on a plate.) At the sink, I washed what I considered to be thoroughly, each little tree. I ran my thumb each one under the water, believing that I had removed all traces of dirt, grime, and random insect in case there happened to be one. And there was one. I caught it scurrying down the stem and smashed it. There went that floret.

And then I took a closer look.

That dirt and grime I thought I saw wasn’t actually dirt and grime. It was a cluster of bugs. Stupid things sitting there waiting to be eaten. I looked at the ones I had already washed. More bugs. A lot more. Clusters of little critters gathered in mini kingdoms replete with a king, queen and little servant bugs all reproducing on top of one another. I picked up another floret and I saw more little kingdoms. Millions upon millions of insects ready to gain entry into my digestive system so they could feast on my internal organs. In a span of 75 seconds, I examined each and every floret that came in the bunch. They were everywhere, invisible to an untrained eye, basking in their green glory.

I was pissed. I envisioned a scenario wherein I’d retrieve the receipt from the trash, put the bug-infested broccoli back in its tainted plastic bag, drive to the grocery store and give the produce manager a piece of my mind after making him handle my produce with bare hands. I would demand an exchange for un-bugged broccoli and remind him that he has a duty to his customers to ensure a bug-free nutrients. (And I don’t care if bugs are protein.)

But I didn’t do that. I tossed it in the trash outside so I wouldn’t wake up to a bug farm in the morning and swore off broccoli for a week. It’s hard being healthy.

Discount carded

I was in the grocery store the other day for the first time since I returned from Australia. Vons in the Valley.

I walked the aisles slowly, eyes wide over the colorful boxes of cereal and seemingly unending choice of Coffee Mate flavors and brands of half and half. The refrigerated section full of ready-to-eat food that I didn’t know could be all that ready to eat was something I didn’t know I missed. And the range of special little healthy drinks and packaged health food was too much, frankly, for me to take in all in one visit. So I meandered, bought some frozen burritos (organic!), pre-cut celery, nectarines, and a six pack of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, among other things, and headed to the checkout counter.

This is where my joy ended. This is where the romantic dream state died. And this is the point at which I was reminded that there are stupid people everywhere that need to be clocked.

At the checkout counter, I waited patiently for a group of five or so people clearly preparing for a party to get themselves into the line, which seemed to be a bit of an undertaking that my glaring failed to expedite. Finally they begin to unload the cart of party supplies. I looked at the gum, wondering if they had the same stuff I chewed in Australia. They didn’t. I selected another brand, which ended up being slightly unsatisfying, but whatever. It’s gum.

“Sorry, that phone number doesn’t work,” I heard the cashier say to the leader of the pack after I selected my gum. “Do you have another one I can use?”

“That’s my number, so no.”

“Anything? Any other number you can think of that might work for this card?”

Now, granted, I came into this exchange late, but, I’m sorry, he doesn’t have another number, dumb ass! The big to do continued, and, in the end, the kids couldn’t get a discount on their groceries, because, as I found out after listening closer, you need a number to prove that your discount card is your discount card.

My turn.

“Do you have a Vons card?”

Sigh. ”No.” I was patient. I was calm. I replied quietly and quickly in order to end our exchange.

“Are you sure?” said the bagger. The bagger. Really? I turned my head toward him.

“I’m sure.”

“Because sometimes it could be some random number that you once had but it will work. Maybe your parents’ number? Sometimes,  you’d be surprised, they’ll have a discount card that they use here.”

I looked at him. My parents? He was busy bagging my stuff, lobbing flippant suggestions because he desperately needs me to save money on my celery. And, apparently, my so-called “parents” have a discount card that I could be using right now to save this unbelievable amount.

“No,” I said in the same tone, though I looked at him with only one eye from under a raised eyebrow.

“Would you like to sign up for one?” asked the cashier and not the bagger.

Tag teamed. God damn it! I could only muster a head shake.

“You would have saved on two items by now,” said the happy, rather smug by now, bagger. Are you fucking kidding me?

This time I looked at him, with both eyes, and said nothing to him as he continued foisting my goods into bags. I thought about their Saturday morning staff meeting wherein the head guy tells the staff that registrations are low and they need more names and numbers. More people to (prostitute) offer deals to!

I was finally allowed to complete my transaction and leave the store. When the day began, I wasn’t the biggest fan of grocery shopping, but I gave into nostalgia so that I might buy beer. From now on, I will only go to stores with self checkout.

Mother

Many years ago, people told my mother not to have me. But she insisted (her choice) and welcomed me into the world two weeks after I was due. None of it would be easy for her.

She didn’t know, for instance, at the age of 22, what it would be like raising a mixed-race kid as a single parent, having to fend off continued implorations to give me away. And then there was me. I had a bit of an attitude problem, feeling often that I should get what I wanted. It was quite simple, really, and I didn’t understand why she couldn’t see it the way I did. Such suffering I had to contend with as a two year old. Get thee to preschool, she said then, and off I went, shy as hell and clinging to her polyester pant leg.

It can’t have been easy fending off my persistence. “Just let me have one more,” I’d say, wide-eyed with my pointer finger between us for emphasis. I’d follow my pleads politician-like: “I promise I will be good.” She knew better most times. And most times I flashed my smile and there was no getting around it.

My mother has struggled with her own demons – from practically the beginning of my life through to now: alcoholism (sober for 15 years); epilepsy; a stroke when I wasn’t yet in high school and resulting paralysis from which she would recover. One health issue after another, all while trying to raise me.

I had questions she didn’t know how to answer, but she tried the best she could. And I presented her with other challenges that confounded her, such as my hair. It grew and grew into a thick mass of cotton-ball-like madness, and it didn’t come with an instruction book. (Class photos from 2nd to 8th grade can attest to this. After that it was my fault.) And she made me wear dresses. Perhaps to get back at me.

But through it all, she showed me love. She put me into sports before I could add, and gave me paper and a pencil. There were the Dodger’s. M&M’s on New Year’s Eve as the crackers fired to Dick Clark. A train ride to visit the grandparents in Texas. And that time she called me back home when I was halfway to the bus stop when I was eight, so I didn’t have to go to school (shhh).

That’s my mom.

My mom and me in a dress. The torture!

I also have a Tan, that name a bastardized form of Aunt Ann. Though not related by blood to neither my mom nor me, she gave of herself to see me through, perhaps at the detriment of her own family. The reason wasn’t my smile, which I’d prefer to believe, but rather the size of her heart, crazy though it might have been.

She missed some of my early years in order to get her own family started, but she returned, quickly managing with a frustrating-to-me sense of ease to say no a hell of a lot more (and louder) than my mom did.

She worked her ass off for reasons that I’ll probably never know to help keep my mom and me going. She was there when my mom went into the hospital for weeks at a time and all the while made sure I was at school with my homework done and food in my belly. All with not much money to go around.

She didn’t have to do any of it; sometimes I wonder why and wish I could give it all back to her. But she’s never asked for that.

That’s Tan.

Tan on the left, forcing me into Mickey's good graces. The torture!

Without one I wouldn’t have been born; without the other, I wouldn’t have survived.

I love you both. Happy Mother’s Day.

Tan, me and my mom two years ago.

On stupid things idiots say on television

I realize the Winter Olympics have been over for a while now, but I don’t think it’s ever too late to write about some broadcasting doings that occurred up there that unwittingly thrust Australia into yet another spotlight over the existence, or not, of its cultural couth. It wasn’t as big as the Great Black Face Debacle of 2009, but, nonetheless, stupid things have been said.

Australia’s Channel Nine, winner of the chance to broadcast the festivities in Vancouver, sent a guy named Eddie McGuire with the commentating team. Aussie comedian Mick Molloy went, too. In hindsight, Channel Nine might be thinking, it was a mistake. Or maybe not, as the case may be. I will admit to watching only about 25 minutes of the Olympics in total: 20 of them were the opening ceremonies while on the cross trainer at the gym and five were while buying a sandwich at lunch.

During a competition break from the men’s figure skating competition, McGuire and Molloy, after watching a video of Johnny Weir’s performance, engaged in what they considered to be witty banter that went a little something like this:

Molloy: “They don’t leave anything in the locker room, those blokes.”
McGuire: “They don’t leave anything in the closet either, do they?”
McGuire then described one competitor’s costume as “a bit of a Brokeback”, referencing Ang Lee’s film about gay cowboys.
“A bit of Brokeback Mountain exercises – you can’t wear that,” Molloy responded.

McGuire (courtesy: The ABC)

A pretty pathetic exchange at the very least, but, unfortunately, not surprising. What is surprising, though, and probably much more pathetic, was the sentiment in a quote I read from a media analyst who said Channel 9 was “giving what it thought viewers wanted”: ”It’s childish and homophobic but unfortunately that is what works on Australian television. I think Nine wants Eddie to be controversial because that’s what will get viewers.”

Ah, Australia. Homophobia and childishness are only some of what is coveted by the channels competing for the eyeballs of Australian viewers. Good to know.

And then Gary Burns, a gay rights activist, filed a complaint with the New South Wales Anti-Discrimination Board, saying the comments incited hatred against gays. That didn’t go over so well, but it did keep the story in the news a little longer. I followed the drama to see what, if anything Channel 9 might do, but while they remained silent, others didn’t.

I read a commentary, written by a woman who stated up front that she has gay friends and family and, because of that, would be “the first to bristle at any homophobic comments.” She pretty much said that gays should just get over it, as “this banter didn’t press any of my buttons.” Well. As long as it didn’t press your buttons. She writes:

All that McGuire and Molloy did was assume Weir was gay and make a few blokey comments along those lines. If that’s a crime, then most of Australia would stand guilty as well.

Psh. Yeah. That’s all they did. Those silly blokey blokes and their hyper-masculine comments. They were commentators doing their job of commentating. Of course. Apparently, then, they had every single right to disparage the Olympian because of his clothing. Australia, you can’t blame these guys for saying what is obviously on everyone’s minds.

In fact, you’d have to be particularly thick not to pick up the gay vibe that Weir has gone out of his way to give at the Vancouver Winter Olympics, where he’s competed in heavy make-up, and wearing a self-designed black bodice trimmed with pink ribbons.

Thick! That “gay vibe” Weir was giving off clearly reverberated in high definition throughout the land down under eliciting comments much more damaging than anything that could have come from McGuire’s and Molloy’s mouths. It was a veritable verbal ping-pong game between “most of Australia” and McMolloy. Yeah! How dare Weir wear what he wants. And how dare anyone be offended when people make what are obviously comments anyone in their right mind would say aloud. Thick!

But she finally gets down to the nitty gritty and figures out who is to blame in all this. Why, it’s the “thousands of gays they’re accused of offending.” She who hath gay friends and family continues:

So if making the link between Weir’s flamboyant costuming and gayness is the real crime, then who has most trained our brains to commit it? Er, step forward the gay community. You only had to look at Saturday night’s Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras parade in Sydney to get some idea of where this stereotype might have come from. Talk about spangles.

Not the spangles! Yep, it’s our fault. Shows such as Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and Will and Grace (yes she cites them) are pretty much responsible for the homophobic outbursts of McMolloy and their ilk. If the gay activist who filed a complaint, she wrote, “is really upset by people assuming others are gay from the clues they freely give, then why doesn’t he sue the Mardi Gras dancers for promoting and pandering to this stereotype themselves?”

I’m at a loss as to what to think. When it comes to race and sexuality, and it seems just about very many other social issues, Australia gets a little weird. I won’t go into the black face debacle (Surprise! Channel Nine), because having to explain to intelligent left-leaning people why that was offensive still baffles me. It’s a generalization, of course: Some of my close friends are Australian, and I bristle at suggestions the lot of ‘em are ignorant. But being told I’m “being too sensitive” over this issue pisses me off. They had the ears of millions of people, albeit nowhere near the U.S.’s, which had an average daily viewership of 24.4 million (Australia’s population is 21,262,641). As Burns said: ”These two men were not out in the backyard having a barbecue with their mates, they’re on national television. They’ve got responsibilities to the broadcaster and to the NSW anti-discrimination act.”

No, there were no outright slurs condemning gays to the depths of Dante’s Inferno, but their comments are situated on a continuum. It starts with this, a seemingly innocent jocular exchange at the expense of a minority group. It continues with aggressive stares and slurs yelled out of car windows in the dead of night. It continues still with beatings and gang rapes. And it ends in deaths of gays, murdered because they’re gay.

All they had to do was leave Weir’s outfit out of it.

Catching a cab home from work

When waiting till the (sort of) last minute to write a feature article for your February issue that has to go out the next day, staying a little later than usual at the office can be called for. Also, when President Obama does his State of the Union address and everyone in your home country has already watched it and you couldn’t because you were working, staying a little later than usual at the office can be called for — especially if you don’t have an Internet connection at home  yet.

This is what happened the other night.

First I watched the SOTU. I was the only one on the floor so I was able, without being considered crazy, to yell at the grim-faced Republicans who appeared on my monitor, pissed they were expected to applaud, angry that they were unable, like Chris Matthews, to forget a black man was speaking. Then I wrote my article.

Then, at about 11:30, I left. I had checked the train schedule and discovered that there was track work and I’d need to take a bus at some point. That wasn’t going to happen. So I caught a cab.

The seemingly mild-mannered Australian was quite ecstatic, annoyingly so, but I figured it’s better to have a happy driver so late at night. At this point, though, I was wishing the drive from Chatswood to Darlinghurst wasn’t so long (and it’s not even that long).

He began by introducing himself. “I’m Phillip.”

“Catherine,” I said, shaking his outstretched hand — the other one, thankfully, having been on the steering wheel.

“That is the name of my dearly departed.”

“Ah, I’m sorry, man.”

“She’s not dead. We’re just separated.”

You know those perfect cab rides? The ones where the driver actually just drives and doesn’t try to endear you to his or her (never had a chick driver) reality? Every once in a while I will get those. But more often than not, I get the ones (from Turkey) who need to stop by home base and get a tie because they’re about to take me to the airport and don’t want to get caught out of uniform. Or the ones who fled Iraq on foot during the Gulf War and ended up down here. I usually ask questions and end up quite enjoying the conversation.

And then there was Phillip.

Probably not a good idea to get glared at by a skin head

To be fair, he very well could have been a wannabe skin head: blonde buzz cut, baby blue eyes, probably showered that morning but didn’t look like it. Who can know? Far be it from me to judge.

Now anyone who’s spoken to me at length about homophobia and racism will have undoubtedly heard of my own experiences walking down a street, no matter the country. I am quite aware of the intolerance that abounds in society, and I have been known to go on about the potential aggression behind the stares and glares I meet every day. But I also seem to forget specific examples, choosing instead to lump them into some kind of generic “I get stared at every day.”

I have a feeling I’ll remember this one.

I was walking down the street, as I’m wont to do on the weekend and during every other part of the week for that matter, in Kings Cross on my way to get a bottle of Pinot Grigio. I was stopped at a red light standing at what they call here the Cross, the intersection at the top of William St. and Kings Cross Rd. On the other side of the street was the guy I’ve just described.

The light turned green and we both stepped off our respective curbs. As we approached the middle of the intersection, our eyes met. Locked would be a good word, too. He wasn’t looking away, probably because he wanted to intimidate me as best he could. And I didn’t look away, at first, because I didn’t want him to think I gave a shit. But I was bored of being the object of his stupid “I’m going to kill you game” that he played with his eyes, so I unlocked mine from his and began looking at his clothes. A quick up and down, which I’m sure he saw under the bill of my Von Dutch cap.

When I finished scanning him, I looked back up one last time. His eyes. He was angry. And as we got closer, the daylight probably the only thing keeping me safe, his eyelids seemed to clench. Can eyelids clench? A substitution, perhaps, for his fists. And we passed right next to each other.

I’ve now lived in three major cities: LA, NY, and Sydney. Never before have I felt as out of place as I do here. And that is saying a lot, given the fact that no matter where I go I am along with scores of others, because we live in a heterosexual society, out of place. (Or was this a race or gender thing? All of the above?) I had this bright idea last week to find the smallest Outback town and stay there for a week by myself. Do a little sociological experiment. This despite my experiences here. Since this afternoon I have begun to reconsider that idea.

I happened to be in a decent mood, so I’m not feeling particularly angry about the situation. Aware of the danger I put myself in if I were to walk outside at night by myself, however, is what I am. I rarely give any attention to the person post look. I trust my instincts and much more often than not I don’t feel threatened. But this time I imagined being caught off guard with a blow to the head or something worse. So I turned around a couple of times in the minutes after our encounter just to make sure he wasn’t watching me.

I bought the wine — a bottle from Tasmania. I’d like to see Tasmania someday. Though I suspect it’s just a series of small towns. Can’t be any worse than the big town I live in now.

Moore on Capitalism

I headed downtown to the CBD after work at the beginning of the week to take in a screening of Michael Moore’s latest cinematic gem, thanks to the Australian chapter of Democrats Abroad. The film, Capitalism: A Love Story, is a good one. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, and you’ll furrow your brow and clench your jaw in anger. This is because, while we were all privy to the ins and outs of the money wizards and their doings last year, there are some things that we don’t know. Really.

Moore presents certain historical facts as a backdrop to the current economic state, and thus is able to produce a narrative of an economic rise and subsequent, and necessary, fall that could have been avoided. And we all know what happened. Somewhere along some line it became common practice to disregard the people’s best interest. It’s easier to hook a person who is in poverty. They won’t fight back or raise their voices lest The Man come down with a heavy hand. Or so some might think.

There are those who remind us that, even though our voices might feel small, they can sound big. One of those voices manifests itself in films. Capitalism: A Love Story very necessarily tells the story of our current economic state. It tells us about the people that put us there and the back-room deals that have kept us there. But it also reminds us who we are. And that, if we so choose, we have a voice to use. Just like the voices the Chicago factory workers used to protest their sudden layoff without pay. The family who forced their way back into the home they had been evicted from.

One of the features of the film that resonates the most is the people and these stories. Pushed to the limits of their bank accounts, where do they turn? What must the feeling be, knowing that the people who put them in that situation were nowhere near struggling for their next meal? Moore reminds us by turning the camera on the fighters or those who are finally sick of taking it, that it’s we, the people, who have the power. The power of a vote. The power of a voice. And he reminds us, though he doesn’t need to, that we rocked that power last November.

Now while it’d be pretty easy to blame the banks and the last few presidents and the rich people alone, that’s not entirely fair, as the film manages to point out. Was it only capitalism spun out of control? Not necessarily. Perhaps it’s what capitalism breeds.

About a year ago, I edited a chapter to be submitted to a book about narcissism. We discussed some of the broader issues she raised in the chapter about narcissism, which mainly touched upon the acquisition of goods. Part of that discussion was about narcissism being some of the cause of the economic situation. Gotta have that house. Gotta show everyone that I’ve made it even though I can’t afford it. I’ll just use credit. I’ve done it, though I don’t own property. I’ve got student loans I’d rather not think about and credit card debt because of careless spending when I didn’t know any better. Or, rather, when I knew better but that didn’t matter. I wanted the watch. And the music. And that other watch. And the clothes. Spend, spend, spend. We’re all complicit in this. Unfortunately, some of that seems is innocuous. The pursuit of the “American Dream” isn’t illegal. Short-sighted and without merit, perhaps, but not illegal.

These are the things on my mind after having seen Moore’s latest. So see it. Talk to friends about it. Argue with friends about it. And maybe now we can do a little collective learning from the past and present.

How I Accidentally Published Myself

Seriously. I’m published. Razed.

It was an understated event. I didn’t throw a party. Oprah’s producers weren’t blowing the ringers off my non-existent agent’s phone for an appearance. And I have not had to reject masses of autograph seekers in crowded auditoriums. I’ve only told a few people, and four of them have purchased 10 copies, which means $33.40 in my pocket. So how did I accidentally publish myself?

The tale begins in November 2007 when I took up the challenge to write 50,000 words in 30 days for National Novel Writing Month. I made it to 50,000 but the story wasn’t finished, so I took it to about 56,000. It took 26 days. After I saved the document for the final time, I closed it and, though I thought about it every once in a while, it remained closed.

Then in October 2008, I, along with all the other “winners” — those who reached the word-count goal — received an e-mail telling us that a company called Create Space had agreed to print, for free, proof copies of our submissions, or books. While I didn’t necessarily think obtaining a proof copy would cost a crazy amount of money, I’m a fan of free. I had six months. I’m also a fan of deadlines. Six months would be plenty of time to rework it. Add some chapters to fill in some holes. Develop the characters a little more to give them some more depth. Make the setting more of a character than it was, which would put it more in line with what I originally intended.

Five months later, I finally got going on the first draft, which I wrote in 26 days and hadn’t read since I closed it more than a year earlier. Then I got a job. For a minute, I even gave up on the idea. It’s just a proof copy, I said to myself. Technically, I could take it to Kinko’s (or whatever the Sydney version is) and get it into some type of book form. That was just for a minute, though. Unfortunately, my lack of motivation, or fear, or insecurity, or laziness, or whatever it was that prevented me from taking a real stab at it, meant I only had time for a read-through.

Finally, with one day left before my six-month window closed, I went to the Web site to begin the quick and easy process of ordering my proof copy. Yeah, right.

Ninety minutes, three versions, and two days later, I finally succeeded. I had to design three different covers, search far and wide for a suitable-to-me cover picture (turned out to be one I took), and settle for a really poorly written description. But my submission was finally accepted. And as a part of all of this, I had the option of selling it on Amazon.com.

After going through all that, there was no way I wasn’t going to put it online for sale. It’s $15. I get $3.44 for each copy sold (or something like that). And I’m published. Sort of.

I finally got my free proof copy in the mail. I saw my name on the binding. On the front. I flipped through Razed, stopping at a few randomly selected sentences — three, to be exact — cringing at all of them. And why wouldn’t I: 26 days; no editing.

But then in some strange display of maturity, perhaps influenced by the fact I couldn’t do anything about it, I didn’t seem to care. I cringed, yes, but I wrote the poorly constructed sentences, which contained metaphors as lofty as hot-air balloons on a summer’s day. Really. And I accepted them. It is, after all, my book. If I can’t accept my own writing, then I can’t expect other people to.

I got a taste of being published — my name on a book and all that. It’s actually pretty sweet. And I want it to happen again. But next time, I want someone else to do it for me. And I want Oprah’s people to call.

My ‘Silly’ Accent

I made it about 15 months without having any conversations about my accent. But now that I’ve got a job and am encountering more people every day, the conversations and comments have tended to come quite regularly.

From this, I have learned one thing: Australians will go out of their way to avoid insulting a Canadian.

There are a few different beginnings to the conversation I generally have about my accent, but I will use just one example, as I believe it best illustrates my point.

Aussies: Yoouu’rrrrree …….????

At this point, the Aussies know I’m American. They just know it. However, it is also at this point they recall the unpleasant feeling they experienced when they came right out and asked a similarly accented individual if they were American. There is clearly some sense-memory activity happening here beneath the surface, because they seem to wince a little inside. But there they stand with their heads slightly cocked, hoping desperately that I will intercede.

Me: American.

Relief. “I knew it,” they might be thinking, happy they were right (albeit on the inside), suddenly nodding confidently. It is now when the exchange starts using more words, as they explain their hesitation.

Aussies: I thought so. You just never know, though. You’ve got to be careful when you ask someone if they’re American. I can’t tell you how many times I have asked a Canadian if they’re American. They do not like that. Oh, they get so upset and offended. Did you know that? So I don’t just come right out and guess anymore. It’s dangerous.

By now, there is no holding back. The conversation has careened off the track of my accent and Americanism to the dangers of ruffling Canadian feathers. I listen because there seems to be a lot of emotion in the issue. I smile because it’s funny. And I don’t take anything personally, as the Aussies continue to discuss the grave mistake of suggesting to a Canadian that he or she is American.

And then there was the time a guy called and said he thought I was someone else putting on a silly accent.

You sort of insulted me just then, I told him in the light-mannered tone in which I meant it. He laughed a little before admitting that he hadn’t really realized it till after the fact.

They love us down here.

About That Complexion Issue

I recently (as in a few months ago) applied for and received a Queensland driver’s license. I put it off as long as I could, mostly because I don’t drive here regularly and also because I thought I’d have to relinquish my New York license. But I finally started going through the motions of filling out the app and was stymied by a question: What complexion are you?

I skipped it. The information is not important. Not only that, but I really didn’t know how to answer the question. It wasn’t multiple choice. I had only a line with space enough for one word and not, as I would have preferred, a few lines for, say, a couple of sentences to describe it. So…light? Dark? A little of both?

With my application filled in (except for that stupid question), I hoofed it to the Queensland Department of Transport and waited about 10 minutes before I was called to a window. By now I had forgotten the complexion question and was instead filled with dread at the prospect of having to take a driving test: written or otherwise. You see, back in the day when I was 15 and a half, I took the written driving test. Three times. And the driving driving test? I passed, but I had forgotten my permit, much to the chagrin of my shocked driving instructor who drove me home when it was all done. (At the time I thought he was just giving me a break. No.)

So I was relieved to find out that I wouldn’t have to be tested. I simply had to choose how long I wanted the license to be valid for and pay for it. But not until she scrutinized my application through a seemingly permanent scowl, which I watched closely in order to detect a flinch that might signal a problem with my application. And then I remembered the issue of my complexion.

I looked back to the question to find that she had filled it in for me, because, clearly, this was not a topic for discussion. That is when I found out (finally!) the answer to that complex question. That is when I found out that I am of medium complexion. Medium. Ah-ha! The word never came to me during this process.

I walked out of the office after 30 minutes with a really cheap license (think Blockbuster membership card) and the answer to my complexion issue. Medium. But I was and still am baffled.

What purpose does it serve the Queensland government to know that they just granted a license to a medium-complected American with Australian residency? The race and ethnicity questions on American apps are aggravating enough, but at least there seems to be reason in it. The issue of one’s complexion, however, is just plain stupid. If it’s political correctness they’re trying to achieve, they fail miserably. It’s being too careful. And I wouldn’t think it yields any useful data.

Medium. It’s as stupid as saying I’ve got a tan.

Updated:

I decided to look up the word “medium”; I can’t be bothered to include all of the definitions, so I will cite only the adjectives that might refer to complexion:

1. About halfway between two extremes of size or another quality; average.
2. (from the late 16th century just for fun) originally denoting something intermediate in nature or degree.

Lame, Queensland.