‘You are privileged.’ My friend smacks me in the face with this statement. I had been extolling the virtues of travel and sagely explaining that all young people should take a year to see the world. My ever-blunt friend (quite rightly) reminded me that this isn’t a possibility for many people. They may have medical expenses for themselves or their family, debt, or they may have to support their younger sibling’s education. To travel is a luxury.
My childhood memories revolve around a lively large wooden dining table where my sister loudly shared her experience falling asleep on a tram and only waking up once it had reached the Ascot Vale depot, or my grandmother spoke in gibberish to make us all laugh, or my father wittily dropped puns. It was a happy childhood and I am very aware that it was a rare gift.
I used to think that I was lucky, especially when hearing about turbulent childhoods. I still feel lucky but I have also come to realise that there aren’t better or worse lives, just different lives.
I was speaking to a friend recently and she spoke about her experience growing up in an abusive household. She shared deeply about her mother (who didn’t love her) and her father who would hurt them. I found myself admiring her strength and resilience when she explained how she completed a university degree and escaped with her siblings to live in a different state. She is now married and supports her younger sister (who has a disability and lives in shared accommodation). Her ambition is to support offenders to reintegrate into society.
* * * *
On the fifth floor of a commission flat near Footscray we’re delivering soup and sandwiches to the residents who live there. We do this fortnightly and sometimes there are a lot of volunteers, allowing us to visit the flats. Knocking on each door bellowing ‘soup van’, we find this door is tentatively opened by an elderly Maltese woman.
We gently talk about the weather as we pour the soup.
Shyly she tells us that she will be watching the football tonight.
As we leave she tells us we’re the only people she has spoken to that week.
* * * *
I answer the phone at work and hear a friendly, engaging voice on the other end. We talk about the upcoming Kids’ Camp program and he asks if there is space for his kids. Usually I don’t answer the welfare calls (as they are attended to by our call centre) but I stay present and talk with him. He shares that he has eight children, all under the age of 15. He tells me that he supports them on his own, as his ex-wife has left and is struggling with psychosis. He tells me that he can only maintain intermittent work due to the arthritis in his knees and the young age of his children. He explains the struggles of living in the outer reaches of Melbourne due to the high cost of living in the suburbs. He asks me to return the call tomorrow as his phone plan only allows for incoming calls. He needs a break.
I manage to connect him with the local St Vincent De Paul conference. We find a place for two of his kids on our camp and four of his kids on another camp. As I hang up the phone I hear the constant cacophony of ringing in the call centre.
* * * *
William is sitting across from me in our hostel room in Bristol. Tomorrow he will enter rehab for his alcoholism. His mother paid for him and he arrived in Bristol last night. He’s spent the last of his money on wine and has snuck into the hostel (having heard me playing guitar). Initially he told me he lost his keys but after chatting he shared about his addiction and his fear of sleeping another night on the cold wet streets. He explains that the moment he wakes up he starts drinking to numb his chronic anxiety. He shares a sandwich with me and asks earnestly and honestly whether, even if he does become sober, people will ever accept him? He then asks me whether I will tell the staff about his squatting. I ask whether he is violent, he says no. He wants to know so that he can leave with dignity (rather than by force). I tell him I won’t tell them. Later that night I return to find him deeply asleep.
I can still see his tear-filled eyes as he fearfully asks me, ‘Will they ever accept me?’
Michael Walter has volunteered for many years with the St Vincent de Paul Society and currently works for them supporting the volunteers who are aged 18 to 35
