South Camden Primary School in the eighties had leg warmers, Warwick Capper shorts and Fanta yo-yos.
It did not have anyone at all like George Chung – a new arrival from China with limited English. On a hot morning during PE dance classes, every kid shuffling through the Pride of Erin hid their hands when George came near and a teacher singled me out to be his dance partner.
Looking back, this was probably the first time I chose to be ‘woke’, which is technically defined as ‘attentive to issues of racial and social injustice.’ I was about ten, and it was completely accidental, but it set me up for an approach I still tend to follow today.
Not going to lie, it felt good to extend the literal hand of friendship and waltz with someone so clearly vulnerable and different as George. Altruism has kick backs. Standing up for something you believe in - things others don’t - feels purposeful in a world where there’s a lot we can’t control.
So am I woke? Yep. And happily so.
But elite?
Well, in the truest sense of the word, it simply means to have more power relative to others due to class, wealth, education or geographical location.
And if, like me, you happen to be born into a middle-class suburb, get yourself a couple of degrees and thus the ability to choose your career, make your home in one of the wealthier areas of your state and send your kids to a private school, it’s not really a newsflash: welcome to the elite.
I don’t love being called an ‘out of touch member of the woke elite’ as though it’s a personal slur. I mean, surely it’s helpful to care about big issues and have the time, money and energy to advocate for them?
Of course. But also…
I might have danced with George Chung as a kid, but like everyone else, I also quietly ignored Kylie Riordan. She smelt strange, was rumoured to have nits and lived in a house that flooded. And neither was I friends with anyone much outside my homogenous A-grade classmates.
The more I championed causes like the Forty Hour Famine and talked openly about the need for people to safeguard their souls for eternity, the more ‘different’ I became from those around me. After a while it was easier just to ride that wave and withdraw from the ordinary. After all, wasn’t I on the side of justice? I was. And wasn’t this more special? It was. Hallelujah.
But did this also make me a bit out of touch? It did. And I think I probably still am.
It's obviously good to care, but when that care appears selective, the optics aren’t great. Even today, I wonder how people in my circle feel about my championing "big causes" when they’re just getting by looking for work and keeping their families fed. Could I blame them if they felt like my stances were a bit self indulgent or tone deaf? Could I forgive them for quietly asking “okay, but what about me?”
By any measure, Australia is full of people who consider themselves generous. Average Aussies support sports clubs and donate to cancer research and wildlife rescue; they visit people in nursing homes (or work in them). Most are not unaware of Australia’s social, political and economic problems. They’re often passionate about homelessness, the elderly and youth suicide. They work and play hard.
But they know life is competitive and they often don’t feel like they’re winning. They’re wary about the idea that one group - refugees, indigenous people, LGBTQI groups - deserves ‘special treatment’ seemingly at the expense of others.
This isn’t just theoretical. It’s a deeply felt reality – people struggle.
Okay, it's great that we want people to care about our particular 'big issues'. But when they don't, I wonder how it feels when we label them morally bankrupt, redneck, racist or too stupid to realise they fell for misinformation?
How do they feel when we shout “SHAME!” on Facebook and wring our hands about being embarrassed to be Australian?
I’m not saying immoral, racist and deliberately ignorant people don’t exist.
I just think there are probably fewer of them than we imagine.
Instead, I suspect there are just ordinary people who don’t agree with each other on social issues for a vast number of reasons that we only half understand. Some of those reasons are well thought out and very defensible. Others are probably just a bit lazy and disengaged. But while it might make me feel better to explain their different stance to myself by lumping them all under one convenient banner, surely it makes those people feel mad, disrespected, and even less likely to participate in a debate or accept information from us next time around.
Where does this leave me?
I’m very well aware that the phrase ‘out of touch woke elite’ is straight out of the Trump playbook and has been weaponised to heap scorn on anyone who wants progressive change.
But the idea of an ‘out of touch woke elite’ is also powerful because it contains a kernel of important truth.
For many years, it’s been far easier for me to reach for big labels that keep people at a distance ('racist, uncaring, poorly educated') than it is to examine the limits of my own connectedness, empathy or communication style.
The truth is I don’t really know much about all the different heartaches that keep a whole swag of Australians up at night. Why? Because most of my friends are pretty much like me. We all get our news from the same outlets. We all have roughly similar educations and work in similar fields. We all live in similar areas. (Hello, woke elite Facebook friends: I see you and I love you.)
Even if my friends are not actually as like me as I imagine, I tend to assume that I understand where they're coming from when perhaps I don't.
And we're not good at engaging around differences. It's easier to block someone on social, avoid them at parties and back quickly out of conversations than it is to listen with empathy and curiosity. It's easier to say nothing than it is to gently offer an alternative viewpoint.
The path to change is relational. It’s always relational, and it relies on understanding.
But even before that, it begins with having connections.
Social media makes it easier than ever to choose our networks and sing to our own choirs. Somehow, we really have to find ways to connect with people who are outside our immediate social, political, religious, age or occupational networks.
I'm going to have a think about what's worked for me in developing these connections and write about it again later, but in the meantime - love to hear your thoughts and ideas if you have time.
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