My first task on my first shift on
my first day was at 4.30pm on a
stinking hot Saturday. It was to
grab the pool scoop and fetch an
unidentified floating object that
had somehow made its way into
the middle of lane three. Pamela
Anderson would never have had
to put up with this shit. Slightly
dismayed by my stinky intro
to lifesaving, I decided it was
just a setback, and I’d soon reach
my goal of non-stop praise and
lifesaving-based admiration.
I didn’t fare much better on day two.
After politely asking a grown man
not to do backflips into a pool full
of kids, I was not-so-politely met
with the confusing rebuttal of “WHY
NOT FUCK YOU,” which, without
pause (or a comma), meant something
entirely different to what I’m
sure he intended. The fact a grown
man felt he needed an explanation
from a gangly 17-year-old about
why it probably wasn’t a great
idea to violently throw yourself
backwards, spinning through the
air like a drunk gymnast, into a
shallow pool full of unsuspecting
kids, should have been the writing
on the wall for my wave-based
aspirations. But no. Because not all
heroes wear capes, and that place
needed me. Plus, I was pretty keen
to save up for a PlayStation (and I
eventually developed a crush on a
girl who worked at reception).
I continued at the pool for another
two years. And boy, did I see enough
go on in that cesspit of chlorine
to deter me from ever entering
another public pool without
wearing a hazmat suit. I had no
idea what I was getting into, but
after a while it actually became
pretty cool. I met some great people
and made a lot of good friends.
I learnt creative ways to look busy
with a broom at that place, too.
As far as jobs go, it was fairly
cruisy. It involved a lot of standing
around and blowing a whistle
when some little smart-arse would
run on the concourse. It did have
its drawbacks, of course (there
was a lot of poop-scooping), but
all- in- all, it was fun. Even if it
never did live up to my far-fetched,
Hasselhoff-based ambitions.
By
Helen
Razer
- Your ‘first’, they say, is formative.
Your first gig. Your first day of
school. Your first unsolicited pic
of a human sexual organ. These
firsts endure in your memory
and will inform you. If they were
troubling, you may be troubled for
some time. If they were wonderful,
you could be ruined for good.
My wish is that you have enjoyed
a full book of unremarkable
firsts. I hope your first kiss was
forgettable. I hope your first gig
was, maybe, Bachelor Girl, or a
taping ofThe Voice.Ihopeyou
were so unmoved by the actual
experience that your young
consciousness was able to advise
you only, “Well, that was an
inevitable first. Now. Am I hungry,
and, if so, where is my nearest
snack made chiefly of cheese?”My wish is that your first job
was ordinary. You did some stuff;
you were paid a fair wage. You
joined the union; you never needed
much of their help. You were not
scolded, harassed or exploited
beyond the everyday exploitation
of work. And,please. Let it be true
that you were neither inspired
nor filled with great hope.My first paid gig was so effing
inspiring, it scarred me for life.
I cannot rid myself of the optimism
it offered. If you consider this
a great privilege, then you are
yet to suffer the pain that high
expectations almost always bring.
You do not know the disappointment
that follows an extraordinary
first. You do not know a life
that cannot possibly improve.By the time I was 15, I’d started on
the path preferred by so many odd
and awkward girls. You may know
it: dark poetry, green politics, red
politics, faded floral textiles from a
thrift store. The quietest members of
our tribe produce things. They might
write or sing or sew. The loud ones
like me? If they can’t sing – and Ireally can’t – they talk. Preferably
to as many people as possible. Today,
they might talk to an audience on
the internet. A few of them will
still find themselves talking,
as I did, on community radio.I talked my way into the studio,
then I talked some more. When I
was not talking into a microphone,
I talked about talking. In one of
those milliseconds needed not
for talk but to gain the asset of
breath, an older lady, one who
had worked as a radio tech at the
ABC, started talking to me about
something other than talking.“You’re going to learn how to
record and edit. You already
know how to use your trap for
talking. Now, discover how to use
your hands for multitracking.”She taught me basic production
techniques – as well as the lesson:
shut up occasionally and allow the
older, no-nonsense feminist to turn
you into a tougher girl. I learnt
that editing was a great deal of
fun. First, I made ‘experimental’
radio from old recordings of my
baby sister rehearsing her turn
as Fairy Queen in a primary
school play. Then, I got OK at
it. Then, quite obsessively good
at it, in that teenage hobbyist
way. Then, someone paid me a
few bucks an hour to do it.My first-ever paid job was
producing a program made for
the local Palestinian community.
I knew nothing about the occupation
but what I’d seen on the news.
I knew nothing about the Arab
world that was not Western
fantasy. And now, here I was in
a small room, paid to learn about
the immensity of history.It was the best job I ever had.Never undervalue the ordinary
‘first’. More generally, never
undervalue the ordinary. The days
when nothing worth remembering
unfolds are the days you may enjoy
more fully. You don’t have the little
historian in your brain reminding
you: remember, remember. You
won’t have a past with the habit
of eclipsing the future.writers’ piece