A couple of weeks ago, I applied for another police check through SAPOL, using the same criteria as my previous AFP check — working with vulnerable people. The results arrived in the mail today, and it listed a disclosable court outcome for using a mobile phone while driving.
This contrasts with my earlier AFP check, which came back with "no disclosable court outcomes" for the exact same criteria. You can see my SAPOL check below; I’ve edited out my personal details.
I know it sounds like I’m joking, because in some ways I can see the humour in it. But to me, this is no joke. I have to go for the rest of my natural born life declaring my criminal conviction from 2013, because if I don’t — and it comes up — I look like a liar. On the flip side, if I declare it and it doesn’t appear, that’s probably the safer option.
Apparently, my conviction became spent after ten years of automatically appearing on police checks. I thought that meant once I’d served my time, that would be the end of it. But as I discovered with the Red Cross, it still appears on checks for anyone working with vulnerable people — and then, inexplicably, sometimes it doesn’t.
People say they don’t care. But they do. I’ve applied for a number of government temp jobs when the conviction wasn’t spent, and I was certain it would appear. I made jokes about it, tried to get ahead of it. Managers sometimes said things like, “Oh my goodness, I didn’t realise it comes up — I’ve had a fine for that too.” Then I’d have to explain that it wasn’t the actual act of using the phone while driving that got me the conviction — I’d contested it — and then whole thing would get a little bit weird.
When I volunteer, I get emails saying, “Disclosable court outcomes don’t automatically disqualify you from volunteering with us.” The wording of that alone drops your status a notch — as if the default is disqualification, and they’re making an exception to consider you.
Now I’m left unsure of myself. I don’t want to work. I don’t want to volunteer. I’m tired of justifying myself — tired of begging to stand on equal footing with my peers.
I got this police check today because I’m going to use it as a piece of artwork, alongside my other check that came up clear. I’ll repeat the images, side by side, over and over — repetition of the ridiculous. Because I’ve learned to live with the conviction itself. But please, don’t tell me that sometimes I am a convicted criminal and sometimes I’m not.
I think about this blog and I sometimes wonder if it's too self indulgent. But I write about my life because, in truth, I am completely alone. I’m not starting a sob story about having no friends or family—I’m simply making a realistic statement. I live with my mother. My brother is in London with his family. I have a handful of friends, but no one I really talk to.
I don’t feel sorry for myself because of this. If anything, I take comfort in the thought that maybe someone will read my story and sit with it for a minute. When I opened my mail tonight and saw the conviction notice, I tried to talk to Mum about it. I told her I’d made peace with the conviction itself, but that the uncertainty around it makes me unsure of who I am. To me, that’s a fair feeling. She, however, said I was making a big deal of it and I just couldn't let it go.
I don’t really talk to Mum about anything serious. She laughs at my ideas and I don't think she really takes me seriously. She’s not a bad person — she’s a fabulous woman — but she’s not someone I’d go to if I had a real problem.
I sometimes joke that I’d like to find a husband in the Liberal Party. It would be nice not to be alone anymore — to have a lover and a friend, someone I could talk to. But more than that, I want things to be light. I don’t want to analyse every emotion or every problem, just share easy conversation and a life of good humour and fun together.
I haven’t been with someone for so long that I’ve almost forgotten how to be a partner. But I know I can be supportive. I’m a good listener, and I love to laugh. I might say I want lightness, but when things get heavy, I can be there for that too.
Even though I don’t have a wide circle right now, I don’t want a man from the Liberal Party to fill that void. I want someone to see me walking alone and ask if they can walk beside me. I also want someone who would be happy to live in an apartment in town with a doorman or a reception desk, with me, my mother, and our two cats.
If they didn’t want to live with my mother and two cats, I’d understand — that would be completely reasonable. Mum and the cats could always live in the apartment next door. Or maybe it would be easier if they just moved in here with us in suburbia. Whatever they’re comfortable with — I just want to share a home, to cohabit. I want it all.
I don’t want to change anyone, but eventually I’d like to have a conversation with my partner about leaving the Liberal Party — and maybe even writing a letter to all state and federal Liberal MPs to tell them they’re completely out of touch with reality. I would also like to flag in those letters that Susan Ley will never be Prime Minister for reasons such as threatening to reverse Albo’s decision to recognise Palestine as a state.
Still, whenever I daydream about finding love, I remember my conviction. I don’t know how I can stand on equal footing with anyone when that’s part of me. It’s not just the conviction that would make equality in a relationship unrealistic for me. My flaw would be a deal breaker for most men, but maybe somewhere in the party there’s someone who could see past it.
I was talking to my brother on the phone last night, telling him about my volunteer work with a human rights organisation. I mentioned that during a conversation with my supervisor, I referred to another person we work with as “she.” My supervisor had stern words for me, because that person uses they/them pronouns. It’s written in their email signature, but to be honest, I hadn’t noticed — I was completely oblivious. I never called them “she” directly, and it was an honest mistake.
I was telling Eric that this generation can be very unforgiving about that sort of thing. I was kind of annoyed. I would never intentionally disrespect someone’s wishes about how they’re referred to, but sometimes the younger ones can be a little rigid about it all.
I told Eric it reminded me of a dinner a couple of years ago with my friend Luna and a group of the planetarium crowd. I referred to Luna as “she,” and they got angry with me because they also use they/them pronouns. I actually knew that, but it completely slipped my mind. I said to them, “I’m so sorry, darling. I have no excuse — it’s just that when I was young this wasn’t a thing, and I need a bit of time to get used to it.”
My brother is quite brutal about the whole they/them thing. He said, “If someone’s offended I call them the wrong gender, that’s on them,” and called it “fucking ridiculous.” I don’t agree with him. I think it’s wonderful that we now live in a world where people can be free to identify however they feel most comfortable.
The day after I called Luna “she,” I went to uni and told a fellow student about it — they’re non-binary themselves. They said Luna should have been more understanding, that I wasn’t used to it yet. But then they went on to say they’d disowned their father because he refused to call them “they.”
Later that day, I spoke to another group of girls at uni about it. They told me to call everyone “they.” They said you never really know how someone identifies, so it’s safer that way.
I don’t call everyone “they,” and after my slip-up last week, it’s clear I’m still not completely tuned in. But I support it — I love that people can be free in that way — and I want to make sure it doesn’t happen again.
Incidentally, my friend Luna is now in court for attempted murder. Apparently, they tried to smother someone with a pillow in a hospital setting. I haven’t spoken to them since finding out about their criminal activity.
Eric and I then moved on to talking about my artwork. I told him about a piece I’m working on called I Can’t Believe It’s Not Rubber. Essentially, I’ve bought a whole stack of real rubber ducks and I’m waiting for the plastic ones to arrive. I’ve also ordered a pile of vinyl “rubber” chickens and I’m waiting on the real rubber versions of those too.
The point of the piece is to highlight how we call them rubber ducks and rubber chickens, even though they’re often plastic or vinyl. I actually ordered one small batch of genuine rubber ducks, and I just got an email saying those particular ones have been recalled. The documentation of the recall will become part of the artwork as well.
It’s about how labelling them “rubber” elevates them in the eyes of the consumer, when really they could be anything. It applies to humans too — we say we are one thing, but often we’re not.
We don’t have a bath at home, so I’m going to hire a hotel room with a big, beautiful bath and photograph the rubber ducks and then the plastic ducks in it, highlighting how they look identical but are made from completely different materials. With the rubber and vinyl chickens, I’m thinking of filling a bin with eggs and photographing them there.
Once I have the photographs, I’ll mount them alongside the physical ducks and chickens and build a piece around that. I’m planning to enter I Can’t Believe It’s Not Rubber into an emerging artist competition and have some professional photos taken for my portfolio.
Eric thought it was a bad idea. He said no one cares about that kind of stuff. But I have to disagree. I don’t think it’s an absolutely brilliant idea, but it does have its merits. It raises a perfectly valid point — and that is exactly what art is supposed to do. Eric makes me laugh, the way he thinks he knows everything. Now that I’m starting to take art more seriously, he suddenly thinks he’s an expert, especially when it comes to conceptual work.
He thought my letters were shit too. He said writing to all the Chief Justices and Presidents of Parliaments meant nothing — that I’d only get replies on official letterhead from secretaries and they’d hold no real weight. I disagree with that as well. I might not have received as many responses as I’d hoped for, but there’s still something special about a collection of letters from the offices of Chief Justices and Presidents of Parliaments. I’ve moved away from using letters directly in my artwork, but I’ve got a few new letter projects to be sent out in the first days of January, and I’ll use the responses as gifts too.
Eric and I always have a laugh, but I never feel inspired after I’ve spoken to him. With my conviction project, I Can’t Believe It’s Not Rubber, and the next round of letters I’m sending out, I feel like I’m forcing myself to do them. Lately there’s been a certain darkness around my ideas — they’ve become so complicated and so full of meaning that they almost drag me down.
I’m pushing myself to finish them now because I know that in six months, if I don’t, I’ll be too put off to continue. I’m going to study fine art, but I need to learn how to switch my mind off. There’s art that can lift you up and make you feel like anything is possible, but even though my ideas involve ducks and chickens, which on the surface seem playful, I’m beginning to feel a real sense of emptiness and despair within them.
My brother Eric has just taken his son, Lewis, on a father–son trip to Amsterdam from where they live in London. He just sent me some photos of a shop he’s found that’s completely full of rubber ducks.
