A big part of me wishes I hadn’t gone to Collegiate, for obvious reasons. And I feel embarrassed about having even gone there in the first place, in a way. Not because I am not grateful for the opportunity or some of the lasting friendships and great memories I did make, but because it really wasn’t somewhere that I felt suited who I was.
I feel embarrassed by a part of myself that tried to become what I thought I had to in order to fit in there. To be slender. To dress a particular way. To wear too-nice clothes. It has taken me a long time to work through the outward expression of perfectionism that was always bubbling inside me but which really boiled over in such an environment. The illusion that certain fashions were representative of coolness. Clothing for me has always been more than that. It has served as another mask. Or, at least, I thought it did. In hindsight, I look back at the times when I flaunted certain styles, thinking that my well-put-together exterior was a perfect disguise which served the dual purpose of helping me present like everything was okay and deterring anyone from messing with me. Instead, I just looked like I was trying too hard, which made me all the more vulnerable in the end.
I’m ashamed to say I spent a decent portion of my tenure as Australian of the Year suppressing parts of my inner and outer self-expression. Despite authenticity and integrity being among my highest values, there were sacrifices I thought I had to make in order to prioritise my message.
In February 2021, I appeared for the first time on ABC TV’s Q&A, alongside a panel of talking heads in my first ever longform live national television broadcast. Beforehand I was told that I wouldn’t have to share my story, and that the only related content might be an analytical discussion about the stages of child grooming. I was also told to familiarise myself with other issues, like the controversy surrounding former Collingwood Football Club President Eddie McGuire’s racially inappropriate comments. Finally, I thought, here was an opportunity to demonstrate that survivors of abuse are not defined by their past trauma; that we can speak intellectually about any number of complex topics.
Instead, the host introduced me by asking me to “catch everyone up” on why I was there. I had to qualify myself. I felt like a fool. Thankfully, I have a sense of humour. “Does this show go for eleven years?” I asked, before stumbling my way through a gut-punched regurgitation of my trauma, and I swallowed my disappointment and humiliation. Only, then I was asked to show my tattoos. I was the pitiable, one-dimensional, sensational cartoon. I got it.
I definitely got it. I was it.
Without warning, they played a disclosure from a 73-year-old woman who had never shared her story before, not even to her own children. Live, on national television. Before the program, there was no warning that the content of the episode might distress viewers, or indeed anyone with even a shred of empathy. If my awareness of the microphone pinned to my shirt hadn’t held me back, the censorship team would’ve been working overtime.
By the time the show wrapped, after a touch-and-go tense hour — which included Alexander Downer saying, “we don’t see a lot of racism in Australia” as he sat beside powerhouse First Nations woman Tanya Hosch — I’d cut right off. Any performative energy had been used. Used.
In the green room I found Max and could barely speak. I just wanted space. I was shaken and a bit pissed off to tell the truth. Although I must express my gratitude to Tanya and to Shane Fitzsimmons, who had my back that night, all the way. People could tell that something was up and kept coming over to check in on me, while Max did his best gentle-but-firm Berlin nightclub bouncer impression. The optimist in me doesn’t want to assume ill will in people, but when I explained that I felt upset because I was blindsided and heartbroken for a woman I had never met and who I had no way of contacting, whose story had just been broadcast nationally, it wasn’t a comfort to be told, “It’s okay, you’re a Twitter sensation.”
I learned something about the commodification of trauma that day, which is that you have to take things into your own hands. If you don’t speak, people will put words in your mouth.
My Pork Soda Primus T-shirt, studded belt and safety-pin earrings had been kept aside in favour of blazers and crisp shirts. Only to be called a “boss bitch” in a “power” suit by the woman who nominated me for Australian of the Year. On Twitter, of all places. What a sensation.
It was when I ditched the stiff jackets for my lived-in Rolling Stones cactus tongue jumper (which my friend Maddison always takes the piss out of me for never taking off) that I realised it didn’t matter. I could wear my Iggy and The Stooges Year of the Iguana shirt during interviews and still be heard. If people took issue with it, that would be more of a reflection on them than on me. You might not believe it, especially considering what the media portrays, and indeed what I often do myself, but of all the voices I listen to, I’m only just learning to prioritise my own.
This is an edited extract from The Ninth Life of a Diamond Miner: A Memoir by
Grace Tame. Published by Macmillan Australia, RRP $49.99
