At the age of fourteen and less than twelve months after moving from a country town to the suburbs of Melbourne, I became friends with a street kid.
His name was Martin and I first met him on a train bound for Flinders Street in 1985. He was wearing a hessian bag as a shirt, cinched at the waist with an old and dependable leather belt. Tied, not buckled. He also wore jeans and sneakers (not the trendy type).
Martin and I became friends for a short while and I’d meet him in the city, usually on the steps and underneath the clocks of Flinders Street Station.
We walked and talked and sometimes I bought him a burger and he let me tell him stories about my recent rough ride. I listened to his reasons for sleeping in parks and stairwells and also the story of why he was wearing a hessian bag.
It’s warm.
It doesn’t get dirty.
I like the smell.
Someone I like gave it to me.
One day, I gave Martin my home telephone number. He called too many times within the first week and my mother and stepfather soon became concerned about who my new male calling friend was.
Yes, the one with the strange voice.
I was never sure what was wrong with Martin, aside from the remnants of abuse. He appeared mentally retarded, speaking with a slur and slowness, as if his voice had been tormented as much as he had. He had a great hearty laugh and what I guessed was a gentle heart, even if it was chipped around the edges.
I told my parents that he lived on the streets in the city and wore a hessian bag and that he was really nice and that I didn’t think they should be so judgemental.
He’s nice!
Being a vulnerable young teen myself, due to age and recent tragedy and emotional trauma, I related to Martin.
When I was twelve years old, I had planned to run away with a close friend who lived on a dairy farm on the outskirts of the country town where we both went to school.
It took us months of planning and scheming and collecting odd cans of food and toiletries from the family pantries of our homes.
We had lists upon lists of items we’d need for survival and we were well organised.
The day arrived when we purchased our one way bus tickets destined for the city.
SO exciting!
I was a naïve country girl, though tormented by the recent separation of my family and subsequent issues resulting from this. I guessed that anywhere was better than the home where my father had lost his mind, his wife and most recently his dignity.
On the night before we were due to board the large greyhound bus, we had a school social (disco) and I’d asked my father whether I could sleep at my friend’s house whilst she had told her parents she was sleeping at mine. Sorted. We stashed our bags containing food and clothes and a first aid kit and an abundance of not much clue underneath the bushes near the school oval.
And we danced.
We winked and smiled and waved our hands in the air like we really didn’t care and we dreamed about freedom and happiness.
In the months leading up to our bus ride, she’d told me about the place in the city that we could soon call home.
Oh, it’s a MASSIVE old mansion and it’s in St Kilda and it’s near the beach and all of the street kids live there but it’s safe and we’ll love it. It’s a bit dirty, you know, but we’ll make it nice and we will be living together how cool is that?
I imagined all sorts of visuals including some terribly deluded ones and of course most unrealistic. I’d seen movies and read books and on the first or second and only occasions I’d been to the city in the late 1970’s, my father had driven the family car through St Kilda and had pointed out the street kids and prostitutes to us. I remember being probably around eight years of age and winding my car window down to see better. I almost fell out of the window. I was in complete awe of the wild streets and that big city place full of mystery, bright lights and tragedy.
Yes, we’ll be there.
So, meeting Martin wasn’t strange to me. He was the first of many oddities who introduced themselves to me; on the train, in the suburbs, at the bus stop or sitting on steps watching the world go by.
On the night that my girlfriend and I were dancing, in a country hall at a country catholic school, a friend tapped me on the shoulder.
Your dad is here.
I saw him sitting with his back to the wall, arms crossed and eyes glaring at me.
I turned away.
I pretended I didn’t see him.
Too many minutes later, extending the whole situation to awkward and beyond sensible, I looked again at my father.
He spoke to me, across the room and above the music. His lips moved and I heard every word, despite the loud music.
Have you had enough?
I’d had enough yes. Though I knew he wasn’t referring to my ability to cope with life and it’s struggles recently.
He was angry.
I was scared.
My father was a man who angered quickly. He was capable of violence and not listening well.
He spoke again.
Have you had enough? Right, let’s go.
From behind me I heard my friend, partner in crime and supposed travelling and house companion for tomorrow.
You’d better go, he knows. We’re in so much trouble.
Trouble and I had become acquainted lately. In my quest to purchase a bus ticket, I really believed I was running away from it, not towards further strife.
In the last six months I’d seen things I knew I shouldn’t have.
My father couldn’t (in my opinion) care for me anymore. I doubted how much he loved me and my mother was gone. I didn’t blame her, but I wished she’d taken me with her.
I didn’t understand why both my parents seemed to have given up on me.
It took me almost two decades to understand that they never gave up. They were only being what they could. Weak or strong. Right or wrong. They were only human.
So, on the night that my father took me by the arm and marched me out of the school hall with a detour passed the trees beside the football oval to collect my overstuffed and misunderstood large sports bag, I was silent.
He drove me home and took me straight to my bedroom and I thought I was going to get the biggest whacking of my life but he sat me down and drew his face not too far away from mine and he began.
What were you thinking? Where were you going? How do you think you were going to survive? Were you going to be a street kid? A prostitute? Is THAT what you wanted to be? Is that what you want to grow up to be? How do you think you would live like that? Do you understand what you are playing with here?
No. I didn’t understand.
I wasn’t sure.
I remembered the prostitutes with their short skirts and messy hair and bony knees and I knew I didn’t want to look like them.
I told him I had food and some money and a house to live in and then he screamed at me until he was red in the face and exhausted and before my tears attempted to drown me and then he reminded me about what is less. And what is more.
And then he held me.
At school the next morning, my friend and I made it obvious that we hated the girl who had followed us to the bus stop whilst we bought our tickets. We despised her because she had further ruined our lives. She had spoken with the ticket lady soon after we’d left and she’d told her that we were running away to the city and that she should call our parents to stop us.
And so it was.
I don’t remember whom that little rat was, the one who gave our secret away but I am thankful to her and it didn’t take me until mid morning to realise that she’d done me a favour.
I really didn’t want to be a street kid.
Life wasn’t THAT bad.
Perhaps I was destined to meet Martin regardless?
I’m proud to say that on the day I met him, I’d left a home with a full belly and nice clothes and although there were issues within those walls, they would never surmount to the ones on the street and the ones tucked up within the fibres of Martin’s hessian shirt.
I’m also thankful that I wasn’t swayed to walk with him too far.
I related to him in ways and I also felt sorry for him. I wondered what could ever make a person think that wearing a hessian bag as a shirt was preferable.
I offered to give him a t-shirt one day but he declined and said he liked his hessian bag. We laughed when I shared with him that I grew up with horses and sometimes their food arrived in a similar bag. I joked that if I had met him at an earlier age, I could’ve stocked a wardrobe full for him.
Martin laughed.
Martin smiled.
Martin didn’t seem too unhappy.
My new life in Melbourne, although not perfect and still yet to become settled emotionally, was rich compared to his torment and challenges.
I have my own children now and I shudder with the thought of them ever feeling so despondent that they would want to run away and live in filth.
I have learned lessons from my own parents and I am thankful of the privilege of a new generation and awareness.
I talk openly with my children and try not to ever allow them to feel neglected.
This home is their nest too.
One day, they will fly away but I will never glide too far from them.
I haven’t been a perfect mother but does she exist? Of course not.
I think there’s a large majority of society all better equipped emotionally than our own parents. It’s the circle of life. Hakuna Matata. It means no worries. Generation after generation has improved and here we stand. Stronger.
Imagine the difference of when our parents and grandparents were young.
We’re breaking chains.
I’m sure that when the day arrives and my own children become parents themselves, they’ll do things better than I have in ways and make their own mistakes too.
We’re all human.
Our parents, the street kids, the meister’s and the miserable.
Learning to appreciate our security, the fuck ups within it and the greatest gift of simplicity is something to nurture.
Our children are precious and vulnerable. They are like small sponges, collecting both beauty and pain and they are also stronger them we give them credit for.
Sometimes they’re weaker.
Just like us.
I’ve not seen Martin for over 20 years but the last time I saw him, he was sitting on a tram talking to strangers and he was laughing and slurring and charming people with his eccentricity and vagrancy.
And yes, he was still wearing a hessian bag.
I always wondered where the people were who loved Martin, until I realised they were on the street. And in his own heart and imagination.
Some days my own children look like nobody owns them. Their faces might be dirty, their hair not yet brushed and their clothes only half worn. But on those days, I smile because life is simple and they’re happy.
Their home is safe and full of love.
And I’ll never forget that they teach me things nobody else ever has or could.
My own mother is one of my best friends now and I love her so dearly it sometimes hurts to think I might one day live without her again.
I hold her pretty face in my hands and thank her for being mine.
My father died in a road accident less than a year after I attempted to run away and I’m the fortunate one to have such an beautiful angel looking after me no matter where he glides.
There are plenty of bumpy ride stories in life. Lots of Martin’s, a heap of people just like my own parents and yours. There are those who have had lives nothing like ours and there are millions who suffer worse than the lucky ones could ever imagine.
We really are blessed.
Hessian bag or otherwise.
motherstuff 