Selma Augestad - Class at 12
The word was taught in history class – one for the books, part of the past. Also, appeared on Mamma’s kitchen table, a lifelong subscriber to the Norwegian newspaper ‘Klassekampen’ (class struggle). Back then I never made connections beyond the books, but I remember always romanticising righteous struggle.
I even tried my own hand at it on a few occasions; an anti-teletubbies petition in afterschool care, barking back at predatory men on the subway, wearing a cap with a very handsome devil on it (to Catholic school). In my mind, fighting for brainwashed, dumbed down, sidelined, silenced children everywhere – rise up and resist!
With no leverage it was a lonely struggle and with no candy for bribes, no child-comrades manifested.
12 years later I am stepping over my classmate as she’s wedged herself in the doorway to Appleton Tower. “Yallah, comrade – how’s it going?” – “Yeah, thanks - how are you?”. I’m in Scotland now, and I’ve finally caught on that you’re not actually supposed to answer this question with a full description of your emotional state and all upcoming activities.
Never mind that, I am full of beans, leaping through an open door, Docs on my feet, fast but can’t quite keep up, everyone’s talking so fast, talking about this thing – talking about class.
‘As a working-class man’, he serves, and is received by a collection of very stern faces and spirited hands, ‘I was the first in my family to go to University’. Hands in air yet again.
We’ve taken over the lecture hall, sleeping bags sprinkled throughout, but we are sitting all together on the steps.
I don’t say much. My grandparents, Mamma, Pappa – all complete class-messes by the definitions on offer.
But it does unlock something I can’t quite put my finger on, that urgency in struggle against powerlessness. The discomfort with not quite understanding the rules, feeling like I bluffed my way through school, never able to ‘just calm down, sweetie’, and resisting their snobbery, rejecting their belittling, refusing their handouts, just so angry and tired and surely that must mean something?
Upending the lecture hall and taking some power back to the learners felt symbolic, and fun - beer gulped down, cigarettes shared in abundance.
12 years since Appleton Tower I am at Sydney Harbour, at lunch with a bunch of teacher trade union activists and the EIS President. We’re here for World Pride, talking about how it’s all connected, how we’re all connected to this struggle, all parts of us part of the whole.
“This has been a long journey, but we are here”.
“All of us or none of us, we all need to win together”.
The excited voices of activists buzzing all around, visibly, and audibly queer people from all over the world, no separation of the personal / political / professional – we need everyone, exactly as you are. No need to slow down, by the way – I can keep up now, and afford to go at my own pace, too.
Knowing an injury to one is an injury to all, is knowing that we all have a place - and I’ve finally arrived, whole and hopeful.
Written by Selma Augestad
