He said he would stop the strike if twelve MPs declared their support for the cause.
I thought, hey it’s Christmas – and the Millewa is frying – so why not.
I wrote an email confirming my support.
And yes, trolls, I see you and I know how triggered you are by science. But I’m willing to take the hits, because it is an emergency.
According to credible scientific data, our climate is moving south, which means that in the foreseeable future, the Mallee could be the new Wilcannia.
No amount of calling me names is going to change those facts. And I promise you, I don’t cry ‘emergency’ lightly. Here’s why …
A few weeks ago, I called Ben and opened with the words that no family member wants to hear:
“Oh my God I’m in deep sh*t”.
Ben felt a sense of dread. What’s happened? Has she been injured? Attacked? Arrested?
No, I was lost in Nichols Point. Running late and needed directions.
He calmly told me to turn left at the next intersection and I’d run into it eventually.
I turned left at the next intersection, and everything was fine. I arrived at my destination within a couple of minutes. I was flustered but had calmed down by the time I was seated in front of a classroom of kids. I didn’t give the “crisis” another thought.
Later that night, after Jed was in bed, we were sitting on the couch having a glass of wine, Ben asked me not to do that again. He was referring to my use of emergency language in non-emergency situations.
It was a bit of a habit. Another example happened the morning Jed was born …
I was booked in for an elective caesarean section at the Women’s Hospital in Melbourne.
Minutes before I was due to be wheeled into theatre, the nurse came to me and said “We have a slight issue. You have an outstanding account that has to be paid before we can do the procedure.”
“Yeah, OK, how much?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well what’s the ballpark?”
“It’s likely to be a couple of thousand …”
“Yeah … ok. So, closer to 2 or 3?”, I asked.
She conferred with someone on the phone and confirmed that it was more than $6000.
Oh what a delightful surprise. Cos the prospect of being cut open wasn’t daunting enough.
Turns out that despite paying private health insurance premiums for more than a decade, my 24 year old self had failed to tick the box for ‘obstetrics’, so the many thousands of dollars I’d already paid for my private obstetrician were merely the tip of the iceberg.
Highly inconvenient. Highly annoying. Highly bad timing. But still not an emergency given that I always have a financial back-up plan – that great bastion of middle class privilege … the Bank of Mum and Dad.
Unlike NAB or Rainy Day Loans, the call centre at the Bank of Mum and Dad is pretty efficient, especially when the Bank’s first grandchild is about to be born and everyone is on tenterhooks. There was no queue. They answered right away.
“Hello Ali, is everything OK?”, asked Dad.
My reply: “No”.
For a few milliseconds, that word must have hung in dad’s mind like a terrifying dark cloud.
I can’t imagine how he must have felt before I clarified that the problem was only financial, that it wasn’t a medical emergency; and that something terrible hadn’t happened to the baby, or me.
What I should have said was “Yes, everything’s fine, but I need money”. Now there’s NO way my Dad would have mistaken that phrase for an emergency. Having put two daughters through uni, it’s about as pedestrian as ‘how’s the weather’.
I’m concerned the trait might be inter-generational, as Jed is showing signs of being a drama queen like me.
On discovering that his new playgroup didn’t have a traditional playground, he wandered around the grounds with a distraught look on his face crying “WHERE ARE YOU SWINGS??”
If something eventful happens (like seeing a moth), he commentates like it’s the Hindenburg disaster.
So in the interests of my own credibility, and Jed’s social development, three weeks ago I undertook to reserve emergency language only for genuine emergencies.
Bad coffees don’t count (as emergencies).
Spending two hours following a complicated recipe for vegan macaroni cheese that turns out to be inedible, doesn’t count either.
What counts is this: Scientific data showing our once stable climate is changing at breakneck speed, threatening every aspect of our industry, economy and lifestyle.
When I emailed the Hunger Striker, I wasn’t being a drama queen. My concern for our future is entirely evidence-based.
———
PS – A couple of weeks ago I had the special privilege of presenting certificates to our long-serving Red Cross volunteers. These heroes know a real emergency when they see one, and as we speak, they are working hard, preparing for the anticipated heatwaves of the 2019/20 summer season. And it seems their generosity knows no bounds, refusing to send me home empty handed, they presented me with this gorgeous little bear, hand-knitted by Freda. Welcome to the family, Fred Cross.
