by Linda Jaivin
I wondered what Michelle Grattan would have to say about all this. Grattan is one of our sharpest journalists and political commentators and, at the time I was researching this article, she was the editor-in-chief of the Canberra Times, the first female editor of a major metropolitan daily in Australia. But, when I phoned her secretary, I was told she ‘doesn't do’ interviews on this subject.
The volubility of Wolf collides with the silence of Grattan. I couldn't get Grattan's secretary to tell me why she wouldn't talk to me, but I had a hunch. Correct me if I'm wrong, Michelle, but I suspect you don't really think it's relevant: you are an ace political reporter and you've been editor of the capital's daily paper. Nothing to do with being a woman.
Wolf is critical of women who create a ‘neck-up’ style of commentary, one employing a voice ‘uninflected by the experiences of the female body’. Wolf calls this the ‘no-uterus rule’ and I see where she's coming from, but, hey, Naomi, isn't that a bit harsh? I mean, just because you're a woman, do you always have to write with your tits?
Look. There might be a big bad patriarchy out there waiting to oppress us at every turn, but I say, c'mon girls, jump in that Ferrari, rev up that confidence, pick up that shotgun and let's go get us some columns.
And if they guard their space too jealously, we'll stomp all over it with our stilettos and our Doc Martens and our court shoes. If that happens, boys, don't say we didn't warn you and don't, if you know what's good for you, blame it on PMT.
Der
This is a true story about a little thing that happened to me the other day that has implications for who should rule the world. It's a story only a woman could tell.
It all started when I submitted an article to a publication for which I regularly write. When the final edit came back late one evening, I discovered that not only had someone rewritten entire sections of my deathless prose, but had also managed to introduce numerous errors of fact or interpretation. To top it off, the entire tone of the piece had changed from one of jaunty admiration for my subject to snotty condescension.
There are sensible ways to deal with editors whom you are convinced have had sensitivity bypasses or who appear to you to be suffering from cognitive skills impairment. You pretend that they're really quite all right, and just as intelligent as the next person. You laugh at their jokes. Then you quietly, firmly, passive-aggressively if necessary, get them to restore most of your original text.
I've got nothing against good editing. Good editors are worth their weight in gold. If they say ‘cut that line’, you know it was a little scumbag of a line that didn't belong there in the first place. Good editors justify my love.
But did I do the sensible thing? I did not. I called the publication and threw a tantrum. I used unprintable words. I shed tears of rage. I sat down at my computer and poison-penned a letter that I saved under the document title ‘F.O.A.D.’, which stands for ‘have intercourse and pass on to your reward’. I called my mother and read the letter to her.
‘It's all right, Lulu, but you should definitely cut out those swearwords,’ she said.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Even my mother wants to edit me. I lay in bed and fumed. The next morning I phoned up an editor on the publication who wasn't even responsible and did it all again, garnishing my abuse with copious tears. He suggested, in a strained voice, that we speak again in a month or so.
After I hung up and my fury dissipated, I decided that life was meaningless, everyone hated me, my career was over and maybe I should consider therapy. I carried these tragic thoughts to the bathroom, where I looked in the mirror and discovered a pimple on my chin. I went back to my room, dived onto my bed, cried out in pain and wondered why my breasts felt so tender. Flopping onto my back, feeling even sorrier for myself, I suddenly had a clear vision of a package of Tim Tams I'd consumed two days earlier. The penny dropped. Ohmygod, I thought, it's PMT!
How embarrassing. Feminists and strong, independent women don't let premenstrual tension interfere with their work, do they? I mean, what if I were president of the United States and it weren't just some editor, but an entire country that had got up my nose? Would I have nuked the bastards?
This is a very, very sensitive topic. It must never be raised by a male, particularly with a woman who's actually suffering from PMT at that moment. That's because if a man suggests to a premenstrually stressed-out woman that her hormones are making her incapable of self-control, she might just turn around and kill him. It's as simple as that.
Reflecting upon the issue now, however, in my post-cyclic calm, I think, nah, I wouldn't have pressed the button. I'd probably just have torn around the Oval Office a bit, punched out a few overstuffed cushions and let it go. I'd have gone no further than, say, economic sanctions. After all, I never mailed that letter. Once a woman's cottoned on to the fact that it's PMT that's driving her car, she usually has the good sense to pull over, revive and survive.
That's the good thing about PMT. If you can count backwards, you can actually work out why it's happening, and if you're organised enough to count forwards as well, you can effect some sort of containment policy. The same can't be said for men—testosterone doesn't have the good grace to cycle. Male aggro doesn't keep an appointment diary.
Who starts most wars and punch-ups anyway? Not us girls. Over the centuries, nay, the millennia, men have proven themselves capable of bad behaviour any day of the month, in some cases, every day of the month. Did Hitler go stomping all over Europe because of PMT? Did Mao launch the Cultural Revolution because it was that time of the month? Were the Bosnian Serb, Croat and Muslim leaders just suffering from fluid retention and headaches? I think you get the drift. We've let men rule the world this far and look what a mess they've made of it. Their bloody conflicts go on for years. Ours would last, what, two, three days at most? Still, next month around this time, I'm pulling the phone out of the wall and locking myself in my room. If you happen to pass by the window, throw in a packet of Tim Tams, would you?
Hot Champ
The close basement air of this famous Melbourne kickboxing gym reeks of sweat. It resonates with the sharp smack of shins on punching bags, the patpat patpat patpat of bare feet skipping rope, the heavy thock of gloved fists pummelling leather, and with grunts and exhalations. ‘GET SET TO RUMBLE,’ says the poster on the brick wall. Here at the Fitzroy Stars, they know how to rumble—the gym boasts no less than fifty-two title-holders. Hard-muscled fighters, shiny with sweat, aim jabs and hooks at their reflections in the mirror. Others pair up to take turns throwing punches and ducking them. The action's intense. Nowhere in the room is it more so than where a slight, pretty woman, one of the few females in this whole testosteronal place, coolly executes a series of extraordinary crescent kicks, elbow strikes and spinning back-fisted punches as elegant as they are fierce.
And fierce they are. In her mid-twenties, Songul ‘Diamond’ Oruc is Australia's top female kickboxer. She shot to prominence in 1994 when she pulled Stephanie Curtiss, the erstwhile queen of Aussie kickboxing, off her throne in a fight that International Kickboxer magazine called ‘one of the greatest women's fights in history’. Three times did Curtiss kiss the floor before she kissed her title goodbye. A month later, in the South Pacific International Sporting and Karate Association championships, Songul KOd New Zealand contender Kati Ahipene in the third round of what was scheduled to be a six-round bout.
‘I dropped her about five or six times and she just couldn't take it,’ remarked Songul to the Coburg Courier. ‘I felt so fit and strong. It was like a light sparring session for me.’ Oh baby.
In April 1995 Songul put the royal jewel in her crown when she beat Karen Mead to capture the title of World Kickboxing Association featherweight world champion.
Male kickboxers take fighting names like ‘Hitman’ and ‘Pitbull’ and ‘Hurricane’. Women prefer more delicate monikers like ‘Angel’ and ‘Babydoll’. Don't be fooled. Thai kickboxing ain't no place for wusses of either gender.
You can'
t use elbows in competition and you're not allowed to wrestle or make direct hits to the groin. But just about anything else goes. It is one vicious sport. And according to Songul's trainer, Dana Goodson, women tend to be ‘five times as aggressive’ as men in the ring. ‘They won't back off,’ he says. ‘When a guy gets hit with a good punch he'll back off and think about it. When the girls get hit they come right back with two or three more punches and kicks. You always see nonstop action in women's fights.’
Songul has copped her share of black eyes. Her nose has been broken six or seven times. Once someone corked her leg pretty badly. But when I ask her if she ever feels fear she answers without hesitation, ‘No.’ Then she qualifies. ‘My only fear,’ she states, ‘is of losing.’
Now that Songul has become Australia's first female WKA world champ, says Dana, ‘it's time to start breaking records.’ She trains four to six hours a day. Her daily workout includes weights, running, bikes and 500 sit-ups as well as methodically punishing the bags. At this moment she's abusing the leather to the beat of ‘Rhythm of the Night’, which is blaring tinnily out of a ghetto-blaster positioned close by. Her sister Sahturna, who doubles as her manager, says that Songul loves dancing. But you won't see her in a club for at least two months leading up to a fight. She doesn't smoke and she'll only drink after a match.
Songul has been hooked on martial arts from the moment she clapped eyes on Bruce Lee. ‘I used to watch all his movies and I loved him so much,’ she says. She took up karate at the age of nine. Eventually she moved on to tae kwon do, ninja-fu, judo and Chinese kung-fu. But when she discovered full-on, full-contact Muay Thai kickboxing, she knew that was where she wanted to be.
Now that she's there, other girls are following. With her appearances on ‘Wide World of Sport’, ‘Real Life’ and the ‘Today Show’, Songul seems to have inspired a bit of a vogue. Not many are likely to go pro. Despite the fact that, judging from a recent spread in International Kickboxer, most of the top women kickboxers are quite gorgeous, there's too high a chance that someone will rearrange your face for the sport to gain a wide appeal. Besides, it's no way to make a living. On the same night the winning male kickboxer scores a clear $10,000, Songul may be fighting for a purse of $1500. Kickboxing is her life, but for a crust she's out there teaching aerobics and boxercise.
The main reward in this game is fame. If she lands a role in a major action film—and there was talk about casting her in Streetfighter 2 until the producers dropped the idea of a sequel—we'll be talking big-time. For now, she's happy to be appearing in a commercial for Sport Plus. And she still gets excited telling stories like this one. ‘This morning,’ Songul says, a big smile cracking her face, ‘I went training at a recreation gym and these rugby guys are like, “There she is! World champion!” And they're sticking their thumbs up at me and saying “Congratulations” and oh my God, that was so nice. Yeah, it really makes my day.’
Speaking of making her day, I ask Songul if she's ever had to use her martial skills for self-defence. ‘A few times,’ she says, turning away.
‘Tell her about the guy in the lift,’ prompts Sahturna, but Songul demurs.
‘Did you, like, totally pulverise him?’ I persist.
‘Fortunately, it didn't get to that point,’ is all she'll say.
At six, Songul calls it a day. Off come the gloves and the hand wraps. She sprints up the stairs to take a shower and prepare for an expedition to Sizzler's with her sister and a few friends. ‘The way to Songul's heart is through her stomach,’ Sahturna says, laughing.
As I'm packing up my tape recorder, assistant trainer Bernie Jamkowski offers his take on the Songul phenomenon. ‘She's feminine, beautiful, a stunning girl,’ he observes. ‘But she can really kick some arse.’ Bernie tells me a bit about the gym. ‘Anyone can come in, anyone can train,’ he challenges. ‘Even you.’
Having admitted to being a novice kickboxer myself, there's no getting out of it. Bernie throws a T-shirt and boxing shorts at me and tells me to get changed. Twenty minutes later, I've got a tough young bloke called Frank in a headlock and am kneeing him hard in the solar plexus. Well, in the thick pad Frank's holding in front of his solar plexus anyway. After a few vigorous rounds, Frank rubs his neck, raises an eyebrow, and says, ‘Yer a strong girl.’
At that moment, I can't imagine a nicer compliment.
Cathay Camembert
More than seven centuries ago, the intrepid Venetian traveller Marco Polo took some Chinese mian home from Cathay. His fellow countrymen promptly translated the concept into pasta and the Italians have been dining off the story ever since.
I once flew to Beijing on Air China (the choice of airline is my sole claim to intrepidness). My suitcase was full of spinach, egg and tomato fettuccine, and jars of things like sun-dried tomatoes and olive oil that I prayed wouldn't shatter and sausages and hams and cheeses that I feared would make my underwear smell like an antipasto.
On my previous visit to Beijing, some Chinese friends asked me to cook them an authentic Western meal. I told them I couldn't do it without the right ingredients. So bring them with you next time they said. They were joking. I knew that. But I also knew that, if I did, it'd be a story we could all dine off.
It's not that there's any lack of Western cuisine for the sampling in Beijing. But if you have a yen for Western food in China, you'd better have the yuan for it as well. A meal for two at a hotel coffee shop or European-style restaurant can cost the average citizen the equivalent of a month or three's salary. There's always Pizza Hut and Kentucky Fried Chicken and McDonald's to cater for mass tastes and pocketbooks. But then, I've never known anyone anywhere to associate places like that with actual cuisine.
I prepared my meal for eight at the home of Wang Shuo, a successful novelist whose royalties had provided him with the wherewithal to install a Western-style range and oven, though he had yet to figure out what usefully could be done with the latter. He now knows—garlic bread is the answer to one of life's big questions.
Despite scattered apprehension at the rawness of the prosciutto in the antipasto, general lack of interest in the focaccia (‘just like those flatbreads sold by Xinjiang street pedlars’), and one person having to spit out a bit of well-masticated wax that had begun its life on the outside of a ball of gouda, my friends coped far better with the various challenges of Western food than most Westerners I've seen cope with those sometimes presented by Chinese cooking. In the restaurant near the language school where I once studied in Taiwan, the air was always thick with flying peanuts as newly arrived foreign students tried to pick up the greasy little huashengmi with their chopsticks.
In Taipei I once saw a well-endowed American woman in a low-cut blouse turn a variety of interesting colours as a plum-sauced shallot shot out of the Peking duck pancake she held in her hand and flew like a heat-seeking missile down her cleavage.
My menu? Antipasto (prosciutto, salami, sun-dried tomatoes, pickles) with garlic bread and focaccia. Fettuccine with a tomato-based sauce. I learned the recipe from a friend in Sydney who used to go out with an Italian fellow who was taught it by his mother—it is therefore absolutely authentic. Salad and cavolfiore francese (cauliflower with lemon juice, egg and butter). This was followed by a cheese platter with fruit. To my surprise, the King Island camembert was a particular success—Chinese usually recoil from stronger cheeses with the same alacrity that most Westerners spring away from the aptly named chou dofu, ‘stinky bean curd’. By the time the pudding was ready, few could manage more than a few bites and, immediately this was finished off, everyone waddled over to the sofas clutching their stomachs in what I trust was agreeable satiety and not lethal discomfort.
But then again, you know what many Chinese say about Western food—and, honestly, I'm not making this up—it's all right as far as it goes, but half an hour later you're hungry again.
Riffraffy
Sitting in the spacious living room of his new Beijing apartment, Wang Shuo describes in colourful detail
the trials and tribulations of flat-hunting and redecorating in one of the world's most accommodation-scarce cities. In his thick Beijing burr, he weaves an almost surreal tale involving bribes of dog food, new toilet seats that refuse to co-operate with old plumbing, the world of wallpaper, and the care and feeding of worker-entrepreneurs. When he sighs dramatically at how draining the whole process has been, his elegant wife, who until now has been listening quietly, a smile across her face, rolls her eyes and laughs. After all, it's she who's done most of the work. He just tells the stories.
Wang Shuo the storyteller has a perfect sense of timing, a terrific sense of humour, a wild imagination and a great ear for dialogue. That wouldn't surprise anyone familiar with his fiction. While some of China's ‘highbrow critics’ have trouble coming to grips with the stream of ‘lowbrow’ prose—detective stories, love stories, farce and satire—that flows from Wang's prolific pen (7000–8000 characters—something like 12,000 words—on an average working day), the public laps it up.
Wang, who came to public attention with his story ‘Stewardess’ in 1986, reached a pinnacle of prominence in 1988 when no less than four films based on his stories and novels were produced. Publishing in some of the nation's top literary journals, he enjoys an almost cult-like following that encompasses both university students and blue-collar workers alike.
At thirty-three, Wang is understandably pleased with his fame and fortune. The baby-faced author was once a street tough whose father's way of straightening him out was to enlist him in the People's Liberation Army. While still in uniform, Wang ran contraband televisions and tape recorders from Canton to parts north. Since then he has tried his hand at everything from selling medicine in a state-owned pharmaceutical company to being the bagman for a criminal gang. He has seen the inside of a few police stations in his time. Once, his greatest desire was to buy a secondhand taxi.
