My earliest memory of parental-encouraged activism is when, at the age of ten my mum told me to go harass the Premier of Queensland. To give context, my mum was involved in the campaign to stop sand mining on Stradbroke Island (known as “Straddie”), a beautiful and relatively undeveloped spot about an hour from Brisbane via ferry. Up to Anna Bligh I went and repeated what mum instructed me to say; “Hi Anna, it would be really great if you could stop sand mining on Straddie!”. I can’t remember Premier Bligh’s response precisely but it was something along the lines of “Yes dear I’ll see what I can do about it”. This was my first taste of a sensation common to student activists: giddy excitement mixed with an unassailable sense of powerlessness.
These days I am extremely grateful that I grew up in an activist household. When visiting my childhood home in Brisbane I look fondly at small reminders of it around the house, like the peg bag in the laundry covered with badges advocating for women’s right to chose and banning the bomb. I recall countless election parties, from the euphoria of John Howard’s downfall in 2007 when my 1996 birth year champagne was unapologetically popped (and the only time I’ve ever seen my dad truly plastered) to the depressed haze that fell over our house on Campbell Newman’s election night in 2012.
When I compare myself to other people my age and from similar backgrounds, the only real differentiating factor I perceive is my mother. She motivates me with her tenacity, having practised activism since she was getting arrested in protests against Jon Bjelke-Petersen in the eighties, to campaigning for Children by Choice in the nineties and, after having me and my sister, becoming one of the key players in the fight to end sand mining on Straddie. She also inspires me with little acts of compassion. My dad jokingly complains that mum has always gotten rid of our best cleaners because time and time again she has helped overqualified migrants working for her to get their skills recognised and find more fitting jobs.
However, I wasn’t always so thankful to have such a radical mother. In Year 6, fuelled with adolescent angst, I coveted the idea of having a regular mum, like the glamorous mothers at my primary school who had washed in with the gentrification of my inner city suburb. Watching them pull up in their convertibles with Louis Vuitton handbags and Ralph Lauren polos, I cursed my mother for her eco-friendly tote bags and practical footwear. Of all the ways in which I’ve matured since I was 11, the change I’m most thankful for is my newfound understanding and appreciation for the gift my mother gave me in the form of unapologetic activism.
Being raised in a household where it was normal to talk politics at the dinner table after the initial “how was your day”s had subsided fostered an interest in ideas and activism that I don’t see how I could have ever built up otherwise. Mum dragging me to protests, some good – like an anti-uranium mining stunt where where an eight year-old me enjoyed the free yellow cake – and some bad, gave me an early understanding of the emotional effects of demonstrations. It is never easy attending a protest and feeling energised and inspired and then returning to the apathetic “real world”, but at least I came to grips with this with my mum at my side.
Because my mother’s influence has had such a profound effect on my willingness to engage with activism, I have a great deal of admiration for those who get involved with no familial encouragement. On the other side of the coin, I am also sometimes frustrated with implicit attitudes that I feel some activists have about people not engaged in activism. I feel strongly that if I had been raised by one of the designer-clad mums that I longed to be parented by as 11 year-old then I, too, would likely have been at risk of disengagement. Coming from a wealthy background sheltered from the structural atrocities spawned by neoliberal capitalism, I know firsthand how distant problems facing other Australians can feel. While a lack of personal experience shouldn’t excuse a lack of empathy, I still think that, realistically, people who have not had to deal with structural inequality are much more likely to be apathetic about the way it affects other people.
So how can we seek to bridge this divide, without the help of a family member who has helped them to do so? While I do not claim to be an expert on answering this question, I believe part of the answer lies in attempting to increase understanding on both sides. My involvement with activism has varied from different forms of active participation, to being non-existent in semesters when I have prioritised academic and paid work. I have, therefore, been able to see student activism from both an “insider” and “outsider” perspective. I think the main difficulty with engaging with student activism as an “outsider”, apart from general apathy, can be the sense that those already involved in student activism will be doing rings around you in terms of confidence and organising ability.
For students who feel like this, I would suggest that the best thing to do is just to go to a meeting for a group that organises around a cause that you care about and stick at it for a while. The ‘power’ dynamics of most student activist groups are inherently unstable because of the emotional labour and practical time pressure that activism places on students’ paid work, study and personal life which makes it difficult to maintain individual momentum. Therefore, it is often the case that after attending only a couple of meetings you can find yourself becoming part of important organising that can make you feel like a proper, contributing member of the group and assuage feelings of inadequacy.
In terms of what can be done by student activist groups to reach out to people who might be interested in activism but have not had a role model to give them the confidence to proceed, it might be useful to remember that an unwillingness to connect with student activism can be rooted in emotions such as embarrassment, guilt, and shame. These emotions can be rooted in a person’s awareness that they should be doing something, but instead disengage. Student activists should keep this in mind, even though it can be frustrating when faced with the apparent apathy of the student body when trying to collect petition signatures or hand out leaflets. Ultimately, there is little anyone can do to force people to overcome these emotions and get involved in activism besides being as friendly and approachable as possible, which isn’t a problem for nearly all the student activists I know.
Student activists could benefit from ensuring that people whose upbringings have not encouraged activism should not be ignored or alternatively be instantly rejected for their lack of solidarity. Meanwhile, people whose childhoods have been imbued with political apathy should remember that becoming part of a student activism group is often a far less intimidating experience than imagined. The impact of upbringing is only one small part of what leads people to student activism and how it affects them once they are involved. All I can say is that it is important not to dismiss people who appear disinterested too readily. It is not beneficial for either party to make assumptions about the other. University is, for everyone, a time of intense personal and emotional growth. Regardless of whether a student arrives already prepped to get involved because of their own experiences or exposure to a positive role model growing up, or whether they take a little longer to gain confidence and overcome negative emotions, everyone can make a valuable contribution as a student activist. That’s not to say that upbringing isn’t incredibly powerful, however. I’m certainly incredibly grateful that my mother gave me the privilege of an activist head-start in life.
