GUEST BLOG: Kelly Ellis – The Golden Shore

We made the Golden Shore easily, all of us. We even had togs and wandered up the beach to our parents where we picked up exactly where we’d left off. (Or perhaps where we imagined we’d been.) They lovingly dried us off with huge soft towels which we laid out on the hot sand.

The gentle breeze blew just enough to cool our bodies without blowing away our rainbow beach balls. We had no plans, no hunger, no need; we’d got away! Soon we would be taken back to our homes in leafy suburbs, our tricycles and scooters lying carelessly as if nothing could ever be taken from us. Our soft beds, the food, oh God, the food, the luxurious hot baths, the sweet smells of our mothers, the stubble of our fathers,  being held and nurtured, shoes, fat cats, cakes and birthday parties. Some of us had known these things; others had it pointed out to them in the books. We all knew this was waiting for us.

We knew we would never die in this prison. We had a gang – a camaraderie borne of pursuing that common rebellious goal – freedom. The freedom to love and be loved, a home and more, much more. With our hope came the freedom to imagine. And all we could imagine was freedom.

For we were a band of kids in a concrete compound at Wellington’s Home of Compassion in the 1960s and for us, hope did not lie beyond the high hurricane wire fence. Some kids hung there, bleakly looking at a bleak world they were not part of, but not us. We had hope and for us, it lay beneath a square metre of concrete cover that gave access to the main sewer that ran under our compound.

Unpromising as this slab looked to others, we knew that beneath it lay our way out. All drains led to the sea; the nuns had told us. And the sea, of course, was a picture book scene, not the craggy and wind-scoured South Wellington coastline where the sewer discharged. All we had to do was lift the lid and take the plunge. Like many good plans, it was beautifully simple. It was faultless.

Fuelled by this hope, we gathered the few twigs the Southerly would blow into the desolate compound and with them we’d dig the moss and dirt out from between the cover and the concrete into which it was recessed. Through the cold, rain and occasional shine we dug, never thinking our task was futile. Our progress was evident as we meticulously cleaned out the gap and before long it was clear.

The ground around the cover was slightly uneven, so we could rock this huge cover. We wriggled our little fingers into the gaps, pinching them until our nails turned black, but we returned, tears dried, every day to our task. Even the resigned figures, fingers frozen, hanging from the hurricane wire could not kill this hope, for hope is the hardest thing to kill in a child. Hope does not die a cheap death. There are consequences.

Meanwhile, back on the streets of Whangarei, there are no doors to knock on to find work. These kids know there’s no escape. I can see it in their eyes. They do not look away, they simply don’t recognise as they slowly scan their surroundings with the same eyes of wolves in a zoo. They look right through me. And while people like me refuse to see this as a Zombie Town, the signs are there. It’s crept into the hearts of the young people that remain. It shows in their eyes as they rove the disappointing gutters. I saw that look the day workers came and lifted the lid on the sewer.

We gathered around, elbowing each other to get the first glimpse; to be the first to lead the way to the Golden Shore. I can still hear the sound of that lid. The suck as it lifted off its seat and the distinctive ring that only a thing of that density and those dimensions could make as it was dropped gently on the concrete beside the gaping hole. The unique sound rings in my ears nearly fifty years later.

And there it was. There was our future:  Grey water topped with the dirty bubbles of the Sunlight laundry soap that had been applied universally to every part of us in our twice weekly baths. It was that same grey water. That same stinking grey water that said there was no escape.  This scum-topped, sludge-packed amorphous goop was so devoid of oxygen not even hate could find sustenance. Toxic to the point of being sterile.

Satisfied with their inspection, the lid was perfunctorily replaced and they were gone. We were left in stunned silence.  The bleak and remote feeling defies description. The feeling of being so close and yet so infinitely far. Hope for some us would never burn as brightly again. With no prospect of escape, we went back to wondering what we’d done to deserve being left behind. What had we done to bring this on ourselves? We were bad. We were very, very bad and the more they beat our hopeless and helpless little bodies, the badder we became; for now many of us had nothing. And with nothing of our own, we respected nothing of anyone else’s. At least one of us went on to be a brutal rapist.

Without hope, a young woman walks the street with her dirty feet. Her new boyfriend’s name is tattooed conspicuously in italic script on her neck. She hasn’t even dreamed of a lofty occupation such as flight attendant. Her hopes were shot down when she stopped believing the teachers and believed her eyes. Perhaps a little more slow-dawning than having the concrete lid blown on her dreams, nevertheless there came a point where her ailing aspirations were reduced to optimistic scanning of the city’s gutters.

She and her contemporaries shuffle around town between the welfare office and the courts where they are regular attenders, appearing in the dock, in the witness box, as supporters, or just to catch up with friends in the big warm foyer on the first floor. They walk tall as they ostentatiously wait for the elevator, showing their mates in the downstairs Youth Court that they’re legally recognised as adults now. It’s a rite of passage. It’s something to be proud about. Like the biggest TV they could steal to put in their overcrowded house.

I remember, around their age, turning my Honda 750 north out of Wellington and heading up this way. Ejected from Onslow College at 16, I bummed around before realising I’d need qualifications to go further. I worked during the day and got free school at night. Then I studied for free during the day and worked at night. There were rungs on a ladder in front of me, begging to be grasped.

Whangarei, 30 or so years ago, had the same bustle that most provincial towns had. There was a feeling of prosperity. Motivated by more than just the warmth of the climate, this was a place I wanted to live in. I always came back here, staying out of town with a friend. There was work here and money could be made. Shops were opening, not relentlessly closing, taking jobs and hope with them.

It seems there’s a new gap in the teeth of this town every week. An old man sleeps in the doorway of one. His red, ulcerated feet belie the incongruously distinguished look on his face. He’s a shattered wreck, but it’s easy to see he was very handsome once. No doubt he had hopes once, too. Now even a warm, dry place to rest his creaky bones is beyond his comprehension, even though he’s lying in the doorway of such a place; a place owned by a person so unspeakably cruel they’d prefer to leave it empty.

No doubt there’s a tax advantage in it somewhere for them. John Key and his wrecking crew have made sure of that. I barely resist the urge to smash the window, wondering if I’d had too many bangs on the head from motorbike crashes, for I cannot, despite my legal training, understand how it would be a crime for me to do that, but there’s a tax reward for locking a sick old man out. When simple aspirations are denied, the line between right and wrong loses definition. For those with nothing to lose, it often disappears. This is how bad things happen in our community. This is what happens when people get left behind.

There’s no shortage of money in this town. There’s no shortage of warm, dry shelter either; there’s just a desperate shortage of love. Successive governments have left this town behind and no one here knows what they’ve done to deserve it. The wealthy have hollowed this town out. Their conspicuous consumption and flagrant waste blight the landscape. The resentment is palpable. The prospects of work or education are so limited, most of the bright sparks move away before they get sucked into the dismal vortex.

As a lonely, feral kid, I was desperate for a family, so I put my resources and every bit of love my wicked heart could muster into building one. I’ve teased my children about how they’ll never be able to leave. I’ve told them I’ll dress them in brown polyester trousers and make them help me with my shopping in the mall until the day I die.  Somehow that always seemed amusing in a sad way.  We’re not quite there yet, but I worry we’re on the road to it.

This coming election and my involvement in it is almost my last hope for stopping the atomisation of the family I worked so hard to be part of, for if this heartless government is not dispatched on September 20, my last child will surely move away. In fact, I’ll do what I can to get him out of this town before he gets the zombie look in his eyes. My heart feels so broken already that it’s hard to imagine there are still pieces left to break. But there are, and the preservation of them is the hope I cling to. As I talk with people in this town about the hopes for our children, we quickly tap into a deep and ugly vein of anger. This is our children we are talking about.  We have neither shame nor sorrow about saying it: Fuck not just John Key, but the rest of his wrecking crew, too.

Kelly Ellis, Whangarei Labour Candidate, former journalist and current lawyer grubs her living from the criminal justice coalface but dreams of being a better parent and more dutiful partner to her long-suffering family.