Boganville

Let’s face it no matter how rich or poor or in the middle of having money we might be, where Capitalist ways are at play a little bit of bogan lives in us all. Sometimes it’s not so bad and sometimes it’s really not ok. Sometimes its endearing and sometimes it’s just down right embarrassing. I’m not sure what you call it in other countries but right here in Australia the word Bogan is one of those colloquialisms used to delineate class, even when someone is actually quite well to do. It’s a pejorative term with unclear origins but it seemed to arise as a growing ambivalence towards masculine concepts of meritocracy and larrikinism built on our home soil.

 Many years ago I tackled a mini thesis at University;

“Is Australia a class society?” and 20 years ago it was more likely to be a question than a statement. Today it’s just a statement. There’s most certainly a class structure. With a relatively short economic and social history to draw from, perhaps that ladder is not quite as pronounced when compared with The United Kingdom or The USA but it’s nevertheless most certainly something that governments, educators and families will continue to grapple with right now and moving forwards. But it’s not all about money. Class is not all about money. What is style? What is finesse? What actually is classy? Are we too precious about appearances? How can we speak “well” and does it sound more compelling through the lense of rounded vowels and clipped consonants? Do we need to be Educated Rita’s or My Fair Ladies or do we simply need to embrace each other and become lifelong learners with an open mind?

  It’s all really a bit of a balancing act to bogan or not to bogan?  Wearing an apron covered in false abbs at a BBQ, not too bad. Eyeing off a pair of faux fur moccasins at the Vic market and actually buying them for outside or inside use, no wukkas mate. Go for your life, well perhaps only occasionally, there’s that question of where are they made?  Sweatshop? Tread carefully then. Couple of tinnies round the campfire so long as you’re not devouring the whole slab, all in moderation, yeah, no-ones getting hurt. Buying a framed picture of dogs playing snooker for the pool room, yeah I’ve been tempted and I’m not going to judge.

Travelling to an Asian island on a holiday, failing to contemplate the dress code by wearing a thong, g-string, string bikini or board shorts without a shirt, drinking on the beach and playing loud music in a market where people from such countries rely on tourists.... BOOM, too much bogan. Just because it is tolerated by locals doesn’t mean it’s embraced culturally by those people. Sometimes people are positively shocked when racial tensions splinter off between countries of different cultural origins….In the words of Aretha Franklin

“Respect” Mate… Have a little respect.  

Designer labels work under the premise that we will look and feel “classy” if we fall into the very rare chance of being able to afford such garments.  Or there’s that trend to go nuts in an Asian country buying sweatshop versions, yippee! NOT. We’ve clued into that vibe a bit more now. We know it’s a lie and if we don’t we’re probably not round the right kind of people at all. Most of us are coming on board to the change. We feel guilty about spending like a CUB (cashed up Bogan) when others go without, we want to cut back on waste, recycle, give hand me downs to our friends, make our own clothes or buy from market sellers. “Pretty in Pink” was one of those movies that got the ball rolling. Sometimes Hollywood simply did get it right. Vintage is classy, fun and creative. A handmade jacket made of patches of discarded fabric is endearing, beautiful boho and thoughtful.

I remember my Nanny Conlon (Re Fisher) often and she sewed beautifully. One of my favourite of her outfits was yellow silk and 1920s in style. She returned home from work on one occasion teary and despondent because a colleague had suggested she start shopping at David Jones rather than continuing to make her own clothes. For me, that dress was a reminder of her courage, of her thrifty no waste policy as every last piece was used for something, of her creativity and style and desire to be not rich but individual and interesting. She was from a very poor beginning but with that attitude she found her style, her own class while maintaining a sense of genuine self in the way she spoke. There was nothing so much of airs and graces in her accent and that’s actually ok with me. If there is or isn’t we are probably better at looking beyond the sounds of language and delivery in Australia compared to some other countries too. Sometimes the earthiness of our language can be refreshing and a sense of country air comes through with a flourish of mischief.

On other occasions the bogan racists shout and swear at anti-immigration rallies and give mateship between anyone -women, men, people, animals... a really bad name. 

The boganometer will not sound too loudly for an endearing set of fluffy dice or a sneaky little “youse” thrown into the sentence. I’m not too worried about how you might spell, though it’s important to teach spelling (in moderation), if you’ve ever owned a Torana (now it's becoming vintage cool anyway) or even if you secretly need to use Buddhist Iconography as your home furnishing without actually practicing that religion much at all.  If you think you can carry off a pair of stubbies shorts on a Sunday walk in the park in any part of Australia. Why not? Not hurting anyone.

But riding jet skiis and scaring wildlife away, driving recklessly for thrills, partying on and thinking it’s your right to punch on …boo, boganometer is screaming STOP. Tanning on purpose despite the global skin cancer crisis, trolling the internet as a “sport” and walking between train carriages…. oh brother make it end…. Bathroom selfies meh and rich college kids making a mess with their drinking games in the dining hall for staff to grapple with on campus, double meh, not so hot. Humour that crosses a line into bullying, obscene racism or homophobia and gender bias is also pretty up there in the grossarama boganville world. Hunting for a sport, bogan be gone thanks very much! 

I’ve got no cause to be a snob or a bogan. My experience fell somewhere in the middle. You could call me a Snogan on a bad day. We all make judgements, call it wrong or muck up a bit. It’s important though to check in with ourselves and listen to each other.  It’s important to find a sense of ourselves, not follow like sheep to the Instagram sales pitch, to find authenticity openness and respect for our different and similar ways of being so that we can be more as one, though many.