by REBECCA DOUGLAS
It’s not something you admit in polite company, at a dinner party, on first meeting someone, or at any other time for that matter. They look at you in a whole new light, and it’s not a flattering one.
I lived in public housing. For 20 years. On welfare.
In several ways, my family fit the stereotype: single mum, alcoholic father, both with a history of unemployment and unskilled jobs and a fondness for wearing trackie dacks in public.
In many ways, we didn’t: Mum had me when she was 35 (so very much not a teen pregnancy), Dad was dux of every school class he was ever in and we all manage to speak without a single “ain’t”, “youse” or “could of” amongst the lot of us.
As for me, I was known as a straight-A student who never drank, took drugs or sneezed in the wrong direction. From early on, Dad had emphasised the importance of listening to my teachers and getting good grades so one day I could land a good job and earn decent money. And when my dad talks, people listen — from the sheer decibel level alone.
But no matter how hard you try or how hard you work, you’re still just a “dole bludger” in the eyes of many, even if you’re a kid who’s had little choice in the matter. This sank in during Year 12, when a journalist interviewed my mum about a new government policy affecting public housing tenants. The photo in the newspaper might as well have lit our house up in neon lights. The anonymous calls came thick and fast for weeks afterward. I’d answer our phone to be yelled at, sworn at and told I was worthless, leeching off the government, was the scum of the earth and, of course, a dole bludger.