Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Oli got a gig with Australia. She will be importing textiles in the form of clothing, lingerie, accessories and socks from Down Under, and selling them to the higher end boutiques of our fair city. She’s very excited, and so am I. Fantastic work for her, and fashion at cost for me. Better yet, there could be visits abroad in our future. How cool is that?

To be dubbed worthy of this position, Oli had several meetings at the Australian consulate here. She passed each and every test with shining colours, and is now a certified Australian products wholesaler. Moreover, she got lots of free tickets and had to be in attendance for several events at – are you ready for it? – Australia Week!

Australia Week was designed to promote the products and tourism industry of said country, in other countries like this one. It was really cool too, a big tent set up with Aboriginal performers, baby crocs and Australian Cattle dogs we got to pet, samplers of wine, and a batch of really tall, really good looking rugby players.

When I look back on it now, yes, asking one of the rugby players if I could touch is ball was definitely being too forward. But hey, I was curious. I’ve never been up close and personal with a rugby ball before. Or rugby players, for that matter.

The front-and-centre spectacle of the day Oli and I were there was Mick of "Mick’s Whips". Mick is an expert whipper, cracking and flailing with astonishing accuracy. Indiana Jones ain’t got nothing on Mick. Mick’s so good at whipping he even paints with his whips, and that was the big event: with a whip in each hand, Mick created a work of art.

Australia had thought ahead, and put Mick in his own gigantic plastic bubble, just in case a whip flew astray to poke the eyes out of innocent bystanders. As Mick cracked and painted away, I noticed three girls on the other side of his bubble, early 20’s, dressed very casually and carrying lots of equipment. They were setting up a tripod and video camera, and about to film Mick.

This all seemed a little too familiar to me, especially the massive battery belts they were plugging everything into. I remembered those battery belts well, because they had weighed a ton. A quick glance of the tripod’s label, Manfrotto, took me deeper, and the fact that it was a Thursday morning confirmed everything.

These girls were Journalism students on assignment for their weekly Broadcasting class. Not only were they Journalism students, but students from my Journalism school. Six years ago, I was wearing those battery belts, and lugging those cameras on subways for the weekly Thursday newscast, every 5pm on the nose.

I hated that class, because I’d always known I was never meant to be a broadcaster. Radio was fun enough, but TV? Ugh. I’d enjoyed the filming bit, but I was definitely never meant to read from a teleprompter.

In our very Broadcasting first class ever, we were each given the task of writing up a story and then reading it to the camera, a la true anchor person style, then critiquing our performance with the entire class. I was first that day, wearing a bright green blouse, and reading my story about the skier who’d been horribly decapitated in the Rockies. Unfortunately, I’d chosen to take the, “Smile, smile, smile!” advice of the teaching assistant a little too literally, and showed my pearly whites all the way through the piece.

There I was, at a news desk, smiling my ass off and saying things like, “horrific accident,” “tragic death” and “body found in pieces.” When the assistant played the tape back for everyone to nitpick, he stopped right where I was happily saying something to the effect of, “when the skier’s head flew off”, hit the PAUSE button and asked the class,

“Now, what’s wrong with this?” And watched 29 hands fly up in the air.

Bugger.

After these girls were done filming Mick, they would wrap up their equipment and head back to the editing suites at school, to spend the rest of their day patching together a 30 second to one minute piece, complete with voiceovers. Then, they would take it to an assignment editor, who would give it the green or red light for the evening newscast, which would air live.

I watched these girls very carefully. They set up about 10 minutes into Mick’s routine, and filmed away.

Dumbasses. You weren’t here for the beginning intro. That’s when he introduced himself with two whips and flair.

They filmed for about three minutes.

That’s it? This is a half-hour demonstration. Get the really noisy whip cracks in there. You don’t even have enough for some decent B-roll, just in case.

Then they started to pack up…

Don’t be stupid. Stay, get a fucking parting shot.

… started walking to the door…

Wait for him to finish and then do a short interview on camera, what’s wrong with you?

… and left.

Idiots. Your story’s being cut.

Either I just got it back when I was a student, or I had better teachers.

Not a few minutes after witnessing the three stooges of obtuse journalism, I came across another ghost from my past: a young woman with shiny dark hair, professionally dressed and questioning the Aboriginal performers. I didn’t know her, but I knew her press pass very well; after all, hadn’t I worn one just like it a long time ago?

Europe was my second journalistic internship, my first was a 6-week gig with a very popular national news site. An internship in the industry was one of the necessary requirements before they handed you the degree.

I loved that internship. They were running low on reporters when I got there, and my superior editor gave me free range on the Lifestyles section. I covered openings, product launches, fashion shows and events all across town, meeting a lot of people and doing a crazy number of write-ups every week. When my time there was up, that editor wrote such a glowing review of my work that I almost cried.

I didn’t know if this woman was an intern or full-time reporter; they never differentiated there. She was questioning the Aboriginals and writing everything down on a sparkly notepad. “So, did you enjoy performing here? Did you enjoy your stay? Do you feel Australia will benefit from having this exhibit? Thanks, buh-bye!”

Half-ass. You didn’t even ask them any cultural questions. Why are these songs important? What are they at hoping to achieve by showing Australia’s native side? Did you know these people are the last of their kind to sing these songs and perform these dances? I do, because I saw a documentary on them last week. You didn’t connect with them at all.

Seeing all those women doing what I used to do bothered me to an extent I couldn’t even begin to describe. The students, that was one thing, but the reporter was something else. How could she have been so lackadaisical about it all? Didn’t she even care about the story? Did she know how lucky she was to be doing that at all?

Moreover, how was it that she was wearing that suit and press pass, doing lousy at such an awesome job? Meanwhile, there I was not three feet away, in my regular work clothes of jeans and a blouse, computer bag slung over my shoulder, ready to be at my job in an hour. A job I hate.

So, how did I get where I am? I settled. I got here because I settled. I was tired of rejections and getting nowhere fast in my field, therefore, I took a job “for now.” Just for the time being, I told myself. The money is good. I’ll be out of there before I know it.

Almost three years later, and I’m still in. Sure the money’s still good, but there comes a time when that doesn’t matter anymore. Especially when you see a yutz doing a monotonous job, at what used to be your job. A job you were fantastic at.

In terms of what Missy was doing, I knew could do better. In fact, I did do better.

So just maybe, I can do better. And with that in mind, maybe again... I will do better.