Efeso Collins had just finished carrying buckets of water for children who don’t have access to clean water when he collapsed and died. What should have been a fun charity event ended in shock and palpable grief. The week before I had watched Efeso give his maiden speech in parliament because that is the kind of brief personal theatre I enjoy. I have taken to watching Parliament TV again because the Opposition is more interesting than those in power. Well, Te Pāti Māori is. I don’t know what it is I expect of Question Time in the house, what gotchas I am after, but they never arrive, which is partly systemic and partly about ego. Gerry Brownlee is a jovial Speaker but even he can’t manage Winston Peters, who flounders until he remembers some factoid or bit of political history from thirty years ago to mask his thinning grasp on the present tense.
Louise Upston said that under her watch, no one will be rotting on a benefit, like we are just forgotten old fruit. So, it was a salve when Efeso said a simple and paradoxical thing: It is expensive to be poor. Fruit and vegetables have become a luxury item, I never thought I would look at half a pumpkin in the supermarket with incredible longing and have to just walk on by with my basket. There is no point getting a trolley because I would struggle to fill it. The other thing about being poor is the impulse buys, if I only have $3 I am more likely to buy a chocolate bar than bread. Normally I get irritated when people with money emote on our behalf, but Efeso Collins seemed so genuine. I don’t want to be endowed with imaginary dignity, I want to buy a whole head of cauliflower and do something weird and middle class with it.
It also helps if you are time rich when you are poor because the waiting times to talk to someone at MSD range from 60-120 minutes. That is a lot of time to get permanently traumatized by the vanilla version of the NZ music catalogue. Brooke Fraser will never be the one that I want. Sometimes I am spared the waiting because the system is overloaded, and I am abruptly cut off. I have my case manager’s email address but the automatic reply stated that she was at a Development Day. Oh no, I thought, here comes the top-down culture change. I have weathered multiple changes of government not-quite-living on a benefit and it effects how people on the end of the line speak to you, when you finally get through.
Last week I rang to get a small food grant. It was a Tuesday and I hadn’t eaten since Sunday and I had no cigarettes to replace the meals with. It is expensive to be poor and it is even more expensive to smoke. I would give up smoking but it’s the only thing that makes the sobbing stop, or plugs up my rage, both of which are excessive. The woman at the call centre wanted to know why I needed food. I told her it was because the Ministry of Justice is deducting fines from my account at a rate I can’t afford. I told her this had been going on for three weeks. She wanted to know why I hadn’t rung earlier, and I replied that I was having a nervous breakdown and that I am on multiple meds and that even then I struggle to function. She wanted to know how I had got fines in the first place. The short answer is that I am poor.
The long answer would have involved telling her about the small tutoring job I had last year at the University, where it was almost impossible to find a park. After circling the University and Polytech on an empty tank one fateful Tuesday afternoon I did find a park and spent $7.50 on the meter so I could teach unwilling Surveying students about when to use a semi-colon. The answer is almost never. Because I was all paid up, I thought the meter maid (agent of destruction) would ignore my car which was unregistered and unwarranted because I am poor. But I came back to a $400 ticket. Fuck, I thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck. But because I am malnourished, I forgot about it, except for when I told another class — who I had already horrified with my personal anecdotes — that I was late to class because I had mistimed my walk. I was breathless and sweaty and I also confessed my $400 fine to them. I detected some empathy from the students who all seemed like practical types with rich parents so this was gratifying. They had to pick an issue to write a report about where they could demonstrate their professional writing skills. And quite a few of them chose Dunedin’s horrendous lack of parking. Especially around the decrepit hospital. I began to believe that our future Surveyors are actually very sweet.
I have two degrees, but I took being a mother more seriously than my studies and theatre is not a vocational degree. But at least the woman devoid of sympathy at MSD didn’t tell me to attend a work seminar for my sins. I have a CV, parts of it are almost impressive if you overlook the gaping holes in it. And I have a book coming out in August which reminds me of the time I told my old case manager that I had a poetry book coming out and she said: Oh, you won’t be needing the benefit then, because of all the sales. God how I laughed, because pumpkin was still affordable then and I had the energy to find her funny for thinking literature can make you money in this country.
After the news of his death came through I watched Efeso’s maiden speech again and I cried. Hope, faith and love might be Christian concepts, but he made such aspirations seem noble and inclusive. He understood the communities he served. He had enough aroha for everyone. And he knew who he was speaking for when he said it is expensive to be poor.
Also, I didn’t actually have a poetry book coming out, I lied seven years ago because it was my only chance to go on Kim Hill. If my case manager had asked what I had done to deserve that honour I would I have been honest and said I have absolutely no idea.
Despite keeping it brief my food grant was denied, and I said I’m sure you are not allowed to refuse people food. Yes we are, she said. Another liar. Another house on fire.
And again you do this beautifully xx
I cannot wait to read Boy Crazy (hehehe) You're amazing!
Rest in love Efeso Collins. xxxx