On Manners and Love in Adelaide
In the movie, Titanic (1997), there is a scene where Jack is introduced by Rose to her upper class associates. Jack is unaware of the table manners, leaving Rose floundering as she has to signal to him how to act. He is dreadfully confused by the utensils laid out before him, and he cannot find the rhythm and the context of the conversation.
Rose's rich associates are horrified. The look on their faces is meant to inspire comedy among the audience, who are, of course, on Jack's side. We have been given ample time to see how much he is worth as a person: his intrinsic morals, his great romantic love and his principles, and just how beautiful his heart is.
And it is here that Jack displays his adamant refusal to back down. He doesn't stand for others shaming him for his status, his way of life, and he proudly declares this while commiting another social faux pas: that of biting into his bread without first tearing it into smaller pieces and bringing them to his mouth.
It is in his own way that he wins the majority of the table over.
This is a reflection to all other types of Comedy of Manners: Bridget Jones Diary, My Big Fat Greek Wedding etc... Each of them attempts to satirize silly social conventions of a 'sophisticated' society.
Now look at me.
I am in Adelaide. I am sitting next to every single one of my associates, Jacks and Roses alike.
But I am acting the part of the horrified, snobbish prick at the table.
You see, entering Adelaide was akin to being thrust into a comedy of manners.
And the joke was solely on me.
You say, perhaps--Maddie, Maddie, Maddie. You cannot be talking about manners for the majority of this piece. It is such a silly and small thing to focus your entire Adelaide trip around.
Ah, but I shall.
On our first date in Adelaide, my girlfriend walks ahead of me. I am struggling to catch up with my (not short!) average length legs. She doesn't notice that she almost left me behind.
She is not used to being with people. This I know. Even if I didn't, I would've felt it at our first sit-down together. She barely looks at me, a few cursory glances, no more. Her eyes are always flicking away. They are full of hurt. The poor girl has been alone for too long.
We are both doing our best. A well-placed icebreaker soon prompts laughter.
What can I say? We are both transwomen; forever nursing wounds that may never close.
I am listening to The Feminine Urge by The Last Dinner Party.
Being a woman is exhausting. We are placeholders, centerpieces, objects of entertainment. Life is a series of poisons we have to convert into love. No matter what we do, the question remains: why does everything hurt so much?
There is guilt and shame running all the way down to our wounded roots.
Nevertheless, we grow.
Let's start again. I am a middle-class Asian. This statement (if you know you know) marks me as growing up in an incredibly insular society; everything is about manners and presentation. Your life consists of two stats, intertwined yet separate, of 'reputation' and 'face'. Those you must track in your mind and require constant upkeep.
As a child, I was taught--nay, forced--to keep all my surroundings spick and span. Everything in its own place--including you. Bedsheets were washed every two weeks on schedule. Vacuum twice a week to keep the dust mites away. Allergies, always allergies and how to min-max your health. Clothes had to be hung and dried in very particular arrangements, and everything had to be folded a certain way to cut down on ironing.
A fresh clean towel every day may be a luxury to you, but to us it was a demand by default.
Most of all, I was taught how to host from a young age. We cleaned up prior to visitors. Clutter was kept to a minimum. A single cardboard box lying about your house marked you as improper. You did not so much enjoy company with your friends as you did ensuring they had the nicest (read: most frictionless) time of their lives.
Let me put it another way: have you watched Pride and Prejudice? Downton Abbey? Or perhaps, the most recent, and in my opinion, extremely good period drama, The Gilded Age?
In each of these, the horror is that the nouveau riche simply do not have the manners to fit in with the rest of us. Just look at their manners! Their tastes! Their purchases! (Simply put, if you are flashing a Gucci or a Louis Vuitton in front of me, then you have marked yourself in a blunder. Those are brands that people think rich people have. Real 'high status' people would not deign to consider such things.)
And of course, a large amount of the conflict in these stories is the devastating horror for a guest to be have a bad time when you are the host. Imagine the loss of face! How much reputation would one lose among your peers?
I'm always the first to offer my friends a drink, to ensure they are well-seated, that there's a place to put their coats and purses when I'm hosting. My place is always clean and perfect. Nothing out of place. Cups (the right kind for the occasion) and water jugs (filtered, not tap) and drinks (I know your preference) are already out, and food and snacks are merely a finger snap away.
It was only when I immigrated did I hear the oft-mentioned stereotype of a white person watching a Japanese Youtube ASMR video and saying, "damn, things are so clean! That's not real, right? That's all faked for Youtube!"
Uhh...
No? That's how you're meant to live?
Eh?
You don't worry about losing face in front of your friends even when things aren't perfect?
What do you mean you can just be yourself--
Oh.
Oh no.
I was eight when my mother began shooting me dire warnings about how white people lived.
They don't even know how to wash their dishes. They just dunk it in soapy water and don't even rinse off the soap.
They say that doing so makes their dishes look cleaner. But it's just the film of soap clung over their dishes reflecting the light; they're eating soap every day!
I saw this on my first school camping trip; I watched in abject horror as the adults dunked our dishes into a tub of brown, food-scrap laden soapy water and didn't bother to rinse anything off. They let it dry on the rack and served food on them the next day. I felt sick for the rest of the trip.
And of course, the coup d'etat. The finisher at the end of my mother's arguments.
White people wear shoes inside their houses! Imagine that!
...Imagine that.
"What does that tell you?" she said.
What does your tone of voice say about yourself, mother?
Oh right. I'm meant to be talking about my Adelaide trip.
Hey.
You're not going to believe this: did you know Adelaidians don't have an inside voice?
It's crazy.
They're so loud.
Jesus christ. Everyone is always yelling. It feels like everyone is wearing earmuffs or grew up like a millennial who wears headphones everyday and doesn't realize that cranking the volume up until it drowns everything out (including the bad thoughts) is damaging to your long-term hearing.
I feel like I'm going crazy.
I am in a cafe. People are sitting next to each other and they are yelling. I can hear conversations crystal clear from the other end of the store.
I am outside at the zoo. Mothers talk with a volume that matches screeching cockatoos. They easily override the screaming babies they are ignoring.
I am at Rundle Mall. People smile, they laugh, but when they open their mouths, the projected volume is at double the decibel count of what I'm used to. And yes, I'm aware the decibel scales exponentially.
I stand by what I said.
I'm writing this piece from New Zealand. It's nice being able to hear my own thoughts after three weeks.
I am sitting with my girlfriend. Her eyes finally found me at the end of our first date. After the second, we are always staring into each other's eyes.
And we are whispering. This is how we talk when we're together. It follows every other unconditional act. The more intimate we get, the softer our voices become. Each moment turned gentle.
Girls, the two of us.
Can you believe it?
We are just two girls. And things are starting to feel right.
I am listening to Kiss Me More by Doja Cat.
She asks for more, and I oblige, but it is hard to kiss around the hurt.
It is awkward. We laugh. We stumble.
We do our best.
She tells me she's scared of hurting me. I reply that she could never.
It is a lie while also being the cold-hearted truth. We are transwomen, and we are so very good at blaming ourselves. The flaw is so prevalent that I need not speak from personal experience to make this claim.
But I am.
(And it still hurts.)
I was thirteen when I went to my white friend's house for the first time.
My nose itched immediately upon entering. Too much dust built-up. Their place was vacuumed once a year if they were lucky. A thick, musty, and slighty acrid smell hit my nose, marking their surroundings as too humid with never enough sunlight.
Spring cleaning. Oh my god. People really only clean their houses once every spring?
I was mortified.
Things felt so dirty that even sitting in their living room made me feel ill. I was terrified that bugs or creepy-crawlies would crawl out beneath the seat cushions. That was what my mother taught me: bugs only appeared in dirty places rather than follow any of nature's inclinations.
I remember once--at the young age of seven--that I didn't want to wash my hair that day. My mother replied that if I ever dared skip a day of shampoo, spiders would infest my hair.
After my shower, I went back to my room and cried.
My friend's place was the first time I ever wore shoes inside a house. And I was glad. I think if I had to put my socks--or worse, my bare naked feet--on those bathroom floors, I might've throw up from the ick.
I washed my shoes after coming home. It was only natural. My shoes were cleaner than his place.
I never accepted an invite from him again.
I am in Adelaide.
A newly-met friend presses his fingers slowly across a plate to form a chunk of sauce at the tips. He licks his fingers one by one, a large pink tongue lapping all over his nails. He goes back to the plate and repeats the action multiple times. Slobber drips down that big thumb. Drool runs around his lips.
Yeah. It really was finger-lickin'-good.
I am sitting there, emotionless. But inside the turmoil continues to build.
There is a horror growing inside me and making me sick with fear, knowing I would've been beaten half to death if I ever dared to do something like that at the dining table. I would've ruined my family's reputation. People would attack my parents for 'teaching me wrong.' I might've destroyed my brother's status within his friend circles.
You see, I am Rose's associate.
I am stuck in The Gilded Age.
I am the one trapped inside this jail of 'sophistication' erected within my own mind.
In Adelaide, at every house I grace, no one offers me anything. Not even a glass of water.
Oh.
No one is playing 'host'.
Huh.
Damn, y'all really serve water from the tap. And your tapwater tastes bad.
My friend takes me to watch a sunset at Brighton Jetty.
It is the first sunset I have seen in my entire life. It is one of the few times I can remember sitting down and just...appreciating something.
I start crying.
They don't notice.
I prefer it this way. My problems are my problems and no one else should have to put up with them.
"Maddie, you need therapy."
"Thanks." 8^)
"You need therapy."
"Actually, everyone does--"
"Maddie."
"Yes?"
"You need therapy."
"...That bad, huh?"
"You need therapy."
The next day, my girlfriend takes me to eat the first vanilla slice in my life.
I wasn't allowed to have these things. Let me put it a different way: I was strongly dissuaded via severe disapproval to not touch bakery food.
"That's poor people food," my mother would say. "That's for dirty tradies. You can tell by one glance that those don't taste good anyway."
I believed her.
I don't eat the icing on top. It's too sweet for me. Sugar content is a very good predictor of the kinds of food being aimed at demographics.
I am about to throw away the icing before my girlfriend lets out a yelp, "What are you doing?"
I put the plate down.
She eats it. With her fingers. Just the icing and nothing else.
And--oh, wonder of wonders--I laugh.
I just stand there and laugh.
The healing needs to start somewhere. In many ways, we are teaching each other how to live.
It starts small, soft, and full of love.
I was twenty-three years old.
I remembered joining a voice chat and seeing a previously posted photo of a car interior.
"Damn, that's dirty as hell," I remarked.
It was. The interior was dusty, one of the levers (signal? or washer? I remember it was a Toyota) next to the steering wheel was broken off. There was trash strewn around the seats. Nobody had ever vacuumed this car. I couldn't ever imagine myself sitting, let alone, driving a car like that.
Worse--I couldn't imagine letting anyone else sit in a car like that. That would be infinitely worse, because I would've failed as a friend and as my 'host' duties.
"Hey. You're talking about my car," said one of the girls in the voice chat.
I clammed up.
I never commented on someone else's car again until--
My friend's car in Adelaide has a ton of spilled french fries in the front seat.
I freeze before getting in. Thankfully, they do not notice my moment of panic. Of ick, of disgust.
Then, a sigh escapes me. We are good enough friends for me to comment on the fries.
I am relaxed around them. My breaths aren't shallow or bound up in fear. They have me laughing within moments.
Driving in Adelaide is a breezy task compared to driving in any other Australian city. It's just easy and pretty much solves all your problems, save for parking in the CBD. Still, their public transport system is dire.
"Maddie, that's fucked," you say. "You can't compare every western country's public transport to Asia--"
YES I CAN AND YOU'RE ALL WRONG.
Also, in Adelaide--or maybe just Australia in general--drivers are allowed to turn when the pedestrian light is going.
Are you kidding me? It's up to the driver to notice the pedestrians and stop?
I almost got ran over twice in Adelaide. On the second time, the old man in the car started yelling at me and saying I was an idiot for crossing.
If I was still writing for cohost, I wouldn't have the following paragraphs. But because I'm working on Bear Blog now (giving me vastly more views--no! bad!) and this is going public on Bluesky, I'm going to insert a thought just in case people haven't noticed yet--
I was very privileged growing up. Yes.
But also--
Can you tell how much I am trapped inside this type of social upbringing?
Most of my friends and associates are of this nature. We are spotless and clean. We confess--upfront and honest--that we cannot have people over on this day or the next, because we haven't had the time to clean up and present our place perfectly.
Everyone knows how important it is to be perfect. Of course, we're in on the ruse. Everyone's a slob in their spare time, but that's all behind closed doors.
Going to an acquaintance's house is a manicured experience. Things are clean and cleaned while we are still there. By the end of dinner, very little mess remains. Most of the dishes are either already clean or in the dishwasher. The kitchen is usable at any time. Not that you would need to go there. A good host would've taken care of all your needs.
We are all anxious people. That makes us all good, perfect hosts.
Hosts to this parasite inside our brains--
It's funny to me how a great deal of advertising and culture in Adelaide seems focused on them being 'South Australian' with the implication that being 'South Australian' is better than any other kind of Australian. Some of you will have comments about this. You may say that Sydneysiders (to find this term, I asked my friends 'what are people who live in Sydney called' and the first reply I got was 'shitty rich cunts') and Melbournians have their own brand of this. It's true that each are incredibly exclusive cities in their own way, to the detriment of the good of their country.
Perhaps this is just a 'state' thing. Rivalries and such. I wouldn't know. I have never visited nor lived in a country big enough to have states.
There are upsides and downsides to everything. South Australia seems, more than any other state, protective of its industries and its people. "Buy SA. Support SA." is a logo I see everywhere. Unfortunately (or fortunately), it also meant that culturally, Adelaide felt significantly different to its East Coast cousins. My friend told me there was a 'small town' vibe to Adelaide and I have to agree.
But I am a privileged city-gal. So the word that always comes to mind, the fear that makes me constantly scrutinize this city is to ask: "...So does that mean Adelaide is backwards?"
It is not.
That word is so, so wrong as a descriptor because this city is beautiful. Its setup is kind and gentle compared to the rush hour franticness of its bigger cousins. It does not demand much of you--other than perhaps a set of very good earplugs or a noise cancelling headset. Not just from the people, but the fact that these silly idiots built an airport inside their city.
Gosh.
Oh well. It is kinder and slower in its pace.
My friends here remind me that it's time to learn how to live.
My girlfriend smiles brighter with each passing day. She is a far cry from the selfies once sent to me.
I am scared to look back. Sometimes, there is too much hurt captured in those stills. It breaks my heart, it breaks them still, and I am still picking up the pieces. I have told her this and more. I whispered to her once that I knew all along how much it would hurt to love her, but it would be so, so worth it.
I think what I'm trying to say--
Well, I'm saying--
Hold on, I'm listening to Kiss the Devil by Freak Slug.
Look, I'm saying that it is a joy to finally live as yourself. I'm saying that it is a blessing to be seen and loved as you are, without conditionals, without selling your soul, that it's okay to be vulnerable and cry and that we are stronger for it. Look at me. I am a bare nine and a half months into my transition. How could I possibly know what's to come?
So in return...will you tell me every bit of yourself? Will you see how gently I will embrace these 'flaws' you fear?
Sure, neither of us know who we really are yet. But isn't that what we're here to find out?
Together?
This next point won't matter to most of you but it's probably the craziest thing to me after being told that Australians have great coffee.
The baristas in Adelaide, perhaps due to their exposure to intense heat while living in the driest city in Australia, cannot steam a good milk if their lives depended on it. They may present each cup with smiles, but all were laced to the brim with scalding milk. The steaming had destroyed whatever wicked tamp of beans they had decided to run through their machine.
It is an offense to hold--let alone drink--these cups.
Look.
Adelaide does not have good coffee. I would say it falls far from its East Coast cousins, but in truth, only Melbourne escapes any blame and dares to lay any claim to a crown. Sydney itself is similarly disfigured in the way it attempts bean water. I think I had one acceptable cup there.
You know what else Adelaide can't make?
A good croissant.
Heck, pastries of any kind failed in this city. Every single one that graced my mouth felt like they could've come out of box of twelve in a supermarket.
Again, Melbourne it is not.
And yet, Adelaide's food is incredible.
In contrast to their bland coffees and boring croissants, the food here rivals Melbourne. That's props, because Melbourne's shops pop up and fail almost instantly. It is a city that chases novelty more than anything. It demands adaptation or death.
Adelaide, safe and comfy with its small town vibe, does not need to chase the latest and greatest. It subsists on its own and lets quality do the speaking, because despite it being 'small-town', it is nevertheless discerning in its taste (except for coffee and croissants).
The sandwiches I've had in Adelaide were the best sandwiches I had in my life. They beat each other in quality successively.
Trends hit Adelaide a few years after Melbourne and Sydney have long discarded them. And in Adelaide, a trend can stay if it works. People do not spit on them in disdain for being 'old hat'. They can love it as much as an Aussie loves a traditional sausage roll.
And so, because of their isolation, because of the slow bleed coming from the other more 'modern' cities, Adelaidians dress 'terribly'.
I'm the one who chose that descriptor. If you feel offense, please place all the blame on me. But look around Rundle Mall and it's a bit of a travesty.
My friend prefers the words: 'relaxed', 'easy', 'simple.'
"Imagine," they said, "just doing whatever you want."
They are all wearing loose-fitting t-shirts and sweatpants. Most of the people I meet, I noticed, have holes in their clothes. My mother would've beaten me if I dared go out with a hole in my shirt.
"Other people will think we're poor!" she shouted. "They'll think I taught you all wrong--"
"Just relax," my friend said to me. "Here. Sit on the couch."
I did not.
"Maddie. You need to get yourself out of the rat race for just one moment."
I sit down.
"Maddie? Relax."
...Actually, I can't.
The next moment, anxiety took over and spoke in my stead; I sighed and confessed: "I wish you guys were more posh. I wish the people on the streets were more fashionable--"
Oh.
I am still stuck in the jail inside my own head. My obsession over my looks and presentation is endless.
I am going mad over 'not being pretty enough' knowing that no one will like me if I'm not perfect. I want to starve myself again. I want to cut every bit of sugar out of my diet and return to my perfectly tuned schedule of working out and meeting that impossible beauty standard while going through every chore required to push my surroundings back to perfection, perfection always perfection--
There is security waiting there in the unattainable. I am begging for it.
What does it say when my first thought--my instinctual gut reaction--is to say that I prefer this over the 'sloppiness' of Adelaide? That I would rather fall back into the arms of the devil that I know?
Here I am, wrapped by the roots of capitalism's wicked off-shoot, these impossible standards I hold myself to requires much consumerism and instils in me a constant judgment over others--
Over myself most of all.
Manners.
Decorum.
Presentation.
Perfection in all three grants the triforce I've sought my entire life.
These things are twisting inside me and I am bleeding.
It hurts so very much.
...Yeah.
People in Adelaide have worse skin than Melbourne and Sydney. It's just something I noticed. Do people here moisturize? Do they even have a skincare routine? Whatever the case, looks don't matter as much here. Nobody is obsessing over the small details like I do.
Nobody cares. It's fine, actually.
It's fine! 😊
I am asking my friends if they have tiny spoons or fork specifically for dessert or cut-up fruit. They reply they don't. This concept is mortifying to me, but you understand.
I am Rose's associate at the table and I am talking to Jack in disdain.
You understand.
I am still trapped. Titanic is about to hit an iceberg and look at me obsessing over the small things.
I am listening to Sinking Boat by Infinity Song.
And I am crying in New Zealand.
It is painful seeing my wardrobe again. Being trans is difficult enough on its own, but small mistakes magnify that eternal fear of being clocked. Again, the world asks us for perfection. The pretty ones get to live (in all senses of that word)--maybe.
My mother critiques me most of all. She calls me ugly in her own ways. She expresses much disdain with the way I dress, because it doesn't match her type of fashion.
I am never perfect enough. I am never 'right'.
In writing, they always remind you to write for that perfect audience in your mind. That person you love, the person you know will appreciate all the little details in your work. You have to write something that you will love. Write without compromise. Write with love and infuse the words with your inner-perverseness.
Write.
There's probably something to be said about transitioning too. In the end, we're all doing it for ourselves, but somewhere along the way the motivation gets warped.
See, under all the fire and the brimstone, all the claims that 'we'll regret it' or worse, the person saying it is making a threat: 'I will make you regret it', it's all too easy to lose our way.
If you've read my other writings, you'll know--I transitioned because there was no other choice. I was dying. Yet somehow along the way, transitioning became less about me and more about surviving. Where is that perfect un-clockable feminine voice? That impeccable dress code? Those foolproof cis-mannerisms we're told to have?
Where is it?
I am scrambling, knowing that I'll never find it.
I am listening to Brand New Woman by Brimheim.
But in the end, I feel the same. I have constant nightmares about being a man.
I saw a total of nine transwomen in Adelaide. Three on the train, four on the bus, and the rest at Rundle Mall. Here, queers hold hands openly. I watch two girls, fingers intertwined, waiting in front of Cibo for their (terrible) coffee. Both of them have snake tattoos on their left arm.
I look at the snake tattoo on my left arm. I laugh.
As I move through the financial district's small alleyways, I see two mops of brightly-colored hair, one girl shoving the other roughly against the wall, tattooed arms gripping each other's waists, lips smashed together in moaning embrace.
Hell yeah.
And I am back in New Zealand. I am lying on the bed, sick and nauseous and anxious to my full extent, I am sitting in my computer chair, uneasy and hurt, I am standing in front of the kitchen, running the lists of tasks in my head, I am cleaning and cleaning and cleaning and I am making sure everything is perfect--
I am looking in the mirror and everything is wrong. I was exposed to far too much sun while under retinol that I developed sunspots and pigmentation. I put on weight. Nobody can tell, but the skirts can.
I need The Substance.
Burnout is a form of brain damage. All this can be permanent if you don't act on it. Recovery doesn't just take months--it can take years. Trauma always remains. Some scars never heal. Everything still hurts.
You understand.
I am listening to Ship to Wreck by Florence + The Machine.
I can't help it. I can't help but wonder if everything is about to go wrong, if I was wrong to pursue, if I'm not good enough to love--
Sorry.
I'm really sorry. I'll be better. I'll be perfect one day, I promise.
I'm just a silly anxious girl.
The Dog Days are (Not) Over.
I am listening to Girl by 76th Street.
I am starting to read poetry again. I am learning all the little ways to say 'I love you' without saying it.
Good morning, baby girl💜
Did you sleep well?
Have you eaten today?
Did you stay hydrated?
I knew you'd open the gate for me and that you'd lean your head forward for a kiss. Me, I'd tilt in response, lips slightly open. Contact, and I am moaning softly.
I love spending time with you.
What would you like for dinner?
Did you remember to put on sunscreen?
I'm proud of you. I'm so, so proud of you even when everything hurts.
It is so easy to be with you on your good days, but I will have your bad days too.
And so, I will say it again: You do not yet know all the ways I love you.
That's okay. We have time.
I promise.
I am listening to Moonlight by The Weather Station. I am asking you to dream.
Softly, if you please.
Gently, if you wish.
Of me, love.
Of me.