My Left Foot; My Right Foot

Years ago, in another life, before tattoos appeared on every square inch of male and female flesh, I saw a well-tattooed man with black lettering on his feet. The lettering on the left foot was very appropriate. It was “MY LEFT FOOT.” The lettering on his right foot was different, but just as appropriate. It was “MY RIGHT FOOT.”

I pondered on this at the time, thinking that if the man were a genuine sufferer of word blindness (in which the sufferer cannot tell the left side from the right side) and if he were, or held the high ambition to be, a member of the armed forces and wanted to be able to step off on the left foot in unison with his comrades-at-arms, then it was a sad waste of time because when he would march, he would be wearing hefty boots and would not be able to see his clever bit of tattoo artistry.

Many years have too quickly slipped by since I witnessed that particular demonstration of futility. Despite this, the underlying thinking must have really caught on. Today happens to be Australia Day, which is a calendar label that doesn’t exactly endear itself to many of us that dwell on this smallest of continents or largest of islands (depending on whether we subscribe to the half full view of life, or the half empty view.) Anyhow, this day is rather deservedly despised by many of our indigenous citizens who feel that it excludes them, and that, like myself, feel that it would be more appropriately labelled “Invasion Day.”

This particular day of the year seems to act like a giant poultice applied to the Australian landscape. It seems to draw out of the boil of the earth, an enormous amount of people who probably don’t know their left feet from their right feet. This rather harsh judgement that I make is evidenced by the fact that man, woman and child have to make equally futile labellings. They label their bodies with Australian flags (white Australian flags, that is), they apply stick-on Australian flag tattoos to their arms, faces and bodies, they fly Australian flags from their mitts, from their cars and from their houses. They wear Australian flag hats, caps and even shoes. Some even picnic on Australian flag tablecloths spread on the park lawns.

Perhaps there is a variant of the word blindness ailment. Perhaps it is geographic blindness; the inability to tell whether you are at home or abroad.

Really, I think that I preferred the man who labelled his feet, to these modern-day exhibitionists who have to adorn their world with reminders of where they are at the moment. At least the foot man did not insult people by his labelling, and did not make many of his fellows feel excluded.

Unfortunately, the flag waving, wearing, hoisting mob may well be symptomatic of something far more sinister. Their actions could well be seen as outright declarations of jingoism, nationalism and ethnic arrogance. Many of us are old enough to remember where such thinking can lead a populace, and what it can incite them to do to others who do not share their world view. However, this article is not about Nazi uprisings, it is about marching in unison.

 

Battler