As part of a career change, I once took an online university course. When I got a paper back from the instructor, I was dismayed to see several grammar and spelling errors indicated. In my existing career, I’m a language professional and have been for twenty years, so I was puzzled by this to say the least.

On closer inspection, it turned out that the instructor had accepted all of the suggested “corrections” from Microsoft Word, marking them as though each had represented an actual error. Of course, they hadn’t, given how the spelling and grammar check works: the corrections are merely suggested, and it’s up to the user to decide whether the change makes sense or not.

In fact, in some cases accepting the suggested change introduced an error. For example, it corrected “assuming that” to “if” in a sentence, for “concision”. But I wasn’t using “assuming that” to mean “if”; I was literally referring to the act of assuming (e.g. “Client-centered care can include not assuming that the therapist understands the client’s background,” etc.), so replacing it by “if” made the sentence gibberish.

Never mind, of course, that I had obviously typed the thing in Word, so I had seen all the same suggested corrections she had and decided that they weren’t appropriate. 

It’s hard to describe how personally and professionally indignant I felt about this, especially because she had docked me marks for each of these “corrections” and left a little comment about “paying more attention” to spelling and grammar!

I still got above a ninety (out of 100) on both the paper and the course, so I decided it wasn’t worth the hassle to complain about, but it still rankles me.

Two decades ago, the college library where I worked was planning to buy compact shelving. These are bookcases on tracks that can be shifted back and forth, allowing you to fit about forty percent more books. You can buy manual stacks (moved with a hand wheel) or automated ones (moved by machinery).

A colleague of mine called a librarian at another school for advice. She said the conversation went something like this.

Colleague: “I understand that you have both manual and automated shelves.”

Librarian: “Yes. We recommend the manual ones.”

Colleague: “Have you had trouble with the automated shelves?”

Librarian: “We recommend the manual ones.”

Colleague: “Did you have a problem with the automated ones? Did someone get hurt?”

Librarian: *Pause* “We recommend the manual ones.”

Colleague: “Is there something you aren’t legally allowed to tell me?”

Librarian: *Pause* “We recommend the manual ones.”

Colleague: “Thank you.”

We bought the manual shelves.

I am in high school, meeting with the school’s guidance counselor to discuss my plans after graduation. I let her know that I am going to attend community college first to do my prerequisites and then a university for the field I am interested in. She heavily discourages this plan because I was accepted into a university; she says I should skip community college because I am “better than that”. She thinks I should take out a student loan and go straight to university. I explain that I want to save as much money as possible. She gets my parents involved, who are annoyed since they are the ones encouraging me to go about it this way and offering to help me through community college. 

A few years down the road, I am now graduating from college. I continued to stay at the community college since I switched to a degree that could be finished through community college, and I am engaged. 

My mom and I are out shopping when we see my old guidance counselor. We say hi, and she asks how I am doing. 

Me: “I’ve been well. I’m graduating this semester and am working on my way to becoming a kindergarten teacher at the daycare I’m working at. I’m engaged and getting married this summer.”

Mom: “She’s also graduating without any debt from student loans.”

Guidance Counselor: “That’s wonderful news. I actually want to apologize for pushing university so hard on you in high school. [Her Daughter, who I graduated with] is already $40,000 in debt from student loans. It’s going to take her years to pay them off, and she’s not even done with her degree yet. I’m now encouraging students to go to community college first.”

I’m happy she changed her stance on it, but I feel for all the students prior to her daughter going to college for whom she pushed student loans for university.

I dated a man who was never responsible for his own actions. And I do mean a man; he was thirty-two at the time of this phone call. I was twenty-one, so I was young enough to think that being the one to step up and take care of him was the right choice for me. As it turned out, it wasn’t.

This conversation was about our two-year anniversary. 

Me: “When will you be here on Friday?”

Boyfriend: “For what?”

Me: “To pick me up.”

Boyfriend: “For what?!”

Me: “We’re going to [Restaurant] for dinner? It’s our anniversary.”

Boyfriend: “Oh. I made other plans, sorry.”

He didn’t sound at all sorry.

Me: “Why would you make other plans? We reserved the restaurant a month ago.”

Boyfriend: *Defensively* “Why didn’t you remind me if this is so important to you?”

Me: “I told you last weekend in person, and I told you on the phone on Wednesday.”

Boyfriend: “Okay, well, I don’t remember that at all. Maybe you were talking to someone else.”

Me: “I texted you on Thursday, and you replied to the text saying, ‘Okay, I’ll be there.’”

Boyfriend: “Well, you can’t expect me to remember these things if you don’t write them down. I have a full-time job. Don’t get pissy with me for—”

Me: “It is in your phone calendar and written on the paper calendar in your kitchen.”

There was a pause, and I heard him tapping through his phone. He cursed, and then I heard him walking to the kitchen.

Boyfriend: “Well, I still made other plans.”

Me: “Okay, you go ahead and do whatever you want.”

Boyfriend: “You’re not mad?”

Me: “Oh, no, I’m pissed. But I’m not going to keep putting in all this effort if you’re not going to try.”

Boyfriend: “I am trying! What do you want me to do?”

Me: “I want you to f****** listen when I talk, pay attention when we make plans, and be a f****** adult!”

Boyfriend: “Wow. You know, you are not going to talk to me like that.”

Me: “You’re right; I’m not. Enjoy whatever plans you have. Don’t bother calling me again.”

I hung up.

He tried to call a few days later, leaving voicemails saying things like, “I hope you’ve calmed down by now,” and, “If you’d like to apologize for your behavior, I’m listening.” I never responded to anything, and after a few weeks, he stopped calling.

This is more of a lifetime of experience, but one moment sticks out. Australia is a multicultural country, so most people inside Australia don’t see “Australian” as a culture of its own, more like a flavour of their own culture. In day-to-day life, it has little bearing as people don’t really care, but every year of school and every course I have done has had a section dedicated to culture.

It’s just bureaucrats patting themselves on the back about being inclusive, and it’s usually extremely offensive. As a kid, I was taught and performed a traditional Māori war dance despite none of us being Māori and half of us being women. As an adult, I was taught that if I’m going to meet someone at work and their name is foreign, I should research their culture and at first meeting, greet them in the traditionally appropriate way. (I was smart enough to never do that.) I could go on and on, but the most common was writing an essay about my culture and how that impacts my interactions with other cultures. “Australian” was not an acceptable answer.

I try explaining that aside from being Australian, I don’t have a culture, but that answer is only allowed if you can point to the stolen generation or some other racist movement that stripped your family of its culture. But I am very, very white and can actually name my genealogy (a handful of the whitest white places ever), so I am left arguing with teachers to convince them I really don’t have another culture.

Me: “No, really, it was just my parents and siblings in my life until I started school. I grew up with the same books, TV, and holidays as everyone else.”

Teacher: “What about other family? Grandparents?”

Me: “I only really have one grandparent, and I barely see her. If she has any particular culture, she has never shared it with me.”

Teacher: “Even just your parents, then — someone had to raise them. They will have a culture that they raised you with; you just haven’t noticed that it isn’t the norm.”

Me: “Look. My mother was abandoned to raise herself, so she wasn’t raised with a culture, and my father was disowned, so if he had one, he actively rejects it and didn’t teach it to us.”

Teacher: “I’m sorry, disowned?”

Me: “Yep. Apparently, his side of the family is really strict and traditional, so our entire branch was disowned for something.”

Her eyes lit up like she had caught me.

Teacher: “Traditional how?”

Me: “I don’t know. I was disowned. I know it’s a large family that has lived in Australia for generations, but I have no contact with any of them. Our name is from [culture #1], and we’re descended from [culture #2], [culture #3], and [culture #4], but while I know the names of them, I know nothing of their practices. I could research them, but they have no bearing on who I am as a person.”

Teacher: “Hmpf.”

That was the end of the conversation; she just stared at me until I sat down. I wrote about not having a culture and feeling disconnected from those around me. I probably would have gotten a bad grade if it was that sort of course. But it was just pass/fail, and unless you say something racist, you pass.

I have since learned a lot about my genealogy, and it is quite interesting, but to this day, I am simply Australian.