I remember the first uni class I attended: POLS1002. The room was chockers, filled with bright-eyed students, some of whom would one day become the political overlords of this country. While my personal legislative ambitions peaked in Year 7 debating, I was in the big girls’ league now. And goddammit, I was ready to bat!

The cacophony of hundreds of the most insufferable people you’ve ever met was abruptly interrupted by the greetings of our new lecturer.

“Throughout my career, I’ve worked with many politicians across many different parties,” she began.

At the time I was frustrated, I came here to be academically challenged, not to hear someone’s LinkedIn profile. 

“And throughout this course we will grapple with the serious repercussions of the decisions made by those people in power, and so, I really must preface…”

She sighed, tentatively scanning the crowd.

“Politicians are weird. These people aren’t like us. There’s something seriously not right about them… all of them.”

A sinister silence ensued.

I wanted to laugh. The generalising nature of the spiel felt xenophobic and yet it was directed at one of the most privileged groups, often responsible for spreading xenophobic rhetoric themselves. It was 11 am, which felt too early for xenophobia. I know that is not my universal claim to make, but intuitively, 11 am just feels too early to hear xenophobic remarks. 

“Sorry to anyone whose parents are politicians,” she added promptly, but the carnage was clear.

“There’s something seriously not right about them, all of them.” The words “all” and “of them” rallied across my mind like a never-ending ping pong game.

I was now in purgatory, and all that greeted me was an empty DVD player with one of those bouncing DVD logos that would never reach the corners, but the word DVD was replaced by “all of them”.

“There’s something not right about all of them.”

“All of them.”

Of course, there were always bad Pols — not just your classic moustachy fascists, but these new caricatures of capitalism. Think Vance, Boris Johnson, and Australia’s Mr. Burns equivalent himself, Clive Palmer, who have all confirmed my deep suspicion that we are indeed living in Biff’s timeline from Back to the Future.

 

“All of them.”

Her words reminded me of those evil NAPLAN comprehension questions.

Where if:

A: Ketamine is to a bush doof 

B: Evil is to all politicians;

 

Then

 

C: What is a prospective Poli-sci student to society?

What could the answer be?

 

“All of them,” a voice bellowed.

 

I was reminded of a heated debate I had with my dear leftist friend on Level 5 at UNSW Library, circa HSC season 2023.

“How can you just opt out?” I exclaimed.

“You can’t complain about the flaws within Australian democracy if you refuse to participate.”

“But I reject it.” 

“You reject democracy?” I sneered in disbelief.

“No, I reject the authority of Australia as a democracy. It’s founded on colonisation and Indigenous erasure. It’s illegitimate.” 

“But don’t you think we then have an obligation to engage in said illegitimate system to dismantle it? Not voting is still an action; it’s apathy, not resistance,” I retorted.

“Can’t you see it’s a band aid; POLITICS IS JUST A FUCKING BANDAID!!”

 

“All of them.”

I was cynical and snotty, and on University Avenue against my will when I came across a pamphlet that loudly read:

“Bob Katter at Badger!”

I was absolutely flabbergasted. The man who refuses to affirm his Lebanese ancestry. The man who wants every young boy armed with a rifle. The man who is passionately indifferent to same-sex marriage because he believes the true political crisis lies in the rampant crocodile-devouring North Queenslanders epidemic!

And maybe I am surrounded by Katter yes-men, but on the topic of Australian icons, one could argue that Bob Katter is on par with Steve Irwin — or maybe just Rob Irwin post-Bonds undies thirst trap.

But regardless, the man, the meme, the myth, the Queensland Supremacist himself, Bob Katter, was coming to the ANU.

And weirdly, 

I didn’t even care, I didn’t GAF because even with his eccentricities Bob Katter was one of them. 

“All of them”

I’ll do diplomacy first, then probably join the Labour Party with a view to one day being Labour’s foreign minister. That’s why the IR and International Security Studies combo is such a slay. 

“What type of politics are you going to go into?”  She beckoned innocently.

It was O week, and everything was breezy, and the grimmest ALDI red wine was flowing, but how could she ask such an audacious, assumptive question. 

What about me didn’t scream anti-establishment? I was wearing a vintage Casper the Ghost tee, for fuck’s sake! Did this Stupol suck-up know that I’d led legions of truanting children through Kings Cross screaming,

“SCOMO, fuck you, we deserve a future too!”

How many impassioned speeches had I given to my friends about the atrocities of Shein, Palm Oil and private schools? How many whistleblower Wikipedia pages had I obsessively stalked with my personal sights set on exposing the depravities of the fast-food industrial complex?

Did she know that the only reason I chose a Bachelor of Political Science was because it sounded crispy and crunchy to say out loud, and technically meant that I was now a part of the elusive entity known as “Women in STEM” — the few, the brave, the proud?

But it didn’t matter. The “all” of “thems” were now one. I was Fraser Manning, and I was Egg Boy. I was Julia “Not to Be Lectured About Misogyny” Gillard, and Tony “By This Man” Abbott. I was Labor, Liberal, the Ying, the Yang, the Greens, the TEALS and everything in between. 

I was in heaven, hell, and the liminal backrooms of UNSW Library Level 5.

And I wondered what would become from that formative POLS1002 class.

What would become of me, my peers, “all of them”.

How many of us would surrender to the tide of civil service, spending years teetering from one miscellaneous government portfolio to the next, becoming hardened by a life spent in bureaucracy. What about the Others who would undoubtedly ditch politics for the far more alluring clout of commerce or entrepreneurship. And maybe there were some, just some, who would end up on our ballot boxes in 2040.

And if they were really lucky, they might even be memorialised on some Gen alpha Degenerate Doof stick with bulging eyes accompanied by a drug-related pun. 

“What type of politics are you going to go into?” she kindly repeated.

I paused for a sec, and then I thought. 

I thought of the school climate change strikes, democracy sausages and my cheeks painted rainbow and my classmates celebrating and the bell rang to signal the end of the day and indeed, an end to Australia’s archaic marital laws. But then came Brexit and my dreams of living and working in Camden while listening to Amy Winehouse were irreparably shattered. Then came Trump and then left SCOMO to Hawaii while Australia was on fire, and the flames were now encircling me like sharks and the speaker was now playing the Jaws soundtrack, DU DU, DU DU. And that Grimm ALDI wine I had willingly chugged was now bile rising in my throat. All my constituents were glaring at me, and the overpacked college dorm was now a ruthless press conference and that Stupol girl had morphed into the slug from Monsters INC, and I was beyond mortified and then the Stupol slug from Monsters Inc kindly repeated. 

“What type of politics are you going to go into?”

My constituents waited impatiently, or were they my new college acquaintances, or future party colleagues? 

No, my decision was made. 

I smiled, picturing Bob Katter, Tony Abbott, Clive Palmer, my POLS1002 lecturer, my Stupol friends — that whole sorry lot.

“All of them,” I uttered wistfully, watching the world bounce around me like that old DVD logo, never reaching the corner.

“If all the world’s a stage”….. then I refuse to audition for any part.

Instead, I yearn to be one of those backstage crew members nonchalantly moving a couch.

And the stage is dark, the audience is still, and my soul is free. 

PS: This article was written prior to Bob Katter Lebanese ancestry reveal challenge gone wrong.