User talk:Gwenmerl

Excerpts from The little Mongrel can be read at www.fixwrite.net

Chapter excerpt from Book Three of The Little Mongrel - free to a good home - Winlaton
The following excerpt is taken from one of four chapters dealing with the author's experience as an inmate of Winbirra and Winlaton

The lights around the oval gave way to the grey dawn and the institution came to life, a non-stop clank of keys, as doors were locked and unlocked. I heard the mutterings of waking voices. Early morning voices of the staff, freshly rasped from pre-shift cigarettes, rose above and around the expletive laden protests from girls who preferred to stay in bed. I listened and tried to make out the routine, hoping it might save any misunderstanding of the rules later on. I’d already worked out only one girl was allowed out of their bedroom and taken to the shower at a time, when I was ordered to strip and remake my bed while I waited for my turn. A broom and scrubbing brush were passed through the door before it was locked again. I was ordered to sweep and then dry scrub the floor, to make the floorboards shine. When my turn came to be unlocked, I found a bra and underpants hanging on the outside handle of my door, both ill-fitting cotton garments of generic size. I was handed the green and white check shirt and grey skirt with a ticking stripe that added another layer of uniformity. White cotton socks were piled against one wall to be distributed after the mercurochrome had been painted between our toes. The only belongings of personal ownership allowed were a plastic comb and a toothbrush, unused this time, which were given out from the store to all new girls. I was told if either of these needed to be replaced at any time they’d have to be purchased from my pocket money.

After I’d showered and dressed, I was locked with the other inmates, in a communal room separated from the staff duty office by a window of toughened glass. Officially known as the small recreation room, it was more commonly called the rec room. It had an empty fireplace at one end and a grilled window along the wall opposite the staff-viewing window. Under the grilled window was the only piece of furniture in the room, a wooden box seat that had neither cushions, nor other covering. The brick wall theme had been continued into this room, although, in a facile concession to ordinariness, the top two feet of the wall had been faced with plaster. The names of inmates past and present, along with the dates of their incarceration and sentiments about the place, had been etched deeply into this section of this wall.

Several sheets of paper had been taped to the office side of the window. One was a long list of section rules, which, I was to learn the hard way, were subject to varying interpretation between staff members. A job roster demonstrated the ever-changing Goonyah population, as it used room numbers in place of names and next to this was a list of room numbers showing the names of the current occupants.

I was number two.

The last sheet was a list of room numbers for each meal sitting. There were fifteen beds in the section and sixteen chairs in the dining room, but no more than eight girls were allowed to be in the dining room at any one time. Goonyah girls were considered to be intractable and dangerous and not to be trusted to have natural interaction with each other.

One by one, the girls were ushered into the rec room, belligerent through habit and conformity to expected behaviour. Freshly combed damp hair, framed each shiny face, fresh with youth, yet etched deeply with rejection and hopelessness. Arms and legs displayed institution tattoos, crosses, daggers, and scrolls that framed the word ‘Mum’, while here and there a small rose bloomed between the raised scars of self-mutilation. The conflict between love and hate spelt out in thick uneven lettering on fingers scarcely old enough to know about either. The pain of life was evident in all.

There was only enough space for five girls to sit on the bench seat and the rest had to either stand or sit on the floor, with its unwelcome marbled rubberised floor covering. If any sought personal space at the other side of the room, a tap from the office side of the glass came as a quick reminder to move where they could be viewed from the window.

The introduction of new girls was similar to Winbirra; the staring off and sniffing out, and questions asked in an aggressive manner. I was aware my status as a new girl placed me at the bottom of the pecking order, and the need to establish myself quickly if I didn’t want to be the target of every other girl’s frustration, for however long I was going to be in this place. I turned my fear into front, my apprehension into false courage, and I returned their stares. I responded to questions asked in an overly aggressive manner, with silence and steady eye contact. I analysed the group dynamics to ascertain who the key players were and I played only to them. This approach worked for the moment and the predators turned their attention to easier targets.

The staff on Goonyah also shared the attitudes of their Winbirra counterparts. The chief of the section, an older woman, introduced herself to me while the first sitting was at breakfast. She had a thin line where her mouth was supposed to be, and spoke in a clipped tone as she outlined the rules I was to live by. True to the culture of the institution, she spoke as if she expected me to break the rules, as if I’d already broken some sacred trust, leaving me feeling my presence in this place meant I’d forfeited the right to be treated with any sort of respect or dignity.

She reminded me of my mother. There was no reason given as to why any of the rules were in place and, while I understood some were necessary for safety and good health within the section, many seemed to have no sound basis at all. It was one of these I’d already unwittingly broken, when I looked out the window the previous night. I was told if I was caught doing it again, I’d be transferred to the other side of the building, with its unchanging view of the security fence. I didn’t understand what difference this would make if I wasn’t allowed to look out of the window anyway. She explained the pocket money system to me. I could earn up to four shillings a week, enabling me to place an order at the canteen to buy sweets or a comb or a toothbrush, however, money could also be deducted for any misdemeanour.

Once the first sitting had finished their meal and the girls secured in the rec room, it was my turn to line up with the second sitting. We stood in a row against the passage wall, left arm held straight out and touching on the shoulder of the girl in front. This regimented measure of distance had to be maintained while our clothing was checked for uniformity and general tidiness. The biggest irritation for the chief appeared to be the sight of a girl with her socks pulled up, instead of a neat double fold that exposed the back of the ankle. An offence of this nature could result in loss of pocket money, as could an untucked shirt, untidy hair, or anything else that caught her eye. It didn’t take much to offend her. After breakfast we were taken from the rec room, one at a time, to do our allocated jobs. No one genuinely complained about this, as it allowed a temporary break from the discomfort of the small room, but the obligatory protests had to be maintained.

The jobs were menial and gratuitous. The linoleum floor of the long passage had to be dry-scrubbed twice a day, kept to a high shine nobody except the staff and inmates ever saw. Toilets and showers were on the daily cleaning list and the smell of phenol permeated every part of the building. The most sought after job was kitchen duty, because it was shared with another girl, and provided opportunity for almost normal conversation.

The remainder of the day was spent in the small and inappropriately named recreation room. Fifteen girls and their pent up emotions, from a lifetime of rejection and deprivation, sandwiched into a small room for hours on end. There was nothing to break the tedium of these hours. We were not allowed to have anything to read and there was no craftwork. If the staff felt inclined, they’d flick a switch in the office, channelling the radio through a speaker in the ceiling and we could listen to a station of their choosing. They were meticulous in the administration of their duties though and always muted the speaker before the news came on. I was told the reason for this rule was that they didn’t want anyone to hear something from the ‘outside’ that might upset them. For the entire period of our incarceration, we were kept ignorant of events in the world beyond the wall.

Gwenmerl (talk) 03:26, 29 June 2008 (UTC)