DEADLY LOGIC DEMANDS A COOL OZ DAY
Baking in the sun on our national day is no good for us lily-white newcomers. So let’s celebrate in the winter
HAPPY Australia Day! Now, let’s change the date. I’m not being melodramatic, but this is literally a matter of life and death.
And yes, my reasoning is racially motivated – although probably not what you’re thinking.
We white Australians need to stop celebrating in the summer. In fact, I’m all for moving Christmas to July.
I’ve just had yet another chunk of skin hacked from my back at the cancer clinic, on the very same day experts released new national guidelines for sunscreen use.
Research now shows that even incidental sun exposure – for example, hanging out the washing or standing at the bus stop – can be a killer, with the recommendation that Australians apply sunscreen every morning as a habit, just as they brush their teeth. (For my children this would mean saying they’ve applied sunscreen but not actually doing it, just as with brushing their teeth.)
But guys, it’s not enough. After a week of camping in which we slathered on the sunscreen like Trump with the fake tanner, which we religiously reapplied like immigrants at the border, we failed to protect ourselves – like Trump talking about immigrants at the border. I wore a hat and yet my scalp is peeling, my daughter wore a sleeved swimsuit and yet her shoulders are peeling … my son isn’t peeling but he does have some brutal nipple rash from his wet shirt. It’s no melanoma but he could possibly die from the embarrassment.
When you’re descended from Australia’s original boat people, meaning your skin is as milky white as those potatoes that refused to grow in the Irish fields, summer is a killer.
I’ve already had one melanoma removed, as well as two that were about to cross the line from ugly mole to evil killer.
I feel like I’m starring in a horror movie: The Sun. You Can Run, But You Can’t Hide.
Every day it chases me, but still I’m the sucker who walks right into it. I can just hear the audience screaming as I prepare to walk the dog in the morning: “Don’t go out there!’’
Following our campground roasting, I’ve taken to encouraging the children to shelter indoors. Yes it’s hot and a swim would be lovely, but is it worth the inevitable early death?
Of course it feels unnatural to discourage outdoor play in favour of bingeing on the iPad, but I’m their mother. It’s my job to be the responsible one.
The start of school next week is a relief (for many reasons, maternal sanity being just one). At least between the killer hours of 10am and 2pm they will be indoors.
Sure, there’s outdoor play at lunchtime but the school is strict with sunscreen and hats and the uniforms cover 90 per cent of their bodies anyway (knee socks for boys in January does seem like cruel and unusual punishment but at least it blocks the sun).
I know outdoor life is the Australian way, but we newbies just weren’t made for it.
Celebrating January 26 on our waterways and beaches, sitting in the sun while sizzling both the snags and our skin – these are potentially lethal activities.
What’s the point of commemorating our country if we kill ourselves doing it?
The only ones who can enjoy such pleasurable pursuits in (relative) safety are, ironically, our indigenous peoples.
And since our native brothers and sisters are not necessarily enthused about celebrating the day we sailed in with our pale skin and dark diseases, the answer seems simple – let’s change the date to one with neither cultural nor physical sinister implications.