cultural tourism

i'm holidaying for the weekend, by the beach, with a family of friends. this is when i hear about the thing in norway.

i'm at a coastal town market on sunday when i overhear a conversation by a stallholder and a friend/customer about their views on immigrants. his tables are lined with old glassware and ornaments, some of them quite nice. he talks about his family, or family friends, who came over here not having any english, "but they learnt". she says "because they were proud". she tells similar stories. back and forth they validate each others phobia of the newly arrived. he says something about "our flag", and "not the Iraqi flag". she says the good ones (her european friends/ancestors, presumably) don't forget where they came from, but at least they become Australian. at one point, with much gusto, she says "it just makes me sick". at this point i walk away, out of earshot.

whilst lingering and listening, the glassware around me transformed into potential destruction that i might cause to interrupt this conversation. "here's what i think of your immigration politics...". but no, of course i don't. i wouldn't. but in an alternative life (the one i might write, but not live), i pick up a magnificent ornament and thrust it to the ground. i do it again, and then again. i thrust glass upon glass to double the shattering. i smash more loudly, more viciously. i put my whole body into this. i kick, i shove, i throw, i grunt. my anger builds and rolls out of me, beautifully focused on my unfurling destruction. when i stop, so does all sound. no more shattering, and no more talking. there are no more statements from those two people. there's just a mess of pretty ruin. they probably don't know what to say now. and nor do i. but my hatred is gone. and i walk away and feel the warmth of sunshine.