In 1978 living in St Kilda I was part of what became known as the “punk” cohort.
My band, The Little Cuties performed at the Crystal Ballroom. Our schtick was to poke fun at everything sacred. Members of my band included Rowland S Howard, Mick Harvey, Pierre Voltaire, Nick Cave, and Genevieve McGuckin. We did a handful of gigs before I split for London. (The rest of the band soon followed me to the UK, but by then I’d formed another band called The Twisties.)
I was never a punk. More like a goth, but that term had yet to be coined.
None of our St Kilda music cohort had much empathy for anything or anyone. We were entitled, snobby, obnoxious brats each with our own perfectly formed superiority complex. Sneering at anyone not wearing black who didn’t know the words to ‘Now I Wanna Be Your Dog’.
We never talked politics, went to demos, or wrote to MPs in those days. Thankfully we grew up, but it took a fair while. Ask Nick about that one!
Decades later I’m back living in St Kilda. Hopefully, I’ll die here. I’m older, wiser, happy, but sadly increasingly vulnerable.
I’m no longer fast enough to run out of Topolino’s without paying, tough enough to kick someone in the balls who’s trying to steal my handbag, or spit onto the windscreen of curb-crawlers at 3am in Barkly Street.
I am usually home before nightfall because I don’t feel safe anymore.
My psychologist told me, “Walk slowly, and use a walking stick. Accept you’re not young anymore, and remember you had six falls in the past two years”. He’s so mean.
Last year I was assaulted on a number 16 death-trap tram one lunchtime by a large (assumed) male. He grabbed my boobs, and insisted we go out for a burger. I managed to fend him off. He was drunk and high and smelled like a gender-neutral toilet at a sticky carpet venue.
A few months ago another high/drunk (assumed) male tried to force his way into my “secure” apartment in Fitzroy Street at 1am on a Sunday. I called the police, who never arrived. Luckily, my fabulous neighbours chased him out of the building. One told me the cops did come, but not to ask me for a statement. No doubt they were busy with the weekend mob.
Most days I hear screams from the street. Regularly when I head to the post office or Bain & Co, psychotic people are screaming nearby.
I’m now hesitant to go out during the day, and scared to come home on a tram after 7pm.
I’m stuck in my little apartment here in Fitzroy Street, with no funds to move and little money for Ubers. But I do firmly believe in counting blessings.
The personal attacks and what I often read on RiSK, until I turned off Facebook on my phone, are not what I expected for this final stage of my life.
The people screaming at nothing (or each other) frighten me, but they are unwell and need help. I could have easily ended up in the same place given my history.
If I’m spooked, I rush to get back home, crossing Fitzroy Street as quickly as I can. Precarious for me with the unnecessary obstacle course. Stepping up and down quickly over the barriers and cobblestones is tricky with a walking stick when you’re wobbly from your meds.
What can I do? There’s no simple answer. But who is to blame? Who to write to? Talkback radio perhaps? CoPP? But that’s not going to fix the situation.
And yet I witnessed what could make a big change recently coming out of Bain & Co. (The loveliest pharmacy on the planet btw. Please don’t go to Chemist Warehouse.)
Outside the Pride Centre, I watched what I believe could be a big part of the solution. Two staff members, gently speaking to a person shouting out about non-existent beings. They calmed him/her/they down. They helped quietly and without fuss. I was so impressed. I assume they had training and knowledge about how best to help. Bravo, Pride Centre team!
So, be like the Pride Centre staff. Inform yourself, learn about how to help people like that, what to do, and if safe, how to intervene.
Could CoPP run classes to educate locals? Yes, please. I’m not aware if there’s anything set up like that already.
So if you’re angry about rough sleepers, please keep in mind no one chose that life. Is it possible a kid’s ambition was to sleep on Fitzroy Street in urine-soaked clothes?
I’m planning to make more of an effort within the St Kilda community. I plan to advocate for education. I choose empathy, for myself and others. That old phrase “Be the change you want to see” resonates.
Vicki Bonet is a musician, ex-aid worker, VPS bully club survivor who identifies as a human.
Main picture caption: Vicki Bonet pictured with (from the left) Mick Harvey, Pierre Voltaire, Vicki Bonet, Andrew Duffield and Sean Kelly.
Author image from www.djoyobisono.com
