So it happens, I was riding the bus home today.

Nothing to unusual about that.

Nor is it the least bit unusual that there be a man or men drinking a bottle or many bottles of beer on the bus.

Well, today, one of these men on the bus decided to stike up a conversation with me.

“What school is that?” The man asked pointing to the college crest on my blazer pocket.
“St Aloysius College” I replied. It would be important to note at this stage that the man could not hear what I said a lot of the time the first time I said things and often asked me to repeat what I said.

He continued to ask whether it was a private school, to which I answered it was semi-private. All of these pleasentries are rather irrelevant however, so I will skip to the crux.

He asked me of my background, whether I was Greek or Italian and I replied that my father was Chilean. He laughed. He thought I was joking.  “Chileans are short” he said. I laughed along with him. He continued by talking about a friend of his that was Chilean and the way that there is no country quite like Australia. He was a man of documentaries. He had seen the beaches of the Chilean coastline as depicted on the ABC and/or SBS but also knew from his friend of the poverty and the polluted space that rape parts of the country. His friend was a cocaine addict.

The man was from Poland, and though he left much of his family and life behind when he left, he decided that Australia was a better place to be than the place he left behind. “War hasn’t touched this place. You’re lucky if you can call a place like Australia home” he said, and that itself is reality.

He was a saddened man by those who had come to this country and brought the corruptness of their home with them. He recounted a story of him witnessing two men who attempted to rape a girl of my age and the police not being able to do much. The man said he went to the two perpetrators and told them “Listen, you are lucky to be in Australia. You have accomodation, the government has given you money. If you don’t want to follow the laws here then go back home. You don’t belong here if you’re not willing to leave the ugliness behind”
Despite his views here he did say that some things “just aren’t fair. Like when the good people are punished by the police because they were born in another country and someone else from there has done something wrong. People are people. You do wrong then you should get punished. Not everyone from that country.”
He looked at me in the eyes and said; “You might think that I am drunk. But I am not drunk. I just like my beer. But people from other countries need to respect the people here. You can’t just do whatever you want because thats what you did overseas. I am not drunk, believe me.”
“I believe you” I said.
He continued his reflection and I came closer to my stop. It was time for me to go, and he knew that.

He took my hand in his and shook it. “My name is Andrew. You are a very nice girl. Young lady. Thank you for listening to me and not sitting somewhere else.”

And I am glad I didn’t either. Despite the smell of beer and a staleness your nasal cavities aren’t quite accustomed to, this old man had a view of the world unparalleled. It pays to listen to the people that others neglect. Those whom you often steer clear of are people to, who have eyes to see the world, ears to hear the injustices and hearts to feel the sorrow, the heart ache and the eptiness of those who won’t give them an ear.

Listen;

C.L.U