You’re not on the list

The volunteer at the box office flashed me the usual puzzled expression I receive when I tell people my surname.

“Keck? That can’t be right.”
“So it’s not on the list?”
“No, I mean it doesn’t sound right. Is it a real word?”
“No, it’s a real name.”
“Oh… Is it like your nom de plume?”
“Just the nom really”

Some people have the type of surname that is easily ticked off a list.
Smith? Check.
Jones? Check.
Not me. I have a German surname that roughly translated means cheeky or impudent, a more apt name I could not have hoped for. However, the English definition is “the noise made before vomiting” and in the north of England kecks refer to your underpants. So cheeky vomit knickers is apparently my legacy to any unfortunate children I spawn. Although with me as a parent the surname is the least of their worries.

I watched the volunteer’s pale finger run down the page, her slender nail gliding past the names of frustratingly talented writers, illustrators, and musicians. Not a huge surprise that mine wasn’t there.

There’s a wonderfully awkward moment when you realise you’re not on the guest list of an event. It’s akin to that feeling you get when no one jumps out and yells ‘happy birthday!’ at your surprise party because everyone forgot to turn up, and the only person to greet you is your cat licking his privates while maintaining an unsettling amount of eye contact.

The volunteer gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry, you’re just not on the list. Are you a writer?”. I had pondered this very question the week before. “How do you know if you’re a writer?” I asked. The volunteer fidgeted with her lanyard for a moment. “Do you write full time or do you have a job?”. I told her I had a fairly shitty rent paying job. “Ok, so when you meet people at parties do you bring up the shitty job or introduce yourself as a writer?” I stared at my sneakers. My silence was all the answer she needed. “Congratulations” she said as she took my hand in hers, “You belong here now”. She handed me a lanyard with the word ‘industry’ printed on it. My bottom lip quivered.

I knew the Melbourne Writers Festival volunteers were helpful. I had no idea they were crush your lump of soul until it became a diamond kind of helpful.

Ever the troublemaker

I presented my pass to the awkward looking volunteer manning the door of the BMW Edge Theatre. He seemed puzzled that I should want to go inside to watch the next event and asked me if I was really sure if I wanted to. I told him I did. He shrugged, scanned my pass, and I walked through the door and into a wave of kid stink.

It was a year since I had been around so many children and I forgot just how much they smell. In small packs they’re fine, but en masse, they reek, offending nostrils with a sour playdough odour. I decided to move to the front of the theatre in the hope I could avoid the worst of it. I found a gap about mid-way through the first row. It’s an odd sensation sitting in on the Schools’ Program. I’m not used to being around that many people who still have hope and joy in their lives.

The teachers continued feeding their children into each row of the theatre, until they reached the first row. They seemed hesitant to let their young wards sit next to me. I was glad I had shaved my moustache off a few weeks prior to the festival, as it would only amplify the creepiness of the one adult male sitting next to a group of kids. After all, there are only ever three responses to a moustache:

Your mum – “Shave it”
Your girlfriend – “Shave it”
Everyone else – “You look like a sex offender”

One teacher conceded and ushered some kids in next to me. A small Indian boy sat down, sizing me up with the blunt perspective of the young. He asked if I was a teacher and I told him I wasn’t. Then he asked what I did for a living. I explained that I was a writer. He sat on this thought for a moment before asking what type of books I wrote. I informed him that I haven’t written any books, only articles, columns, and comedy. Without missing a beat he said “Oh… so you’re not a real writer. Just an unemployable guy with a keyboard”

My grandmother’s words falling out of the mouth of an 8-year-old.

I did the only mature thing I could think of and crossed my eyes while poking my tongue out at him. My vision uncrossed to a teacher with crossed arms and a crosser face. She sent me to the ‘sin bin’, a space up the back of the theatre where I found myself grouped with a chubby kid who habitually crammed his fingers into his ears, taking far too much joy from licking the tangy wax off his finger tips. He proffered a stubby finger tipped with his head excretion that I politely declined. He seemed pleased that I said no and contentedly sucked at his own goo. I can’t believe after all these years I’m still sitting at the back of the classroom, ever the troublemaker.

On the stage, Andy Griffiths and Ursula Dubosarsky delighted their audience by discussing the international language of comedy – farts. All the kids were terribly excited at the prospect of reading more books about bottom burps. Perhaps this was a sign. Maybe I could find work writing about bums and the noises they make. While I sat there thinking of a title for my first big book about bums, I failed to notice the event had finished and the school children had mostly left. The Indian kid walked past me grinning. “Say hi to Centrelink for me”

I wanted to exact revenge against his smug remark, instead I smiled, knowing that in a few years the horror of puberty would be punishment enough.

Have I told you lately that I love you?

At the volunteer briefing a few weeks ago Rosemary introduced me to the group with the following statement: Never in the history of the festival has someone come back for a second year as Volunteer Coordinator; clearly Jane is either masochistic or crazy.

Maybe she is right, coordinating a large group of people can be tricky at times, but coming back for a second year means one can build on past performances, preempt problems, run a smoother and more thought-out program.

For example, this year I’ve learned to play it cool. Last year, I greeted each and every volunteer who came on shift with ‘Hi, I’m Jane, I love you.’ Clearly I’d been nervous that the roster of many faceless names wouldn’t materialise into real live people and I was beyond rapt when it did.

This year I keep my love quiet. It’s not that the love isn’t there, it’s just that I’m trying to avoid that thing where people back away from me with a frightened look on their face. But seriously, with the first weekend of the festival under our belt and the schools program nearly over, I’m feeling a lot of love.

Friday through to Tuesday saw hoards of smiling people come knocking at the door of the volunteer cabin, ready to be decked out in a t-shirt and beret and tackle whatever task was thrown their way. These people are seriously amazing. Friendly, funny, organised, patient, flexible. We’re incredibly lucky to have them.

So maybe if you’re at the festival this weekend and a lovely person in a red beret scans your ticket or directs you to the festival club you should tell them that you love them. That way, if I happen to slip up and declare my love I wont seem so weird.

Jane
Volunteer Coordinator

Volunteers Ahoy

Well, it’s been an action packed week. First thing Monday morning I accidentally deleted our entire database of volunteers. In my defence, the ‘delete this user’ and ‘delete all users’ buttons are VERY close together. I can’t express the relief I felt when I announced to Helenka what I’d done and she laughed instead of throwing something at me. I’d already trawled through my mind to work out how many of those three hundred names, addresses and phone numbers I could recall (none) but luckily the system had been backed up the night before so a phone call to our IT guy had the list recovered in half an hour. My only punishment was to do the coffee run and by then I was totally ready for a coffee anyway.

Monday night was our volunteer briefing at BMW Edge. That type of thing always feels a bit like a birthday party with the obligatory few hours of fear that no one will turn up. To my relief we had a great crowd, around 130 people, and I’ve been meeting with other small groups of volunteers all week. So many fabulous people! I can tell it’s going to be an amazing team.

Now I’m working on scheduling everyone to their preferred roles and it’s the time of year where the words ‘I don’t envy you at all’ are constantly being thrown at me. This means many hours working my way through the program, assessing where I need to place people and trying to marry that with where people want to be placed. Of course I’m forever wandering off on tangents, reading up on different writers and events. The events at the Toff and Festival Club look fabulous and I’m excited about Craft Hatch. All of these crossovers between words, music, art and craft totally have my heart.

\In response to Nina in her blog below, No Nina, it’s not just you, Tom Rob Smith is hot. If you would like me to write him a love letter on your behalf maybe you should check out my new website Clothing For Correspondence. And you could give me that red cape you are wearing today in return.

Jane
Volunteer Coordinator