My daughter, as much herself as ever
at twenty eight has come into her own.
My daughter steers great cargo ships
through the Heads at Port Philip,
keeps solitary watch at four a. m.,
wields tools that are twice her length
and double her weight - with ease.
My daughter understands engines,
plagues me to learn about them too.
Change your own oil, Mum, grease the nipples.
Fit a new oil filter. Save you heaps.
Come on. Watch me. Write it down.
My daughter invented unions.
MUA HERE TO STAY! She gives us
the Webb Dock dispute, blow by blow,
on the phone - the inside story. More volatile
than any row her parents ever had.
We're angry, we're loud!
We're union & we're proud!
Her nine year old step-sister chants
as they drive to the supermarket.
My daughter has discovered money;
a childhood of make-do & second-hand
& now the heady joy of going out & buying
computers, camera, watches, tools to die for
and no paying top dollar
when you've got contacts on the wharf.
My daughter has developed an eye for fashion.
No longer confined to Vinnies boutiques
she now buys expensive clothes;
velvet waistcoats for cleaning spark plugs,
designer jeans to sop up battery acid, engine oil.
My daughter is only five foot one,
wears the smallest steel caps I've ever seen,
has to have her overalls specially maunfactured
(she takes some flak for that) but, Ships
are built for people my size, she says smugly,
I never bump my head like the dickhead men.
My daughter rings from Port Douglas, furious.
The dive school's refused her, failed her medical.
They don't know how strong I am, she weeps.
Go to the bar, get a drink, or to the pool
I tell her, say hello to one person, anyone,
and just take it from there. Two days later
she phones, triumphant. These women scientists
who cruise around the world researching fish
invited me to go with them. They're teaching me to dive.
And the adrenal hyperplasia? They're not scared of that,
they're educated: I'm going sky diving as well.
She's had it with the blokes and their proud boast
they can get any woman out of the merchant navy
within three years. She's been there four.
Earned her stress leave, she reckons. Takes time off
to get her head together. And to do ours in,
her brother tells me on the phone.
She sees a psychologist, who wants her to take Prozac.
They're so predictable, my daughter sighs. Why don't they
do something about workplace harassment instead?
Meets a woman who tells her about Lilith, dark goddess.
My daughter thinks Lilith sounds like the goods.
Get me photo, she orders, the blokes have their pin ups,
I'll have mine. The shipping company suggests
her best course of action might be to find another job.
The IRs won't change, they say. But I will,
I'll get my Masters ticket, & boss the bastards round.
