My Australian Blood Type
I have a criminal past. You wouldn’t think it to look at me now, would you? Short, modestly dressed, "past the glory years' woman with a respectable job, beautiful family, own home, never had a speeding or parking ticket in her life sort of lady. You’d pass me by in the supermarket and probably give me a hand with my trolley if it looks like I’m struggling. Butchers have stopped calling me “lovey” and now call me “dear”. But yes, behind this gentle facade lies a woman with a deep dark criminal past.
It’s documented by the way… not just here in my hometown, oh no, it goes way beyond that. It’s actually documented internationally which tends to give me a little James Bond-ish feel to my exploits. When I’m feeling the old rebellion surge vibrating through my being I quite enjoy that thought of being a “Bond Girl.”
My grandmother was deeply ashamed of my crimes. She wouldn’t speak of them. ”Blame it on the Germans” she’d say in hushed tones. I saw “the look” from her every time I tried to bring it up. On the other hand, my ex-mother-in-law would bring it up every chance she got. ”Look, just look at the family you married in to” she’d holler to my ex-husband. “Don’t blame me if the kids turn out bad” she’d graciously say from her patented vinyl throne as she dunked her Jatz crackers into her milk-less tea, denying my proof that her home grown criminal past was a lot worse than mine.
Only my Dad didn’t mind one bit about my dark side. He’d often nudge me with his elbow as we sat together having a late afternoon beer after a hard days work and he’d say “You come from good convict stock Little One. Get that beer down yer gullet.” We’d laugh and tell tales of his grandfather shooting up the thunderbox when inappropriate suitors came to visit the daughters. We’d sigh that we didn’t know our ancestors well enough to find out what their criminal story was. He’d tell me to be proud of being a baddie.
I have it coursing through my veins, that old criminal spirit. It ebbs and flows through my life-blood, rearing it’s head when necessary, lying dormant when it needs to sit quietly. I love having the blood of rebellious Irish men and women who were brave enough to stand up for the rights of themselves and their fellow man against ruthless oppressors. I love having the blood of men and women who stole small items to resell so they could buy their children some food. I used it when my marriage fell apart and I had to fend for the kids and myself alone.
I love having the blood of dispirited soldiers who thumbed their nose at authority and got caught doing it. I use it as I now speak up loud and clearly about current inappropriate Government policies. I love having the blood of beaten, abandoned, tortured souls in my body. The strength they displayed as they forged their way in a harsh environment has given me countless moments of victory over events designed to destroy.
None of my convict ancestors were bad blood. None were sent her for atrocities such as murder, rape, or torture. All of my convicts were sent to Australia because they did what they could to make a better world for their families and countrymen with their selfless naivete. I love having that criminal blood in my veins. It makes me proud of my shameless criminals. It makes me hope that their blood line is never diluted. Therefore, I'm proud of my blood type.