When did housing become a commodity and a wealth project? Have we forgone part of our humanity to become economic actors more intent on maximising wealth than maximising social interactions?
By John Haren
My Dad had simple tastes. Mum too. A quiet man, Dad loved being with people. He loved football. He loved his family. He worked two, sometimes three jobs to support his family. In pubs where the front bar was men only. He enjoyed a beer himself. He had moved from the mid-north of South Australia to Adelaide. A cultural shift which had its own challenges in the 1940s. Scarce housing. When Mum and Dad bought a modest house, they welcomed boarders who helped with the mortgage repayments.
While Mum and Dad prioritised family, they were willing and enthusiastic supporters of others. Dad was a member of the St Vincent de Paul Society, visiting those down on their luck. Most Monday evenings he was at the homeless shelter serving food and being with those who were without their own family support. Mum was a tireless listener, sought out by many women in the neighbourhood who needed advice or just someone to hear their story.
You might have thought that given these circumstances that they were to use today’s vernacular, time poor. But Dad never complained as he arrived home from his day job to change for his evening bar work. He didn’t seem stressed although I am sure there were times when both Mum and Dad would have been worried about how to make ends meet.
As parents they rarely missed their children’s tennis, netball or football matches. School events were very important. It’s a familiar story of a recent but sometimes forgotten era in Australia’s history. It is tempting to glorify the past as simpler, easier, less harried times. The reality is that life was hard. Working long hours for modest incomes. Tending to family demands but also responding to the call to be connected with others outside the family. Living in a post-war era when there was little choice about where to live, the type of employment, and even the range of grocery items. Simpler times with their own complexity.
Dad wasn’t much older than I am now when he died. He wasn’t fortunate enough to have a lengthy retirement. My reality and that of my contemporaries is somewhat different from my parents. I am the recipient of my parents’ selflessness. University education, courtesy of the reformist Whitlam government. Employment opportunities in jobs that didn’t previously exist. Opportunities to travel. Housing prices comparatively affordable before homes were turned into wealth creation investments. The explosion of product choice in supermarkets. The creation of a fashion industry that kept us in perpetual consumerist mode. And need I mention the technology revolution.
Now that I have left the paid workforce, the questions evolve in a way that shapes my daily life quite differently, at times distracting me from what is actually important. Because these questions become ubiquitous. They can consume the wary and unwary alike.
Do I have enough superannuation to sustain my lifestyle?
Do I have enough to see me to the end of my life?
Is my home too large now that the children have moved away?
Can I afford to travel?
Do we need more than one car in a two-person household?
What about leaving the children a substantial inheritance?
These are questions that niggle away in the psyche. But they can take up far too much time when, I have enough. I am sheltered. I have a reasonable but not an excessive amount of superannuation. I have a house larger than required for two people although it is frequently filled with grandchildren. I have frequent holidays and the occasional overseas trip. I have enough. I have more than enough.
I have time to do the things that I want to do. I have friends that I love catching up with. It’s a privileged position when so much of the world lives in poverty or under the threat of war and violence. I am able to move freely through my neighbourhood, my city, my country. I can write without being censored, although some topics elicit significant pushback from individuals. It’s a luxury when compared with writers, filmmakers, activists in authoritarian regimes. I do not risk being arrested.
Two years ago, my wife and I were lucky enough to spend some time on the Greek island of Kalymnos. We had time enough to get to know some of the locals. George owned a cafe off the main strip which we frequented for our morning coffee. It was a quiet place to chat and relax.
George confided that he had owned a second cafe in the busy promenade area, but he had sold it even though it was very profitable. He was working long hours and he questioned, for what? I have enough, he said. These days he connects with people. Sits down with his customers. Regales them with stories of the island. He has enough. A refreshing message.
When did housing become a commodity and a wealth project? When did superannuation become a capital sum to be maintained and not to be diminished by spending in retirement. When did time become a zealously guarded chattel not to be wasted, but for each minute to be maximised? When did caravans become so self-contained that the facilities in a caravan park become redundant? When did our country become so contrarian about migration and refugees? When did dropping in on friends move from being a spontaneous act to a formal proposal?
I pose these questions because they are fundamental to our way of being in these times. Have we forgone part of our humanity to become economic actors more intent on maximising wealth than maximising social interactions? Have we become slaves to time management? Have we so many questions of ourselves that we cannot engage in thoughts beyond our own narrow purview? In the face of rising international conflicts have we reduced our own world to a small sphere of interest?
I suspect Mum and Dad never asked these questions of themselves. They had little and they prioritised the family, the neighbourhood and those who needed help. I do ask myself these questions. In the end, I have enough.
Even in a country as wealthy as Australia there are many who don’t have enough. They are doing it tough. Maybe those of us who do have enough need to free ourselves of the questions that constrain our thinking in reflecting myopically and acknowledge that we do have enough. And do more. The question is, when is enough, enough?
