Confessions of a Liberalette
Who's saying what
Words: Carla Efstratiou
Ed Note: We didn't ask Carla to explain why she holds her beliefs, just to share her experience of life as a young conservative.
Who was your first crush? JT? One of the blonde babes from Home and Away? Robbie Williams?
My first crush was a silverfox by the name of Malcolm Turnbull.
We young righties are a little different to the average 20-something, so I’d like to familiarise you with our daily plight through a few personal accounts in the hopes of vindicating this dying breed.
So, a little about me to kick us off. I believe private enterprise should be encouraged, I believe unions should wield less power and I think the dole should be abolished. and I think boat people should be sent back to where they came from and wait in line to seek asylum like everyone else. I sleep next to a framed picture of Margaret Thatcher and I listen to Alan Jones every morning. I am a 22-year-old woman. I do believe in gay marriage rights, abortion rights and equal pay for equal work; so let’s not bring out the pitchforks just yet.
Being a conservative young woman in our society is hard. It’s lonely, tedious and largely unaccepted by the latte-sipping, inner-city elite—the very people who champion diversity and acceptance in our society—but let’s not dwell on this irony, for there’s plenty more to come.
I’ve sacrificed a lot in the pursuit of staying true to my Liberal roots. I’ve lost friends, my voice arguing for hours on end, marks in assignments, the attention of hot guys, and a lot of general peace and harmony in my life. It’s not all bad though. I’ve grown into a confident, bordering-on-arrogant individual, honed my debating skills, and learnt how to de-stress by hurling abuse at the cultural elite who are so very rarely questioned on their views. Catharsis.
At school I was forced to sit alone at the front of the classroom during history class when I simply questioned the implications of an Aboriginal apology. I’m no lawyer, but in retrospect, that was really wrong of the teacher. Shouldn’t she have addressed the question? Instead, I was isolated and ridiculed. Luckily, I have the backbone of a rhino and came to find it all very entertaining.
It was with this confidence that I waltzed into uni. Oh, the naivety.
Ok, so I admit choosing Journalism (a humanities course) at UTS (an inner city university) was probably asking for trouble, but economics would have bored me to death. University is a place where political debate is lively and fostered, right? Wrong. University is a place where political debate is lively and fostered ONLY if you agree with the lefty tutor who has never left the secure walls of a government funded academic institution… but that’s too long to put on their pamphlets on open day.
One of my first subjects was taught by a middle-aged, neurotic, man-hating divorcee who refused to wear a bra. She was on the brink of a nervous breakdown each week and I made it my business to see how close I could push her. Questioning why she never had a ‘real’ job, why she hated the world so much and why she was so averse to being challenged by a student earned me a big fat F for fail on my first assignment. You see, being known to the teacher isn’t necessarily a good thing because some tutors are stupidly biased.
The funny thing about being in your early 20s is that you tend to enjoy socialising and having friends. 21 is a little early to be a cat lady. Uni students like to enjoy a chat about current affairs and political issues over a bevvy. This is the precarious point in the friendship where I have lost potential mates and made a few lifelong enemies. Pretty much, I’m barred from pubs in the Glebe and Ultimo areas of Sydney.
Those young’uns right of the spectrum used to take solace in the consumer paradise of a few suburbs in the larger cities. Now even they are off limits, with the children of millionaires countering First World guilt by wearing hessian sacks, spending a few months in a third world country and then posting their happy snaps on Facebook and Instagram. Get real, guys. You’ll happily take the inheritance when it comes to you, and if cohabitating with a rat is what we have to do to prove our empathy with the rest of the world these days, then consider me a spoilt brat.
Has anyone noticed that the vast majority of good-looking men are lefties? I have. Apparently tall, muscular and intelligent types are also all for extreme feminism (postmodernism if I’ve ever heard it) and wouldn’t mind handing over 80 per cent of their pay packet to those who simply CBF working. Absolute deal-breaker.
“Why don’t you hang out with your own breed?” You say. Well, I’ve tried that and believe me, Young Liberals may be intelligent and agreeable, but they are BO-RING. They dress like Winston Churchill, drink odd things like whiskey and talk about how one day they’ll all work at banks; clearly, they know how to charm the pants off a woman.
Equal opportunity in the workplace is bullshit. In a job interview for a certain left leaning publication, I was asked if I was part of any political groups, think tanks and the like. Opting for honesty, I listed a few of the intellectual circles I dabbled in and some of the mentors I respected. Well, I was promptly told I would be “more suited” to a different publication, despite the fact that I was being interviewed for a lifestyle role. Apparently you can’t put together a festival guide if you’re to the right of politics.
So I beg you, lefties. Practise what you preach and be inclusive to us foreigners so we can all live in the world of tolerance you evangelise.