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| Call Me Sasha |
I think they may be right.
As a teenager in Brisbane in the late 1980s, it was a snapshot in time that was kinda crazy. We were on the tail-end of a relatively innocent time in history; we had no Internet, no mobile phones and most of us had (waaaaayyyy) naive parents who would have been traumatised to know what their kids were ACTUALLY doing when they left the house. Expo '88 was a godsend for teenagers, giving us unprecedented freedom ('going to Expo mum') that was hard to take back when it finished. Meanwhile it was a perfectly acceptable tradition for parents to buy their underage daughters and friends a 6-pack of West Coast Coolers to share (with the mentality of 'well at least they're doing it at home'), completely unaware of the full bottle of rum and/or the ubiquitous rocket fuel (ie: mixing together a tiny bit of every bottle in your parents' liquor cabinet so they wouldn't notice the levels) that just about everyone else had managed to smuggle in.
(Cue madness. And much throwing up).
Clubs and pubs were a cinch to get into. I think my sister took me to the Surfers Beergarden for the first time at the tender age of 13 (she was a worldly 14) and it started a trend that didn't really stop for me until far too late in my 20's. Sure there were a few places that asked for ID, but that still left a plethora of places where bouncers were easily convinced that our heavily made-up 15 year old selves were in fact just a really youthful looking 19. Or if they knew, they simply didn't care. Unless there was a great party going on, I don't think I missed Saturday night at a club from the age of 16 onwards.
I guess I was a bit of a wild child, the 'bad girl', although the term is pretty relative. Back then, being 'bad' pretty much just consisted of going to clubs, wearing way too much eyeliner, drinking and smoking plain old cigarettes. Drugs were not part of our world at all; in fact the first time I think I even went to a party when the bong was produced would have been when I was at least 18 (and as someone who was so allergic to various grasses, I was terrified that I'd end up in hospital and my parents would bust me!). I was considered 'bad' mostly because in the sausage-factory era of the 1980s where we were all expected to dress in Country Road and look and act identical, my friends and I decided that wearing lots of black and going to seedy underground clubs was a much more fun prospect. Oddly, I saw more fights at places like Outrageous (aka Underagers) at the Paddo than I ever did in any of these random, dodgy places.
I was one of the lucky ones. Whilst my parents separated when I was 13 and my sister and I spent a great many years shuttling between our parents' houses on buses and trains, we sincerely loved it as it gave us a degree of freedom that perhaps we might not have had before. And both of my parents loved and wanted me. I grew up secure in the knowledge that my parents would do anything for me and that I was smart, safe and could do anything with my life that I wanted to. The worst thing my dad could ever do to me was say 'I'm disappointed in you'. He was (and still is) my rock and I always wanted him to think well of me. I had a great support system and feel so thankful for that.
Being a particularly angsty teenager, I of course thought I was ugly, hideously fat (if only I was as 'fat' as I was back then!) and always concerned with my popularity and likeability, which led me to do some pretty stupid things in the name of fitting in. Lots of bad decisions and many stupid actions...I was pretty damn lucky to come out unscathed. However least on the inside it never occurred to me that I would not be a success. It was a given, and something that I will eternally thank my parents for.
Like I said, I was damn lucky.
So with this in mind, imagine if you didn't get the opportunities that I was fortunate enough to get. What if you didn't have the loving parents giving you the reassurance and internal strength to just KNOW that you're smart and worthwhile? What if you didn't get a lucky break or two, or those poor decisions that I made a million of come back to bite you on the ass?
It's something I've been thinking about all weekend and here's why: a few weeks ago my friend Kirsten posted on Facebook that a friend of hers, Geena Leigh, had written a memoir that had just been published. Kirsten had actually spent some time in her own teenage years living with Geena and her family and considers her to be like a sister.
I started reading Call Me Sasha (Secret Confessions of an Australian Callgirl) on Friday. I just couldn't put it down until I literally fell asleep with the lights on. I then spent a lost Saturday doing pretty much nothing but reading as I was so immersed in Geena's life. When I finally finished the book late Saturday afternoon, I felt a little bereft and lost; Geena had drawn me in to a point that I was so invested in her life that I just wanted to keep reading.
I read a lot. Like A LOT. My kindle goes everywhere in my handbag with me and I can often be caught walking through my work carpark with my head stuck in it and completely unaware of the world around me. I'm a total nerd. So while I'm not a book reviewer, I do know books. I know good books, and I know crappy books. And I also know that books that make you feel the way that Geena's does are really something special, and uncommon.
I think maybe part of it is that I could have known Geena. She's around my age, she went to Wavell State High School, where the majority of my 'circle' came from. Maybe we even met at some point. And yet she was going through difficulties that none of us, and perhaps not even the people who did know her, could comprehend. She lived in the same city as me and yet her path diverged so far from mine it took her decades to get back.
To read about Geena's life and the circumstances and the odd poor decision that led her to a life of prostitution makes me wish I had known her and perhaps could have been a confidant or someone to help her when she needed it most. Because no-one was there. She had no support system, and grew to isolate herself as a consequence. She might have been me, if I'd been told I was a 'mental dwarf' every day growing up instead of being told that I was smart and loved.
Sometimes this book was hard to read. Not because of the sexual content, but the rawness, honesty and openness with which Geena relates her life story, with remarkably little self pity (and believe me, self pity is quite deserved!). I found myself willing Geena to make certain decisions throughout the book, but mostly I wanted to just reach out and give her a hug and tell her she was special.
Healing yourself from so many years of self-abuse, getting off the hamster wheel and breaking that cycle once and for all, not to mention forging a successful career outside of prostitution can't have been easy and it shows Geena's strength of character. I literally cheered when she (finally!) walked out for the very last time.
I can't imagine writing such a personal account of these incredibly traumatising experiences would have been something that Geena did easily. For her to lay bare (no pun intended!) her whole life, the good, bad and very, very ugly, and to not use a pseudonym is testament to how far she has come in her journey to find self-worth.
Geena may have taken a circuitous route, but she has found her purpose in life: to write beautiful words (even when recounting ugly stories) that inspire and give us hope, and to empower other young people to make better decisions.
She's a true survivor, in every sense.
Wow. Just wow.
Bec xx
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