3 September 2003 by Michelle Lovi
from issue three: by Jacquelyn Curtis
My mum is pretty conservative by nature. She doesn’t smoke, loves Elton John and goes to church on Sundays. So you can imagine that when she called me at work one afternoon and asked me to come with her when she got her navel pierced, I was quite shocked.
“Hey, darling, do you still want to get your belly-button pierced? Because I want to get mine done too. Lets get it done together.”
This statement shocked me on two levels. Firstly, I was kind of annoyed that she even suggested the idea of having something pierced. I distinctly remember begging my parents to death when I was 16 because I desperately wanted to have my navel pierced. Unfortunately, my efforts fell upon deaf ears. I think the words ‘disgusting’ and ‘feral’ may have been tossed about in response to my proposed new piece of jewellery. Now, here was my mum, not even three years later, suggesting that she do the exact thing she herself so vehemently forbade me to do! Secondly, the fact that my 40-plus mother, who after bringing four children into the world was even contemplating a piercing, registered fairly high on the shock scale. (Don’t get me wrong: Mum can put a lot of 30-year-olds to shame.)
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2 September 2003 by Michelle Lovi
from issue three: by Phillip Kelsey
I wanted to be a German pop star. No, really. I had a bunch of posters of German techno DJs and dance projects I had cut out from foreign, teeny magazines and taped to my wall. If only I could jump into it all, I would often muse in long, idle university study breaks. After graduation, I went for it. No money, no job, not even a clue as to what I was doing. But you know what? Sometimes a little naiveté carries you a long way. And it sure did — all the way from sunny California to dismal, cold Berlin.
I was greeted with the usual “who moves from Los Angeles to Germany?!” but at 22, idealism remains fully intact. Me, that’s who.
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1 September 2003 by Michelle Lovi
from issue three: by Michelle Yan
Age five was the first time I stepped out onto the parquetry of the ballet studio. Excitement, wonderment and joy filled me. I was dressed in a pretty white leotard and skirt, pink ballet shoes and my hair in piggy tails with colourful ribbons. All this filled me with curiosity and happiness, so much so that I felt I wanted to be a ballerina when I grew up. Unlike school, for the first time I didn’t feel separated from my mother — she too had joined in the thrill of taking me to my first ballet class. I’d anticipated this moment for what seemed like forever.
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