A lanyard is a long cord worn around the neck. It sways with whistles, keys and ID cards. A man in a lanyard has a job. And that job usually won’t include working with his hands. It means he isn’t lazy, desperate or a bogan.
Growing up, I don’t think any of the men in my family wore a lanyard. And sometimes it was hard to find work. Yet it was thick, calloused hands that hugged me, lifted me, and dropped rissoles and steamed veggies onto my plate. My dad’s hands had thin black cracks running through them. They looked and felt like marble. I loved those hands. But if he was a stranger, I think those strong hands would’ve scared me.
Growing up, I don’t think any of the men in my family wore a lanyard
Southern Tassie takes all sorts. My hometown was half-hippy, full of short-lived cafes and greenie dreams, and half old-world families, chock-full of old churches, old farms and old ideals. My parents sat somewhere in between. They were tree changers – mainlanders looking for a life with meaning. The safety of a suburban box plot and a steady income was done away with for somewhere fresh. Not so much for their sake, but for their five children.
My older siblings and I got to grow up with paddocks, with grass stains and smiles, and duck poo between our toes. We got to learn how to wander, and how to think in peace. We were grotty and our clothes had holes. But who would care? Our neighbours were pademelons, cows and apple trees.
Caring for the land was harder than my parents thought, of course. Good-paying jobs were hard to come by. Extracurriculars were too far away. My parents changed their standards instead of their plans. My dad’s hands grew more cracks. I guess appreciating life was the point of my parents’ country experiment. I got to appreciate the mice skittering around the fireplace, keeping themselves warm in the winter. Me and the mice had a lot in common, actually. Small, resourceful, at home in the grass, and quietly hoping to change the boundaries and find the warmth of society. Of course I loved my home, but I didn’t choose it.
My dad did all kinds of jobs. For a while he was a groundskeeper at a private school. It wasn’t my school, but I knew the place well. I went with him in the mornings to help with the bins, opening the shutters of the cafeteria, and washing out the toilets. Then I’d go to my school for classes.
There’s more high-visibility workwear than lanyards in my family. I’ve walked with my brother in his high-vis hoodie, covered in his metal shavings and concrete stains. I’ve seen women cross the street to avoid us. When you look rough, you’re the last person people sit next to on a crowded bus. The free space is nice, but you feel a little tainted. Maybe those high-vis colours look like a venomous snake or a poisonous plant.
Alexander (age 2) with his father, at home in Tasmania. Source: Supplied
A lanyard is a symbol. It’s not exactly prestige, and if it’s a symbol of power it’s only the power of the go-betweener. It sort of makes you white collar, bureaucratic or an entry-level system minion. It’s about filling a role. But the conductor blows their whistle, the guard unlocks with their keys, the service person logs in with their ID. A lanyard’s not a symbol like a crown, saying “I’m the most important.” It says, “I do something. I have a reason to be here.” That can be a lovely feeling.
I’ve always felt good reading symbols. It’s the confidence you get when most of your family is dyslexic, and your mum needed a second pair of eyes for the CVs. She’s proud all her kids look for different things, even if it means some parts of our lives get lost in translation. Her youngest put those symbols to work studying geography at university and, after a rough start, managed to stay there. Now I’ve been studying for so long I get to help with the teaching, too. They even gave me a lanyard.
I’ve been studying for so long I get to help with the teaching, too. They even gave me a lanyard
You don’t really know what you missed until you find it. There’s hidden power in a lanyard. I heard that someone with a ladder can walk into any building. It never felt true until I had an ID card around my neck, regardless of where the card is for. In the eyes of those around me, I’ve gone from a high school teenager to a model citizen. I was already the colour they liked, and now I look older and employed.
On two occasions I forgot to top up my bus card. The first time I didn’t have my lanyard. The driver watched me carefully. He didn’t say much and let me on board like he was sidestepping an argument. The other time, he said, “It’s okay! You have someplace you need to be.” The lanyard is a superpower. Wear it, and it means someone wants you.
I share smiles and waves with other staff and lanyardeers from around the uni cafe. I don’t even know who they are. Once security guards would eye my face after hours, like a warning that if I did anything they’d know it was me. Now they see the red cord and nod, imagining I’m on some important research project late in the evening, burning the midnight oil. The name of the university is printed on the lanyard but regardless of where I am, on campus or on the street, people ask me for directions. I’m safe. I must be good at something. The lanyard is privilege manifested as a uniform.
It makes me fly, too. The lanyard flew me from southern Tasmania all the way to northern Europe. The altitude and oddity make me dizzy. The quiet, grass-stained Tassie boy got a golden ticket on a string and carried it from Berlin to London. It carried me all the way to a lecturer on the historic grounds of Cambridge University, where the sandstone towers look like ivory. I told him about my studies, and about my island, too. I told him that there are no passenger trains and not much more than half a million people, that we sometimes nod at passers-by even if they’re strangers, and we all know someone who knows someone who knows anyone else on the island. I spoke with a warm heart, but he mistook me and excitedly jumped into the heated, beating pistons of examination. They were quaint subjects and convicts, and we were researchers.
At my brother’s work people pay out of pocket for bad knees and chipped teeth. It’s all from crouching on the ground and grinders kicking back against their faces while they work. At my office people pay out of pocket for bad backs and therapy, from sitting all day and reading nothing but bad news. You think I’m joking, but I’m not. Everyone’s got recommendations for good therapists.
It’s not about which job is better or worse. But there’s nothing glamorous when it comes to teaching about climate change. Behind the office door, the lanyard is slow doom. It’s not chipped teeth, but I’ve seen a lot of people cry in lanyards. I know I’ve done it. I study people trying to escape from climate change. Someday I’ll have to tell them that they can’t. Not even the tree changers, and not even in Tasmania.
I’ve seen a lot of people cry in lanyards. I know I’ve done it
In the breaks in the day I stand around the tearoom and chat about the new decorations, the latest stage production, and all the pretty monuments we’ve each seen on our travels. It’s the bougie stuff I’ve never cared about. But the lanyardeers cling to it like a lowest-common-denominator distraction. It’s their escape from the high stress monotonies of a cramped-office, cramped-time life.
This is the anxiocene. The age of anxiety. The lanyardeers are good people, and they’ve told me their strategies to get through the week. Yoga, running, going to the gym, close friends and family, drinking, medication, other drugs. Maybe it’s because I’m the youngest person there, but I remember when it wasn’t like this. The homely raggedness, the wide-open spaces, the paddocks, the mice warming themselves beside the fireplace. Wearing the lanyard is one half of the superpower. But the other half is taking it off. The boy with the duck poo between his toes re-emerges. Taking off the lanyard is my superpower.
I’m not jealous of the lanyardeers anymore. It would be a bit difficult since I am one. I’m not the only one who can take the thing off, either. I love my lanyard because I love what I do. A colonial mouse flew to the old kingdom on the magic of a red strip of cloth. But it didn’t stay there. I grew up on Country. Country a lot older than the kingdom. I grew up being taught you could trust a stranger in a lanyard. But there’s plenty of space for wilderness left underneath that cord.
That’s the double edge of a uniform. It’s worn to conform. It hides what’s underneath, but not just from the customers, passengers, civilians. It’s a canopy below that ivory tower. Who knows what’s mustering underneath? I think there are a lot more marsupial mice than we’re supposed to realise. And we’re readying ourselves. We’ve got apple crumble, blackberry jam and dirty feet. Above us are the southern lights from our clear night skies. What do you say, are you a bush mouse too?
We’re all just one warm fire away. We’ll emerge from our burrows. You and me, we’ll be there.
This story is dedicated to my nanna, Wilmer Burton, who passed away on November 16. She was the family matriarch and the keeper of the world's most wonderful magnolia tree. She loved us.
Three entrants’ stories were joint highly commended prize-winners of the 2022 SBS Emerging Writers’ Competition. This story is by Alexander Burton.
Listen to joint highly-commended writers Alexander Burton, Gemma Tamock and Sidney Norris talk about their writing process on the final SBS Voices podcast episode of , in the , , , , or wherever you listen to podcasts.
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