Race, introversion,  gender… 

race gender introversionInspired by a brilliant share by Susan Cain, Article by Kelly Wickham Hurst

Link to article below.

Here are my views on the article.

I can identify a lot with the article because of the similar shared practises that I believe cross over to any ‘minority’  race in a given demographic.

Pretty much my whole childhood and teen youth.

Dux of the school every year,  straight A’s,  middle eastern background male, born and raised in sandy hair, blue eyed Australia, no attention needed, I slotted himself into the mould of inattention by being obedient. No enhancement needed. Don’t need to nurture my skill, refine my abilities, push me harder,  to achieve more,  to be more, to give more of myself.

No, I had to sever from the education system to find myself and it’s taken me twenty years after leaving school, (fourteen after leaving university) out of my life to come to realise what I want to be ‘when I grow up’.

Because the guy sitting in the front row every class doesn’t need as much attention as the trouble maker in the back. Introversion becomes the codeine for a teachers attention as it numbs her/him from seeing you. Even at university level, especially at university level, because young adults paying big dollar need even less attention from older adults, earning enough dollar who also got no attention, vicious cycle.

That is until your art and music  teachers see you differently,  because God just built artists that way, they’re feelers,  they’re knowers, not prattlers, oh and my fifth grade teacher, who all woke me up to the idea I could do something. Still though, they’re just little nudges, not follow through pushing, encouragement enough to steer you or to set you on your course

Are teachers afraid to? Are they under too much pressure by schools, boards, govt to stay out of the business of people and just lambaste material into peoples brains emotionally detached from caring and loving the humans that are struggling to develop in front of them?

What could I have been if I was honed much earlier and didn’t have to wait for the hand of time, which often comes as the bloodied fist, to teach me? Why did time have to refine me all these years later when we offer so much respect and expect our pedagogy to bring out the best of our children?

Why are we fed this lie of education at government funded centres being so important if importance of each child is overlooked?

I don’t have anyone’s answers but my own which is why I decided to stop this downward spiral of events. I won’t let my children be relegated to the back of a classroom as a problem child that needs constant attention, albeit for the wrong reasons, possibly stigmatising them, turning them into self fulfilling prophecies of problems, just because they question everything and won’t take black and white answers, nor will I have them neglected because they’re mediocre and don’t rock the boat (because they are damned behaved), nor will I have them overlooked and not honed and pruned to grow as far up as possible, because they are complicit and do their work.

I’ve tasted it all and my introversion had me questioning these things from a very young age. I was quite aware of what gets attention in class, who gets the extra help during, before and after class. Who’s parents are the ones that are conversed to, what a gurgler of a system we have, so many children lost down it, never reaching the true brilliance they have inside them lurking  because a teacher, for whatever reason doesn’t have the time to devote to each and every child. But, I knew my place, shut my mouth and stayed away from frolicking the feathers of an over caffeinated, underpaid employee of the state.

This is not to blame the teachers wholly, but it is to blame them partially, because that bias, if they search deep within themselves, does exist, I know it does, I’ve experienced it growing up and as a parent, as a homeschooler who has five children. As someone who knows some of his kids just get on with what they’re meant to do and others don’t. I came to this realisation a while ago and spread my attention to them accordingly.

Anyway, rant over, check out Susan Cain’s post in the link below. Do any of you identify with this?


Quiet Black Girls—and How We Fail Them

Evil Nursery


Baa Baa Black sheep,
No I don’t have three bags or four,
You greedy politicians have the nerve to call me black,
And then ask for more?

Jack and Jill went up the hill,
But they didn’t come down with water,
That’s because this is a lie about taxes, that the King imposes,
 And kids repeat it like lambs to the slaughter.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
No this rhyme is not about a garden,
But the mass Killings of a Queen,
Whom Protestants she offered no pardon.

Rock a bye baby on the tree top,
When the wind blows this story will flop,
Why is it so, it’s about a childless king and queen,
Who stole a baby so that their throne passing would not stop.

And on it goes.

So many nursery rhymes have their origins in evil stories of yesteryear,
But we inspire laughs and lies in children sidestepping fear.
Like gullible sheep we pass them on,
And proclaim with ignorance, ‘they’re just songs’.

But why would you lie to your own child?
Just to hide stories reviled.

To pretend everything is ok and it’s nice and poetic
As a parent you should be ashamed, bordering on pathetic.

Tell your children truth, let them know the dark past
So they can grow quick and stop other mistakes fast
So they can be better humans than you and I
So they can rise from the darkness and avoid these lies.

We have a responsibility as parents and that does not mean you relegate your children to the state schools, or even private schools and forget about who they are. Your job is to filter through the bullshit they teach them at school and educate them further. You have to sift through it all as painstaking as it is so that you can steer their minds to truth.
Kindergarten is a German word, and it is created by a Prussian education model designed to segregate the child from an early age from the sanctity of the family unit.
Places like Sweden are well aware of this and how it creates psychological problems for children in the long run. Their entry level into schools is at seven or eight, not at four and five.
Per capita, they’re one of the wealthiest and most intelligent places on earth. That’s not an accident; they care about the welfare of their people, ahh but it is a superficial care, the people there are only cared about in this sense because it saves the govt spending money on the medicating, the medical maintenance, the psychologists, analysts, the social and economic drain it will cause. A move with motives, nothing to do with the greater good of humans, still, interesting to note that they confirmed what Prussian model education was designed to do, that is, sever the child from the family unit, make them a citizen of the state, conveniently a tax payer. It’s no wonder kids who don’t fit the mould get outcasted as trouble makers, as inept, as dumb even. Some drugged up, some slotted into groups, some abused mentally and emotionally so much that they end up self abusive, criminal or in self fulfilling prophecies.

You may think ‘But my child is normal’. Normal according to what? Your normal? Society’s normal? An unspoken agreed upon normal? Who’s normal?

Your normal has been spoon fed to you from day one alongside the worship of the self. So much so that if you are told anything else, your self will jump up to defend your pre-held beliefs. Like as if the attack is actually on you.

Back to the point of parental responsibility, you should know why schools were designed and implemented in the first place and no, it is not a massive generosity scheme of the governments. It is nothing more than to drive a social engineering principle. This has been the motive from the beginning and they are not ashamed to say it. Look up Wilhem Wundt, the psychologist responsible for churning out teachers en-masse 100+ years ago all over the world to spread this utopian idea.

If you must send them to state or private schools, so be it but make sure you undo the junk when they get home. Keep them confident and free thinking.
Better yet, home school your kids. It’s not hard, it’s not rocket science and don’t be duped by the lies and long stares of society who are too cowardly to undertake this love filled but difficult journey. It is not easy and I am speaking from experience as we home school five children. But the fruits are beautifully sensitive and caring children. Children that truly embody humane qualities, full of empathy, compassion, introspection, thoughtfulness, caring, honesty, artistry, creativity and love. They have a genuinely wondrous curiosity, almost innocently childlike even as they grow older but at the same time a maturity beyond their schooled peers.
This has been a recurring experience of ours with every home schooled child we’ve met that are in our social circles.
Once again, this isn’t a promotion for home schooling but rather an invitation to take your child’s mind seriously and not allow filthy garbage such as nursery rhymes, media propaganda, the selective texts of schools to the omission of real history all to become ingrained in their minds. That stuff is very hard to undo.

For further reading, check out the resources and references below.



I’d recommend all of John Taylor Gatto’s works. Every single book. Dumbing us down.
A different kind of teacher
Weapons of Mass instruction
The exhausted school
And the pinnacle of them all which is like an encyclopedia Underground history of American Education
Why Johnny can’t read by Rudolph Flesch
Boys Adrift by Dr Leonard Sax
In the Element and out of our minds by Sir Ken Robinson
The Trivium by Sister Miriam Joseph

That should start you off


Bully the bully


Rust etched and squeaking gates, long before galvanisation became so available.
The same front gate my younger sister stood at throwing rocks at that snot nose piece of shit kid who’d been tormenting me.

Playground gravel so loose you could run and skid with your velcro laced Adidas shoes on.
That’s where I planted those shoes, dug my heels and swung for the fences.

The smell of hair sweat, children’s sun-composting lunch in bins and bottle brush natives.
But all I could smell is his fear as my arms helicoptered past his face.

Gum tree wooden castles enamoured around wise, white oak trees growing out of broken asphalt.
He couldn’t hide behind it for too long as he became the centre of attention of the whole lunch time arena.

Blonde streaked light brown hair with hardened brown eyes, thick pink lips that would turn to smiles as he beat on me.
This time, my fists were landing on them and all he could do was try and step back to save face in front of the crowd that had gathered to see him go down.

That was my first experience with bullying in my life. I was only eight years old, never dreamt of hurting people because I was raised with stories of the ancients, of love, of hardship of longing and despair.

My mother would recite to us stories of Prophets off by heart, magical Arabic folk tales of princes and princesses who found each other and engulfed us in poetic soothing prose until our eye lids were too heavy to hold any more beauty.

That was the last time he touched me. After that year, he wasn’t at that school any more. You never push the quiet ones, they’ll become the loudest ones when they erupt.

I was always reserved and quiet. A part of me enjoyed the inner life but a part of me also longed to be seen. Eventually the former took precedence and I was never the type to be psychologically challenged by it. It is what it is, my introversion has otherwise served me well in retrospect.

My next experience would be in first year high school. It was another area altogether and I was the odd one out. If it weren’t for my name, they wouldn’t have known as I’m odd even to my own cultural background. So I sit in this maybe he is, maybe he isn’t zone.

1990 and the cicadas burn the air with their choir. For some reason the Sex pistols and Dead Kennedys are logos on mustard canvas bags. The two metal buckle kind you took to with a black permanent marker to show what you were into. This kid took it one step further, all thirteen years of him. Razor shaved sides, and a mullet half way down his back with puffy short Led Zepplin top. His teeth were already nicotine stained and his heart already full of hate as he wore his walkman blaring Sepultura to show how dangerous he was.

No sooner had his racist taunts gotten in my face that I had him pinned up on the second story balconies ledge ready to throw him over. The kids all rushed, screaming grabbing me, grabbing him, but my hands were firmly around his Adams apple controlling his every movement, where the head goes the body goes as self preservation kicks in and your spinal cord sends messages back to your brain to go with the flow. I released him when I saw his soul leave him. No, he wasn’t dead, just coughing his ego on to the floor. You never push the quiet ones, they’ll become the loudest ones when they erupt.

I remained who I was, an introvert, quiet, happy in my own world, never wanting to hurt a fly but that was the last year I spent there. They didn’t even know I did anything to the boy but fuck that school, its stories I will tell another time.

Fast forward to 1992 and I have found my haven. A spiritual place to exorcise my demons through the physical. I had always loved martial arts. Mesmerised by the old Kung-Fu classics and the prowess of the philosopher come supreme martial artist, Bruce Lee. He wasn’t just and actor, he was a hope for people like me who saw beauty in words and violence, my choice, Muay Thai.

1995, I had been training for a few years, mostly quietly. Only two or three close friends knew.

Swaying and creaking basketball backboards. The thud, thud of kids trying to jump and hit the board as an attempt to increase their vertical leap, the squeaks of tearing soles on bitumen and smell of sweet gatorade breath of all things alpha.

My bag had gone missing. I was offended to say the least as I took my work seriously. Carefully margined books with four unit calculus and trigonometry equations laid out in perfect sequence. Lines of essays and speeches meticulously written out and reviewed over and over with my teachers to perfect them. Assignment notes on history’s greats and photo copies of information from books that I had spent hours trawling through in the library when there was no such thing as google.

There it was, tangled up into one of the basketball rings, carefully woven into the net holders ten feet above me. What’s worse is he taunted me, told me he did it with a tone of What ya gonna do about it? as he put his face in mine. I don’t know what got into this guy, peer pressure perhaps to pick on the quiet guy but he fell victim to my hands and feet. Two years my elder, I beat the pulp out of him, doing what other kids didn’t do. I kicked his legs until he buckled and punched his face so long as he kept coming. And he kept coming! He wanted to save face after instigating the fight and not being able to finish it.

The cheers were sickening me. A cocktail of testosterone so strong you could squeeze it out of the acne faced kids.

I humiliated him in front of everyone in a fair fight, mono e mono. I humiliated him further by making him untangle my bag as his friend held him on his shoulders with blood streaming down his face and legs too sore for his friend to hold on to as he tried to stabilise him. Never pick on the quiet ones, they’ll become the loudest ones when they erupt.

From that point on, a reputation followed me wherever I went. I don’t know how but people just knew not to fuck with me even years after I left high school. I didn’t feel comfortable with such a preceding reputation but it was what it was.

Perhaps it kept me safe from ever getting into trouble, so in that sense it was beneficial but the first feeling of being bullied has lasted with me thirty years later and I rise to defend people wherever I see them trodden on.

I filled out, grew bigger and stronger. Six foot two, broad shoulders, thick strong tree trunk legs and athleticism, I kept active but I chose sport. I fought professionally because I enjoyed the challenge against myself and against like minded people. People who had to destroy their ego whether they liked it on not to engage in such an arena. It’s impossible to fight with an ego, you get pulverised quick! I don’t know of a single fighter that is a bully.

This is the reason why I teach my sons fighting arts. Intimate grappling to all out punching and kicking, all taught in a balanced and gentlemanly manner. They have surprised me to say the least with their reservation in times of measure.

Their little hearts are empathetic, sensitive and caring and despite their abilities they have never hurt another child.

All children should learn how to fight. All children should be taught in a balanced manner how to inflict pain on another human being as it raises their awareness immediately that there is someone just like them who can inflict damage. Self knowledge is knowledge of others. There can be no understanding of other people and their temperaments if you do not understand yourself.

As mentioned, the feeling has never left me of what it feels like to be bullied, but the confidence to stand in the face of any man has grown and left me able to transfer the confidence into other areas of my life.
From business to family. From dealing with clients, customers, laypeople in the street or aggressors, I don’t fear anything or anyone. I won’t be intimidated by a government body, law enforcement or corporations and I have fought them all and beaten them. I don’t fight them for anything other than standing up for my rights as a human being. I’m nobody’s doormat and will never succumb to intimidation tactics.

Children need to learn how to fight because it is the first and easiest way to develop confidence. You can talk as much as you want, lecture, teach and prattle words until you’re blue in the face, it doesn’t work. Children don’t learn theory effectively until they are eight to ten years of age. You have ten years to prepare them otherwise. The only way is the physical. The only way is to pound their bodies with so much labour, training, exercise or sport until their spirits are alive with conviction that they can defend themselves.


It’s not just a pen.



Renowned Muslim thinker and scholar Hamza Yusuf recounts a story when he was in the Mauritanian desert under tutelage from great masters who have carried on proper Islamic tradition and scholarship down to students for hundreds of years. He was cleaning under his nails with a pen when something struck him upside the head. His teacher threw something at him and told him, “Hamza, God has sworn an oath by the pen”. He immediately understood his mistake at disrespecting the otherwise inanimate object. (1)
But look at who he is now.
When you have such reverence for things, you can then pass on value to your family, students, friends and more.
Where is the reverence and respect for those sacred things?

(1) Quran Chapter 68 is titled ‘The Pen’ and begins it’s first verse with God swearing an oath by the pen. Nun. By the pen and what they inscribe,”

How Bad

How bad

How badly do you want the war to stop?
Will you fight for it?

How badly do you want to eradicate hunger and poverty?
Will you starve for it?

How badly do you want to stop sex abuse?
Will you lower your gaze around the opposite sex?

How badly do you want your children to be educated?
Will you pick up a book?

How badly you want  anything depends on the measures you will take to achieve it.

Comfort and achievement cannot marry except at the end of the journey.

Whomsoever seeks them at the beginning of the journey is doomed to be severed from both.