Give children your time for hope
JOAN: Mike King — New Zealand comedian, alcoholic and drug-addict. He spoke of these aspects of his life in an unforgettable address to those who gathered to hear him last week at Rutherford Junior High. I personally had laughed with him in his witty comedy days, a time he described as making him wealthy but where he had needed alcohol to battle his total lack of self-confidence and self-worth. I had watched him speak with others whose pain he had shared, his warmth and humility TV presenting The Nutters Club .I saw those aspects of his personality again in his talk.
Mike was here, however, to speak to students in Whanganui. He has the most amazing ability to connect with people of all ages and backgrounds. He is charismatic but also real and totally genuine. As he entered the hall — early — those already gathered applauded him. He smiled quite shyly then sat on the edge of the stage and hugged many of the rest of the audience as they entered. I was in a minority of Pa¯ keha¯ attendees, and I felt comfortable and safe and expectant.
Mike described the meeting with senior pupils earlier that day, maintaining their anonymity but saying that outwardly they had appeared vital and energetic, yet, for various reasons, felt suicide was a clear option in their young lives.
He then called up onstage anyone there who worked in the “service area” in our community. More than 20 made their way on to the stage. They were mainly young and mainly women but all spoke of the area in which they cared for those with a need to talk and share their sorrows. Very impressive.
Then Mike spoke. He told of his own childhood, the lack of affection, the alcohol and drugs that he had leaned upon from the age of 13. He spoke of his adult journey and the decision to help young people who, no matter what their economic background, felt of little significance in life, who felt a lack of love and understanding by adults, especially parents, and often their peer group. What Mike asked was that we, as parents and grandparents, give our children our time, our interest in their thoughts and ideas, our humour and our praise. The young don’t want to be constantly criticised, scolded or ignored. By sharing our lives with them and they with us, we can make a life-long link. These young folk will be content, confident, caring and fulfilled.
This was no evangelistic, Bible-thumping exhortation. Mike King is absolutely straightforward in his time with people. Whenever he is needed he is available. I was so very uplifted by how he spoke and what he said. His words will stay with me. He has established the Key To Life Trust to turn to in need and to support those who find little purpose in living. His personal phone is always available — the ultimate giving of himself to anyone, especially the young.
I am unable to do justice to the evening and his presence. I wear and will continue to wear with pride the bracelet he offered to each of us, which makes the commitment to and carries the same words that he wore — “I Am Hope”.
MIKE: Sunday, November 11, a few hours after 11am, when the signing of the Armistice took place, ending World War I. After the deluge of recent articles on the topic, it would be akin to tautology to attempt to add anything new. My own personal connection with it is that my father fought on the Somme. Presumably he took part in other battles too. I don’t know, as he rarely spoke of that period of his life. The Somme is the only name which springs to my mind.
Twenty years later, of course, another confrontation took place, again claiming the lives of so many young men and women. My links with World War II are stronger. In the summer of 1973 we spent a month in a chalet in the Pyrenees, where we made friends with a French family on holiday. We kept in touch and next year organised a house swap. The Bernards came to Sunderland, the Streets went to Ver-sur-Mer on the Normandy coast. A month before we left, the 30th anniversary of D-Day was celebrated on June 6, 1974. We had both read up on the history of the Normandy landings, Joan’s knowledge actually winning her a book on them in a local radio quiz. We enjoyed the use of the Bernards’ car, covering a large amount of the surrounding area’s towns and villages. Courseulles sticks in my mind because of a Canadian tank, its maple leaf flag flying proudly, situated near the sea front. Even 40 years ago the museum at Arromanches was impressive, with its newsreels and historic footage of the conflict.
From that month in Ver two memories are pre-eminent. On one outing we visited the Point du Hoc, a beetling cliff face of more than 100 feet, which was scaled, in a surprise night attack, by the US Rangers. Although suffering heavy losses, they were still able to gain control of the German artillery which threatened the allied invasion by sea. A memorial had been erected by the French in recognition of the courageous action by the Americans. As we looked quietly at the rows of crosses, some French teenagers ran in and started climbing over the central monument, laughing and shouting. They were completely taken aback on receiving an unexpected tonguelashing from Joan, in fluent French. Did they not understand what these Americans had done? Without their selfless efforts the 1944 landing might not have succeeded. The Germans might have retained control of France for much longer, inflicting more deaths and suffering. The youngsters left in acute embarrassment. I don’t think I’d ever understood the precise meaning of the verb to “skulk” till then. They skulked away!
The second occasion was on a glorious day, sun shining from a blue sky, no breeze to disturb the leaves on the trees, bees buzzing noisily round flowers and hedgerows. We had stopped outside a village for a picnic, then strolled into a small cemetery, which was beautifully maintained — grass mown, edges trimmed, no litter, lots of clean white crosses. A path ran down the centre. We walked to the right and read the names of British combatants who had died in the D-Day landing. The majority were in their 20s and 30s. We moved to the other side of the path. It was the German section. Once more, so many names of men who had died on June 6, 1944. Did I write “men”? Almost all of them had been teenagers, some as young as 14 or 15. Even now, as I write this, I can feel my eyes misting over. Forty-four years ago and it still has a huge effect on me. It was one of the most sombre, sobering and emotional moments of my life. What a waste! What a diabolical waste of young lives! Yet was there a glimmer of hope for the next generation? Despite their hardships and privations during the occupation of their country, the local villagers had made no distinction, in their meticulous care for the cemetery, between allies and enemies. Both were honoured.
I detest war. Last Sunday was not about glorification, but remembrance, sadness and sharing in the sorrow for the loss of so many futures.
Incidentally, the day before our departure for that holiday, I received a letter from Tom Wells, Headmaster of Collegiate School, offering me a position there the following year. I accepted.
JOAN: My apologies to Sylvia‘s Tappers who I referred to as belonging to “Shirley” last week! Correctly named, we are rehearsing hard for our public concert on November 25.
■
mjstreet@xtra.co.nz