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'A
Resident for President' was a motto which saw its genesis
on a scrap of paper, on a round jarrah dining room table,
in a house perched on a hill in the fronded, cool-aired
village of Fern Tree outside Hobart, in late 1994. My
wife Judy and I were in brainstorming mode.
Penned with 'Resident...' were an array of equally irreverent
slogans, some of which were, like it, to grace a series
of badges - badges of protest, designed to make a statement,
to provoke and chastise our backward ways. These were
badges to be produced by the fledgling student republican
movement, Republica,
which I had instigated while a law student in Tasmania.
But more of that later.
'A Resident for President', as I say, had a number of
siblings. Some, like the cheeky 'Give Liz the Flick'
were to prove very popular with students. Many of them,
like many Australians generally, had never really considered
why it was that this country had persisted with an institution
so completely out of touch with the hopes, dreams, aspirations
and collective identity of an island-nation 12000 miles
removed from the Buckingham Palace.
The thought of flicking Liz, like somehow dispensing
with a girlfriend or boyfriend who had exceeded their
use-by date, was deliciously apt. And the juxtaposition
of this summary dispensation of an irrelevant monarch
with the way you would treat a lover-gone-bad, seemed
somehow to invoke a primal, colonial irascibility which
proved too much to resist, at least to the author and,
later, to those who bought the badge and wore it with
impudent pride.
Others found it a bit too over the top and were embarrassed
by seeing a Queen so shabbily mocked. After all, hadn't
we agreed that we had no real gripe with the monarchy
and the personage per se, only that it wasn't OUR monarchy
and OUR personage?
Well, some people did - others thought the whole idea
of hereditary privilege was so out of step with the
Australian ethos of a fair go for all, that disparaging
the institution, and by extension, those who occupied
its brocaded sitting rooms, was no big deal.
But, no problem, we still had a dozen other slogans
in our bag. 'Retire Regina' was in the same vein, but
a little more toned down - but never really a good seller,
that badge. Perhaps too much of a compromise - neither
here nor there really. Too non-committal for a rabid
student movement hell bent on reform. Anyway, if she
retired wouldn't we just get Charles instead, and another
thousand years of monarchy? What would change?
How about 'Bye Bye Betty, Bye Bye'. Yes, that one had
potential. The sense of impending departure, (dare I
say inevitability), gave this little number some force.
Still open to the question, 'Yes, but what comes next?'
- but, hey, we weren't purporting to provide the provocation
and the resolution on the confined surface of a two-inch
badge.
You had, of course, to refer to badge number five, 'A
Resident for President' to find the answer to the question
begged in 'Bye Bye Betty...'. Anyway, if completeness
was an issue, you could always buy both badges and provide
both the issue and the solution on your proud republican
chest.
'Exit Rex' was never really a goer, though it provided
inspiration for two later versions, one a pictorial
and the other a textual badge. 'Exit Rex' were two words
wrapped circularly around a crown with a 'no smoking'
style red slash through it. This motto was in the mould
of 'Retire Regina' and 'Bye Bye Betty...', but with
the slight problem that we have no Rex right now. True,
we could save it for when Charles ascends, if we're
still a monarchy then, but for now 'Exit Rex' exited,
or rather it evolved into a more subtle, almost ominous
form, 'Tyrannosaurus Rex'.
Now 'Tyrannosaurus...' turned out to be a good seller
at the Republica stall during orientation week that
year. Evoking multiple levels of meaning - from the
tyranny of monarchs, even the tyranny of distance from
our monarch, perhaps, and the prehistoric anachronism
of the institution - it was all there. OK, we were still
stuck with 'Rex', but somehow the badge reflected more
of the institution than the inconvenient fact that the
incumbent, ever smiling-Lizzie was actually a Regina.
And the no-smoking crown? Well that became a badge of
its own, resplendent in its vermilion slash, like a
regal sash really, down the shoulder and across the
waist of the pert white badge, and right through the
guts of the haughty, bejewelled tiara. Oh, we were so
wicked.
'Give Betty the Boot' was good, but maybe a bit suggestive
of physical mistreatment of Her Majesty. We were committed
republicans, it was true, but not in the style of the
17th Century French rabble, who didn't baulk at a bit
of rougher than normal handling of the relevant royal.
One of the better ones born along with 'A Resident...'
on that summer Tasmanian afternoon was '2001- Annus
Horribilis'. Followers of the royal woes will no doubt
recognise the back half of that phrase, but somehow
adding it to the proposed date for our future republic
made it too irresistible to leave on the brainstorming
page with the also-rans (like 'Colonials Demand Independence'
which, though it had potential, never seemed to spark
the imagination of my republican colleagues).
So '2001...' got a guernsey and everyone, once they
got it, nodded in appreciation of the fact that our
becoming a republic might be the crowning moment for
a monarch who seems not to have taken a trick in the
last ten years. The dropping out of the now-very-loose
Aussie jewel from the Britannic headgear could be more
than an annus horribilis - it could turn out to be the
bummer of the millennium.
Thrown in for good measure was the almost South American
'Viva Republica' - an ode to our new university society,
but, of course, with wider implications than that. 'Viva...'
did well that year.
The faithful Republica executive, having agreed on the
best six slogans, duly turned them into badges using
one of those hire-for-a-day machines that seems a fixture
of every second school fete. And the badges were sold
or given away to those who took the plunge and paid
their five bucks to join our movement. The movement
grew to nearly 100 in the first year - and without the
inducement of free beer on the various 'societies' days,
where most recruitment took place. While free beer would
have swelled the membership numbers (if not also their
bellies), such a ploy was, in our collective opinion,
beneath our cause. We wanted members because they believed,
not because they imbibed.
Something else happened in the first year of Republica.
The PM came to town.
We heard the news. Yes Mr Republic himself, Paul Keating
was coming to Hobart. We were going to meet him. And
we were going to be ready. We had produced some slick
looking promotional material including newsletters,
information sheets, membership cards - we had the whole
corporate identity thing going. Throw in a few media
stories that we'd generated along the way and, well,
this little organisation looked and acted like a going
concern.
After ASIO had checked all our credentials and evidently
satisfied itself that we were not assassins, we got
the nod. At 11.00am the next day, the eight executive
members of Republica were going into lockup with the
PM for 30 minutes. To discuss republican issues and
other weighty matter of state. This was to be his brief
interlude, away from the cameras and the sycophants,
during his reception at the Antarctic Research Institute,
not 100 metres from our beloved law school at the Sandy
Bay campus of the University of Tasmania.
The morning dawned, the suits were assiduously brushed
and de-linted for the third time, the crisp shirts checked
again for crispness, and the ties for that right balance
of savoir-faire and radicalism. This was going to be
the big moment for the executive of Republica. Committed
to a man and woman were we, the spearhead of virtue
and the voice of the masses. The masses hadn't yet found
the words mind you - but WE knew what they wanted to
say and would articulate it for them deftly and persuasively.
And so to impress the PM, a kit was assembled. The Kit.
Who we were, what we believed and why we believed it.
What we were doing and what we planned to do. Yes, the
PM was going to be impressed, whether he liked it or
not. But which badge were we going to give him? Of the
many, which one would that day rise, maybe even to heights
of the Prime Ministerial lapel?
I was all for 'Give Liz the Flick'. I thought it would
strike a chord with the larrikin from Bankstown. Others
weren't so sure. They thought it might be a little offensive
or embarrassing to disparage our Head of State before
her Chief Minister. After all she was (and is) still
Queen. Not just Queen, but Queen of Australia!
So, erring on the side of caution, we pulled our reliable
reserve off the benches. 'A Resident for President'
was going to meet the Prime Minster.
And so it did. The meeting happened. Great and lofty
ideals were exchanged. And at the end of it the Kit
was presented - and pinned on the cover of it was the
Badge - bright orange background behind black letters
for those perky words.
Keating laughed and said 'good one'. We all shook hands,
had the photo for posterity, then he left. And later,
as history also records, he left - big time.
But something happened that day for the little band
of republicans in Tassie. We knew that our ideas had
been heard. And though we knew that much work remained
to be done, we wished that some day our little contribution
would grow wings and fly.
And maybe it will.
And maybe one day a resident will be president.
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