The little pamphleteer that could

I wasn’t invisible — I was avoided. I was Moses, splitting the oncoming wave of students in two.

Eastern Avenue, Image Credit: Sydney - City and Suburbs

It’s mid-morning and you’re walking down Eastern Avenue. There’s a gentle breeze, the trees are in bloom, and the sky above is a brilliant blue. You’re warm, you’re safe, you’re happy. It is, for you, the perfect morning. But then you see me, standing proud beside a folding table, wearing a bright shirt and holding papers in my hand — and suddenly your perfect morning has been ruined. You slow down, you speed up. You veer left, you veer right. Breaking into ballet, you pirouette between passers-by and sauté over students, anything to avoid eye contact. But your efforts are in vain — I’m a professional. The infamous walk and talk has begun and by the end, you’re holding onto my pamphlet. You can scrunch it up into a pocket, a bag, or a bin, but that doesn’t matter. You still took it, and I thank you for that. I am an Eastern Avenue pamphleteer. This is my story.

My unpaid internship in pamphleteering began a few weeks into the first semester of my first year. The USU election campaigns had begun, with a number of my friends from high school coalescing around a single candidate. While at first I had no intention of becoming involved, my ever-existing FOMO reared its head and suddenly there I was, standing in the middle of Eastern Avenue, pamphlets in palm.

It didn’t take long for my initial high hopes to dissipate. In spite of my garish candidate t-shirt, I went unnoticed by the horde of students who shuffled through to their classrooms. For a time I felt invisible, unseen. Yet, that of course was wishful thinking. I wasn’t invisible — I was avoided. I was Moses, splitting the oncoming wave of students in two. I tried desperately to make eye contact, yet was acknowledged by no one. I’d say hello or start a conversation, only to be completely ignored. It hurt. I had become a repellent. A human Aerogard.

If you were walking down Eastern Avenue that morning, I want you to know that I don’t blame you. If I were you, I also would have avoided me. I had thought that getting involved would be rewarding, that giving up my time to campaign would function as some kind of atonement — for what exactly, I’m not sure. But it didn’t. I wasn’t qualified to campaign. Who was I to tell people who to vote for? I didn’t understand the factions. I barely understood the policies. I’d never even had a conversation with the candidate. So how could I possibly believe what I was telling a passerby as I ruined the serenity of their otherwise perfect morning?

By the time the campaign reached its close I was despondent, dejected, and demoralised. I would later gain a greater grasp on who and what I had been pamphleting for, and eventually was glad that I did it. Having said that, the campaign had been traumatising enough, and I didn’t think I’d ever go back to being a pamphleteer. That was until the NTEU branch of the University of Sydney decided to take strike action earlier this year. 

Having seen how overworked and underpaid my tutors were, and having spoken to staff about rampant casualisation and wage theft, I soon found myself standing in the middle of Eastern Avenue with pamphlets in my palm once again. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t initially get flashbacks to those awful mornings almost exactly a year prior, when I had hinged my self-confidence on whether strangers gave me the time of day. But once I began to hand out pamphlets, any fears or doubts that I had evaporated.   

I can’t remember if people were avoiding me or not — my mind was elsewhere. I finally found a purpose, a real reason to be a pamphleteer. I knew that not everyone was going to take a pamphlet, and that even of those who did, even fewer would likely come along to picket. But I also knew that I believed in the power of unions, of strikes, of collective action, and to play some role — no matter how small — in strengthening something that was truly special. I ran out of pamphlets within an hour.  

Perhaps not every pamphleteer completely believes in or understands the significance of what they’re fighting for. But it’s the pamphleteers who bring us together, who help build movements from the ground up, who fight to earn your help, your hand, your voice, and your vote. So the next time you’re walking down Eastern Avenue, spare a thought for the souls like me and take a pamphlet. It might spoil your serenity, or it might just make your perfect morning even better.