This week, All the Best Radio invites you to grab a drink and maybe a snack and settle down, as we hear stories that explore influential encounters, moments and ideas from ‘(Un)Intended Consequences’, a live storytelling event we held recently at Knox Street Bar.
That Time I Was Visited By An Angel by Pat Morrow
In our first story, Pat tells the story of his encounter with the Archangel Gabriel, who arrives not with soft words of comfort – but with life-shattering news. This story is about an unexpected visit and the futile, yet comedic, attempt to wrestle an angel.
Spoiler alert: No amount of heavenly cologne will save you from the angel’s bad news.
Turbo Kick by Tanya Vavilova
Next up is Tanya’s story. A swim squad becomes captivated by a new swimmer, Olga, whose unconventional style and mysterious “turbo kick” spark a wave of imitation. As the group adopts her fashion and technique, they grow increasingly obsessed—until Olga discovers they’ve been copying her unique, double-jointed kick. When she leaves, they continue the trend, forgetting how it even started.
As you can see, it only takes one turbo kick…to spark a full-blown swimming group revolution.
Serena Hor’s Story
In our third story, Serena reflects on her struggles with speech and deafness, navigating between the hearing and deaf communities while juggling societal expectations and her own self-acceptance. After enduring bullying, parental pressure, and a challenging quest for a sense of belonging, she learns to embrace her unique voice. Because, in the end, sometimes the voices we’ve been ashamed of, turn out to be the most beautiful of all.
From Serena to her teenage self, “I’m deaf and sometimes I sound weird, but that’s okay with me now.”
And from us to her bullies and her terrible teachers, “Thank you, next”.
Thank you to the City of Sydney for funding this beautiful storytelling night, to Knox Street Bar for hosting us and to the wonderfully talented team of volunteers who helped us put on a wonderful show!
Keep an ear out for the next three stories in a future episode…
All The Best Credits
Executive Producer: Phoebe Adler-Ryan
Editorial Producer: Melanie Bakewell
Host: Madhuraa Prakash
Transcript
Madhura Prakash: Before we get into this week’s stories, I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge that I’m recording from stolen Gadigal land and pay my respect to Gadigal elders past and present.
And also recognize that the area where FBI Radio is situated, Redfern, has long been a place of storytelling, strength, resistance, and resilience for First Nations communities. You’ll be hearing three stories from our recent live storytelling night, Unintended Consequences.
Pat Morrow: I receive an SMS from a number that I do not recognize.
Gabriel, five stars, is arriving shortly. Do not be afeard. Unintended. It is 8pm and I have eaten alone, even though I have, out of habit, cooked for two, even though I have, out of habit, set two places. Good call, turns out. There’s a great moonbeam through the ceiling of our apartment. There is fanfare from the horns that tore down the walls of Jericho.
There is the sound of much rejoicing. And then there he is, standing on the good rug. He is gentle, like a man who took his shoes off at the front door without being asked. And he is confident, like a man wearing exquisite shoes on the good rug without asking. He looks me up and down. I wonder if angels eat. I wonder if angels know what you’re, when you’ve finished eating and you’re getting ready to watch seven minute YouTube compilations of TikTok videos. And of course he knows, he’s the envoy of the Lord who put the stars in the sky and who knows them all by name. He knows everything. He says, Hey, like he knows me.
He says it like he’s pleased to see me. He smiles like he’s just removed a tooth whitening strip in an advertisement. He’s in a smart suit with a classic drape. He smells extremely good. This is how all angels smell. Like good salesman, like too good not to trust, like no choice but to trust, you have no choice but to trust.
I think he’s wearing Comme des Garçons Standard. I say, is that Comme des Garçons Standard? And he says, oh no, uh, similar, it’s a boutique thing though, from heaven. Uh, he laughs. And I Laugh.. He’s good, God, he’s good, he is a consummate professional, and he is here to blow the walls off my home and ruin my life, I believe he may kill me.
Gabriel is a modern man with two jobs. His first is interpreting dreams and heavenly prophecy, and I am not a sleeper or a prophet. He is better known for bringing people the news that the world as they know it has come to an end, that in spite of how nobly you may have struggled, how righteous and beautiful your preparations, how sure you were of what the next day would hold, things are no longer as they were.
You must change your life. He says, I think you know why I’m here, and I nod, I don’t want to say it out loud. He says, things are no longer as they were, you must change your life. And I say, that sounds like a hassle, and he says, it is unfortunately a hassle. He holds a white lily, and he does not offer it to me.
It is to soften the blow of bad news. It is working. I say, can I fight this? He says, some people try. This is appealing, so I clarify, what, like a wrestle? And he says, yeah, like a wrestle. He says, it’s like an invitation, and I take it. I bring over a chair for him to lay his jacket and tie and shirt and trousers on and we square off and now he has the jacket off, he looks a lot like the statues, the wings are considerable.
And I give him a look that’s like, is it okay if I touch you on the wings? And he anticipates this and smiles and he says, it’s okay if you touch me on the wings. And so we lay into it. He is graceful. I sort of hit him, sort of push him a bit. My face ends up buried in the nape of his neck and the smell is incredible and I take the opportunity to try and bite his throat like a dog.
I’m not proud of that. I am desperate and sweaty and panting and possibly crying. Gabriel has been practicing for 6, 000 years. He is very strong. Even holding a flower, he has one extremely strong arm that does standard bludgeoning damage and holy damage and I am weak to both. I am not a fighter. I work in communications.
I use an application called Sly. I use an application to make sure my heart rate is not too high. I use an application to get eight hours of sleep each night. I use an application to listen to live country music in Brenton, Missouri. And as he puts me in an impossibly gentle headlock, I realize that there is no fighting an angel.
Not anymore, times being what they are, times being as hard and as fast as they are. I see the knot at the top of his hip tighten as he shifts his posture, and he closes his soft hands around my wrists in a gesture that is a bit to disarm me, but mostly pity. I don’t know why he pities me, I am only crying a bit.
Wow, that was pretty close, he says, releasing me. It is humiliating. He takes my cheek in his hand and catches a tear on his thumbnail. He is going to destroy me. I try bargaining. I say, what if instead I gave you this Maison Balzac glassware? What if instead I gave you a Le Creuset pot? What if instead I gave you king size bed threads, linen, and marigold?
In this fashion, I offer him every beautiful product I have ever bought from a targeted ad on Instagram. He says, thank you, but I want for nothing. Where do you think those beautiful targeted ads come from anyway? And I realize, of course, they come from heaven. He says, yes, I already own all of these beautiful objects.
I receive them all as gifts from my thoughtful angel friends. And I say, oh. And he says, we’re in our 30s and we still see each other regularly. And I say, oh. And he says, and scheduling is never difficult because we all live in the same city. And I say, Melbourne. And he says, no, heaven. And I say, oh yeah, you wouldn’t move, would you?
I hear it’s pretty good. And he says, not much of a nightlife though. And there’s a long pause. I reach for more good small talk and none comes because I don’t know about his family or his dreams. I ask him if he thinks that I deserve it. I ask if he thinks that I’m a bad person. I ask if he has considered all the things that were said, all the things that were written down, the commitments that were made, and he says I bear news even so there is a long pause.
I wonder whether I’m strong enough to kill an angel with a coward punch. Probably not. I also get the sense he is not going to look away. Angels do not look away as they impart their news. Eventually, and I hate it, I find myself saying the exact same thing Mary did and she hated it too. It’s the same thing everybody says in the end.
Be it unto me according to thy word. And I say, I’ll figure it out, and I brace myself. And he says, oh right, yeah, it’s all a bit of a mystery, isn’t it? And I say, yeah, it is. And he says, okay! And he straightens up and suddenly he’s dressed again, and he claps his hands in a let’s get to work sort of way, but as soon as he claps, the work is done.
In an instant, there’s an eternity of fanfare from the heavenly hosts, and this volatile spiritual gas that had been bottling up in the apartment that assaults the house. Sea breeze couldn’t shift, catches a light, and explodes, and for a second it’s like we’re standing together in the center of the sun, a heat so dense and fundamental and obvious that of course this is the force that holds us all in orbit and together, and in the center of a star he shows me ruination and loss, he shows me the explosion of every day that was meant to come, he has cut off time’s old end, I try to imagine the future and it feels violent, he shows me entirely unknown seconds and minutes and days and months and years, and this is scary, not because it’s the first time it’s happened to me, it is scary because, I realise, despite my bravest wrestling, this has always been true.
No second implies the next, there is not, has never been, any guarantee that at any moment Gabriel wouldn’t arrive and explain that your life must irrevocably change and you must take him at his word. And it’s over. Wall’s still standing. I’m still standing. Good Rogue’s still good. The neighbours slept through it.
And I can hear the crickets. I don’t know what to say, so I say, this sucks. He says, I know, but do not be afeard. And against my better judgment, I find myself not being afeard. I don’t know what to say. I ask him if he wants to stay for dinner, and he says, Oh, no, I don’t think that’s, uh, you’re sweet, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.
And I say, Oh, no, no, no, no, no, I didn’t mean like that. And then he says, Oh, yeah, no, right, I should, I should be going. There is, um, there’s much news to deliver tonight. He says it like an apology. I say, Oh, yeah, big night? And he says, No, every night. All of you in exquisite agony. He looks at me with his kind green eyes, then to heaven, then to my eyes again, stop it, and then to heaven, and then he goes, and it sounds like an Uber, a Toyota Camry hybrid pulling away from the curb at 3am under the last star’s quiet dark, and then he’s gone, and then it’s just everything that happens next.
He has left no reassurances, no concessions, just two individually wrapped Mentos and a thick business card that says your feedback matters. I start accepting. Then I stop accepting again. I leave the Archangel Gabriel a petty and rude Google review. Gabriel is extremely strong, smells great, winning smile, much to like about the experience, five stars, that’ll show him.
I spend three hours trying to find his cologne online. I find his cologne online. It is from heaven and does not ship to Australia. I think about how some people just can’t handle change. I think about how to forgive his divine. I imagine his wrath and it’s ugly. I imagine my own and it’s uglier. I think about Lucifer, who was once an angel and moved on to other things.
I think I’m praying again. Time does its work. Moments pass without incident, and when it’s over, when I can’t smell him in our living room anymore, on my skin, I decide, actually, that went quite well. But I had him on the ropes when I asked if he wanted dinner. I tucked myself in, content that if anyone ever asks what happened, I can just lie or embellish.
But I haven’t. This is exactly what happened one time when I was visited by an angel. Thanks.
Tanya Vavilova: Turbo leg. The first time Olga shows up at the pool, we are halfway through the warm up lap. We catch her eye and she smiles with perfect teeth. She’s wearing a strappy pink one piece, resort wear really, and a pearlescent lavender cap of the softest looking silicon on earth.
From our respective lanes we can’t tear our eyes away. We are wearing utilitarian V back speedos, Our latex caps are blue, emblazoned with the swim club’s logo, and our goggles are fog free with a simple strap. We’ve always dressed like this, for as long as we can remember. Tim, our coach, tells Olga to jump into Adrian’s lane, the fast one.
There is nothing about her build to indicate that she’s a strong swimmer. We’ll be right back. Normally you can tell by the shoulders someone’s height. But not always. Swimming is egalitarian in that way. Tim, of course, has special powers of insight. That’s why he’s the coach of our swim squad. One hundred to go!
He shouts. Sitting on the pool ledge, Olga adjusts her goggles and slips in behind the Irish twins. Each lane is given a different start time, 1, 105, 110, 115. Most of us simply follow the person in front, hoping they, unlike us, have mastered the mysterious workings of the pool clock. We finish our laps with one eye on Olga.
Tim calls 850s, 25 fast, 25 slow. We push off the walls, streamline, then kick, reach, scoop. We’re gliding through the water like minnows. We are strong and sleek. Some of us have mantras or songs we play in our heads. One, two, breathe, kick, kick, kick. And if we’ve been to therapy, you are strong and you are loved.
The water roils, sloshes onto the tiles. Some of us Shave off a lap here or there to keep up with the pack. Truth be told, we all want to impress Tim. To be told, we are fast and dynamic and elegant as seals. Most of us, as you can probably guess, have hang ups from childhood. Some of us lived far from the coast.
We didn’t own a surfboard or a pair of board shorts, you understand. Tim shouts, controlled breathing ascending, breathe every three strokes, then every five, every seven, every nine, ten second rest, then repeat in descending order. His directions reverberate off the concrete and tiles. Our arms ache, our lungs burn, we grumble.
Squad is supposed to be fun! Tim yells in our beet red faces. We propel our bodies through the water, stealing glances at Olga. She is fast, faster even than Adrian. We study her technique and make comparisons. There is something about her kick. Later, drinking coffees down the road, everyone has something to say about the newcomer.
Did you see her cap? Adriana asks. It glimmers. Someone, maybe me, points out her unusual technique. Did you see, he says, that she promptly kicks with one leg. He demonstrates the low bass notes with his hands. Do doof, do doof, do doof. A turbo boost, a turbo leg, someone says. Do doof, do doof, do doof. We hide our jealousy behind orders of bagels and muffins.
At the next squad, we notice the uptake of resort wear among the group. Strappy numbers in primary colours, reeling bums, side boobs and tummies. Even the men have spruced themselves up. Low rise briefs, for instance, are popular in the slow lane. Are those new togs? We ask each other. I’ve always had these.
We lie. Tim calls drills with kickboards. As we swim, those of us in Olga’s lane pay special attention to her turbo kick. We start copying her. Our left leg suspended, our right leg kicking with force, a one two kick. It’s unnatural at first and we feel a little unbalanced, like a boat listing starboard.
What are you lot doing? Tim yells from the edge of the pool. We shrug. Nothing. You’re up to something, he says. Tim’s smart like that. We put our heads under the water to drown out his voice and continue kicking until our one leg burns. Afterwards, we float on our backs or reach for plastic free bottles of water.
Our times, Tim says, are slower than usual. We tell him the pool clock’s broken. Instead of doing the cool down, those of us with charisma or confidence chant to Olga. The rest of us wonder how, without shared trials or injuries, talk is even possible. We quiver with envy. At the cafe, we watch her order a skim latte with one equal, the barista captivated by her legs.
By the following week, we are all wearing soft silicon caps in iridescent pinks, purples and blues. Our scalps shimmering like mother of pearl. We are creatures of the sea or the pool. We are one, our bodies are one. We are one, our bodies are water. Here is where we belong. Tim, we notice, is wearing a new singlet, possibly from a surf shop.
With a cut out at the shoulder, he looks like a longboarder who goes to outdoor rock concerts on the weekends. Olga raises her eyebrow. Somehow, we’ve become cool. We were the bullied at school, never the bullies. We never came close to a blue ribbon or cheering applause. And now, look at us. See?
Transformation is possible. We do relays and duck dives. We do one armed butterfly and leg only breaststroke. Olga is the fastest among us and getting faster. She’s a fish, Tim says. Yes, we agree, a fish. We trip over ourselves trying to buy her a coffee. We too only drink skim lattes with one equal. We ask about her life.
She talks about her family home in the Thousand Islands. She invites Tim to visit. We grow jealous of their closeness. These days, Tim is content to sit in his deck chair, drinking a high protein shake. Occasionally he stands to demonstrate a drill. He tells us we’re just like dolphins. We treasure his words of praise and we repeat them to each other.
By the end of August, we’ve all mastered Olga’s Turbo kick, da doof, da doof, da doof. She, for some reason, often swims alone in the far lane, abruptly stopping sometimes in the shallows to look at us. Tim says we’re showing improvement. Full of pride, we flash bits of bum and boob. We flirt with each other.
There is talk of a mere banging Adrien. We want to bang each other. There is so, so much love in the pool. We are drenched in it. During 50s with pool boys between our thighs. Stu, who’s been away swimming in Greece, returns in his classic speedo briefs. What the heck’s going on? He says, taking in the strange turbo.
We don’t know what you’re talking about, we say. Your swimming costumes are ridiculous. Stu says, and What’s with the wonky leg?. Olga lifts the divider and swims over. You’re all mimicking me, aren’t you? She says. My bathing suit and my kick. When we look at her blankly, she says, My right ankle is double jointed.
You know, like Michael Phelps. You’re making fun of me. We’re not, we promise. We tell her we love her. Those words, though spoken earnestly, drive her from the pool. She snatches her towel off the floor and strides outside. We’re hurt and confused, but we keep gliding through the aquamarine blue. We agree with each other that Olga was too sensitive at Diva, we’re better off without her, we don’t mention her again.
And soon, Stew adopts a pair of hunky briefs and a cap like the inside of a seashell. The K’s stack up, we’ve swum the length of the English Channel once more. The old hierarchy’s return. Adrian is the fastest but he is no longer banging Amir who is now bonking one of the Irish twins. Everyone looks so hot in resort wear.
Our turbo kick is natural powerful. No one can quite remember how any of it started. Even Tim thinks it’s just the way it always was. He sits on the deck chair in ripped jeans and between gulps of his protein shake tells us to kick, kick, kick with our one leg. We feel good about it. We get up at daybreak for squad and feel virtuous, thinking of our neighbours still dozing in bed.
One day, in December, we’ve just started our warm up when a new guy arrives. He’s wearing a fast skin, just like in the Olympics. Our eyes rove over his polyurethane compression suit. He adjusts his snorkel and dives into the pool. A snorkel! We whisper to each other . He doesn’t have to turn his head to breathe.
There is something in that we say to each other. Tim shouts, Hey, what’s the matter? Nothing. We shrug, mesmerised.
Serena Hor: Growing up, I heard people say my voice sounded funny. I was the prefect at my high school and I was noticed by many. Teachers and students alike. But I wasn’t your typical Miss Popular. People have said that. Did you know that she, That I sound like a, Drowning person. A whale, an alien, like bubbles, like a frog, a monster, like a fish out of water, like a wounded animal, like I’m an unintelligent, like a broken record player, like a, like a weirdo.
I sound like me. I’m trying so hard to speak but when I speak I’m unheard. Were all those years of speech therapy for nothing? I remember shedding countless of tears. Say it. F for frog. I can’t. Stop being stubborn. Your parents are watching. Because I couldn’t say F for frog. For every single time my parents asked me to try harder.
Talk. Do you have a mouth to talk? Called me weird. What do I, what did I do to deserve this? Got angry? Why can’t you do anything right? Ask me to be normal? Look at the beautiful baby girl and condemn her with a look of pity and sorrow because they wanted me to live a normal life. But I feel normal. There will be countless of reminders that I’m different.
We are fine. It will be okay. Countless conversations I couldn’t join in. Why does nobody talk to us? I don’t know. I don’t feel any different from anyone else, but anytime someone reminds me about my voice, I remember that I am. Congratulations, you are deaf and hard of hearing. Deaf.
Can you hang back after class? Look, I’m not sure how to break it to you, but you’re slowing down the class because you can’t hear. And sometimes I barely understand what you’re saying. I know it sounds super mean, but I don’t think I can teach you. I hope you’ll be able to consider quitting for the sake of others.
I actually quit two weeks after from stress. All the things I’ve heard despite being deaf hurts. With my speech, you Comes my deafness. I wish people knew my speech is affected by the way I hear things. Some sounds are missing, sometimes they are too garbled or too foreign for me. What people hear. I’m not like you, you’re a murderer.
What I hear. I’m like you, a murderer. I wish people knew I feel a burning sense of shame for every mispronunciation. Blasphemy. The weight of every word on my tongue. When I recognise the frustration on people’s faces, that it’s too much for them. But I also get frustrated too. Holding every mispronunciation like a gun to my head.
That I’m saying things but I feel like a dictionary of lost words. If I don’t speak, am I worth connecting with? I’m afraid to say something and afraid of running out of words to say. I’m so afraid of the awkward silence that follows the conversation because I’m bad at talking. Of not knowing what to talk about because my speaking also reflects my hearing which shows a blindingly clear reflection of my lack of social skills.
At least to me. Paralysis consumes me. The weight of the silence is so loud and I don’t know whether it’s comfortable or awkward. So I talk. And talk. And talk. I keep going on even though I don’t know what I’m saying sometimes. I go on and on and on, feeling like I’m digging myself a grave by using my voice, relieving my traumas, my fears as I walk side by side with me.
I honestly really love talking and I can speak but what if they laugh? What if they think I’m strange? That I sound weird or sound funny? What if I run out of words to say? I recently only realised I’m reluctant to speak because people would laugh at how I speak whether it was out of malice or not and I would laugh along too.
Not knowing, really knowing how to react except for A. Shutting up, B. Dismissing myself, or C. Apologising. I’m so tired of all the sorries that I say every time my speech is garbled. Sorry. I’m so tired of shackling myself to how other people perceive me. When I went to my first deaf festival, I was early to meet a friend, and I was stalling for time with my dad but it was not a fun father daughter outing.
I feel sad and sorry for everyone here. Why? They all can’t hear and their speech isn’t very clear. What about me then? You speak better than them. You went to speech therapy when you were young and you can hear. The superiority of the speech intervention they raised with me really crushed my heart.
There’s nothing to be sorry about. If they’re fine with it, then that’s all that matters. I can hear but I’m still deaf. My speech is still funny and there’s nothing wrong with that. They are fine. That day, the silence between me and my dad was overwhelming. I was disturbed by the way I unconsciously sought out for validation for acceptance from my parents, from people.
Depressed by the way I remember how they used to hide me with embarrassment when I grew up. Of people who, of how people used to look at me when I speak. Distressed by the way the phrase my mum repeats “speak properly” still constantly occurs in my mind reminding me of how people see me, how I see me. The voices in my head reminds myself that I speak weird, that I need to try harder, that maybe what people were saying was true.
It reminds me of the time I looked back off stage at my year 12 graduation and people whispering about my voice. The way I gazed at my feet and mumbled the rest of my page long speech. Of all the times I struggled to read an excerpt in front of class because I got so tongue tied. How I begged the teacher to let me read ahead to myself, alone in my head.
Of all the times throughout my school years realising I was not shy, but quiet from all the things that have been said about how I sound Of how I tried to justify why I was alone so much I don’t know what’s real now It reminds me of how there was a time I almost went mute by choice out of fear because I was tired of having my words fall on deaf ears I often felt alone and stuck between two worlds because I had no one to talk to and no one who could understand.
I didn’t feel deaf enough for the deaf community and I didn’t hear or speak clear enough for hearing one.
Hello, can we sit next to you? Yeah, of course. We’re at a weirdo table now. All of us are weird on this table. You don’t think I sound strange? That’s not what I mean when I say weirdo table. You sound beautiful. I used to hate my voice and the deafness reflected within it. Until I found people in university who accepted me, hearing, voice, and all.
You never saw I sound weird? Weird’s the wrong word, you sound sick! It’s okay, I may pronounce things too, like there was a time I said Until I remembered my friends online who accepted me as stranger and became my found family. Until I stopped being scared of hurting my childhood friends and my handful of high school friends by association to the deaf kid.
Until my cousins and partner were happy to learn sign language. How do you sound stupid? I’m not qualified to draw a sign by the way as I also just started learning it formally. And when I started Auslan I met all my new mothers, my friends, of how accepting they were when I was worried about sounding weird and they didn’t treat me differently and listened with respect.
When I finally went to my first Deaf Festival and had a better experience after, I was surrounded by people like me, who sound like me. When I got my job as a student accessibility consultant and my co workers came up to chat, I was employed to have a voice to speak or hold my peace forever about the future of Accessibility Services.
Despite my struggles and every bad comment, I remember how much I love talking to the people I care about. you I’m still learning to talk without my fears overriding me. Learning how to cope with the silence and paralysis that hangs heavy on my shoulders. Learning that it’s okay to run out of words and it’s okay to be quiet if I need.
Learning to hit myself in the face every time I think silence means someone dislikes me. To not force myself to speak and speak when I want. Saying thank you instead of sorry, even though I don’t have to thank anyone for me being me, for being patient with my voice. I’m grateful to my parents for many things, but this was the one thing that I needed them to do right.
One day, I hope I’ll be able to show them my deaf pride. I’m grateful to all the whispers and voices for playing a part in shaping me into who I can be today. Thank you to my bullies, thank you to my terrible teachers, I didn’t need that but thank you. I’m stronger and more independent now. To the teenage version of me, I’m deaf and sometimes I sound weird but that’s okay with me now.