How do you make other people feel?
It’s something I think about quite a lot, because as a writer, and as a performer, an activist, and a twice-failed politician, it’s my common denominator. It’s the line I draw between seemingly disconnected paths. It’s the key driver of my bigger mission. I want to facilitate people feeling valued and heard. I want them to feel there is hope. I want their lives to improve. I want them to have housing, have employment, have safety, have love, have community, have food, have joy.
We often feel that delivering such lofty goals is so unachievable we don’t bother. But sometimes the simplest acts can be deeply transformative.
Take Sunday morning for example. I’d just finished mentoring two women comedians in Sydney. It’s confronting to be assisting the success of others when you’re still processing your own failure. It’s also good medicine. I’m good at giving. It’s receiving I suck at.
It was 6am when I stepped into the dark street to call my Uber to the airport. I felt a bit sad and lost. I narrowly missed being elected MP for the second time, and in the process abandoned my 40-year career as a comedian. There are moments where I really feel into my deep uncertainty and it makes me feel sad. And if I’m honest a bit scared.
My first Uber arrives – I walk to the car and the driver tells me the ride is cancelled. Typical. I can’t even win a fare. Another driver will arrive I am told. I know it’s because this driver has realised it’s a short fare to the airport and he doesn’t want to take me. I get a spike of annoyance. Indignation that he dumped my job. I contemplate reporting him. Then my compassionate side kicks in. He’s probably been driving all night. Maybe he wants to go home and needs a fare in the right direction. Not everything is about me. It does add to that feeling of desolation. Of wondering who I am and what is next. And, if I’ll make my fricking plane. Loser.
The next Uber arrives. Fortunately this driver is happy to take me to the airport, which is good because now I’m running late. I slip in the back, we make small talk, and then Michael the Uber driver says ‘I am going to play you some Manilow’. I think, no way. He’s not blasting ‘Oh Mandy’ at 6.15am. But he does. And it’s so loud my ears are bleeding. He’s singing along. He puts the volume down and says, ‘Come on, sing!’ So I do. Michael and I belt out Barry all the way to the airport. He plays it twice. I am laughing. I am singing. And I am a terrible singer! So is Michael. But it doesn’t matter. It’s so joyous. ‘Oh Mandy, you came and you gave without taking… but I sent you away! Oh Mandy… .’
It’s exactly how I feel. Two years of campaigning without a wage. And then the long fall into the abyss of losing. I really do feel the bit about ‘I sent you away’. Part of me almost feels like I could cry, but I don’t because that would be a cliche, and I don’t have long enough to explain the context to Michael.
Our 15 minutes together was spectacular. We laughed, we sang, and we allowed Barry Manilow to create this tiny fragment of intimacy. It was really beautiful. It changed how I felt that morning, about myself, about the day.
All Michael did was take a risk and play a song with the name of his ride. I could have said no. But I didn’t, I pushed past the discomfort and experienced this beautiful connection with a stranger.
Michael transformed my morning. I have hated that song, but he re-made it for me – I will always remember this moment and the power simple actions can have to connect. And sometimes it’s not the teacher in the Uber who is the real teacher.
Oh Mandy… I neeeeeed you!
- Mandy Nolan’s Soapbox column has appeared in The Echo for almost 23 years. The personal and the political often meet here; she’s also been the Greens federal candidate since before the last two federal elections. The Echo’s coverage of political issues will remain as comprehensive and fair as it has ever been, outside this opinion column which, as always, contains Mandy’s personal opinions only.
For four decades The Echo has printed the stories some people loved, some people hated, and some pretended not to read. If you want us to keep telling the truth, the real truth, not the sugar-coated version. We’ll need your support to keep the presses rolling. 
