Politics may be divisive but there’s one thing that brings Australians together every election day: a love of – or at least affection for – the democracy sausage. And while it’s never a good idea to wonder how a democracy sausage is made, it’s worth sparing a thought as to how and why they came to be.
Democracy sausages are not a meat-and-bread tradition passed down by the ancient Greeks. Nor are they, as I once heard an American political podcast assert, provided by the Australian government as a reward for fulfilling our compulsory duty.
While they might seem like manna from heaven, their origin story is much more prosaic: democracy sausages come courtesy of your local public school Parents and Citizens Association or P&C.
Yes, behind every election day school barbecue is a crack team of volunteer P&Cers who’ve spent a week or two getting it all organised. They’ve signed off on funding, noted it in the minutes, drawn up the roster and put a call out for volunteers. They’ve dragged the school barbecues from storage to make sure there’s enough gas and checked the fridge to make sure there’s an adequate supply of sauces.
They’ve discussed what they’ll offer for vegetarians, vegans and the gluten-intolerant and other diet options. They’ve calculated quantities and put in orders at local butchers, bakers, greengrocers and supermarkets, angling for a discount wherever possible.
On election day the P&Cers are up extra early, picking up big paper sacks of rolls, boxes of sausages and five kilo bags of sliced onions whose smell haunts their car for days (I speak from experience). They make sure the barbecue is fired up and cooking batches of sausages, bacon, eggs and onions when the first voters arrive.
These saintly sizzlers aren’t doing it from the goodness of their hearts. Nor are they doing it to help (sausage) grease the wheels of democracy.
Again the story is much more prosaic: they do it because underfunded public schools need money. If there’s a captive market and the means to provide a processed meat product why not try to raise some funds?
Indeed, fundraising is a core function of any P&C and quite a lot of it can be sausage (democracy or otherwise) related. In the seven years I’ve spent on the P&C at my sons’ high school we’ve run annual barbecues for Open Day, Year 7 Welcome Day, Winter Gala (both nights) and the local community festival. We keep our prices reasonable and teachers eat for free.
But it isn’t all serving up snags.
Over that time we’ve also organised (among other things) trivia nights, clothing swaps, life drawing classes, talks by artists, young cartoonists and mental health experts and exhibitions of parent artwork. Our hardworking president (shout out to the legendary Jo), has spent hours – days! – of her free time applying for every grant going.
We’ve used the funds raise for all sorts of things – from buying new volleyball gear to commissioning murals by local artists, supporting the school’s Koori Club and paying for the annual farewell cake for the year 12s. On top of that, we covered costs for things we shouldn’t have had to – filling gaps in government funding by subsidising basic but urgently needed building repairs.
The P&Cs aren’t just about meeting school funding needs, they’re also about meeting – and getting to know – the people who work there. Teenagers are notoriously unforthcoming about what’s going on at school but the P&C’s monthly gatherings provide a great opportunity to hear from the principal and teachers and to meet other parents.
There’s always way more happening below the surface and these meetings allow staff to give background to the various events, programs, challenges, staffing and policy changes and provide a greater overall understanding of how the whole thing works. Parents or carers can also share their skills and expertise in all sorts of ways and help out by joining selection panels for new teachers and other decision-making bodies.
Finally – and perhaps most importantly – P&Cs are about building community, about getting together and getting involved.
You might have nothing in common with your fellow P&Cers other than the fact that your kids go to the same school and you’d like to help out in some way. That’s not a bad thing. Working from home has meant that often the only people we see and talk to in real life are friends and family – people like us. Being part of a community group exposes you to people you wouldn’t normally meet and unites you around a common cause.
Of course humans are frustratingly human and it isn’t always smooth but that’s life and working through – or with – challenges is all part of it. Starting on common ground and working out from there can be incredibly rewarding. Even if the road gets rocky at least you’re broadening your horizons … and maybe cranking up the barbie along the way.
My youngest son finishes year 12 this week so, after seven years of turning up on the second Wednesday of the month (by Zoom during two years of Covid), I’ll no longer be a P on the P&C. I attended my final meeting last week and – not gonna lie – shed a tear or two.
So, here’s to the local P&Cs – stalwarts of state schools, creators of community, unsung heroes of the democracy sausage! I will miss you … but if you’re short on people to man the barbecue on referendum day, put me down for one last shift.
• Fiona Katauskas is an Australian political cartoonist
