Student Submission – Poetry – Natasha Naicker
Frizzled Frocks
Painted Smocks
Mild humour i don’t understand
people playing sounds of something so bland
I see
wonder
I see fright
I see a freaky little girl who knows no one in sight.
But there are others just like me.
Across the world who I cannot see.
But they are there
and they won’t wait for me.
To meet them in heaven, would be a sin
for I did not help them when I was a king.
My presence on this earth is invisible
But that one little girl with that deepest smile,
singing her hope
will one day grow to bear children of her own
and teach them to run away wild
for I had two hands to hold, one child to nurture
but in the end I really had a nation waiting on my shoulders
With education I learnt right from wrong
but never once did I think, who was teaching them to write a song?
Education is a gift, to be shared.
Student Submission – Short Story – Bronte Charles
I always wished you could tell the sun touched my skin like you do my Mothers. I have her nose though, my Mums. And when I smile, it takes up my whole face, just like hers does. Like my Father, my eyes crease when I laugh. I have his milky complexion, his freckles and we both get sunburnt at the beach no matter how much sunscreen we put on. I have my Mothers’ mind – she’s a smart lady, I just have more opportunity than her to use it. Like Alice Spring’s February heat, her and I are both fiery (even when we try not to be). I have her resilience though – a quality passed down from our ancestors. Sometimes I can be distant like my Father, a little stubborn like him too. But I have his love for life. My Mothers a proud Bundjalung woman from a small town in Southern Queensland called Beaudesert; my Father, a Scotsman. They split when I was young, and it was definitely for the best. There were times when Dad and I were apart and times when Mum and I were apart, but I was always parts of them no matter how much time had passed.
I have one black Grandma and one white Grandma. My black Grandma would take me to feed the ducks at seven hills duck pond and scratch her long nails (which were usually painted a deep red) up and down my back until I fell asleep. My white grandma and I would catch the courtesy bus to Erskineville bowling club for Chinese food, but I’d always end up getting a burger with no tomato and a pink lemonade. I loved going to my white Grandma’s house because even though she lived in Redfern housing commission, she had Foxtel and I loved watching SpongeBob SquarePants on a Saturday morning. Saturdays were always the day I looked forward to. My pop would cook bacon and hash-browns on the barbeque and my Grandma would cut it into squares for me. I liked that breakfast was a two-person job; It made me feel special, even if the balcony I was eating it on overlooked Pitt Street, Waterloo. I remember the spooky stories my Black Grandma would tell – I’m still scared of the Tall man. I hated the nightmares, but I loved that I got to sleep next to her because I was scared, and she felt responsible. When my eight cousins and I would visit, we’d climb her mulberry tree and when we’d finally tire ourselves out, there’d be Zooper Doopers waiting on the kitchen table for us. I wasn’t the greatest tree-climber and my cousins would attribute this to my fair skin. Personally, I don’t see the connection and I’d always get teased for being fair – the white sheep of the family they’d call me. Nan would get up them though. I miss always having her on my side. Seemingly, the black and white thing didn’t always make sense to others. When I started my 6th new primary school in year five, my Mum came and picked me up one day and one of the boys in my class asked why she was brown and if I was adopted.
I never understood why my uncle told me I was lucky to have fair skin until I saw someone refuse to serve him at the shops because he was Aboriginal. Although, growing up, it was hard to feel lucky when all I wanted to feel was accepted. I didn’t feel like I was lucky to be fair when a girl in my class told me I was a ‘fake Aborigine’ because I didn’t have dark skin. And I didn’t feel lucky when I ticked the box that said I identify as Aboriginal at the Doctors and the receptionist told me I’d made a mistake on my form. Growing up Aboriginal is something I can’t really define. It’s a horizon of experiences – good and bad. It was being the only Indigenous girl in your grade at a private school – sometimes it meant sitting alone in the library at recess and lunchtimes. It was bringing your Aunty a warm glass of milk in the middle of the night because she’s had another nightmare about Cootamundra girls’ home. For me, being Aboriginal meant longing for identity, and sometimes, a place to call home. Other times it was bumping into a cousin, or an Aunty, or an Uncle, at the corner shop in Beaudesert and having them ask you to come ‘round for a feed. It’s being too scared to whistle at night and sharing a double bed with 6 of your cousins to fend off the nightmares. It’s Keens curried sausages and full tummies. It’s a flat can of kirks lemonade when you’re sick and catching mud-crabs barefoot. It’s that feeling you get when you’re living on country and you know that your ancestors are watching over you.
I had spent a lot of my upbringing with my white Dad. I mentioned my Mum was a smart lady, but she didn’t always make smart choices. I felt like I was robbed of culture growing up because she wasn’t there and it’s an abstract relationship – a white Father and an Aboriginal daughter. Sometimes he’d go on my cultural journey with me, sometimes I’d walk it alone. It was nice knowing that if I reached out my hand, he’d be there to hold it. He taught me to use culture as a superpower, to put my hand up in class and to never forget where I came from. We lived in Redfern, with my Nan. I grew up around blackfullas, some of them my mob but no one knew because I never spoke up. My Dad did though, I’m grateful he introduced me as his Aboriginal daughter, and he introduced me proudly. We’re both still learning about culture and that’s the beauty of it, it’s a culture that never sleeps.
I was seven years old when Black Nan died, when a beeping symphony lost itself inside a hum of a hospital hallway and she finally found peace. When she died so did a connection to culture, to family, to a dreaming that I had always dreamt of. I felt guilty knowing that I was the grandkid who had spent the most time with her, but Mum said it was time that I needed – I say it was time well-spent. I wish she was there on my first day of university, it’s what she wanted for Mum and I hope she knows that I got to do what they both couldn’t. I also wish Nan was there when it was hard, when I’d get my culture questioned and I didn’t feel good enough. I hope she knows I got to live on Country with uncle George and that I love to paint.
I hope she can see me wearing red, black and yellow and wearing those colours with pride. I hope she knows that the thing I love most about myself now is being Aboriginal.
Student Submission – Essay/Short Story – Marcus Lockyer Dunsdon
As a Wiradjuri man that grew up with disconnection to my culture and heritage, I can tell you personally that many people still suffer greatly from the ‘Stolen Generation’ and genocide that plagued our people. As someone who grew up when the ‘National Apology’ happened, I believed that change was on the way which included the wider Australian society and government respecting and understanding the injustice’s that have occurred. However, since then no action has been taken to rectify or change the perspective of Indigenous identities by the Australian people or, to eliminate the stereotypes placed on First Nations peoples. These include that we are all alcoholics, that we avidly take drugs, and that Indigenous people get things for free.
This year the focus of Reconciliation week is about taking action and ensuring that Reconciliation is not just a tokenistic chore that is undertaken to please Indigenous people. What I mean by this is that Reconciliation events should not be considered as a ‘box’ to be ticked; this box generally contains messages like ‘sure we understand the struggle that “we” as a society have put Indigenous peoples through, and we respect you.’ This is a box that gets ticked once, and suddenly after this week is finished that respect and understanding generally vanishes.
Reconciliation is more than participating in events for 1 day or week a year. We as Indigenous people are trying to reconnect with the Land and culture that was stolen from us. To take action is to educate yourself, whether that be talking to Mob to understand why we want to ‘Change the Date’, to ‘Free the Flag’, to stop ‘Deaths in Custody’ or to stop our land and heritage sites being destroyed or sold to foreign countries to capitalise on our land. The educate yourself and be aware of our fight is to be an ally.
An ally is someone who stands up for Indigenous justice, who understands and supports their friends who are Mob, to be seen in the community as someone willing to help and learn about our culture and someone who isn’t afraid to stand up for what they believe in.
As for me, I am and will continue to be heavily connected to my community to compensate for the disconnection I have faced and learn our traditions so I can pass these on to the future generations of My Mob. My community/ My Mob are a larger second family that is always willing to teach, support and protect you when needed and I will always do the same for anyone that needs this support. That is just how it works. It does not matter if you are not related by blood, or if your skin doesn’t reflect the ‘stereotypical’ Indigenous Australian. You are Mob. You will always have help when you need it.
Reconciliation is more than a word, its more than a chore, it is a way of life that should be upheld and respected by all to bridge the gap and allow Indigenous culture to thrive like it once did. My culture means the world to me and I believe it is vital to take action to ensure that Mob can continue to support one another, whilst simultaneously being supported by allies.