No... Just Sadness

eliSe CurrY

No… just sadness.

Picking every one of my bones apart Coiling in tendrils around my heart

Puncturing my lungs, pop, pop, pop Until

My breathing seems to slow To a stop

I’m used to the way the sensation grows You’re looking at me funny, as though I shouldn’t be smiling, but I need this feeling The near-death, hold-my-breath, floor-becomes-theceiling

My chest, compressing in The world spins, and I can’t hold onto anything Or anyone

For a little while, I can pretend That my problems have a start and an end My life, reduced to a timeline Of events that I never really asked to be mine A father I never really learnt to know A mother I never really learnt to let go And a sadness that I can’t escape That still holds my tongue and takes my breath away.

The quiet before the storm, the anticipatory hush of a crowd.

The footsteps of the judge echo as they walk into the courtroom, Clicking against the hardwood floor Abrasive against the silence

Will the defendant please stand. At first words are strung together in casual phrases

Not quite in agreement but diplomatic Straining against the limits of polite conflict

Please state your case, voice your opinion. You won’t be judged.

Raised voices, Objecting to every objection Bared teeth set in faces every shade of puce shouting across the room

Will the defendant please stand.

The barrage of words collide mid-strike harsh and combative beating against each other fighters in the ring

Will

Will The Defendant Please Stand?

In a clamouring throng

Your voice must carry above the din

Be louder

The bang of the gavel on the weathered wooden desk, demanding attention only adds to the chaos

Each sentence tangled in a knot of confused explanation words overlapping indecipherable even to the speaker their meanings lost Pointless

Will the defendant please stand.

[Shouts and roars, cracking sound of machine guns firing. The Ghost sees a young Aboriginal boy fighting alongside white Australian soldiers.] the ghoSt: I’m still here, waiting. Longing for home, I’ve tracked every river through this goddamn land and yet all streams lead to foreign seas, not the sunburnt country of mine. This blood-soaked soil may be dyed red, but I cannot mistake it for the ochre tones of the outback sand. Sometimes I pretend I’m back home, the river I trace now the McIntyre, but the soil is too damp and the birds sings songs in foreign tongues, and I lay here tracing the birds that fly overhead wishing I could catch a ride home.

Home! And to think how excited I was to leave! How I once, with my mates, like innocent little boys, fought to join this big event. ‘To protect country!’ we cried, pleading with our father and left our red dirt that grew our eucalyptus trees with strong driving hope that this would be the chance to prove ourselves, to be what they call ‘Australian’ and the enticing promise of six shillings a day, much more than what we earnt then. And I remember my brothers and I sitting around the tingling warmth of the fire, crackling along with our overwhelming excitement of the 18 shillings that could get a doctor for Mum. So, we left our names behind to give the army something more appropriate and then were separated into different troops. I think back then I knew, but again no one ever really knew if they would return. If they’d trade back the choppy seas of war for the calming currents of our Pilliga Creek.

I remember that day as if it were my last, in some ways I guess it was, that bloody day when we approached this foreign land armed with guns ready to attack and were welcomed with the cracking of bullets that whizz by so fast you don’t even realise how close to death you were. I remember thinking how funny it was, would have laughed my head off if not for the fear and horror that wrapped itself around me, considering my past, you know? No, most likely you don’t. (Chuckles to himself then sighs and scans his surroundings)

I watch as men creep home as nothing but a shell of themselves, no fanfare this time, just eyes that show no soul as they go home only to go back, go back to the horrors in the trenches when they

The Ghost dare to close their eyes at night. I picture my mates, the ‘lucky ’ ones, returning home just like our enemies and I realise no one really won. Instead, even as they leave in victory, they leave knowing they will never truly escape. And when the war ended, I was left to haunt these foreign lands. Left to watch, as the trenches fill with dirt and become overgrown with fresh green shoots and houses were built over my forgotten bones, this wounded land struggling to heal itself. And that makes me think of the ignored wounded back home and I wonder if my fight and sacrifice was worth it, if those ‘fellow’ white soldiers still drink with blokes like me, if that wound was able to somewhat heal or at least be stitched up like those shoots on the battlefields or if it was salted again and again and again and all was for nought. (Shakes his head in grief.) Now imagine my surprise, my horror, when I found those fields filled again with new soldiers whispering old dreams, bringing in new calves for slaughter, as they spill their booze on this dirt not knowing that they’d return to spend the rest of their lives drowning in it, as they are ripped of their humanity and grow into beasts, like those old memories of mine painted fresh onto a canvas. And when I spotted dark-skinned boys with a hope so familiar flickering in their eyes, I thought, no, I knew that we didn’t do it, we didn’t achieve what we hoped for and now the old dreams of equality, of not defining us by our bloody skin colour, continued on to the next generation. But I see a fire in their eyes and I know whether we win our equality under this flag or the next, it is a fight that we will never give up, a fight that will be passed on until it is won and that I can trust my people to never forget. But these fights, battles, wars just don’t seem to end, you know? History seems to love repeating itself in these brutal ways. An eternal fight. And I’ll still be here, waiting. [Looking at the dirt, the ghost fades out.]

1919. a country town train station

[It’s raining. TOMMY, huddled under the awning of the train station. He is sheltering from the rain.] tomm Y: (sighs) I never learned all that old person stuff, but I do know the Rainbow Serpent. He comes across the land from waterhole to waterhole to bring the rain and renew the land. The people. He can’t smell you though, to talk to him you gotta dirty yourself up. Get in the ground. The Lord is calling you. Lazarus. [He pulls out a bottle and flicks the cap off]

Rain brings the smell o’ dirt and all that. That fresh smell. [He takes a swig from the bottle]

It clings to you. Gets under your skin, your fingernails. In your ears. And all there is is that fresh smell. That metallic smell. Holding you in. Or something. [He puts the bottle away. He sits still and watches the tracks.]

When the earth’s in your ears, everything sounds like a dull ping ping ping and there’s yelling above. But you can’t hear what they’re saying. You can’t hear yourself. Because the dirt is in in in and everyone else is out. Lazarus Lazarus! Come forth! Lazarus!

And the ping of the rain on the tracks. The bullets in the sky. The rain on the tracks. The bullets in the sky. The darkness. The Lord says you’re sleeping, but if that is true. It was so dark. They don’t tell you that about being underground. You’re upside down or right side up and there’s nothin’. Only you and the blood pump pump pumping in your ears.

I was lucky, they say. They pulled me outta there to give me a second chance at life. Like Lazarus, I was brought back. But Lazarus was clean, and proper, and I was covered in dirt, one with the earth. And I’m not getting any cleaner. The filth of war wraps around me, forever closing in and all I can hear is BANG

Bang Bang

and the blood is on my hands, the dirt in my ears and the darkness blinding, pictures playing against my eyelids.

[He picks up the bottle, flicks off the cap and blows over the top of the neck.]

They can tell. The people. They look at me and all they can see is the dirt. And I can scrub and scrub and scrub, but it won’t come off because I am the dirt. Right down to my core, to my skin. And they know.

They all know.

I can see it when their eyes glaze over, when they turn their children away, when they walk on past me. The cream of the crop don’t want the dregs, so I don’t stick around. It’s better that way. The less people you know, the less to leave you behind. Why did they put you in that tomb?

[He sits silently for a beat]

So I’m off again. Running, like always. Hiding, like always. Why can’t I just do something?

In my perfect world, I’d be holding a job. A good one. The money would be flowing in. I’d have a house. A nice one with a blue roof. And a missus. A really pretty girl. We’d be married, locked down for eternity. ‘Til death do us part. Or ‘til she thinks I’m dead and leaves me for dust in a house with four walls all keeping me in. Closing me in. Suffocating me until I’m revived. Lazarus risen from the dead but not his tomb. Because for me the tomb is never ending, the war ever present. [He gently hums a tune. It’s Lazarus] teenage girl : When I was seven, my grandad gave me a cold shard of metal. I can’t remember what he said but it was something I wouldn’t have understood anyway. I mean, I was seven. I couldn’t tell my head from my arse much less the complex emotions of my veteran grandad. He was always kind of alien to me, like he was somewhere far away, even in the final years of his life, when he lived with us, me and my mum. Didn’t help he was so tall. Couldn’t even see his eyes. Due in varying degrees to his age and mental state, he stopped going to work when I was in year three-ish. At school I mostly just sat around by myself. I don’t think the other kids fully liked me, or maybe they just didn’t care what I got up to. Just ignored me, really. It never seemed like some deep-rooted Wiluna racism, mostly ‘cause they were all black too. I was just some generic brand of lame. But my teacher was always a little weird to us. Not callingus-slurs weird, but different. Which is odd, given we were smack bang in the middle of dusty WA. I wonder where he thought he was. One day we had show and tell, with the theme of Something important to your family . I didn’t think I really had anything. A jar of some forgotten ashes sitting on the mantelpiece, who’s name I had forgotten? No, too morbid. My mum’s favourite mug? Nah, she dropped it last week. That night I stumbled through the door with my school backpack that was about double my total mass, and sat deep in thought at the kitchen table, the way any harried eight-year-old will. My mum looked up from her grownup business and asked what was up – and went right back to her grown-up stuff when she found out. Grandad came shambling in. Eventually he got my whole sobbing story and chuckled quietly. ‘How about bringing in that piece of shell I gave you?’ I stopped and thought. Is that really important? He laughed again, ‘It’s as important as an old piece of scrap metal can be.’ I rummaged through my room and found the little hard chunk. It would have to do. Next day I stood up and said ‘This piece of metal came outta my grandad’, and the class giggled collectively. My teacher asked me what I meant. I said ‘He was just minding his business and this piece of metal wiggled out like a gun being shot from the inside.’ ‘How did a piece of metal get inside him,’ he asked, and I said ‘It got lodged there, I guess.’ ‘How did it get lodged there?’ ‘Well, when the shell went off it got sort of stuck

Lazarus Lazarus! Come forth! Lazarus! The Lord is calling you! Lazarus! The Lord says you’re sleeping but if that is true Why did they put you in that tomb?

WilliamS Starkie Isobelle Carmody Award

1967. The Dusty Shell Of An Old Family House In Wiluna there.’ Teacher-man stopped, considering what I meant. I said ‘My grandpa fought the big war’, and it was like he exploded.

‘YOUR GRANDPA FOUGHT IN THE WAR?’ He said, excited. ‘YOU MUST BRING HIM IN TO SPEAK TO THE KIDS,’ something the king, something something Australia. ‘HE HAS GIVEN THIS COUNTRY AS MUCH AS A MAN CAN GIVE’ something something white-man’s land ‘HE IS THE FINEST OF THIS POPULATION,’ can’t vote, though. Next time I stepped through the fly-wire door of my house I was confused. My teacher never seemed to care about my family. Practically avoided them. Grandad was snoring on the couch and I poked him until he snorted awake. ‘I think my teacher really likes you now.’ He looked confused. I explained. Well – and his eyebrows went in here –‘There’s a sense of camaraderie that us soldiers share, that extends across all the’ –and my mother interrupted – ‘He likes the old soldiers better than the rest of us. Ern you’re closer to a white bloke than any of us and you know it.’ She looked cross. I was just confused. I’m a little less confused now that I’ve seen the world outside of Wiluna, now my grandfather has died and I’ve been to his funeral, compared it to my father’s when he died in jail, heard the way they spoke about Ern, the brave old bugger versus silence at my father’s. I wonder if people in the city would have liked me more if they knew my grandad served. Wonder if people still care about that sort of thing. I know what my ma meant now.

‘Closest thing to a white bloke is a black guy who served for them, died and bled for the king instead of incidentally at the hands of his goons with guns.’ Maybe I’m still just as confused as that little girl putting a shard of rusty shrapnel on her grandad’s coffin and wondering if anyone could see her as a hero like they saw him. I watched him dement and spill his food down his front and shake at the kitchen table when mum dropped a plate, and I was confused how it made him a hero. Why did he come home as someone else and stay less than a second-class citizen?

[A crowd gathers around an enlistment poster.] r eCruitment offiCer : (shouting) Join us in victory! Bear arms for our sovereign nation, for our Commonwealth! Join the RAAF and see the end of conflict! fir St Young m an: You know, Jimmy from down the block went up to the office last week. I’m guessing he slipped past those bastards ‘cause I haven’t seen him since. [They turn towards the noisy crowd.] fir St Young m an: Yeah, with the crash I don’t even know when we’ll get proper pay again. It’s only gonna get worse and this is our one chance. fir St Young m an: I’ve seen some lost limbs and some deaf folks but do you reckon we have much to lose? And once we’re back we’ll be set for life. Money’ll be good and we can get Mum happy. Maybe a few years on the turf will do us some good. [BERTIE coincidentally walks past and hears their conversation. He struggles at first with his words.] bertie: (weakly, in fits and starts) How old’s you two? fir St Young m an: Uh, seventeen? (whispering) What’s up with this bloke? bertie: You both enlisting? fir St Young m an: Yeah, maybe the white blokes will actually care about us for once. Maybe we find some purpose, ya know. Our place. We could see something new in the bigger world. Here, nothing changes. The Protector’s taking the pay, then every week we hear a little Millie or little Frank’s been taken. bertie: (sighing) Mum’s told me about bigger world once, about fences– fir St Young m an: What are you on about? bertie: – and circuses over the wires and not getting over them. bertie: (pauses) What do you think you’re fighting for? fir St Young m an: (hesitating) Well, our freedom, our people, for some recognition– bertie: – for Australia, right? (They both nod) Let me tell you youngins something. I was just like you once. Young. Bold. Ambitious. I had the pride of two soldiers and a half. I boarded that boat with a full haversack, a photo of my mum tucked in my pocket and a twinkle in my eye. I wandered around high as a kite thinkin’ I’d finally see something new, something different, that the white boys would finally call me mate. And they did. They pulled me in just like I was one of ‘em, like my skin was suddenly scrubbed clean and my eyes dyed blue. But you want to know what else happened? I will remember clearer than day that moment when I saw one of my mob fall, Frank he was called. I will always remember that name. The bombs had destroyed his face and body so bad that all he had left intact was his hair. So we cut a lock of it off then I did the worst thing I could have ever done. I prayed. To some Father who I had never known, only through stories from the white blokes. I left Frank’s spirit to some lord I didn’t even believe in. And now he’s wandering. Wandering those fields somewhere too far away and he’s lost because he’s not home and he can’t ever return home and so I never let myself forget because I realised at that moment that I had betrayed myself. I betrayed my people because I lost my culture, so I never gave Frank the respect he deserved to at least be buried under the soil with ochre-dyed sand. And I will always think myself guilty. Always. And I still hold Frank’s hair for that same reason. (shaking, he unfurls his fist)

SeCond Young m an: Mate, you sure?

SeCond Young m an: Well have you heard the stories? From the other blackfellas?

SeCond Young m an: Eighteen sir. (quietly) Shush.

SeCond Young m an: Well we were thinkin’ about it. He reckons it’ll do us some good. Get us some pay.

1939.

SeCond Young m an: Apologies sir, we’re not following.

SeCond Young m an: We are so sorry for your... loss, sir, we never kn- bertie: You boys don’t apologise. I’ve told you my story, so that you don’t ever ignore yours. Just know that ever since we’d lost Frank, I hadn’t spoken a single word. Because I was stuck inside my own head. It was the guilt and the shame and the loss that stuck with me and so for 25 years I was silent, and it wasn’t until we start hearin’ about this war on the radio that I really felt something again. Every time I hear about another blackfella goin’ off to the war I just get more angry, because that dream they have will never come true. I seen it and been through the s*** and the mud and come out with half a soul and a quarter of my wits so yer gotta believe me on this one. This country we call ‘Australia’? You see it’s only an idea, a concept, because where was that Australian dream when our farm got taken away, when the money I was owed never came through, when I came home and me white mates jeered and laughed at me when I couldn’t open my mouth to speak. Ever since they came all those years ago and took everything we knew then gave our lands a foreign name we have never had a moment of peace. And I was young and careless enough to never take that into consideration. So I hear yer ramblin’ on about some hope and I feel bad that you’re still blind to it all. I don’t care if you’re already at the docks by tonight but I just need you two buggers to know how it really is and what will happen. Talk to your Uncles and Aunties and see what they say. Because in truth you’ll find yourself in a new war back home. (BERTIE lowers his head, clenching his fist harder, then walks away.) fir St Young m an: I think we should go home. (His friend nods and they leave the crowd behind them.)

End Scene

Svadishthara CindY jin

The sky is just beginning to wake up, wisps of pale-yellow sneak through crevices between the murky, grey clouds and pirouette their way through my window as if saying hello. I climb out of bed and feel the cool hardness of mahogany beneath my feet as I ease into downward dog, stretching out my limbs like a baby entering the world for the first time. Today my chakra is orange – it’s the svadishthara or acceptance chakra. I can almost see it as a flame, dancing in the soft morning glow of dawn and licking the higher powers up above as it flares with intensity. I concentrate on the rich red panelling below me and breathe in, holding my breath for as long as I can before letting it all out. In the corner of my eye, I see the alarm clock flicker to half past seven and I slowly arise from my position. It’s the day of the talk with Craig so I better not keep him waiting.

Outside the air is fresh and crisp – the walk to the beach is not far but even so I quicken my pace, small, swift steps one after the other and it’s not long before I reach the sailboats at Port Melbourne. I’m here early so I gaze out into the horizon and notice a flock of white birds, soaring above the leaden skies. A single black bird follows them, desperately trying to join the group but they are unrelenting, swiftly gliding away and leaving it all alone, helplessly flapping its wings as it tries to figure out what to do. My heart aches for the black one, unloved and unaccepted just because it wasn’t blessed with white feathers. I yearn for a day when they can all fly together in harmony, be considered one as they navigate through this tumultuous world together.

‘It’s rare of you to be on time.’

I whip around to see Craig, a flash of annoyance flickering behind his eyes, and my heart thumps wildly in my chest. Overhead, the clouds, already pregnant with waiting, darken and advance menacingly towards us. Any second now it’ll start pouring. I clench my moist hands tightly together, my knuckles white from the strain and look at him square in the face. I can’t wait any longer.

‘I’m pregnant.’

Craig opens his mouth and closes it again, tries to say something but nothing comes out. His mouth hangs open and his eyes glass over like a goldfish. He stares at me blankly.

‘And I’m keeping the baby.’

I look at him carefully, trying to decipher what he’s thinking but he gives me nothing. I try to imagine him as a dad, taking the baby to band practice, clumsily bouncing it on one knee when it cries but only successful in agitating it even further. I grimace. The image that comes is not the one I want to see.

‘Charlotte,’ he says hesitantly, like a child unsure of its pronunciation. ‘Listen to me.’ I shake my head adamantly. It’s easy to hold my ground when the universe has already decided for me.

Craig ignores me.

‘You live in a share house. You work two casual jobs. You don’t even have control over your own life, and you think you could take care of a baby ?’ His tone is patronising, hurtful. I notice that he’s been saying you , not we . As if he’s read my mind, Craig scoffs.

‘Plus, I have no time for a baby. I have my career to think about – heck this baby could ruin my chances of signing with a label!’

His words are sharp, aimed directly at my heart where he knows it’ll hurt most. I don’t respond. An image of an infant passed from hand to hand enters, unwelcome, in my mind, as I imagine myself similarly untethered, unsure of myself. Maybe he’s right. I couldn’t deny there was some truth in what he was saying. After all, I was in no way financially or even emotionally capable of raising a child –how could I be the best mother for this baby, let alone an adequate mother at all?

He gives up.

‘Go home and think about it Charlotte. I know this decision was made on a whim, and it’s the wrong one.’

As I watch him trudge away, the white of his shoes almost blinding against the dull cement, I wonder what it would be like to be a single mother. I envision myself walking down Rowena Parade, pushing the baby in a stroller as I take it to my morning yoga class or to a shift at the store. I can already hear the hushed whispers, see the flitting eyes of women in the streets as they smile at me pityingly before huddling together and gossiping behind my back. At least I have Stanzi. As disapproving as she was about the baby being Craig’s, I know deep down she will support me, no matter what. Perhaps she could even take over Craig’s role, step in as more than just an Auntie for the baby. But then people’s minds would go running, jumping straight to the conclusion that we were lesbians –now that would give them something to talk about. I shudder to imagine the criticising glares that would burn into our backs, the nasty words that would be spat in our faces. I sigh. I guess I should be thankful that I can keep this baby at all. At least I’m not living in mum’s time, when premarital sex was enough for you to be shunned by society for the rest of your life. But even so, the world can still be so merciless, so unforgiving of the ones that do not blend in with its homogeneity.

I reach for the amethyst nestled above my collarbone and grip it tightly, searching for solace and willing it to communicate with me. ‘Amethyst – the crystal of protection,’ I whisper. Suddenly, I feel as if I am being surrounded by an overwhelming force of feminine energy –the force is intense yet almost comforting in its vigour, and I unknowingly let go of the pendant, bringing a hand to my stomach. Then, just as abruptly as it came, the feeling is gone and I am back on the beach, feeling the warmth of the sun rays as they peek out from behind the clouds and gently caress my face. Despite everything that has just happened, despite the mess I’ve gotten myself into, I am met with a sudden peace, a still tranquillity that I have not been granted since the pendant swung clockwise around my stomach. I notice that the sea has calmed down and the sky has started to clear, quickly, as though it had been summoned. For the first time in days my mind is untroubled. I smile. Everything will be alright.

I am Jesse Owens, running away from the darkness that is chasing me everywhere: inside the house, out onto Rowena Parade and all the way into the Hustings, where Charlie stands patiently without a fear in his massive, brown eyes. I’m trying to be Jesse Owens but even with the blinding light at the crack of dawn and the sharp, bittersweet stench from the brewery clinging to my clothes, I still sense the darkness all around, chasing me like they’re Nazis and I’m on the run. Charlie’s nudging me with his great, big nose now –even if I haven’t had breakfast yet, he knows he’s about to have his. I’m telling him to calm down, that it’s coming when I get this almighty aching in my chest somewhere. My hands scramble for Charlie’s food scoop and I have to tell him again to settle. Now it’s really to tell me because that ache has turned into a hole inside of me that feels like it’s going to swallow me up into it whole, like a snake gulping up a bird. A while ago, I would’ve been finishing up brushing Charlie down and heading back to our house, where Connie would’ve been making breakfast and Francis would’ve got the bacon, but it wouldn’t matter because Connie would’ve been there, and she wasn’t going anywhere.

I’m trying to be Jesse Owens running and running away from the aching, until I’m back in the kitchen, back hearing Ma’s screams and back seeing poor Connie’s pale, empty face. Except it can’t be Connie. It isn’t Connie, and I just keep telling myself, Connie’ll wake up soon . She’s gotta wake up. Ma’s screams echo through the entire house, maybe through all of Richmond even, as she cradles Connie’s limp body in her arms. All I’m thinking is how empty it looks, how tired and dull it seems now without her bursting kindness and love. It’s Connie. Connie who makes me breakfast every morning. Connie who is always home when I get back from the day’s jobs. Connie who always tells me it’s all going to be okay. I was only gone for a few hours; Thinking Ma was going to have a fit if I came back too late, I sprinted back to show Connie the stone I’d found in a puddle, exactly in the shape of a shilling. I was going to give the shilling stone to her, and it’d make her feel all good and proper for the next day, just like my shilling was my one special thing all for me. Except I came back and here’s Connie all lifeless and cold and I couldn’t give her the shilling stone in time and now she’s dead. Just like Dad the day the cops brought him home. I should’ve come home earlier. Maybe Ma needed help, or I could’ve gone to find

mia miChael