The Dreamer’s Dictionary, Melanie Wong

The Dreamer’s Dictionary, Melanie Wong The Dreamer’s Dictionary

If words were defined by stories rather than dictionaries, then here are those stories. shares some of the highlights from her column, with a focus on the protests of 2020.

cease (v.)

“2020 IS GONNA BE a good year,” your friend had insisted, all optimism and smiles and determination. He was wearing a shirt with colour on it, for probably the first time since you’d met a year ago. “I’m gonna make 2020 my bitch.” You have long since avoided the new year’s habit of saying ‘this will be a good year’ based on the fact that it rarely ever turns out that way and you only ever seem to realise this in retrospect. The fires have burnt themselves out and the droughts have been appeased but the death toll rises in its thousands and you wonder if this will be a good year for anybody. “Fucking year of the rat,” your dad grumbles. “Year of the rat is always bad fortune. Every time. First global financial crisis, now virus and recession.” You are the least superstitious person ever, yet you cannot help but agree. Fucking year of the rat.

king (n.)

The monarchs of old wore crowns and capes. They fought in battles wearing metal-plated armour and rode on steeds bred specially to serve the crown. They organised peace treaties and declarations of war and, in moments of peace, they made sure their peoples were safe. Alive. The rulers of old swung swords and then guns and then pressed buttons that fought wars more easily than ten thousand men could hope to achieve. They were born onto a throne, decapitated, made anew with statues and cries of liberation. They were poisoned in their rooms and betrayed by their band of brothers and even when they knelt in submission, praying to whatever god they believed in, and their rivals put that gun to their heads and pulled the trigger, they were still there. King, emperor, majesty, president, trillionaire. They pulled different masks over their heads, picking up the pieces of before to build their own lands; different, shiny and new – a new world. When they looked down at us all from their thrones, there was nothing about their lands that ever screamed ‘promised’

list (n. and v.)

What to wear: • Nondescript clothing that covers identifying marks • Goggles and mask • Tied up hair • Heat resistant gloves • Emergency contacts written down • What to bring: • Water • Snacks • Cash • ID • Washcloth • Bandages and first aid supplies • Protest signs • Ear plugs • A friend Do not bring: • Jewellery • Contact lenses • Cell phone without disabling mobile data, going on airplane mode, disabling Face/Touch ID • Anything you don’t want to be arrested with

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march (n. and v.)

The crowds are stifling. You shuffle forward with the rest of them, riding the wave of anger and righteous fury. The people ebb and flow with the sound of the speakers, their voices ricocheting off protest signs and statues and the wall of humans they face. The crowd starts walking and you do too, your glasses fogging up as you breathe through the face mask. In, out. In, out. No justice, no peace! You move forward as one, this mass of human anger in the streets, pressed hip to shoulder in the middle of a lockdown. But some things will stay even when the quarantine is over, and the number of Indigenous Australians dying in jail is one of them. No justice, no peace, you think, and wonder how many of these people will forget about the 432 deaths by next month. No justice, no peace, and you think of all the times you forgot about it before and wonder, shamefully, if you’ll forget it again, this time. You’re no stranger to growing pains, but that doesn’t stop it from hurting every time. It has been too long since you stood in the throng of a protest as a participant rather than an observer; a grieving, angry soul instead of filming and writing the first draft of history in the making. You think it makes it – not better, not this situation – but easier, maybe, surrounded by thousands of people whose hearts beat like yours. You are not white, but you are also not Indigenous. Hold yourself accountable, they yell, acknowledge your privilege, and you think that that’s what you all should’ve been doing in the first place, without their grief and devastation and hope catalysing entire countries. You never thought you were a bad person, but maybe you weren’t a good one either. You try to think of a time when you really cared, actively, and can’t. You have always been a passive person, but it has never tasted as much like shame as it does today. The shades here are darker, and they know your name by heart. Hold yourself accountable, they scream, and you think that you will.

quick (adj. and adv.)

The fanning of the flames is always faster than you would expect. When the people first protest, they are dismissed as a passing phase. One day, two days, one week, maximum, and they will return to their office jobs and their mundane lives and the cycle continues, with nothing more than a blip in the radar. This time is different. The people do not stop. Rioters, looters, criminals; every moniker is applied to them and still they do not stop. When the people walked with placards, they were ignored. When they yelled with anger, they were held down. When they throw Molotov bombs like baseballs, they are met battle for battle, bullet for bullet, until the city is a waste ground and there are no more trenches to protect the people. They came with their batons and their calls for damnation, the police and the politicians, the privileged ones and the ignorant. After the chanting and the sirens, there is a birdsong like a lament as the people stagger home to nurse their wounds, to rest for a moment before the cycle continues. There is no rest for the wicked and the ones in blue prowl the streets, their arsenals exposed to the harsh light of dawn. When the world fully wakes, the chanting starts again. It sounds like an anthem. Hong Kong, Israel, Brazil, America. They don’t give you a name, but you already know.

run (v. and n.)

The city has fallen. It functions at half capacity now, this harbour city that had once been the urban epicentre of Asia. The people have been marching for years but their goal seems, all at once, further than it was when they began. You can’t recall when that happened. The sky is clear today, unblemished, smooth. It is barely morning but already the students around you are mobilised, poised before the newest battalion. You hear the policemen heckling a crowd near you, separated only by a side street, and tug your mask closer to your face, wishing you had the safety of a helmet. It had been lost sometime in the night, or the morning, and you don’t remember how. You feel the wind against your neck, drying the sweat there, a cool reprieve, the scent of smoke lingering in your nose. In the street beside you, there’s the sound of something like an explosion — the sound of canisters dropping onto the tarmac. You dart forward and see a student by the cornerstone, hands clasped before his face. You wonder if he is praying. You wonder if it is worth it, to pray now. Your bag hits your back with each step you take, a thump, thump, that echoes the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. A policeman shouts at you, his rifle pointed into the crowd, but his voice is stolen by the wind. Behind him, you hear a cry rising from the policemen, a dull roar over the ringing in your ears. You wonder how much it hurts to be hit by a bullet.

Pictures: Lisseth Portillo