Here, in this place, I become a vessel for other people’s stories. Maybe it is because of my queer body, muscular, long-limbed, my shaved head, facial hair? Maybe it’s because of what’s inside of me?
They tell me their secrets and then it is like they are forgotten, because the secrets don’t define them, not really, not fully. They are defined to me by the way they eat fried eel around a table with friends, their open-mouthed laughter, the jokes they make when they are sitting comfortably. And when I have the privilege to enter their homes, I look at the water markings on the walls and what the window faces. When I invite myself into their intimacy I am missing T more than I can express in words. When people ask about her I try not to say too much as not to bring the pain closer. I miss cooking with her and her toothbrush left next to mine. It’s a beautiful afternoon, the sun is easing off my shoulders, a breeze is moving through the trees, and with her here, all of this would have some sort of meaning I can’t put together without her.
It’s been two years, and it only gets harder. I feel very different. I miss my anchors. Last week I turned twenty-five and Mum messaged and I could not be sure if it was really her or someone who had stolen her identity as it’s womba one back home. All the things we used to take for granted, like communicating with a loved one, have become unsafe. At first I kept in contact with T using a borrowed phone and a code system based on Kate Bush lyrics. Then even that became too risky.
My skin thrives in the humidity; it’s just like where I’m from. I buy a handmade fan from the small store at the corner of the park, and wait. I like the nights here the most, the intense weather is milder but the streets are no less alive. I pick out my headphones from my bag, all tied up like noodles, and put on some comfort music from home, blackfella hip-hop to centre me in this strange place. When I listen to music I feel normal, like I’m not under pressure, and my personhood cannot be invaded.
I meet my friends at the pasta restaurant. This is a city that makes pasta as good as Italians. My friends are a mixed group. Some of them have escaped their own country in the Asia-Pacific because their activism no longer makes them safe. Some have lost their homes to the sea. Some are from here and have taken us in because they too know what is at stake.
N and E have come here from a close neighbour country, and are both in their early twenties. N is trans, and was almost killed online. Here he never shows his face to a screen. His family refuse to help. Despite what he’s gone through, he is the most loving person I’ve ever met. He is always buying me ice-cream.
E is famous for her protests by body. The inside of her arms and neck are filled with handwritten words and images. She is Indigenous to a country that refuses to acknowledge the diversity of its people. She has walked the length of her nation twice but her feet are not tired.
J is eighty-five and was born here. She writes of the secrets women have carried from World War II. She is given the best seat at the table. Here is a culture that respects old people, like my culture back home.
‘What is your home like?’ they ask. ‘Are there many koalas?’
‘Yes, heaps,’ I say.
‘Is it okay to be gay, lesbian, trans?’ For many of them are in hiding or have been persecuted in the countries they have left.
‘Absolutely. Queer families are protected. Eight gender identities are acknowledged. We are very lucky. We do not have to go through the struggles you have to go through. We live in a safe place. It’s a great place.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘In an eastern city governed by Indigenous people. You can tell who is Indigenous because they are the good-looking people.’
The table erupts into laughter, and I swallow my drink. I wonder what they would say if they knew in Australia that all media is censored. Languages other than English are prohibited to be spoken. Political artists are monitored. I wonder what they would say if I told them I thought I’d just go away for a few weeks and it would calm down and I ended up here for two years. I wonder what they would say if I told them I left for the protection of my family and friends.
There are no more koalas, only our koala ancestors are with us. In a country that used to be obsessed with mammals, only two native marsupials survive. The agile wallaby, and the ringtail possum. My Country has been sold short on so many occasions.
I can imagine their faces dropping after I finish explaining this. I know my embellished stories of Australia give them hope that things are different somewhere. I don’t want to destroy that hope.
After we finish our food we’ll move to The Spine, a music cafe on the other side of the lake. T knew me when I first started to string words together to a beat, drumming on her kitchen table, keeping her brothers and sisters awake. She was my first audience. I was twelve. Her mother was more supportive than mine at the time. Now my family are proud of me, and I carry them with me.
I scoop up the remaining millet on my plate. Rice faded here a little time ago. Whenever I drive out of the city I see abandoned rice fields for miles, and wild pigs have begun to reclaim these spaces. E fills my cup. I don’t think beer will ever be replaced. It is protected more than water.
J and I arrive at The Spine early so we can do a sound check. I am more nervous than I expected to perform in front of her, and to translate her songs into English, which is what she has requested of me tonight. The microphone is soft. The lights are either side of my face. The owner puts her thumbs up. She comes over. ‘Thank you for agreeing to play tonight.’
‘How many people are coming?’
‘About thirty,’ she says, gesturing to the floor pillows pushed against the wall. ‘People will really appreciate the chance to get together.’ I thank her for creating this space, where the world-weary activists can go to collect strength and inspiration from each other. These weekly nights have been my only regular reprieve since I’ve been here. She passes me a hot plate of fried jellyfish chips embellished with mayonnaise, and even though I am full, I shove some in my mouth. I close my eyes and imagine what it would be like coming home to my partner. Quickly her chest will be on mine, and our lips together. I will curl into her hip and never leave again.
The shadow is wet against my forehead. The voice is a whisper. At first I think the spirit belongs here. Then I realise it has come to visit me; I have brought it here. It is from home. A woman. My great-grandmother. My heart is flooded with warmth, and my arms prickle with fear. I hold these juxtaposing feelings in one body.
I open my eyes. Groups of people have started to come in, and the lights are higher. If I wanted to talk more with my ancestor, the time has passed. I rub my nose slowly, and pinch my thigh awake.
‘You are being called home,’ J says.
‘You saw her too?’
J does not speak further to me. She has cultural business with a woman of a similar age, R, who has entered, and walks over to her.
My name is called and I step on stage and pick up the mic from its stand. Words start to flow from my mouth and I am instantly brought back home.
When we were twelve I only listened to rap. T, though, had an obsession with Kate Bush that lasted long enough for me to have a peripheral appreciation. I remember us singing ‘This Woman’s Work’ until our voices were hoarse. We liked Bush until we discovered her album called The Dreaming. It was the first full example of cultural appropriation I understood as I received detailed explanations from my grandparents in the weeks afterwards as to why the title song had left me feeling funny. T and I fell in romantic love in our early twenties, years after my grandparents passed away. (We finally figured our feelings out when, for the first time ever, we spent time apart, as we went to different unis – yes, I still haven’t graduated and she got a fast-tracked degree and a job straight out of uni.) I am grateful that they got to know her (our houses were neighbouring), and that my Aunty created a ceremony where I could come out to them. I feel them with me even more
as I get older. Twelve is not an age where you can comprehend death. I threw myself into music then, and it led me on this path.
The crowd feels me. Applause soothes my nerves. I can see my friends in the crowd. When I play the next track it is my family that I’m flowing for.
While I’m sipping a beer after my set, my phone vibrates and an unknown number starts a new dialogue.
hey, they say.
hello? I reply.
I suddenly start shaking. And type another line.
The reply is immediate, a sheep emoji.
It’s been so long. I ask her questions, not willing at first to believe it’s really her. Before I can get my head straight, she tells me she’s coming to see me.
Omg what?
just booked a flight to X for tmw morn. I’ll text when I land.
Whoa omg. How did you know where I was?
Someone posted a video of you playing!
Shit.
It’s okay.
No this is not good.
I’ll be there soon. Your mum, Aunty, everyone’s okay. We all send our love. I’ll be there
T you don’t know what you’re doing. You’ll be like me. Not able to get back home. I need to get back home.
I’ll get you baby.
T’s ‘typing’ suddenly stops. I stash my phone in my pocket. Now my legs are shaking so much I need to sit down.
I look around frantically at the faces and bodies in front of me for the person who could have been filming my performance without my knowledge. I try to spot an outstretched phone. I get up and walk among the crowd, bumping into the owner.
‘What’s wrong?’ she says immediately. ‘Can I get you another beer?’
‘This is not safe. You must stop the night right now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This place is going to get raided.’
I hear a loud sound outside and I immediately duck, dropping my bottle to the ground, where it spins for a moment and then lies on its side. I expected the glass to smash. But it sits there, perfectly intact. The car has passed. No one enters. No one seizes me.
J comes to see what’s happening. I let her and the owner lead me to a booth where nobody is sitting. They make me sit and hold my shoulders so I can’t keep pacing anxiously.
‘It’s okay,’ they say.
‘Someone filmed me and uploaded the video. They will come for me.’
‘The police will not come for that. Why do you think this?’
‘They are coming.’
‘We are safe here.’
I check my phone and see that all of the messages T sent have disappeared. And I don’t know if she wiped them or if they were never sent.
The lights become even brighter. I can’t make out a shadow or a song. I try to tell the owner and J that they are wrong. That bad things will happen here tonight. But my voice begins to falter, and to my embarrassment, I start crying. Hot tears that mix with my sweat.
J holds my arm like my grandmother, an arm of strength and brittle bone. I slowly start to breathe again.
It is a long time before I stop shaking and the room stops spinning. The owner brings me a hot calming drink, which tastes of fennel and honey, and then another. J stays with me the whole time. I soon realise that everyone has left and the music is low and we are just here, the three of us, talking softly and drinking tea. Nothing has happened tonight.
‘Am I really safe?’ I mumble to myself. ‘Am I safer here?’
‘Your ancestors are with you to protect you,’ J says.
‘Yeah.’ I put my hands over my chest. ‘Always.’
I finish the last drop of tea and put my cup down onto the table.
‘Now, child, how are you getting home?’ J asks.
I look up at her, not really knowing what she means by the question. I know what I want it to mean.
J is looking slightly over her shoulder. My great-grandmother is standing behind her and the two of them, beautiful and poised, are smiling at me.
Rodeo Girl
Michael Torres
Michael Torres is a Jabirr Jabirr man whose clan area is north of Broome to Beagle Bay in the Kimberley Region of Western Australia. Michael has worked in Indigenous affairs throughout the Kimberley and Northern Territory for many years. Michael was the winner of both the 2004 and 2005 Dymocks Northern Territory Literary Award in the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Writer’s section.
Billy drags himself to the rails and wipes the bulldust from his eyes. It is the fifth time Big Red has bucked him. No stockman can ride this horse for more than four seconds. He is the roughest, toughest, meanest horse in the district. Stockmen travel from faraway stations to ride this beast. Five thousand dollars prize money for the ringer who can stay on for eight seconds. It is everyone’s dream to tame Big Red.
One after another, the stockmen ride Big Red and he throws them into the air. Big Red isn’t going to let anyone beat him. He kicks and bucks all around the yard until the riders steady him and he curls his lips as if to say, ‘Next victim.’
A young cowboy is next to ride. The gate opens and Big Red charges out, kicking and bucking. Amazingly, the young cowboy hangs onto Big Red for eight seconds. Billy is furious to be beaten by a city cowboy. He knows the boy is no stockman and wonders how he can ride.
The action is just starting and the competition is tough. The stockmen sit around and observe this new breed of cowboys. They are clean-cut, handsome and look like movie stars.
‘Hey, mate, where do you come from?’ asks Billy, examining their fancy clothes.
‘We’re the Eastern Cowboys,’ replies one of the young guns.
Full-time professionals, they train for rodeos and travel the circuit, making money from rodeos. Billy is a bush stockman and determined to beat these show ponies so he organises the drovers for a showdown. The temperature tips thirty-five degrees and the hot wind blows dust over the cowboys. The stockmen are grey and dirty like the bulls they are about to ride.
Billy laughs as the bulls throw the cowboys off like ragdolls. They cannot ride the wild scrub bulls. An old scrub bull jumps, hitting the side and knocking one of the cowboys off the rails.
‘I want that one,’ Billy says, spitting his tobacco at the bull. The cowboys look fearful as Billy prepares to mount the meanest bull in the yard.
Billy lowers himself onto the bull’s back while tightening his grip. The gate flies open and the bull charges into the arena, bucking. Billy rides it, letting his body swing with the bull’s rhythm. The bull kicks high into the air, grunting and twisting its body in order to throw Billy, but Billy holds on tight, determined to beat the dusty grey beast. The siren blows after eight seconds and the crowd cheers.
No-one can get near the bull to help Billy. He holds on for his life and rides the bull until it stops bucking, then jumps off in a rolling motion, landing on his feet. The crowd cheers as Billy climbs over the rails.
‘Well done, mate,’ say the cowboys as they shake Billy’s hand.
The stockmen congratulate Billy, sitting around him with their pannikins of tea.
‘You’re my hero!’
Billy looks up to see a small solidly built woman walking towards him. The stockmen giggle as she pushes them out of the way to greet Billy.
‘This is what I call a real man,’ she says, shaking Billy’s hand.
Billy stands motionless, not knowing what to say.
‘My name’s Rose. I been watchin’ you all day and I reckon you win,’ she says, spitting out a lump of tobacco.
‘Sit down and have some tea,’ Billy replies, handing her a pannikin.
They speak freely while waiting for the next event. Rose explains that she comes from a desert station.
‘I ride ’em horse,’ she says, sipping her tea.
The stockmen giggle, as
they’ve never seen a woman ride. They drink more tea and tell bull stories to each other.
‘I go now,’ says Rose, racing over to the holding yard.
The stockmen follow her to see if she is really going to ride. Rose climbs the rails to inspect the horses before her ride. She watches as the wild horses from the ranges buck, throwing each cowboy into the dirt. Rose is the last one in line and gently slips onto her horse. The gate is flicked open before she is ready and the horse flies out, kicking everywhere, but Rose holds on as the horse bucks around in circles. The horn blows as the horse bucks her off into the dirt. Everyone cheers except the cowboys. It is the first time a woman has beaten them. They stand in shock as Rose walks past smiling. The stockmen run over and shake her hand.
‘You ride better than a bloke,’ says Billy, laughing aloud.
‘Thank you,’ says Rose, dusting off her trousers. She walks back to the stockmen’s stall to talk more bull.
Billy throws buffalo steaks onto the hot plate while Rose prepares a damper. They’ve completed their events with top scores but the cowboys have one last chance to beat them. The stockmen sit back, eating their steak sandwiches, waiting for the last event. Rose plasters honey over pieces of damper and passes them to everyone.
‘You are the best damper cook in the valley,’ says Billy, licking the honey from his lips. Rose smiles. The horn blows and the crowd cheers as a cowboy flies through the air.
‘Another one hits the dust,’ yells Billy.
The stockmen rush over to the fence, cheering, watching their rivals do battle. Rose cheers and hugs Billy as the last cowboy hits the dirt.
‘Yes, we won,’ she shouts, dancing around Billy.
The stockmen join in the dancing and cheering. They accept Rose as one of their own. She is as rough as the men and smells like them. They’ve won the day’s events and need to prepare for the next day’s finals.
Flock Page 5