From the National Archives of Australia
It was less than 5 years ago in Melbourne; the last time someone put their head out of a moving vehicle on a busy road just to scream at me “Go Home, you Black Bitch”. When I lived in Qld during 1996-1998 it was more of a regular weekly occurrence. Is there racism in Australia?
Here is some of my story. Continue reading
He called me silver gun, after the rapist in the news. It hurt. It also meant everyone knew what had happened to me. So I told him exactly what I thought motivated his behaviour; his teenage fears and insecurities detailed before the entire class. Oh, the power and shame of it all. He cried. I won.
This news is horrifying and will deeply affect Australia and Australians in ways that we can’t even begin to imagine…
I can’t say or do much except pray for an immediate and peaceful resolution to the situation.
Best Story Award 2013 at thepublicblogger.com
Non-Fiction – Go Home, You Black Bitch – Me 🙂
Fiction – Jane loved Dick – Ryan http://ryanimpink.wordpress.com/2013/07/28/jane-loved-dick/
Please head over and check out the awards show, so many interesting and entertaining things here…. there is something for everyone.
Half my life ago, Joe died. I went to the cemetery yesterday, the 22nd of December, the anniversary of his death, to visit the grave and to say goodbye. As anyone who has experience with these things will tell you – I did not have a good time. It wasn’t comforting rather it was exhausting and I left in the same state of shock I entered when he first passed some 23 years ago.
It is going to take me a while to tell this story, I am sure enough of that. For now, let me tell you that he was my fiancé, he died when he was 25. He was in a motorcycle accident the evening of the 8th December and never regained consciousness. We were apart at the time, his family thinks it is my fault and went to quite reasonable lengths to make sure I understood this.
Needless to say, I was the only person to visit him yesterday. I am sad that it has taken me so long to find the courage to visit and at the same time, glad I have waited long enough for his family to forget. I made a promise to go back within the next month and clean away the signs of unconcern and forgetfulness, but never again on a Sunday. A Sunday when all compassion has disappeared from each person’s face; where the noise and laughter from the café at the centre of the grounds jars my senses; where the countless vehicles racing around the place at breakneck speed so they can fulfil their obligations quickly and get on with their still-living lives; where the public transport takes me within a couple of kilometres of his memorial so that I may arrive and leave before the groundsman locks the gate I entered by thus barring my exit and launching me on yet another very long walk to find an alternative, whilst staring right at me the whole time – where all of that will be quieter, simpler, somehow because I have already been through it, on my own, finally.
Somehow these challenges, these trifling annoyances and the physical exhaustion altogether contrived to momentarily weaken and then (in a fit of defiance that arose whilst I waited at the bus stop and listened to the cicadas burst into their evening song) harden my resolve to return as often as I liked, to tell his story as I lived it, and to know that one day I will forgive, be forgiven and look back upon my time with Joe and feel nothing but love and gratitude for the time we shared and the lessons he left behind. I have dreamed it this way.