Meet Me at the Intersection

by Ambelin Kwaymullina

  Contents

  Cover Artwork

  Introduction

  Ellen van Neerven

  Graham Akhurst

  Kyle Lynch

  Ezekiel Kwaymullina

  Olivia Muscat

  Mimi Lee

  Jessica Walton

  Kelly Gardiner

  Jordi Kerr

  Yvette Walker

  Melanie Rodriga

  Rafeif Ismail

  Omar Sakr

  Amra Pajalic

  Wendy Chen

  Michelle Aung Thin

  Alice Pung

  Rebecca Lim

  Contributor Biographies

  Ambelin Kwaymullina, Voices from the Intersections, 2018. gouache on paper, 395 x 255 mm

  Cover Artwork

  The front cover artwork is extracted from Ambelin Kwaymullina’s painting Voices from the Intersections. A colour reproduction of the whole artwork is on the back cover.

  The circles are the voices of marginalised peoples in Australia, beginning in the centre with the voices of the First Peoples and flowing out from there to other marginalised peoples in this land.

  The white shapes are the intersections of different forms of exclusion that seek to silence marginalised peoples. These intersections are also meeting places where we share our experiences with each other and reach out to the wider society.

  The blue that surrounds the circles and intersections represents our strength. Like water, we find a way, flowing around and between the intersections of exclusion to speak our stories.

  The rainbow colours are the beauty, complexity and diversity our voices bring to the world.

  Introduction

  Rebecca Lim

  (migrant Chinese Australian) and Ambelin Kwaymullina (Palyku)

  This is a book of ‘Own Voices’* stories — stories about marginalised peoples told by people from those marginalised groups. The genesis of this collection was conversations across 2015 and 2016 where the two of us shared our frustration at the massive under-representation of diverse Australian voices in children’s and young adult (YA) literature and the lack of a formal movement in Australia to focus attention on, and tackle, systemic bias — or what we like to call problems with the filter.

  We decided to do something about it. So we founded Voices from the Intersection in 2016 — a purely volunteer initiative with no funding or resources other than ourselves, our time, and our contacts across the writing and publishing industries.

  Voices aims to support the creation of Own Voice stories through establishing publication and mentorship opportunities for emerging YA and children’s writers, illustrators and publishing professionals who are First Nations, People of Colour, LGBTIQA+ or living with disability.

  After successfully holding our inaugural publisher pitch day for almost forty emerging marginalised creators (writers and illustrators) in March 2017, we reached out to our contacts in publishing with the idea of creating an Own Voices collection for young adults.

  The wonderful Fremantle Press embraced the anthology with enthusiasm. We were soon joined by a host of fiercely talented emerging and published writers from a spectrum of diverse and intersectional backgrounds. We were not surprised at the urgency and energy of the voices — for we knew the stories were out there. But even we couldn’t have anticipated the degree to which we were awed and inspired by the tales in this anthology. To sit with these stories was to sit amongst stars; every one shining a light on to different experiences, and each a point of insight into the diversity — which is to say, the strength and truth — of Australia and its peoples.

  Although we have put the stories in this anthology into groups, we recognise the impossibility of confining these narratives, many of which speak to multiple aspects of identities and experiences. We are each enriched by our experiences but greater than our exclusion. Gathering stories into groups provides an entry point into the narratives, but once you enter the narratives themselves, you will find yourself in worlds that cannot be reduced to labels.

  Our collection starts with the cover. This is Ambelin’s contribution: a painting which tells the tale of this anthology — the strength of diverse voices, the links we make with each other; and the intersections of oppression that prevent us being heard. But these intersections can also be points of connection as we reach out to each other and the world to share our stories. Some of the intersections present in this anthology are mapped in this Introduction, but we don’t presume to know them all. We hope that the readers of this collection will be inspired by both the experiences that are like their own and the ones that are not. We hope that they will reflect upon the many intersections within this book, and find their own points of connection with the stories told.

  We begin the written contributions to this collection in the same way that Australia began — with the stories of First Nations peoples. Ellen van Neerven (Yugambeh) writes of dreams and football, of the complexities of being Black and Queer, and of fighting for your future. Graham Akhurst (Kokomini) speaks in poetry of culture and resilience, the terror of colonisation and the great strength of First Peoples. Kyle Lynch (Wongi) writes memoir, a story told through dialogue of his search for a job that offers a powerful insight into life, hope and family in the Kurrawang Aboriginal Christian Community. Ezekiel Kwaymullina (Palyku) tells of being Aboriginal, dyslexic, and ignored, by the teachers supposed to teach him to read.

  Ezekiel’s story offers a point of connection with the next group of stories in the anthology: those of Australians living with a disability. Olivia Muscat relates the experience of losing her sight, a vanishing of written words and a changing of worlds. Chinese-Australian writer Mimi Lee tells of culture, family and coming to terms with mental illness. Jessica Walton writes a poignant tale of finding connections from the perspective of a character who is (like her) Queer and living with the phantom pain of a missing limb.

  This brings us to stories from LGBTIQA+ writers that speak through time and space. Kelly Gardiner sets her tale in the 1950s, writing of the meeting of young Queer women against a backdrop of espressos, Frank Sinatra and motorbikes. Jordi Kerr pens a magical speculative fiction tale of difference and acceptance in rural Australia. Yvette Walker reaches through time to provide comfort and wisdom to her younger self. Melanie Rodriga writes about assembling aspects of identity across generations, bringing together what it is to be Eurasian and Queer. Rafeif Ismail contributes her award-winning story of identity, hatred, and the power of love through the ages. And Omar Sakr pens a stark, powerful memoir of connection and disconnection, sharing with us a moment of his life as a Queer Arab-Australian.

  Our last group of stories offers perspectives from People of Colour and writers of diverse cultural backgrounds that are grounded in little written-about migrant experiences. Muslim author Amra Pajalic, child of Bosnian migrant parents, writes about struggling to acclimate to monocultural Australian high school life. Wendy Chen shines a light on the lives of Chinese-Australian migrants at the time of Federation. Michelle Aung Thin, Burmese by ethnicity, Canadian, then Australian by circumstance and a migrant many times over, interrogates the process of negotiating who you are in the context of where you are. Alice Pung challenges us to step into the shoes of a teenage boy who comes to question everything he’s ever known, or been told, about Asians. Rebecca’s contribution rounds out the collection by highlighting what mainstream Australia rarely experiences — what it means to be without privilege, or language, in a new country.

  We are the voices too often unheard, the people too often unseen. But we are here; we are speaking. And through this book, we invite you into our worlds.

  Meet us at the intersections.

  * This t
erm was first coined by author Corinne Duyvis as a way of referring to stories about diverse characters written by authors from that same diverse group.

  ELLEN VAN NEERVEN

  Ellen van Neerven is an Aboriginal writer and poet who comes from the Yugambeh people of South East Queensland. This story is a work of fiction which is grounded in her perspective as a Queer Black woman. Ellen writes, ‘growing up in Brisbane, I’ve always played and been obsessed with football (soccer) and I love our Aboriginal soccer heroes like Kyah Simon, Lydia Williams and Jada Mathyssen-Whyman.’

  Night Feet

  The scholarship was due today and Dad wasn’t home. If I didn’t get the scholarship money I wouldn’t be going to the Nationals. I tried turning my back to the window and began finishing my application. Every scrape outside could be him.

  Dad didn’t have a phone. One day he propped his old Nokia up on a ledge above the creek and got my brother and me to take turns throwing rocks at it. We both missed twice and he grew impatient. Knocked it off the cliff himself.

  Hours went by too quickly as I lost time cleaning up the kitchen, heating soup on the stove, thinking he’d return for lunch. It was afternoon, and I was still missing a few lines when I remembered we didn’t have a printer and I had a game at 8.30 pm.

  I filled my backpack, putting in my unwashed strip, shin pads that had been lying outside on the barbecue, and two bottles of water. Importantly, I had a hair tie and a thin band to push back my fringe. I went back and wrote a hurried last sentence on my application. I finished with the words I love it, but did I? This had felt like the most important thing in the world once, but last night, today, it had all slipped away. What would happen if I didn’t get the money to go to Canberra? I had relied on Dad to be home to work out how we’d get the application in; he would have planned how we’d print it. I would have to work it out for myself.

  I’d catch the bus to the library in town, because the post office near it closed later than the local one did. I knew, because Mum used to work there.

  There were more people outside the library than in, sitting at the café, standing against the walls talking and hooked into the wi-fi. I hurried through the doors, printed my application and went straight out, with minutes left to post it.

  It felt familiar, running to the post office just before closing, across the road, under the bridge, past the pubs starting to get busy and noisy. I didn’t like running in my thongs, the V slipping between my toes, but I looked straight ahead and tried to think of an end goal. Like I was on the pitch.

  The footpath was blocked off a little farther on, but there was no way I was going to cross the road and back again; I’d lose too much time. I dodged some parked cars and stepped over a patch of water that hadn’t drained, and got back on the footpath. Ahead of me, a woman dropped a letter in the express post mailbox outside the post office and I wondered if it was already too late. I half-expected the sliding doors not to open. I ran in and looked frantically around for an envelope. The lady behind the counter said, ‘Just a letter? Try an envelope from over there, honey.’

  Not just a letter, my inner voice insisted, but I listened to her, and into the kind of happy cream decorative envelope you’d use to send photos of your cat to your grandmother — not the most important document of your life — I folded the application. I scribbled the address from a Post-It and handed the envelope to the lady.

  ‘Just this one?’

  ‘Will it be postmarked today?’ I blurted.

  ‘Ah, yeah,’ she said. ‘I just got to push this back.’ I watched her keenly as she picked at the mail stamp, clicking the numbers back. I realised that today was the last day of the month, and that the 28th to the 1st was a big leap. She seemed to struggle with it. Mum could have stood there, where the lady’s feet were. She changed the date, stamped my envelope, and I paid her.

  I had half an hour until the train to the soccer field and I walked back to the café at the library. I ordered myself a coffee. I’d never had coffee before, but after a sleepless night and with the need for a load of energy tonight, I thought it was a good time to start. I did worry about dehydration, but I had two water bottles, and they could be refilled. With Dad’s voice, I said, gruffly, ‘Cappuccino, thanks’. I ordered it to go, as they looked like they were packing up. I’d be the machine’s last kiss. When they handed it to me, I went and sat in the garden, and watched the people. There was a young black man, African, walking around. I admired his red, new-looking sneakers, a pair like the ones I wanted but Dad would never give me. I could hear the beat of his music, see the yellow buds in his ears. He was wearing a white T-shirt and grey jeans. He looked at me. I sculled the coffee, hot and sudden in my throat. My father’s habit. Mum always said to him, You burn yourself. You’ll have no tastebuds left for my casserole.

  The coffee tasted nice, and I already felt less tired. There was a breeze filtering through the garden, caressing my thighs. I chucked the cup in the bin and decided it was time to get changed into my football shorts in the toilets. I stopped for a moment, reopened my bag and took a sip from my water bottle. ‘Keep sipping before the game,’ Brisbane Roar captain Jade North had said when he came to visit the club. ‘Don’t gulp.’

  I loved North. I rarely had affection for a defender but I loved him because he was a blackfella and a real workhorse. I rested my bag on the slab of concrete on the side of the café. A sitting spot tucked away. This was the corner where I’d had my first kiss, last year, and the feeling of it always returned. I put my bottle down, and the wind picked it up and took it, and it rolled in the direction of the African boy. He caught it easily and handed it back.

  ‘Thanks,’ I smiled. ‘Crazy wind, hey?’

  He nodded. He still had his earphones in but I couldn’t hear the music anymore. As I packed my bag up, he took a step closer and said, ‘Hey, how you going?’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘And you?’

  ‘Good. Just waiting for friends and that. Where are you from?’ he asked.

  I half-smiled at the predictability of the question. The easy answer, and what felt true, was to say, ‘From here’.

  But they always wanted to know more. He didn’t buy it, licking his lips.

  ‘My mother’s Italian, my father’s Aboriginal.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, and repeated it for clarity.

  ‘And where are you from?’ I asked. It was only fair.

  ‘I’m from West Africa,’ he said, guarded, and of course it was a line from him. What was West Africa?

  ‘What’s your name?’ he said, looking at me with some sort of understanding.

  ‘Bella. Yours?’

  ‘Akachi,’ he mumbled self-consciously.

  It took three times to pronounce it properly, but I wanted to. I looked in his eyes.

  ‘I asked because you look different,’ he said.

  Again, I could have rolled my eyes at the predictability. We looked at each other. I was used to these sorts of moments of connection. Lines of dialogue came in to my head. Welcome, brother. Thank you, sister.

  ‘You study, work?’

  ‘I’m still at school,’ I said. How old did this fella think I was?

  ‘Oh. Yeah. I study and work.’

  ‘You doing anything interesting tonight?’ I asked.

  ‘Waiting for friends. We’re going out to the city. I go here to check my emails. You here often?’

  ‘Not really.’ I reckoned I should come here more often. ‘I’ve got to get changed,’ I said, pointing away.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you.’ And he made the effort to give me one of the handshakes I’d always wanted, made me feel like one of the boys.

  In the bathroom I stood in front of a mirror. I slipped off my singlet and T-shirt bra. My arms were tanned from all those afternoons running in the bush. My small breasts, that I had just noticed a year ago, but my grandmother had obsessed with years before, were pale in comparison. There was a sunburnt strip across my collarbone from the last game.
I was still kind of black, though. More so, without clothes. I changed my bra and changed my skirt for shorts. I fixed my hair and looked at my sleepy eyes and said to myself, Get ready.

  When I got out, Akachi was gone.

  At the train station, I used the fifteen minutes to pace, flexing my leg muscles, prepping myself. The station was quiet. I saw some mob with Roar shirts and I was sorry I would miss the game as it would be played at the same time as mine. I thought ahead to my game. An unknown quantity, this opposition. They’d won their first game, narrowly. I wondered if my dad would be there. Was he wondering where I was, whether I’d got my application in and how I’d get to the game? He always took me to the games. I had to ride my bike to training quite a lot, but he always took me to the games.

  The lit train crunched into the station, and I felt the studs of my boots dig into my back as I put my backpack back on.

  I arrived later than we were meant to and walked the dusty path to the football field. It was lit up and empty, like a runway. The grass looked beautiful. Sparkling. I walked past the group of three refs. I nodded to my coach. Anxious. I hoped he’d play me up front. Most of the girls were already in the dressing room. I touched Casey’s shoulder. She was nervous. It was her first game back from being really sick in hospital. I pulled the red-and-black over my head. Completed my pre-game superstitions. Left foot first. Got Casey to tape my right ankle even though it had been a year since the injury. Did my ponytail four times. I watched our lanky goalkeeper, Bronte, eat a banana. She had such an expressive face that, sometimes, when I was nervous, impatient, I would slow down, gather my thoughts, be entertained just by watching her frown at the team sheet.

  ‘We have two subs,’ she announced. ‘And Bella. You haven’t signed.’

  I took the sheet from her and scribbled my initials. I had thought my dad would be outside, but he wasn’t. Perhaps he was watching the Roar instead, which I didn’t mind. He could let me know the score. But perhaps he was still out in the forest in the dark.