Njunjul the Sun

by Meme McDonald

  I’m thinking, I can see m’self a bit like that, but. I’m into that feeling of being wronged. What’s the world ever given me? A kick up the backside, that’s all. Stuff trying to do something with my life.

  I’m sinking into that feeling. That lost feeling. Looking for someone to save me. Real sorry for m’self. The last of us warriors. I’m picturing me dying, carried up high in a coffin, everyone crying. Me a legend. They’d have to take me back up home, bury me over with all those other fullas under that cement there. They could say some real deadly things about what I could have been.

  We come back down to Rhonda’s flat and crash. I’m fighting off that sleep, but. Not wanting to sink into that dark place. Dying is one thing. Getting caught up in your own bad dreams is something else.

  Those dreams are taking me over. Every night now, the same. Starts all smooth, crystal clear sea, waves lapping, running, shiakking along the beach, with Cedric, or Rhonda, or my other bungies. Having fun. I’m hearing that girragundji voice and I’m strong and I feel good.

  It never lasts, but. It always turns bad. The words go all wongy, the tape gets tangled up in the sound machine. And the dark comes down. Fullas that I can’t see are chasing me. Grabbing me, hurting, rubbing m’face in something worse than dirt. Kicking me. I’m struggling to get out, to get away. I’m running. M’head pounding. I’m hearing that language, old fulla language, like some voice reaching out to me. It don’t make no sense, but. I can’t understand the words. I’m getting gooli-up. Like that voice’s teasing me, disappearing back in time somewhere I can’t follow. I’ve got none of m’own language. Not just that language from way back, from the old people. But the language of me now, from the inside. I’m trying to call out. I can’t, but. I’m running too fast. I got no words to call with.

  I’m punching up the pillow. Hitting out. Could be any time of night or day I wake up sweating and sobbing. My heart breaking.

  I could be awake. Could be I’m sleeping, but. I’m near the front door. I’ve been hearing the knocking again. I’m gonna face up to them this time. I don’t care how big they are. I’m gonna take them on, offer them out.

  I swing the door open ready to G-O, fists up.

  It’s Aunty Em.

  She jumps back. Me too, same. We frighten the living daylights outta each other.

  I’m looking down, too. It’s okay. I got m’boxer shorts on. For a minute there I’m thinking I could be naked.

  ‘It’s Friday.’

  I’m blinking. Must be morning.

  ‘You said you were going to come with me today.’ Aunty Em’s got that I’m-not-gonna-go-away look on her face.

  ‘Where?’

  I’m having a hard time trying to get a hold of where I am, let alone where I should be.

  ‘Come on. You’ve got time for a shower and some breakfast if you want.’

  I’m following Aunty Em up the stairs in a daze. Least I know I’m awake and not back there getting beat-up by m’pillow.

  I don’t know how Aunty Em got me out on this platform waiting for her train. I swore, no way I’m going back to school. She reckons she said she’d pay me to come and talk to her class about culture, my Murri culture. She said I said yes. Must have been I got knocked out by the idea of some school paying me, the no-good Murri-kid with the bad attitude, to talk to a class.

  That musta been what got me this far, waiting for some train, heading back to where I don’t want to be. Back to school.

  Aunty starts asking me things. I’m not knowing where to start with answers, but. Like what I’m planning to do? Do I want to get a job, any job, like in one of the local shops, maybe supermarket or the newsagents?

  I’m not wanting to talk. I’m getting restless sitting on this bench. I’ve been sitting on too many benches.

  I been feeling this habit coming on. This wanting to stand on the edge of things. Started there walking along the top of that sandstone wall around the beach. Daring myself. Walking out beyond the barriers. Balancing. Seeing if I lose it. Wanting to be caught.

  I freak Rhonda out sometimes, standing on the edge of cliffs. She grabs me. Holds me back. I’m not seriously thinking of going nowhere. Just testing, her and me. Teasing. When she grabs me, we end up hugging, real tight, kissing and that. I watch the tears in her eyes. She reckons I’m the most important thing in her life.

  ‘Even up there with 2 Quack?’ I’m joking.

  Aunty Em’s still asking. I still not got no answers.

  I wander along the platform. I gotta keep moving. I’m not wanting to talk about what I can’t answer in my own mind.

  I’m getting closer to the edge, standing with my back to that tunnel the train’ll come out. Aunty Em’s over there sitting on the seat. I can feel her getting edgy. I’m not thinking about puns or laughing or nothing, neither. Edgy? You get it? This time, I’m not joking myself out of m’mood, but.

  My back’s to the on-coming train. I’m right there where cement platform ends, drops into dark. I’m looking at that edge, that line where one thing becomes another. I’m balancing on that thin line, one foot on the ground, other foot lifted off. I nudge m’foot closer, some of it lapping over, feeling the weight of my body, that instinct hugging back towards the platform, the other part of me leaning out, daring.

  If I look ahead, keeping my balance, I see a tunnel with no light at the end. If I look down, slowly, I see a gleaming ribbon of steel running across a jungle of dirt and grime. It’s only a metre or more down. Falling wouldn’t hurt nothing if there was no train coming.

  Aunty Em’s fidgeting, flicking her ticket. Other people are standing around, shuffling their feet, looking away or reading papers. Not seeing nothing they don’t want to know about.

  I’m hearing it in the distance. I’m keeping my balance, but. It’s coming full pelt.

  I’m wondering how I got to be the one out here, hanging off the edge? I’m wanting to be back over there with the rest, with Aunty Em. Doesn’t she know, she’s the only one. She’s my only way back? I’m counting on her. She’s gotta say something, do something, be the one to tell me I’m an idiot. Come and grab me.

  I’m hearing the rush, the pounding on the tracks, the monster thundering closer. She’s gotta grab me quick. Don’t she know I’m asking for help? I can’t do nothing, but. I put m’self out here. I can’t be the one to get m’self back. No way I can move. I’m wanting to. I can’t, but. I gone rigid. I stayed out here too long.

  I’m hearing it loud, deafening. I look up at her, pleading.

  ‘Stop it!’ she screams, the whole of her, and she’s right there, grabbing me back. I’m falling on concrete. On the safe hard cold living side of cement. Not that buried-dead side.

  The train hisses to a stop.

  Aunty’s dragging at me. I’m getting up. Dazed. I didn’t think she’d make it over to me in time. I’m looking at her red-hot face, alive and steaming.

  ‘Come on.’ She’s hissing through tears and clenched teeth, air puffing out of her like that train with its brakes on.

  I’m not blaming her. She grabbed me. She can yell and scream and say what she likes. Give me a good hiding. She’s my aunty and she saved me.

  She’s not screaming, but. Just pulling me up and getting us outta there. Away from all the mob staring but not looking. Aunty’s shaking. I’m more watching her than me. Looking for how it might feel to have those tears come bursting out of you. ‘Cause I’m not feeling nothing. I’m thinking I might have died already, on the inside.

  She’s not knowing what to say. I’m not knowing, neither. I couldn’t be the one to pull me back, that’s all. There’s gotta be someone that can save me. I don’t know how to say that to her. I’m hardly knowing how to say it to m’self.

  Back home she cools off. Phones the school. Cancels coming in. Now I’m feeling like a weight around her neck.

  The cuppa tea’s good, but. Sweet with the taste of sitting down with someone who’s looking out for me.

  Aunty Em’s grab
bing at thoughts. Talking about me having something in my life to be passionate about. I’m thinking I got enough of that with Rhonda. I’m getting that Aunty’s meaning something more than that.

  ‘You gotta have something to commit to that’s bigger than just you. It doesn’t matter what it is. But you’ve got to find a way to just get out there and do it. What about your basketball? Maybe you could get a job down the gym, I don’t know . . .’ Aunty’s got a way of talking round and about. Next minute she’s worked her way right in close before you even saw her sneaking up. ‘As long as you do something.’

  I’m wanting to say yes, and I’ll think of something, and I won’t go balancing on no edges no more. I can’t say nothing, but. I’m not knowing who the ‘me’ is that’s gonna be doing it.

  ‘I might sound like just another migaloo telling you what to do,’ she says.

  I’m looking at m’aunty. I forgot she was a whitefulla. She’s my aunty. Don’t she know that makes her one of us fullas?

  ‘And maybe you think your uncle’s not making much time for you. But maybe he’s only just keeping his balance, too. He might look like he’s got it all together but maybe he’s down here, living a long way from where he wants to be, for some of the same reasons as you.’

  That can’t be right, I’m thinking. My uncle’s a legend.

  I’m wanting to lie down. Be on my own.

  I’m thinking about Happy Valley. About lying out there, staring across at all my relations in the graveyard, that cement-ery. And how I was thinking I’d be headed over there, joining them under one of those tombstones.

  Now I’m lying down here, staring across at a wall full of books. Dead people’s thoughts. None of them my relations, I bet. I’m wondering, what the difference is from up there in Happy Valley to down here?

  Maybe down here I’m on different land. It’s not my land down here.

  Different bed, maybe? This one’s got sheets and a soft pillow. There’s a hot and cold shower down here in Aunty and Uncle’s flat.

  No difference in here, but. In me. Inside of me, I come a long way to be back where I was, lying down, staring out at nothing.

  Rhonda comes home late. I’ve been busting to talk with her about the train and that. Somehow what I’m saying and what she’s getting is two different things, but.

  ‘I feel so sorry for your people,’ she reckons.

  I’m wanting her to see me. No Murri-fulla me, no this-fulla me, no that-fulla me . . . Just me. The fulla inside that’s got no shape or size or colour. Just is.

  ‘We’ve taken away everything you ever had. Your culture. Your Dreaming. Your land . . .’ she keeps going on.

  I’m getting gooli-up at her. ‘I got my culture.’ I’m standing my ground. ‘Not all of it. Some, but. And m’uncle, he’s got lots to give to me. Soon.’

  She keeps calling me a Koori. I’m trying to explain I’m a Murri. Koori is what blackfullas down here call themselves. Up home, we’re Murris. Some place else they got another name.

  ‘Stop splitting hairs. You know what I mean,’ she says.

  I’m wanting to kick in a wall, break a window, do something that makes a difference. My words aren’t working for me. I can’t tell her how much her not knowing about us-fullas makes me feel like I don’t exist. And her only seeing me as a blackfulla all the time, not just a fulla, makes me feel like I’m something else, not human.

  ‘I’m not a kid.’ I’m yelling. I’m not meaning that. I got no way of yelling about that other stuff, but. No-good, I’m grabbing any words to chuck at her to start a fight. ‘You treat me like a kid.’

  She punches back, no fists, but, just gooli-up words, same as mine. ‘You treat me like an old woman.’

  ‘Don’t!’ I’m angry.

  ‘Do!’ She’s angry.

  ‘You treat me like a weirdo pet lost its leg or something!’ I’m pleased with that. I’m getting closer to saying something that could be true.

  She’s shouting big-time. ‘I do not! You’re the one that treats me like a freak!’

  ‘Don’t!’ I’m yelling back.

  ‘Why can’t I come down the gym then? Watch the basketball? Why can we only muck around together when there’s no one watching?’

  I’m stuck. I got no answers.

  I take off, back upstairs to Aunty and Uncle’s flat, banging doors.

  Later, she comes over. Says something about how we should cool it for a week. Me, stay over here. She, go visit some friends or an old aunt that’s dying or something.

  I’m laying down, staring up, thinking those Un-Happy Valley thoughts, my mind tied up into a tight ball, hard as a rock.

  8

  They can go those two, Uncle Garth and Aunty Em. Woke me up in the middle of this brown-black night, shadows from the streetlights playing games on the wall. I’m listening, trying to get my bearings, thinking I’m back at Rhonda’s or down the Valley with all the arguing and fighting going on.

  ‘Not yet, hear me?’ That’s m’uncle. He’s a stash of dynamite. He can lay there quite happy and cop it sweet. Once that fuse is lit, but, you know he’s gonna go off. Don’t know just where and when.

  ‘Explain to me why “not yet”.’ That’s Aunty Em. She can make her voice go cold as. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Before you know it, you’re sinking, like the Titanic.

  Uncle’s on about something to do with keeping his head above water. How Aunty Em doesn’t have to cop it every day in the face. He does. He doesn’t even have to walk out the door and he’s insulted, he reckons. For blackfulla’s the insults start the minute you turn on the TV or pick up the newspaper or look at a carton of milk.

  ‘It’s all white!’ Now he’s gammin’.

  Aunty’s not laughing at that one, but. Not a good sign.

  My uncle’s solid when it comes to us Murri-fullas and how we feel. I’m listening up fully, wanting more.

  ‘We have to cop your mob telling us mob what we think, feel, care about, want to have on our toast . . . what colour we like our knickers . . .’

  Eh, good-go, I’m thinking!

  Aunty’s not budging. ‘I’m not talking politics. Or knickers. I’m talking about your nephew!’

  Hell! Did I hear that right? That’s me. They’re talking about me. They’re fighting over me. I sit up.

  ‘Being black is being political! We don’t have a choice,’ says Uncle.

  ‘He needs you. Just get off your butt and take him with you out to a school for God’s sake.’Aunty’s pleading.

  Uncle’s staying cool. ‘I’m not ready for him. And he’s not ready for me.’

  ‘That sounds good, but what does it mean?’ Aunty’s straight into him. ‘You’ve got time for a hundred other school kids every day. Why can’t you make space to take him with you, just once? You need him like he needs you. All you’ve got otherwise is work and sleep.’

  I don’t need to hear it. I can feel it. Uncle’s about to explode.

  ‘You know what sleep is to me? You ever bothered to ask? No. So I’ll tell you. Sleep is the only place I can be human. The only place I don’t have to deal with the crap of justifying what it is to be a blackfulla in this country everyday. My eyes are closed and it’s just me and darkness. And that darkness, it don’t scare me no more. I can be whatever I want to be and have no one standing there being my judge and jury. Sleep is the only place I can be a person, no labels attached. When I open up my eyes, I’m rested and ready for dealing with my anger again. And where does that anger come from? Dealing with crap like this. Justifying how it is I stay alive each day. It’s a vicious circle and I’m getting bloody dizzy.’

  I’m there with him, dizzy, like fully.

  Uncle’s not finished, but. ‘And it’s a fine balance. You mightn’t appreciate how it is to have that balancing act going on each day of your life and not blow your top. And you’re asking me to take him out to the schools with me? He’s all over the place! He’s gotta fix up his attitude first.’

  Now I’m getti
ng gooli-up. Stuff that! I’m not a mess. Well, maybe I am. I’m not thinking m’uncle’s seeing that, but. I’m wanting to go in there and stick it up both of them. How do they know what I’m on about?

  Aunty’s talking up some more, but. I got m’ear to the wall. ‘How can he get the right attitude when there’s nothing to get an attitude about? Except taking drugs and sleeping with the woman downstairs!’

  Hell! If I wasn’t black I’d be red. Drugs? Me and Rhonda? Aunty wants Uncle Garth to have a talk to me about Rhonda. Shame job! I’m gonna die!

  Uncle reckons I’ve got to make m’own mistakes and learn from them. I’m with him on this one.

  ‘We’re responsible for him. We’ve got to make sure he’s got something in his life to live for.’ Aunty keeps at it. I’m with her. M’aunty, she’s deadly.

  Uncle’s bringing in the big guns now. He reckons he had to earn the right to be passed on stories and to learn how to dance, how to paint up. He had to fight hard to earn the right to be given what’s left of his culture. He says it’s been abused, cut up, sliced and diced every which way.

  ‘I mightn’t have initiation scars across my chest but they’re in here, across my heart! He,’ he’s talking about me, ‘can’t expect to rock up here and get it handed to him on a plate.’

  ‘Is that your way of teaching him or just your cop-out way of dodging your responsibilities?’ I wouldn’t go there, Aunty, true god.

  The fuse is lit. I’m blocking m’ears. But I’m opening them again ‘cause that’s me in there they’re busting-up on.

  Aunty’s backing down. ‘Well, I’ll leave it to you. You speak to him. You’re the Murri. You’re his uncle. I’m just a migaloo.’

  ‘Crap. You’re part of this family. Who’s dodging their responsibilities now, eh? He relies on you. You’re his aunty. Anyway, Rhonda’s one of you lot. You speak to her. I’m a blackfulla. That stuff’s whitewomen’s business.’