by Anita Heiss
I attempted a sexy saunter, feigning interest in the black and white photos, and soon found myself next to two greying men in suits laughing that deep belly laugh that old men do. I quietly mumbled my mantra: I am daunting and desirable and determined. I will be kind and compassionate to white people. I am daunting ... Before I knew it I was being introduced to Suit #1, who described himself as 'a descendant of the first people of the area'. I was fairly sure he didn't mean he was Gadigal – he would've just said so if that were the case – but I asked him anyway, giving him the benefit of the doubt: 'So you're Gadigal, then?'
'No, don't know that family. I'm a descendant of the Colllinses – you know the Colllins family, that's Colllins with three els. There's a park named after us.'
I refrained from commenting about the family with the misspelt name and got straight to the important details.
'So you're a descendant of the first family who were given a land grant after the local Aboriginal clan, the Gadigal, were dispossessed of their land, then?'
Both men laughed that belly laugh again, as though I were a child who had said something cute but meaningless. They were starting to piss me off. I tried not to raise my voice, but continued, 'Seriously, this is a history association – surely you recognise all history and not just that which serves the coloniser?'
'Of course, you are right, Miss ...?'
'Aigner – Alice Aigner. I head up the history department at St Christina's.' They both seemed a little surprised, but impressed. They still hadn't guessed I was Koori, though. Probably never even met one before, not knowingly anyway.
Suit #1 continued, 'We here at the Eastern Suburbs Local History Association recognise Australian history, Aboriginal history and prehistory as well.' My blood started to boil. I could feel the colour move right up my neck. Was there steam coming out of my ears? The mantra about being nice to white people was gone.
'What Aboriginal history? Everything that happened post-invasion is Australian history. Aboriginal people didn't dispossess themselves, they didn't poison their own watering holes or place themselves on governmentrun reserves and church-run missions. The colonisers and settlers – the so-called Australians – did that. That's Australian history. And as for prehistory, what the hell does that mean?' I knew what he meant, but wanted to hear him say it.
'History before the British settled Sydney Cove, of course!' He was unashamedly adamant.
'You mean history before the British invaded Sydney Cove, don't you? Or is it regarded as prehistory because in your eyes nothing apparently happened here for the tens of thousands of years before that?'
'Why do you keep saying invasion? It was colonisation. Someone would have colonised Australia eventually. Better the Brits than the frogs, don't you think?' This was Suit #2's intelligent contribution.
'Invasion was what happened in 1788 when the boats arrived, mate, and colonisation is the process that followed. You should really get up to date with the terminology. And for the record, at least if the French had colonised us, we'd have better food and fashion!'
I threw back the last of my wine, mentally blaming white people for making Blackfellas have to drink. They drive us to it. They make us need to escape their narrowminded, in-denial, racist, imperialistic bullshit.
As I made my way out the door, I spotted a lecturer I'd had at university, a staunch lefty unionist. Ruby Timberton seemed to remember me too. We made eye contact, both shrugging our shoulders, as if to say neither of us belonged. I was happy for her to stay, but I was already tired of being the thorn in everyone's side. I couldn't have managed another exchange like the one I'd just had with the Suits, and didn't even want to chance it with the good-looking fella I'd seen earlier. Ruby's stomach might've been stronger and her skin must've been thicker than mine, or maybe the discussions would never be as personal for her – she was white.
I drove home along Campbell Parade, wondering if I would ever meet a man I could respect as an equal. He would definitely have to have a good mind, share my passion for history, have a sense of humanity and appreciate the everyday wonders of life. I hadn't realised how important it was to me until now. Even at the most 'civilised' of events, I had somehow managed to get into an argument – but only because these issues were basic, everyday concerns for me, and completely non-negotiable.
***
'Integrity is so much more important than romance, isn't it?' I asked Mickey twenty minutes later, as we sat on stools at the Cushion Bar. I needed a drink after my latest attempt at meeting Mr Right, and Tom had just dumped Mickey again, this time apparently forever.
'I just want a nice bloke, Al.'
'And you're different to everyone else how?'
'I keep sending telepathic messages out to the one who is supposed to love me. Problem is he never messages me back.'
'Perhaps you should try text messages, then.' I was trying to be funny, but Mickey just frowned and continued.
'Sometimes I feel like I have to be a different person before anyone will find me attractive. It sux, Al. I don't want to be a different person. I want someone to love me just the way I am.'
'I'll drink to that.' I raised my glass to Mickey's and we sat silently for a minute or so. Then I spotted Garythe- Garbo at the bar, and suddenly felt thirsty again. 'Be right back, Mickey!'
I made my way towards Gary. 'Hello!'
He turned and smiled but I wasn't sure he knew who I was. I extended my hand. 'I'm Alice, you probably don't recognise me with clothes and make-up on. Oh, that sounds bad, doesn't it? What I mean is I live in Arden Street and you helped me with my bin. I was in my pyjamas.' I sounded like an idiot. No wonder he laughed.
'Yes, I know who you are, Alice. How are you?'
'Just unwinding after a tough day is all.'
'Another one? Perhaps I should steer clear, then?' He was funny. I liked his humour.
'No, you're safe at the moment. So what about you? Quiet drink with the boys?' There were few men actually in the bar.
'Sister's birthday.' He motioned to a woman near the far doors. 'That's Liesl, we're just having a drink before dinner. She didn't have a bloke to take her out, so I am.' Thank god! I wasn't the only one then.
'Better go, or knowing my sister she'll have us married off in no time,' Gary said with a wink.
I suddenly felt better, and walked back to a depressed Mickey thinking how much I loved the Cushion Bar. They had great happy hour cocktails to loosen the inhibitions, lots of young fellas to perv on, hardly any backpackers to cringe at, and staff who flirted when required and, judging by the full jar on the bar, were tipped well, too. Best of all, it was an easy crawl home afterwards.
twenty-seven
Trawling the classifieds
With my recent experience with the old historical farts fresh in my mind, I couldn't even bring myself to register for the national education conference that Peta was going to. I couldn't bear a similar exchange lasting three or four days. I moved straight onto Phase III: checking out the classifieds.
I sat on my balcony with a cup of tea and the personal pages and searched, highlighter poised to mark the first advert that looked remotely like it had some potential. After thirty minutes I found one that looked promising:
VO4936: Schoolteacher, n/s, loves reading, cooking, movies, the beach, intelligent conversation. Seeking similar in sassy single.
Seeing as he was a teacher and I was, after all, sassy, I decided to give it a go. First I prepared my reply and rehearsed it in my sexiest bourgeois-Black voice.
'Hi. I'm a sassy, non-smoking schoolteacher, and I live at the beach all year round. I love literary fiction and having meaningful conversation over a home- cooked meal. And I really appreciate being cooked for. I'm a Leo, so I can be a bit fiery. If you'd like to meet for a drink or coffee, give me a call.'
Once I was ready, I dialled the number warily and listened to his message. He sounded as sincere as a stranger on a phone message could, articulate and enthusiastic, but I was put off respondin
g when he finished: 'Okay, speak soon, lots of love, Max.'
Lots of love? Lots of love? What the hell was that? Generally speaking it's hard enough to get to the L word after six months of sex, dinners, shared baths and family events. Paul had never managed to say it at all and had freaked out when I did. Now there was someone saying it to the universe – in a voicemail message – for anyone to receive. Nup, Max was definite clingy stalker material and didn't know the true value of the L word. I hung up without leaving a message.
I didn't throw in the towel, though, but kept trawling column after column, searching until I found one that just might be a goer: VO2869. I liked the number – twenty-eight was my birth date; sixty-nine, well obviously got to love that one. The ad read:
38, financially secure, GSOH, n/s, no children, animals or baggage.
Well, the last bit was a lie – we've all got baggage – but he got a brownie point for recognising that it existed! It went on:
Love the sunrise and the sound of rain falling on a tin roof.
Okay, so he'd ripped that off from Norah Jones's 'Come Away With Me' but that was fine, because I loved her music and I gave him a brownie point for that too. I dialled the number and listened to his chirpy message: 'Hi, this is Rod, thanks for calling. Leave a message, and we'll talk.'
He sounded like a cool dude, so I left a few choice words of my own and waited for a response. Within an hour my mobile rang. He was either checking his messages constantly – meaning he was really desperate – or it was a fluke that he'd checked just then. Hoping it was the latter, I answered my phone with the sultriest voice possible.
During our short conversation, Rod sounded pleasant enough. He was on the Gold Coast for a few days, back in Sydney on the weekend. Sales rep for a pool company and lived in Lane Cove. Was keen to catch up when he got back. We agreed to meet in the city somewhere, depending on time and weather.
'Why don't I call you when I get back and we can meet on Saturday?'
'Sounds like a plan.' I wasn't even nervous or embarrassed about the process of organising the date. Let's face it, we were both in the same boat.
'Can you email me a photo of yourself in the meantime, so I know who to look out for on Saturday?' he asked. A fair request. I asked for the same back.
'Great, Alice. Well, I guess we'll speak soon.' Signed, sealed and delivered – or at least it would be on Saturday.
'Okay.' I felt a bit weird, but this new way of lining up dates was proving to be manageable, and a lot easier than going through friends.
That night his emailed photo arrived. He was gorgeous: green eyes, sandy hair, warm smile. It was taken on the water, but I couldn't work out where. I sent back a photo of myself almost immediately. It had been taken at Message Sticks, the Indigenous arts festival held down at the Opera House, when we took students on an excursion to see Ten Canoes. I looked fabulous. Big smile. Luscious red lips. I was standing next to the Message Sticks banner holding a small Aboriginal flag Clair had stuck in my hand at the last minute. I didn't intentionally want to send anything Indigenised, but it was a great photo of me.
He didn't call the next day, or the next day, or the next day. On Friday I sent him an email, just so I could make other plans if he couldn't do Saturday now.
Hi Rod, hope you're well. Just wondering if you're still on for coffee tomorrow? Or is there a problem? Alice
He responded a couple of hours later.
Hi Alice. Sorry, been really busy. Just wondering about your photo. You look gorgeous, but what's with the flag? Rod
I knew it. He couldn't cope with the Black stuff. Should I have sent a different photo? Would it really have made a difference? Flag or not? I would still be the same woman. I was furious and fired an email back.
Rod, if you're trying to ask whether I'm Aboriginal or not, the answer is yes. Is that a problem? Alice
But already I knew it was, if not for him, then definitely for me. I knew I wouldn't hear from him again and I didn't.
***
I called Dillon and told him I'd made his favourite chicken and olive dish, if he was in the area and wanted to drop by. We both knew what that meant: I needed to talk. We enjoyed our meal, then, as I washed the dishes and he dried, I said, 'Dillon, I'm thinking of trying internet dating.'
'Al, I think that's dangerous and it's a bit ... desperate, isn't it? I know you want to get married and have kids, but you know you can always get artificially inseminated.'
'What? I'm not a cow, Dillon! I can get laid!'
My little brother went through my pantry for something sweet and then left. So began Phase IV.
twenty-eight
Getadate.com.au
It was already late September and I was panicking. So much for spring being in the air or spring romances for that matter: it was pouring with rain outside, and chilly, and I was sitting with a glass of gluhwein, staring at Google on my laptop, looking for love in cyberspace. Internet dating was all the rage, I told myself; Mickey was on the net constantly, and in chat rooms. He might've been looking for something slightly different to me though, as he seemed to be dating someone new every other day. I'd never done either: chatted online or checked out any websites designed for singles. I couldn't believe I was even contemplating it, but Mr VO2869 had really taken the wind out of my sails. I didn't want to believe all men were racist jerks, so, if for no other reason but to give me back my faith in humanity, I got back on the job and logged on to find Mr Right.
There was no turning back once I'd registered with Getadate.com.au, Australia's latest singles site. I promised myself that once I hit that return button I would remain seriously committed to finding myself some internet lurv. So I pressed return, then spent literally hours poring over the pages and pages of profiles and pics of men from all walks of life, all over Sydney, with different looks, different kinds of faces and smiles, various political persuasions and wide-ranging but definite tastes in women.
It disturbed me that many of the men indicated in their profiles that they didn't have strong political views and they didn't mind the political views of their women. I wondered if the Palestinian guy with 'no firm beliefs' would mind if a Jewish woman sent him an email. I knew it was unlikely to happen, but something similar could: what if the guy in the National Front got a message from someone who wasn't 'full-blood Anglo- Australian'. I'd say most had pretty firm expectations about race and political views, even if they weren't aware of it, especially given my experience with Mr Pool-Cleaner from Lane Cove.
While some men listed very little on their profile and seemed to have only limited expectations in meeting women, others were quite definite about what they wanted their perfect woman to look like. 'Must be petite, Caucasian, big-breasted, long-legged, naturally blonde' and so on. I couldn't believe how shallow some of the men were, many of whom wouldn't rank as pretty boys themselves, even though it was obvious many of the photos posted had been 'assisted' by technology.
I found a picture of a guy who looked pleasant enough, but not too pretty. (Rule Number 1: Don't date a guy who's prettier than me and then I won't have to worry about every woman and half the men in the room wanting him too.) I was no longer a lookist anyway, after Charlie. I'd learnt my lesson.
My chosen internet guy said he liked reading and the beach, was politically left of centre, didn't have kids but wanted them eventually, and had no criteria specifying what his ideal woman looked like or what her nationality or political persuasion should be. Yep, he'd do. I sent him a non-committal email just to say hello, giving him a bit of basic information about myself:
