by Anita Heiss
'Nah, and too many blokes, nothing worse than cock soup,' Ollie replied.
'Yeah, ya right, or a sausage factory.' They both sniggered like teenage boys.
'Hey, check out that woman there. She looks like a forty-year-old mother from the suburbs trying to find a boyfriend.'
'Yeah, it ain't gonna happen. She should be at home.'
'Absolutely, why doesn't she just try Lavalife or something?'
'That's right. It's half past nine. If she was a self-respecting woman she'd be home by now.' And they both looked at me as if to say, And so should you, because you don't fit in either. I was gobsmacked. I looked at the woman they were referring to and she just looked like a normal, well-dressed woman like me, perhaps a little older. Was I supposed to be at home too?
'Hey, check out the two sad cases behind us,' Ollie said, motioning his head towards the women at a high table nearby. I couldn't help but look too, because I wanted to know what a 'sad case' actually looked like in their eyes.
'Fuck, old and trashy, sitting there with their bottle of wine. Tragic.' I wasn't quite sure what was tragic about them – the wine, or the fact they could be there, willingly, among all the judgement and criticism. I'd had enough. I sent Shelley a text:
Meet u out front ASAP, ova this. Px
I went to the coat check and got my loud coat and put it on proudly. It was warm, it was stylish, and no snotty-nosed bloke was going to tell me I couldn't wear it. I came from the suburbs in Sydney and was proud of it.
Shelley soon followed me out, and we grabbed a cab home.
'What's with Jake and Ollie just standing in the corner and bagging everyone out all the time?' I asked, resting my head on the window. I was sure I was going to throw up at some point. I was just hoping to be able to get home in time.
'Oh, no-one takes them seriously. Everyone knows Jake's got a tiny dick and Ollie is a premature ejaculator, so they often have threesomes because it takes two of them to get one job done. All that judgement stuff is just projecting their own sense of self-loathing onto others. Left here, thanks driver.'
'Next time I invite myself to one of your events, can you remind me again why you didn't invite me in the first place?'
'Should I say it?'
'What?'
'I told you so.'
twenty-three
Luna Park
I was hung-over the next morning and the last thing I wanted to do was to go to an amusement park. I had policy papers to read for Monday, I felt seedy and I needed more sleep. But young Maya had made me promise – again – before I left their house a couple weeks before.
I picked her up in Shelley's car, and just as driving bomby old Gemma covered in land rights stickers was embarrassing, so was driving a brand-spanking-new Alfa among Blackfellas. I knew they'd be thinking I was uptown. 'It's not mine!' I'd have to explain over and over again, like it was a crime to have a nice car.
Maya was waiting out the front excitedly when I arrived. 'Look what I've got in my purse,' she shouted as she struggled to show me all the money her grandmother and parents had given her.
'It's my treat, darling. You can save that for Christmas maybe.'
'But Mum said I have to give it to you.'
Annie and Joe were smiling big, as if there was something they knew that I didn't.
'What's so bloody funny, then?' I wanted in on the joke, even though my head was pounding and the mere thought of laughing made it hurt.
'She's a chucker,' Annie said.
'A what?'
'I chuck a lot,' Maya said, nodding her head in agreement with her mother.
'Chuck what?' I was confused.
'Chuck up?' She pretended to spew.
'Excellent,' I groaned, and nearly threw up myself. 'And just so you know, there's a good chance I might chuck today too!' I rolled my eyes at Annie and Joe and mouthed the words Help me. Maya just laughed.
'Okay, let's go. Quicker we get there . . .' I started.
'The quicker we get on the rides,' Maya said.
'And the quicker we get home,' I said softly.
The drive from East Bentleigh to St Kilda was worse that any ride I could think of going on as Maya continued to talk about chucking and how many times she'd chucked and what was in it. It was turning my stomach. When she was bored with that conversation she wanted to ask and tell me things. 'Can I show you something? When can I spend my money? Which rides can we go on?'
All the chatter was compounding my headache. I couldn't for the life of me understand how parents coped – even if they didn't even have hangovers, which I assumed they didn't. There's no way you could party like I did and then have to feed, clothe and entertain kids the next day. Maya was helping me with my celibacy gig: the mere thought of getting pregnant was turning me off sex.
When we got there I insisted that she hold my hand. What would be worse than something happening to your own child? Something happening to a child you were looking after. We bought our ride tickets; I was astounded that it cost more to entertain a six year old for the afternoon than it did to go out with stockbrokers drinking.
Maya was excited and struggled with deciding which ride to go on first. I tried not to be too impatient. I was glad she was under 119 centimetres, so our ride choice was limited. The Big Dipper roller-coaster, which for some reason was called the Scenic Railway in Melbourne, was closed. Thank you, I mouthed to the skies.
'Right!' I had to take charge. 'We'll go on the Red Baron, the Magical Carousel, Silly Serpent, then the Arabian Merry, okay?'
'Okay,' Maya said, clapping her hands.
And so we did, and I found myself screaming and laughing and, amazingly, keeping the drinks from the night before down.
'What about the Ghost Train? It's my favourite,' I said, trying to enthuse her into a tamer ride.
'I'm scared of ghosts, Mum says you've gotta smoke the ghosts. But I know that smoking's bad for you, it'll kill ya. And ya can't smoke ghosts anyway. You smoke durries and Dad's always getting angry at Grandma for smoking, especially when me and Will are in Gemma with her.' Little Maya made me laugh, and for a moment I understood that having kids could bring joy to one's life. Were there enough of these moments, though? I just didn't know, I wasn't around kids enough.
I really wanted to sit down and not be churned around for a while, so I persisted.
'Maya, if you come on the Ghost Train with me, I'll buy you some fairy floss afterwards.' And that's how bribing kids with sweets and crap starts.
'Oh, I love fairy floss, okay, and I don't even think it will make me chuck.'
'Excellent, okay, let's get in the queue then.' Standing in line I watched the young teenage boys in front of me go twenty minutes without speaking to each other, while the pubescent girls behind me didn't seem to stop talking: about their clothes, about girls who weren't there, about the boys in front of us.
The ride went for all of two minutes and Maya loved it. A hot dog, hot chips and the promised fairy floss later, and we started to walk towards the exit.
'I'm gonna chuck,' Maya said, starting to cry.
'It's okay,' I said, picking her up and running to the toilets. I held Maya's sandy-coloured hair back as her little body leant over the bowl and threw up pink fairy floss and bits of hot dog – and then it was my turn.
'Look out lovely, Aunty's not well either.' Up came my hot chips and numerous drinks from the night before. I wiped tears from my own eyes as well as Maya's, washed both our faces and finally left Luna Park.
By the time I dropped Maya at East Bentleigh I was exhausted and fragile. I was stopped at the lights on the way back to St Kilda when James called.
'How are you, princess?'
'I'm so tired and hung-over, I feel like crap. I wish you were here to look after me.'
'And you know I would, don't you, baby? So, who were you out with last night?' Oh God, not again. I just didn't have the energy to deal with his insecurity right now.
'Just Shelley and some of her workmates. W
e were home by nine-thirty. I just drank too much too quickly.'
'Oh right.' I could hear the 'James-isn't-happy-with-me-going-out-partying' tone in his voice.
'Okay, well I better go – I'm in the car, and the lights are about to change. I'll call you later in the week. Love ya.' And I went home and slept.
twenty-four
Finding the answers
for myself and others
The department was hosting a national cultural information forum with academics, arts workers, funding bodies, policy makers and intellectual property lawyers. One of the keynote speakers, Dennis Droll, was a linguist attached to the languages department at the University of Australian Culture in Canberra. He came into the office to meet with staff to talk about a project proposal, and to suss out the department's funding for the national language strategy.
Sylvia had booked a small meeting room for us. It was just me, Sylvia, Dennis, and our new program assistant, Rodney. The walls of the room were lined with books by Australian authors, no doubt funded by DOMSARIA grants.
'I'd like to work in the Kimberley on a language project,' Dennis said eagerly after we'd introduced ourselves. We all sat listening intently. Sylvia took the minutes.
'Sounds interesting,' I said. 'What kind of project did you have in mind?'
'I'd like to record one of the local languages. Some of them only have a handful of fluent speakers left and we don't want to lose the languages altogether. Most of the speakers are very old so it's urgent that we get the grammar and vocab recorded orally as soon as possible and then translated into dictionary format.'
'Yes, of course, we understand that issue only too well, and language reclamation and maintenance does come under our mandate.' I attempted to be affirming of the idea.
'It's great you want to do something so significant for them,' Rodney said, his eyes wide.
'Yes, it's great for everyone. The language gets recorded, and I can add the dictionary to my publications list. I'm working towards being department head and eventually dean of the faculty, so a major language dictionary will score me a lot of points.'
'So, the project is really about you and your academic career, is it?' Sylvia said accusingly. I was disappointed to hear her sound so unprofessional, but we were definitely on the same page.
'What Sylvia means is that the project's main aim should be cultural maintenance.'
'The community get their language recorded. Isn't that enough?'
'Well, not quite. There are many other issues that need to be taken into consideration when we support a project. We need to discuss protocols and methodologies for working in communities, who gets the royalties, public lending rights, educational lending rights, and most importantly, who retains copyright over the material.' I'd learned a lot about copyright and intellectual property since being with the department.
Rodney suddenly lost his beam and pushed back his chair and folded his arms across his chest, like a scary CEO of a major mining company.
'Well, I need to be paid for my work,' Dennis said.
'Haven't you applied for an ARC research grant?' asked Sylvia. We were working more and more on shared responsibility agreements with other agencies these days, so she was on top of all the other funding opportunities available. 'And what about your salary, are you still on staff at the university?'
'Well, part of the research will be covered by a study grant, and ARC have approved some funding as well.'
'So you're double-dipping, then?' Sylvia asked without looking up from her notepad.
'I think it's fairly standard. There are other costs involved with publication and so on that aren't covered under my grants.'
'Let's talk about income from the project, then,' I said. 'From the publication of the dictionary, for instance. Who will receive the royalties? I assume they'll go to the community?'
'Well, it's hard to split royalties among a large group of people.'
'Ah, but you can split royalties with one language centre. You will be working with a language centre, won't you?'
Dennis squirmed in his seat. I sighed as I uncrossed and re-crossed my legs. He really didn't have any idea what I was talking about.
'You have contacted the Wangka Maya Pilbara Aboriginal Language Centre, haven't you? I mean, you can't be working in the community on a project like this without their appropriate support and input. That's essential, it's protocol. The ethics committee at your university should've made that clear to you.'
'And what about copyright?' Sylvia asked. 'I hope the community as owners of the language and the intellectual property retain the copyright over their own words.' She'd done a lot of research to prep me for the meeting.
Dennis jumped right in. 'Oh no, the copyright in the work would have to rest with me. You might not understand that the Copyright Act of 1968, in lay terms—'
'Stop right there.' He was talking down to me, and I just couldn't have that, especially not in front of my staff.
'I'm the National Policy Manager for Aboriginal Arts and Culture, so I do know the Copyright Act. In lay terms, as you said, it states that the person who records a story or takes a photo retains copyright. But that doesn't mean you can't actually have a contract designed to give copyright to an organisation, one body. In fact, I don't see the logic in a non-Indigenous person legally owning the rights over a language that is not their own – or the morality of it. Why should anyone have to seek your permission to reproduce the material once it's published?'
He didn't respond.
Rodney leaned forward, pushing his glass of water aside. 'I'm new here, but it sounds a lot like some linguists are much like many anthropologists I meet. And I can tell you, I've met quite a lot since I started working in Indigenous cultural affairs. It seems like there's at least one anthropologist for every Aboriginal person in the country.'
'Why do you think there are so many anthropologists?' Dennis asked him calmly.
'It's not rocket science, it's because we're really deadly people. And we're very interesting.' He gave me a grin. 'And of course, there's a lot of money to be made off us. I mean we're a research industry, aren't we.' I was glad that Rodney was on my team: he'd been a slow and quiet starter, but was obviously smart.
'Anthropology is the study of behaviours, of social relations, of the physical, the social and the cultural development of human beings – of all human beings,' Dennis said a little defensively.
'So not just Aboriginals and other so-called primitive societies?' Sylvia said.
'Yes, you're right. But what's your point?' Dennis looked confused.
'Why don't we ever meet any anthropologists who study white people?' I asked. 'That's the point.'
'There are anthropologists who study white people.'
'Really? I've never met one, and trust me, I've met some anthropologists in my time.' And I had, at university, working in education and at a number of Aboriginal organisations I'd been part of over the years.
'Well, there are. Perhaps they just don't move in your circles. You make it sound like it's bad to be interested in other societies, other races, and other people.'
'I love that word, other,' said Sylvia. I was frightened she might launch into an eco-poem about 'otherness' so I quickly stepped in.
