Authors: Anita Heiss
I groaned. 'Oh, God. They're my clients, they'll start
asking me about funding opportunities and deadlines if
they see me.'
'Yeah, and they'll ask me to get them out of a parking
ticket. Let's eat first, and then head over.'
'I like your style, Josie.'
I watched her completely devour a huge porterhouse
steak; I had the Moroccan chicken.
'Okay, let's go say hi to the 'lations,' she said when she
was done, wiping her face aggressively with her serviette.
'Come on. You know we never bundy off as Blackfellas.'
She was already on her way over to the table.
As we sat down, drinks were plonked in front of me:
two pints of pale ale and a glass of red. I followed the hands
up their arms and to the face of Constable Care, Mike.
He looked me straight in the eye and said, 'Honey,
I'm new in town – dya think I can have directions to your
house?'
'You're mad.' I giggled like a schoolgirl.
'I know you like me, I'm a likeable guy. That's me,
Mike, Mr Nice Guy.' We hadn't spoken since the hideous
lunch, but looking around I realised he couldn't be such a
bad guy, even if he was a cop: he was sitting there with a
mob of Blackfellas. But what was his story? Did they know
about the blue wrist band too? I couldn't control myself
and grabbed his sleeve, pushing it up to his elbow, and
then, not satisfied, pushed it further up his biceps to see if
the rubber band was there. It wasn't.
'What are you doing? You want to touch these puppies,
do you?' He flexed his muscles. Now that he wasn't
wearing the blue band any more he suddenly became more
attractive. Perhaps he wasn't so much the Nazi in the Nazi/
Jew scenario I'd imagined.
'You know I have a boyfriend.'
'And where is he then, this boyfriend you keep
mentioning? Why isn't he here protecting you from potential
suitors like me?'
'Because he doesn't have to
protect
me. And even if we
weren't together he knows I would never kiss a cop,' I said
adamantly, looking into the bluest eyes I had ever seen.
'Peta, how would you feel if I said that I wouldn't kiss
someone who's Aboriginal?'
'I'd think you were a racist prick and probably tell
you so.'
'And fair enough. I would be a racist prick if I said that.
But it feels the same when you say to me that you could
never kiss a cop. Can you see how discriminatory you're
being?' And he was right. I didn't say anything. There were
a few seconds of uncomfortable silence between us.
'I hope you know CPR,' Mike said, dodging the topic.
'Why?'
'Cos you take my breath away.'
'Okay, that's enough already. It's time to go. We've got
a huge day tomorrow.
'What's on, babycakes?'
'The rally against the government's intervention in the
Northern Territory. But I don't suppose that's anything
you'd be interested in.'
'Why would you think that, Peta? Gees, you're so
quick to judge and second-guess others, aren't you? Of
course I'm concerned about human rights; my job is about
protecting human rights. I'm not marching tomorrow
because I'm on duty, but I would've.'
'Yeah, yeah.'
'Look, I'm just as pissed off as you are about the way
the NT legislation was passed by suspending the Racial
Discrimination Act. It was unlawful, and I'm an officer of
the law. And of course it's immoral as well.'
I must have looked surprised.
'What? You think you're the only one who reads the
newspapers? It's the first thing I do every morning. I've even
been known to write a letter or two to the editor.'
'Of course, my apologies. It's actually getting late, we
really should go.'
I was supposed to meet Josie at Federation Square at
ten am, ready for the march. It was difficult to find her
as everyone was asked to wear red. I wasn't sure if it was
because we were 'seeing red' due to the intervention, or if it
was to connect to the red earth of the Northern Territory
or if it was just for visual effect. Either way, it was great
to see that even the Melbourne black was put aside for
this one day. There were thousands of supporters there,
hundreds of Aboriginal flags and loads of banners reading:
NT LEGISLATION = DISCRIMINATION
and
STOP
THE INVASION OF THE NT
and so on.
There was a huge contingent of Greens supporters and
even Bob Brown. He was such a great politician, he just
needed a good Melbourne makeover. While I was scanning
the crowd for Josie I saw staff from other sections of
DOMSARIA huddled together behind one massive banner.
I called James, knowing he'd be thinking of me. Sunday
mornings we'd nearly always be together, out for breakfast
or lazing in bed with the papers. Just as he answered Josie
walked up to me, also on her mobile. We air kissed and just
kept talking into our respective phones.
'Where are you? It sounds like a circus down there.'
James had forgotten about the march.
'I'm at the march against the intervention with Josie
and a mob of Blackfellas, and some staff from other sections
of the department.'
'Of course, many people there?'
'Masses, it's a great statement.'
'You know it won't make a lick of difference, don't you?'
'What?'
'People marched against the war in Iraq, they marched
against mining, they marched against the GST even, but
the government will still do what they want.'
'So what are you saying? It's a waste of time?'
'Well . . .'
'Well, what? It's not a waste of time to the Elders who
have travelled here from their communities looking for
support when the government won't even meet with them.
It's not a waste of time if lone individuals can take some
sort of collective responsibility for the cause, and make
a public statement about how they feel.' I sounded like I
was in a meeting at work, talking to the linguist again. 'I've
gotta go, there's some movement up the front.'
'Just don't get arrested.'
'So you won't bail me out?'
'You know I would, I'm just saying it's not worth a
record.'
That was the difference between us: I thought the fight
for social justice and human rights was worth whatever I
could give.
We marched down Swanston Street past Bourke Street
Mall and the chants were well timed and strong. I was
straining my lungs with Josie and all those around me when
I felt someone grab my arm gently. It was Mike and he was
in uniform.
'Hi!' He had to bellow over the chanting. I could see
people around me looking worried, thinking I was in
trouble with the law or something
'Hi. You didn't tell me you were on rally patrol. It's
almost laughable. What are you doing, making sure we
don't cause a riot?'
'No, I was meant to be at the station.' He was still
bellowing – a guy with a megaphone was making his way
along the line of marchers to keep us all in sync. 'But I
swapped with someone so I could be here.'
'Why?'
'Didn't you hear what I said last night?'
'Right, but you can't march in uniform, can you?'
'No, I can't, but I can walk along the side and do my
job and still feel like I'm part of it. Better go, I'll call you.'
And he was off.
Before I had too much time to think about it a new
chant began: 'End the intervention! Human rights for all!'
♥
We all ended up soothing our sore throats back at the Espy.
Josie and I found a table in the corner because we both
wanted some quiet.
'So, Mike was there today, didn't know you had a date,'
Josie teased.
'Don't be ridiculous, he was working,' I told her.
'Oooh, that was a bit defensive, Peta. Touch a raw nerve
did I? Like he touched your arm, eh? Yes, I saw the gentle
move he made.'
'Now you
are
being ridiculous. And I'm not talking
about him with you.'
'Keep digging there, sista, you'll bury yourself in a
minute.'
'You really are a nut, Josie, but I like you.' I smiled.
'No, not
that
way, so stop grinning like the cat that got the
cream.'
'But what if I buy you one more drink? Will you like me
that
way then?'
'I'm going home to put the pics up on Facebook to
show the girls, and
James
. See you soon, eh?' I said as I
pushed my chair in and left Josie with a mob of strangers
who had made themselves comfortable at our table.
Shelley was out and I got busy uploading photos and
sending emails. I especially wanted James to see the
turnout, and how many people had rallied to exercise
their democratic rights and try to do something to make
the country more equitable for all. I sat at the computer
for hours catching up on superpokes and snowglobes and
hugs, and then my phone sounded a text message. It was
from Mike:
Hi Peta, gr8 turnout 2day. Was good 2 c u. Hope 2 c u soon.
The Cop
The cheesy lines had gone, like we were real friends now.
I drafted and redrafted my reply, and before going to bed
finally sent it:
Hi Mike. Yes, a good response all round. Perhaps we cld do dinner?
Peta
Minutes later he texted me back:
I'll call u soon. Good nite.
I stayed at Aunt Nell's place in East Bentleigh on Monday
night to babysit Maya and Will while Joe and Annie took
Aunt out for her birthday. Maya greeted me at the door
with a painting she had done at school for me.
'That's beautiful, Maya,' I said, not quite sure what I was
looking at.
'It's you and Mummy and Nanny and me out shopping,
without Will.' She turned her nose up as Will came
crashing into me yelling, 'Eeta, Eeta!'
'Hello big fella,' I said, lifting his heavy weight off
the ground. Will was chunky for his age, no doubt from
Joe's cooking. 'What are you up to? Are you being a good
boy for Mummy?' No sooner was he up than he was down
on the ground again, running through the house bellowing
'Eeta, Eeta!'
I enjoyed hanging out with Maya and Will that night
and even got them off to sleep without too much hassle.
They'd become better behaved with me over the months
and had learned that going to bed without arguments
meant that Aunty Peta was a nicer and more generous
aunty. My first babysitting stint had taught me the
advantages of bribery as a strategy.
I pulled the sofa bed out and crashed in the lounge room
and somehow didn't wake up when Aunty Nell and the
others came in the door at midnight. The next morning
I was awake early, expecting the kids to torment me, but
despite the central heating even Will and Maya seemed to
think bed was the best place to be in winter.
'Okay, cuz, if that's not a blanket keeping you warm
in there then kick him out.' Joe stuck his head around the
doorway and came in with some homemade muffins for
breakfast.
'Oh, you're sooooo hilarious aren't you?' I pulled the
doona up further.
'Or so he thinks.' Annie followed him with a freshly
brewed pot of tea.
'Shouldn't you stay in bed and make the most of the
kids not being awake?' That's what I would've done.
'Actually, it's much nicer to be up and have a quiet
cuppa together while we can.' Annie poured me a cup of
tea and Joe passed me a muffin and they sat on either side
of the sofa bed and just ate and sipped. There was a sense
of homeliness about being there again, and the relationship
between Annie and Joe inspired me. They actually seemed
to
like
each other.
Joe dropped me at the station about quarter past seven
and when I saw people running for the train, I ran as well.
Even though I had plenty of layers on, including my loud
coat, I was numb from the low temperatures. There was
simply no denying that Melbourne was a lot colder than
Sydney.
I watched my breath as I exhaled into the cold air, and
smiled at the well-dressed men who hurried beside me
in their dark suits and scarves. Scarves were something I
rarely if ever saw men wearing in Sydney, it never got cold
enough.
As I waited for the train to pull out I laughed at the
palm trees that made a weird backdrop to the station and
the graffiti-adorned wall. It was like a fusion of Los Angeles
and Western Sydney.
Sylvia and I had agreed to meet at the Vic Markets
before work to buy some supplies for the after-work drinks
that day. It was a farewell for one of the IT guys, Jeremy,
whom we were all going to miss because he always managed
to find the files we thought we'd deleted and lost forever.
As I mostly caught trams in Melbourne, I still didn't
have my bearings on the train line, even though I'd been in
the city for six months. I got off at Flinders Street station
by mistake and was immediately caught up in a sea of
pin-striped, scarved and stilettoed Melbournites on their
way to work. Their dark strides were fast, determined and
purposeful, and I was carried along with the current quickly.
Everyone was well dressed, well groomed, well rugged up,
but they all looked the same. Dark, grey, drab, dull. Black.
I was in the so-called fashion capital of Australia, but
everyone looked exactly the same. I felt like I was at some
big fat city-wide Greek funeral. And then there was me,
sticking out like dog's balls, in my watermelon coat.
It was obvious that the 'coastal' fashions and colours of
Sydney were out of place here in the Euro-moody weather
of Melbourne. I walked in step with the others, completely
conscious that I did not fit in, yet feeling oddly good about
it. I liked being an individual. I liked having some spunk
about me, even though I felt other women in the street
were smirking at me, as if to say I had no fashion sense
whatsoever. I upped my pace until I reached the markets.
It was my first time there, so I'd planned to arrive early
for an unrushed browse before meeting Sylvia. I strolled
along each aisle, lingering at some stalls, ignoring others.
I wasn't interested in leather jackets, running shoes or
cheap jewellery, or a logoed T-shirt made in a Taiwanese
sweatshop. I found a stall where I could get my name
written in Japanese and framed, but couldn't think of one
reason why I would.
Then I hit the stands selling 'Authentically Australian
Souvenirs', where generic dot-painted
everything
seemed to
be the flavour of the day. At one stall I picked up a tea towel
with a map of Australia on it. Each state had its flower
or bird or other animal, like the Tasmanian tiger. The
Northern Territory, however, had a stereotypical Aboriginal
man in a red loincloth, holding a spear. At the Vic Markets
Aboriginal people were still considered part of the flora and
fauna of Australia.
In another aisle the sign read, 'Extensive range of quality
Australian souvenirs'. I had to ask myself how much
quality
you could actually buy for two dollars. At that moment the
issue for me wasn't so much about the appropriation of
Aboriginal cultural property but just how cheap and nasty
most of the items were. But most people were ignorant of
the value of Indigenous arts and culture and were happy
with kitsch rip-offs.
I picked up a packet of ten clip-on koalas to see where
they were made.
'Three packs for ten dollars.' The seller was excited
as he worked two sets of tourists at the same time. I
turned the packet over and looked at the label: China.
I put them down without saying anything. What was the
point getting upset about the quality and inauthenticity
of the merchandise? There were dozens of stalls like his
selling the same crap. My favourite was the one advertising
boomerangs: 'guaranteed to return, machine-made,
authentically Australian'. Obviously the marketing people
hadn't seen the contradiction in promoting a 'machine-made'
boomerang as authentic.
At the end of another aisle I stumbled upon the pièce
de résistance. An Aboriginal statue in full chocolate brown,
red loincloth, holding a spear and, just in case I didn't know
what I was looking at, a bronze plaque reading: 'Australian
Aborigine'.
'Fifteen dollars for you, Miss.' The seller didn't see how
ridiculous it was to try to sell it to me. For him, I was clearly
alive and there as a customer, but not as an Aboriginal
person. It was so kitsch I was tempted to buy it – it would
be useful in discussing stereotypes and identity in cross-cultural
training in the department – but I couldn't bring
myself to even pick it up, so I moved on.
'You tell me your best price, Miss, we can do a deal.'
He winked as I walked away. He was cute, but I didn't want
to engage in a cross-cultural awareness training workshop
there and then – no time, and not for free, and not even for
his very cheeky smile.
I was authentic-Australianed out, but kept walking and
looked at ugg boots in pink and purple and wondered if
anyone would buy them. The suited of Melbourne would
probably never be seen dead in ugg boots, but they probably
didn't shop at the Vic Markets anyway.
I kept wandering and was seduced by a stall with
interesting ironing board covers. I bought the one with
the Statue of David on it, believing it would make ironing
less of a chore. I wasn't sure how Shelley would react, and
we'd have to make sure it was gone before her parents came
back. She hadn't said how long they'd be away, just that it
was indefinite.
At nine I made my way to the coffee shop on the corner
to meet Sylvia, who hadn't arrived yet. I ordered a soy latte,
sat in the window and took in the surrounds, trying not to
think about the cold. I sent a text message to the girls:
Hi – at Vic Markets, freezin, but coffee + barista hot! Miss ya, Px
The barista was handsome, European handsome, dressed in
blue jeans and a black shirt and apron. When he turned
around his arse was tiny and taut. I'd definitely become a bit
of a perve since being in Melbourne – but checking out men
when you were celibate was like staring into a cake shop
window when you were on a diet.
Sylvia arrived puffed and apologetic for being ten
minutes late, but I didn't really care. We'd both put in a lot
of overtime over the past months so a ten am start was fine
occasionally. We finished our coffees and headed in to buy
the goodies.
'I don't go into the meat area,' Sylvia said, stopping still
in her tracks.
'Oh, for God's sake, Sylvia, why didn't you tell me?
I could've done it all already.'
'Sorry. I didn't think to mention it before.'
'And do I have to carry it all as well?'
'Not if it's all in double plastic bags and then in your
environmental bag.'
'You're an idiot!' I laughed. 'You get the breads and I'll
get the cold meats and some prawns.'
'Get ready for a carb explosion, then – there's about fifty
different types of bread here . . . I might be a while.'
As I roamed the seafood area I couldn't believe the
wonderful choices: raw prawns, tiger prawns, banana
prawns, green prawns, peeled prawns.
'Good morning, beautiful lady, what can I get you today?'
a chirpy fella greeted me.
'Two kilos of cooked prawns, please?' He handed
them over with the flirtatious smile that all butchers and
fishmongers seem to have when serving women. It's an
art form. Butchers do it the best, guaranteeing that female
customers come back time and time again.
I looked at my list: olives, prawns, pâté, cold meats. At
one stall there were fifteen different types of olives; the next
had hot cabana, mild cabana and a whole range of other
sausages. I could've spent the entire day trying to decide,
but I didn't have time.
Sylvia came back with a bag of continental and Middle
Eastern breads and a mix of soft and hard cheeses. I put
her in a cab with the food – including the cold meats – and
sent her to the Rialto building while I raced down to the
Koorie Heritage Trust and rummaged through the shelves
for a gift for Jeremy. The shop had its fair share of dots and
kitschy pieces as well, but I ended up getting a selection of
bush chutneys and oils because Jeremy was a man who loved
food. I also got him a tie because he always dressed well
at work.
I bought James a book on Aboriginal Melbourne while
I was there. I was going to Sydney the following week and
then on to the Gold Coast for Alice's hens' night. It was
probably a good thing. I kept wondering if Mike was going
to call me about having dinner, even though it was probably
a bad idea.