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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780702250590 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | University of Queensland Press |
| Publication date: | 08/01/2012 |
| Series: | David Unaipon Award Winners Series |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 96 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Yvette Holt is a lecturer on Aboriginal women's studies at the University of Queensland, and in 2005 won the David Unaipon Award for unpublished Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander authors.
Read an Excerpt
Anonymous Premonition
By Yvette Holt
University of Queensland Press
Copyright © 2008 Yvette HoltAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7022-5059-0
CHAPTER 1
4077
Ballroom Romancing
It was the late 1960s
Outside Hicksville county
In western Queensland
A clash of two cultures
The original sin
Town folks would whisper
A settler's gin
Workmates would remind him
And town folks would ignore her
They were always going to make it
But at the time
They just didn't know how
An exceptional couple
Desperately in love
Nothing was going to stop them
Shooting stars at the Saturday night dance
They moved like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers
So eloquent on their feet
From a small country town to the bright city lights
Together they shifted a universe
The Grandest Final
As a little girl growing up
I always wanted to play football
And for that any excuse would do
Rugby league was the name of the game
There wasn't a soccer ball
Or a VFL ball in sight
Cricket begrudgingly outlasted the summer
And tin garbage bins
Came in handy for street wickets
It was never a clash of the genders
Because only the boys were playing footy
On our block
Girls were usually relegated
To footy as a spectator's sport
Quickly advancing to
annoying footpath hecklers
The boys would be at it
Hogging the afternoon's tranquillity
With thunderous tackles
And skilful ankle taps
Their quick sprints up the gravelled driveway
Sounded like the clap of a dozen Phar Laps
Galloping along the side fence
Eventually teams were lining the backyard
Oh how I longed to kick that pig skin
High above the roof
Then grab it with an acrobatic catch
Showing off
my love of the sport
Yep those were the days
When backyard footy was playful
Exciting and twice as unpredictable
My brothers played for St Marks
They were shining stars on the field
But I suppose every kid sister
Sees their big brothers
As gladiatorial football heroes
Every Saturday or Sunday
We sat there watching them
Mum and Dad were as proud as punch
We never missed a match
I remember when Alan's division
Won the under 12s grand final in 1977
By that stage I wanted my own
Pair of footy boots and knee-high socks to match
Victory was ours
After that I became the real Calamity Jane
In between chopping up my doll's clothes
And painting my toenails
With bright red bingo markers
I wanted to be just like those footy players
That came wrapped inside shiny collectible cards
And when you opened the packet
They smelt like raspberry bubblegum
Posing with their team mates
I thought about being the ball girl
For my family, volunteering my time
Handing out peeled oranges
And passing around frozen cordial cups
But apparently that was not to be
Instead I would sit for hours watching my brothers
Passing the ball back and forth
Scrumming with their mates
Almost every kid in the neighbourhood
At some stage of their adolescence
Had passed through our backyard
The sun would set on the final tackle
Mum would whistle for suppertime
And suddenly black, white and brindle
Legs would vanish over the fence
Until the next afternoon
Then they were at it again brothers in arms
Starting it up
Chasing that elusive score line
Our old wooden housing commission fence
Took a proper beating
It was turned into a makeshift goal post
For much of the season
The clothesline would be left shaking uncontrollably
Pegs flying in every conceivable direction
I would scamper across the yard
Like a pardoned mouse
Collecting them in my arms
One or two television aerials
Came through the matches a little worse for wear
Our slice of suburban patch
Footy in the '70s
Surviving many neighbourhood battles
Wounded pride and bandaged knees
In our own private backyard Lang Park
The grandest final ever performed
Remains etched inside my childhood memories
It Takes a Village
(For Simone Tyson)
As I watch the sun go down
I know playtime is almost over
because we just sit in the darkness
with shadows and whispers by our side
I search in the distance seeking community
We all plan what our next project of life will be
as a small child, watching and learning,
learning and waiting
Time increases a lot of pain and sorrow
but the good times and laughter are never
left far behind
'cause we just get out of control
we street children like to keep on going
A life without sunshine is hard to survive
Our children's souls will be shattered
and pit-less, kicked around like
recycled cardboard
Shall we remain just another portrait for
you to cry on
or will the promise of darkness
bring forward new light?
The Old School Days
In 1982 my best friend
Sat beside me in the playground at school
As usual we were playing jacks
And exchanging fruit
We couldn't wait to remove our shoes at recess
And start rolling our toes in the cool damp sand
But today felt different
Something had changed
I asked her if everything was okay
Because she didn't seem her chattering self
That day I learned more about emotions
Than I dare to remember
Some of the best-kept secrets
Are embraced by fear
Fear likes to masquerade
As seashells of trust
On the cumbersome shores of youth
The old school days receding but not forgotten
She told me two nights ago
Her uncle had hurt her vagina
She said he twisted her body
And made her cry
I was scared and confused
I didn't know what a vagina was
I remember feeling sad
And burying my feet into the now chilly sand
She was trying to be brave
I felt like an idiot
My heart was falling out of my chest
And I didn't know why
She held my hand
Then shrugged her shoulders
As we began to climb
The meandering monkey bars
Carefree episodes
Of my best mate and I
In the prime of our childhood
Swinging from side to side
Until the mid-morning school bell
Pierced our silence
We came crashing down onto
A quilt of pine needles and brown paper sandwich bags
We packed up our lunch boxes
Dusting our feet and headed for class
The next day
I waited for my best friend
Like so many mornings before
In front of the school gates
I waited and waited
For more than two weeks
My best friend never returned
So one afternoon I decided
To bicycle through her street
I found their house, it looked vacant and empty
I felt sick in the tummy
And cried in their driveway
The last time we spoke about her uncle
Was in the playground at school
I still think about my old best friend
Twenty-five years later
Her delicate face
Haunting the Year 7 class photo
A Jupiter smile
So wide and bright
I wished at that moment
Inside those playground walls
I'd had the right words
To comfort her world
We were eleven years old
Sisters in arms playing for keeps
I remember her courage
As if it were only yesterday
Graduating from the confessional sandbox
The old school days, restless memories that never sleep
Inamorata
Woman
Carrying shadows over shoulders
A backpack of drawings and time
Painting the nylon sky with bare hands
And listening with my eyes
I read books
Too many books
My cup runneth over
Between too many pages
In heels I walk
5 foot 10 inches of decoration
I tolerate ignorance
And respect resilience
Bruising like sweetly peach
Yet somehow always recover
Growing like music and skin
I am shaped by the women in my life
Closing all the windows and cupboards
I hear babies rattling at night
Crossing the corners of my speechless bedroom
They follow me as if I have the answers
I don't have any answers
Only too many questions
I mourn for the children
Who were taken away
I weep for the grandmothers who will never know
I freeze, I break and I cry
Woman, sometimes I am too afraid
Of putting the little girl to rest
Storyteller
Hey girl
Who your mob
Where you from
Who's your mother
What's your father's name
You not from around here eh
You must be a long way from home
You look familiar
When you ready we'll talk
But you'll need to listen
'cause you're not ready yet
You talk too much
You need to open your eyes
No more talkin'
Just listen
One day you come back eh
You come back here
You sit on dirt floor of my country
And you listen
You listen to the stars turning at night
They help you, you know
They bring you here
They see everything
That night sky them follow you
They look after you too
Good spirits
They know who your people
You not lost girl
When you ready
You'll be back
You see girl
Today, it's not your time
Our story it waits for you
Through My Eyes
(In Memory of Lisa M. Bellear)
When I look at Aboriginal Women I see Murri, Koori,
Nungah,
Nyungar, Yolngu and Palawa
I see more than forty thousand years of strength, courage
and determination in animation
I look at Aboriginal Women and I rejoice, relate, receive
Some day the spirit of our ancestors will carry each one of
us
on a far, faraway journey
Elevating above red earth with regal black skin
circling the sun – renewer of life
Look beyond our reflection and you'll see our Grandmother
and her Mother's Mother
Those lines on her face are an atlas to our past
This Woman stands with amazing grace
Being born Woman is learning about the struggle, being born
Black and Woman is knowing how to survive
I celebrate knowing the struggle
For I too am Woman with heritage, spirit and pride
Indigenous Women have carried the weight of oppression
on the strength of their hips, breathing life into our culture
and
nurturing our Grandmother's Mother's Mother
When I look at Aboriginal Women today I see history, past,
present and future
I Am
I am Aboriginal art
I am flora and fauna
Indigenous to this land
I have Irish
Afghan
Chinese
Polynesian
And Spanish heritage
I know who I am
And I know where I belong
I am an urban Murri woman
Living between two worlds
I am the Dreaming of my ancestors
I am the Daughter of the song
I am all of the above
Proud, Black and Strong
Motherhood
(Dedicated to Cheyenne Holt)
I love my suburban backyard and sharing it with you
lying on the trampoline just mother and daughter
and making funny animal shapes out of the soft
marshmallow clouds
then when night falls we begin to count the twinkling stars
on our hands and feet
laughing at the passing red kangaroos flying high above our
mango tree
I love watching you transplant a leaf from our garden as
you
impatiently wait for it to grow
(sometimes I squint while trying on new clothes in front of
you though because no matter what I buy or choose to wear I
always seem to end up looking like a six foot-tall full-figured
Barbie doll or maybe even a Ken)
I like playing big sissy with you and rolling around on my
bed begging you to stop tickling me until I fall hard onto
the
floor then I get all too serious and fed up but you just laugh
hysterically and say 'C'mon mummy that was fun let's do
it
again'
I look forward to dancing with you every Sunday morning
and
singing 'I am woman hear me roar' karaoke style with my
tired
and worn-out hair brush
I love calling you from interstate and telling you I'll be
home
tomorrow (there are so many things I love about
motherhood
but we keep it real and have our fair share of difficult
moments
too like homework time, always radioactive in our neck of
the woods or asking you to clean out your bedroom for the
umpteenth time because I'm unable to see the carpet)
and yes I know I totally freaked out when you told your
school
friends that Mr Bean was really your father because at the
next
P & C meeting I felt like the black adder
but through it all if motherhood were a mountain then
you've
taken me to the highest peak and if daughters were flowers
growing in the garden you would always be my one
and only sweet
Childhood
(In Honour of Tea Parties)
Can somebody please tell me
why it is that little girls
like to rummage through
their mother's blanket box.
On rainy days,
armed with teacups and matching saucers,
they carry on as though
it were an open-market day in your bedroom.
What is this fascination
with silk scarves and winter-high boots,
coat-hangers and grandma's sewing tin
lay strewn across secret novels above dressing tables.
There is an enormous silence
inhabiting the bedroom.
Curiosity demands to know what they are up to.
You call out to your children by their first, second and
surname,
gently interrupting their playtime.
Home Sweet Home
blue
skies
light
sounds
sun
glaring
plane
spotting
distance
melaleuca
macadamia
mangos
fabric softener
hills hoist
eucalyptus
disinfectant
wooden pegs
ebony underwear
kookaburras
disfigured swings
compost
tree house
improper branches
dandelions
corrugated iron
upstairs
phone rings
missed calls
bull ants
clover
subtle neighbours
menstruating
thinking
rinsing
broad
clay
feet
bleeding
kneeling
Mother Earth
sinking
floating
waiting
distraction
amazing
hysterical
water
drought
consumption
just another
laundry day
images
dancing
parading
idle
lost inside
the moment
in my beloved
sacred
herstorical
urban backyard
Seasonal Change
Primary Education
In year one I was the quiet native
Two years later the friendly coloured girl
By year five, it was I, the inquisitive aborigine
Entering high school everyone wanted to be indigenous
When I disagreed with conformity, they would whisper, 'is
it
because she's black?'
On my very first day at work I was asked 'what nationality
are
you', when I told them I was Aboriginal they replied, 'But
you
look so clean'.
Last year, hailing a taxi in George Street, Sydney, the
driver
asks, 'Where are you from?' I ask the driver to take a wild
guess, after surveying the paying customer sitting in the
back
seat, he triggers the meter then casually replies, 'You sure
don't
sound koori because you speak English very well'.
There are some days when 'others' may need to persevere
with my silence ... because there are some days when I
may
no longer have the inclination nor the fucking head space
to
educate your reply.
Against the Odds
When I was 21 years of age
I broke seven mirrors
In seven days
They tell me
That's 49 years bad luck
It's not looking good
21 plus 49
Equals 70
Will I live to see that age?
Statistically speaking
I will cheat superstition
By death
What a way to beat the odds
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Anonymous Premonition by Yvette Holt. Copyright © 2008 Yvette Holt. Excerpted by permission of University of Queensland Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page,I: 4077,
Ballroom Romancing,
The Grandest Final,
It Takes a Village,
The Old School Days,
II: Inamorata,
Woman,
Storyteller,
Through My Eyes,
I Am,
Motherhood,
Childhood,
Home Sweet Home,
III: Seasonal Change,
Primary Education,
Against the Odds,
Close The Gap,
Serving It Up,
A Writer's Chopping Block,
Mr Big,
Words ...,
Anonymous Premonition,
September Rain,
Dream Catcher,
The Crimson Divide,
Seasonal Change,
IV: Resilience,
Win, Lose or Draw,
Approximate Despair,
A Line in the Sand,
The Afterbirth of Rape,
Custodial Seeds,
V: Bon Voyage,
Brand New Day,
Aotearoa,
A Traveller's Journal,
Atlantic Whispers,
Acoustic Lover,
Once Bitten,
True Colours,
Jämt Och Ständigt,
VI: Kevin,
Visiting Hours,
Caretaker of Time,
VII: My River City,
Happy New Year,
Hope Street via Skid Row,
The River City,
Bossy Nova,
My Bad,
La Catrina,
Moon Whisper,
Trippin' Over Your Tongue,
Paper Trailing,
Acknowledgments,
Copyright,