Delta40
10-27-2011, 06:02 PM
Shirlene staggers off the bus on Wednesday while I drink coffee on my verandah. She's 34 and as skinny as anyone I've seen. Her drinking buddy is an older man called Avon.
'I was named after the river.' The river is turbulent and every year, budding canoeists try to make the descent safely to win some grand monetary prize.
Together they travel around, toting their green shoping bag which contains 4 litres of the cheapest moselle you can buy, spending time with relatives. I wave to her. Ever since my friend and I stopped some drunk bastard from punching her up at the bus stop last year, she has always called me 'sista'. It's actually a compliment, like I've become part of her family and she hugs me each time our paths cross.
You'd think that in the light of day, she would be more lucid. I don't know why I expect that. People get together with friends to unwind at night and in the day, they either work or maybe feed the mouths of children but the reality is, we don't all share the same existence. For some it's about survival. Shirlene is a survivor, no matter what anyone else says about her.
'Hey my sista. how you going?'
'I'm doing alright. What about you Shirlene? What's happening?'
She takes a seat and asks if she can steal a couple of smokes. Go for it I say. I need to kick the habit anyway. Avon sits on the stoop staring toward the road with his one good eye, like an aging watchdog. The other one is gooey and the pupil is off centre. I can never be sure if he's looking directly at me on the few occasions he talks.
Anyway, with a smoke each, they take out the moselle. Avon fills a small coffee jar with the stuff but gives the tupperware container to Shirlene. He sways and I notice his hands shake uncontrollably but he manages to get most of the wine in. I joke and tell him to be careful and he tells me he is immune to the stuff now like it is just a plain fact. Facts are relative but he believes it and after a few drags and a drink, he tells me the only problem he suffers from is blackouts.
'Don't you fall off my bloody stoop then!' Shirlene laughs when he says it's ok coz there's nothing but grass to land on.
'He'll be alright. You know he always makes sure I got a drink first eh.'
Like any good bartender, Avon keeps the drinks topped up. He's got pride as he battles his way through life.
'I do too. Shirlene is always served before me.'
We talk general stuff first. The weather. Cloudy one day, shiny the next. Her words are slurred but not just from alcohol. Despite her young age, her top teeth have rotted till all that is left is grey black bone at the top of her gums. She is still pretty, even with a lisp but they both look much older than their years. I ask about her family.
'Theys ok.' I hear about uncles, second cousins, grandparents and the mother who is not really her mother but is like one to her. She struggles to remember some of their names but I know I'll never join the dots in a million years so it doesn't matter. We talk about people we know in the community.
I offer to get a couple of plastic cups and joke to Avon that no matter how much he drinks, he deserves more than a coffee jar. Shirlene laughs at him and says he takes it everywhere coz he's real good to her with the tupperware container. She's teasing him but he maintains his watchdog position, loyal to the woman he feels he protects.
At the lowest point of chronic alcholism, he's still a gentleman and makes sure Shirlene doesn't go without.
I tell them about my experience with moselle. Once I drank so much of it, I passed out with my head in the toilet and swore I'd never drink it again. With two new plastic cups, they're looking a bit better but Shirlene has had a hard year of it. I know it and for a selfish moment, I thank God I have never travelled her path.
There's such a thing as woman's business and I know she wants to tell me something but Avon is there, his presence making her feel safe but also keeping her silent.
'I don't go nowhere without him.'
I think he is her uncle but as they tell me where their family come from and what happened to them, I understand family is the family that stands by you.
Avon takes a turn in my overgrown front yard and Shirlene whispers incomprehensibly about periods. I tell her why she might be having trouble but she guzzles the wine anxiously.
'Geez! You starting to freak me out sista.' So I shut up before Avon comes back to re-fill the cups.
'Don't tell anyone coz it gives me pain you know?'
I promise not to. She is a woman in a suburban landscape but no matter whether she lived up north with relatives or down here, she has had her fill of violence, abuse, enough alcohol to rot her insides and terrible, terrible mournful loss.
I imagine me, a white middle class woman acting like I've got an idea but I don't. Everyday, I'm trying to find solutions for people in my life but that formula will never work with Shirlene. I know she's strong. She wouldn't be sitting on my verandah after everything she's been through if she wasn't. When she was younger her mans repeatedly kicked her in the stomach while she was five months pregnant. She takes another drink, shivers and the tears well up as she relives the moment of delivering dead twins. Lying on the kitchen floor while he went out drinking with his mates.
'Doesn't that make you angry Avon? What did your family do?' She lowers her head. Nobody speaks. I can see she is grateful that he accompanies her everywhere because she is too afraid to be on the street by herself now and my direct question is something she can't possibly address. He replies,
'I look after her. I always will.' She smiles fondly at him then and agrees that he's been good to her.
I tell them I'm sorry. Sorry for what happened to her. Sorry for them being stolen from their families as kids. In those days, they had nothing but happy memories before the security of family was ripped from them in the most callous way possible. Then Avon tells me about the homes he was put into, how he lost his sister as part of the stolen generation. He boasts that he got to meet the Queen years ago when he lived down South.
More smokes do the rounds. Avon pours Shirlene and himself another drink. I mention the death of my Father. Avon tells me his Father waited for him to come home before he died. I heard about Fathers clinging on till the son arrived so they could pass on. His Mother collapsed in the kitchen from a massive heart attack and died right there in his arms. He received government reparation on Sorry Day and the first thing he did was buy his parents a headstone each.
'I did that for them. They deserved respect.' I agree but my sentiments don't come close to what it must have meant for him to pay that sort of homage to his family.
The rest of the cash went on booze and a couple of ounces of dope till finally he was back on Centrelink waiting for his fortnightly payment so he could carry on drinking.
Shirlene tells me a brutal horror that recently happened but she can't speak about it too loudly. She doesn't want Avon to hear. Her mother is mad about what happened but the Police have never pressed charges, even though a gun was held to her head after the event.
'He was a white c unt. I know where he lives but I dunno who can help.'
Shirlene doesn't ask for help in the way I expect people to. That's my shortcoming in understanding cultural differences. There aren't enough Indigenous services or resources to get people to unfold their history and do anything about it.
Elizabeth II is in town again and the council have spread wooden chests like the Endeavour shipped on that historic twelve thousand mile journey. They're artistically displayed all around the galleries filled with 17th and 18th century artwork from England. All week I've watched council workers shovel in red earth then stick in some native plants. The insides of the chest lids have Indigenous dot paintings. Each one is supposed to tell a story but more likely some art graduates have been paid mega bucks to make similar patterns so the Queen can think Australians are all one people.
Everyone is hurting. Not just Shirlene but a whole population trapped in relentless displacement. How can they help each other through the haze of cheap wine? I feel powerless to help as well, or maybe it's just too hard and like most people I ask, 'What the hell can I do?' then ponder what I feel like cooking for dinner that night.
I recall all that is required for evil to thrive is for good people to do nothing. There isn't a real answer to that either. You see, we all think we're good people in the first place. So I laugh along with them, tell Shirlene she's a good woman but it probably isn't going to change anything. Is being her friend enough?
With each cup of moselle, Shirlene's speech gets more fragmented. She starts to forget my name and her broken, rotting teeth combined with a fried brain makes it difficult to get any story she'd ever tell me out. Especially the pain that eats away at her insides. I reckon that is what is killing her more than the wine. I want to listen but I feel as genuine as every one of those hypocritical colonial chests in the city.
So we manage to go back to laughing about everyday stuff. She tells me I've been good to her but I've done nothing to deserve it. My naive question about whether she is getting counselling for her trauma seems so pathetic. Who will she talk to? Shirlene isn't going to sit in some sterile room while a psychologist takes notes and then tries to tackle the issue of chronic alcoholism. She wouldn't tell her story to those peoples anyway. Far better to sit among the people who know and share a kindred spirit, passing the moselle round. Even if woman's business remains woman's business and men's business remains men's business, Shirlene and Avon possess a unique knowledge. They have never forgotten their roots or the stories handed down through the generations and of that, I'm almost envious.
I give them the last of my smokes and she hugs me before Avon holds her hand so she doesn't fall down my steps.
I owe Shirlene and Avon this story. If they can't tell it, then a ten pound pom will. But this is the shallowest of narrations because I know the real story belongs only to them. For now, it's the best I can do for two people who, as children bounded across the hot northern plains like kangaroos yet today they can barely keep their balance as they lean on each other to make the long distance home - wherever that home might be.
I'm sorry. Real sorry. I mean it.
As the sun sets, I wonder idly what jackass came up with the idea for Sorry Day.
'I was named after the river.' The river is turbulent and every year, budding canoeists try to make the descent safely to win some grand monetary prize.
Together they travel around, toting their green shoping bag which contains 4 litres of the cheapest moselle you can buy, spending time with relatives. I wave to her. Ever since my friend and I stopped some drunk bastard from punching her up at the bus stop last year, she has always called me 'sista'. It's actually a compliment, like I've become part of her family and she hugs me each time our paths cross.
You'd think that in the light of day, she would be more lucid. I don't know why I expect that. People get together with friends to unwind at night and in the day, they either work or maybe feed the mouths of children but the reality is, we don't all share the same existence. For some it's about survival. Shirlene is a survivor, no matter what anyone else says about her.
'Hey my sista. how you going?'
'I'm doing alright. What about you Shirlene? What's happening?'
She takes a seat and asks if she can steal a couple of smokes. Go for it I say. I need to kick the habit anyway. Avon sits on the stoop staring toward the road with his one good eye, like an aging watchdog. The other one is gooey and the pupil is off centre. I can never be sure if he's looking directly at me on the few occasions he talks.
Anyway, with a smoke each, they take out the moselle. Avon fills a small coffee jar with the stuff but gives the tupperware container to Shirlene. He sways and I notice his hands shake uncontrollably but he manages to get most of the wine in. I joke and tell him to be careful and he tells me he is immune to the stuff now like it is just a plain fact. Facts are relative but he believes it and after a few drags and a drink, he tells me the only problem he suffers from is blackouts.
'Don't you fall off my bloody stoop then!' Shirlene laughs when he says it's ok coz there's nothing but grass to land on.
'He'll be alright. You know he always makes sure I got a drink first eh.'
Like any good bartender, Avon keeps the drinks topped up. He's got pride as he battles his way through life.
'I do too. Shirlene is always served before me.'
We talk general stuff first. The weather. Cloudy one day, shiny the next. Her words are slurred but not just from alcohol. Despite her young age, her top teeth have rotted till all that is left is grey black bone at the top of her gums. She is still pretty, even with a lisp but they both look much older than their years. I ask about her family.
'Theys ok.' I hear about uncles, second cousins, grandparents and the mother who is not really her mother but is like one to her. She struggles to remember some of their names but I know I'll never join the dots in a million years so it doesn't matter. We talk about people we know in the community.
I offer to get a couple of plastic cups and joke to Avon that no matter how much he drinks, he deserves more than a coffee jar. Shirlene laughs at him and says he takes it everywhere coz he's real good to her with the tupperware container. She's teasing him but he maintains his watchdog position, loyal to the woman he feels he protects.
At the lowest point of chronic alcholism, he's still a gentleman and makes sure Shirlene doesn't go without.
I tell them about my experience with moselle. Once I drank so much of it, I passed out with my head in the toilet and swore I'd never drink it again. With two new plastic cups, they're looking a bit better but Shirlene has had a hard year of it. I know it and for a selfish moment, I thank God I have never travelled her path.
There's such a thing as woman's business and I know she wants to tell me something but Avon is there, his presence making her feel safe but also keeping her silent.
'I don't go nowhere without him.'
I think he is her uncle but as they tell me where their family come from and what happened to them, I understand family is the family that stands by you.
Avon takes a turn in my overgrown front yard and Shirlene whispers incomprehensibly about periods. I tell her why she might be having trouble but she guzzles the wine anxiously.
'Geez! You starting to freak me out sista.' So I shut up before Avon comes back to re-fill the cups.
'Don't tell anyone coz it gives me pain you know?'
I promise not to. She is a woman in a suburban landscape but no matter whether she lived up north with relatives or down here, she has had her fill of violence, abuse, enough alcohol to rot her insides and terrible, terrible mournful loss.
I imagine me, a white middle class woman acting like I've got an idea but I don't. Everyday, I'm trying to find solutions for people in my life but that formula will never work with Shirlene. I know she's strong. She wouldn't be sitting on my verandah after everything she's been through if she wasn't. When she was younger her mans repeatedly kicked her in the stomach while she was five months pregnant. She takes another drink, shivers and the tears well up as she relives the moment of delivering dead twins. Lying on the kitchen floor while he went out drinking with his mates.
'Doesn't that make you angry Avon? What did your family do?' She lowers her head. Nobody speaks. I can see she is grateful that he accompanies her everywhere because she is too afraid to be on the street by herself now and my direct question is something she can't possibly address. He replies,
'I look after her. I always will.' She smiles fondly at him then and agrees that he's been good to her.
I tell them I'm sorry. Sorry for what happened to her. Sorry for them being stolen from their families as kids. In those days, they had nothing but happy memories before the security of family was ripped from them in the most callous way possible. Then Avon tells me about the homes he was put into, how he lost his sister as part of the stolen generation. He boasts that he got to meet the Queen years ago when he lived down South.
More smokes do the rounds. Avon pours Shirlene and himself another drink. I mention the death of my Father. Avon tells me his Father waited for him to come home before he died. I heard about Fathers clinging on till the son arrived so they could pass on. His Mother collapsed in the kitchen from a massive heart attack and died right there in his arms. He received government reparation on Sorry Day and the first thing he did was buy his parents a headstone each.
'I did that for them. They deserved respect.' I agree but my sentiments don't come close to what it must have meant for him to pay that sort of homage to his family.
The rest of the cash went on booze and a couple of ounces of dope till finally he was back on Centrelink waiting for his fortnightly payment so he could carry on drinking.
Shirlene tells me a brutal horror that recently happened but she can't speak about it too loudly. She doesn't want Avon to hear. Her mother is mad about what happened but the Police have never pressed charges, even though a gun was held to her head after the event.
'He was a white c unt. I know where he lives but I dunno who can help.'
Shirlene doesn't ask for help in the way I expect people to. That's my shortcoming in understanding cultural differences. There aren't enough Indigenous services or resources to get people to unfold their history and do anything about it.
Elizabeth II is in town again and the council have spread wooden chests like the Endeavour shipped on that historic twelve thousand mile journey. They're artistically displayed all around the galleries filled with 17th and 18th century artwork from England. All week I've watched council workers shovel in red earth then stick in some native plants. The insides of the chest lids have Indigenous dot paintings. Each one is supposed to tell a story but more likely some art graduates have been paid mega bucks to make similar patterns so the Queen can think Australians are all one people.
Everyone is hurting. Not just Shirlene but a whole population trapped in relentless displacement. How can they help each other through the haze of cheap wine? I feel powerless to help as well, or maybe it's just too hard and like most people I ask, 'What the hell can I do?' then ponder what I feel like cooking for dinner that night.
I recall all that is required for evil to thrive is for good people to do nothing. There isn't a real answer to that either. You see, we all think we're good people in the first place. So I laugh along with them, tell Shirlene she's a good woman but it probably isn't going to change anything. Is being her friend enough?
With each cup of moselle, Shirlene's speech gets more fragmented. She starts to forget my name and her broken, rotting teeth combined with a fried brain makes it difficult to get any story she'd ever tell me out. Especially the pain that eats away at her insides. I reckon that is what is killing her more than the wine. I want to listen but I feel as genuine as every one of those hypocritical colonial chests in the city.
So we manage to go back to laughing about everyday stuff. She tells me I've been good to her but I've done nothing to deserve it. My naive question about whether she is getting counselling for her trauma seems so pathetic. Who will she talk to? Shirlene isn't going to sit in some sterile room while a psychologist takes notes and then tries to tackle the issue of chronic alcoholism. She wouldn't tell her story to those peoples anyway. Far better to sit among the people who know and share a kindred spirit, passing the moselle round. Even if woman's business remains woman's business and men's business remains men's business, Shirlene and Avon possess a unique knowledge. They have never forgotten their roots or the stories handed down through the generations and of that, I'm almost envious.
I give them the last of my smokes and she hugs me before Avon holds her hand so she doesn't fall down my steps.
I owe Shirlene and Avon this story. If they can't tell it, then a ten pound pom will. But this is the shallowest of narrations because I know the real story belongs only to them. For now, it's the best I can do for two people who, as children bounded across the hot northern plains like kangaroos yet today they can barely keep their balance as they lean on each other to make the long distance home - wherever that home might be.
I'm sorry. Real sorry. I mean it.
As the sun sets, I wonder idly what jackass came up with the idea for Sorry Day.