Unlearning the bullshit colonial standards of language and while one word at a time I reclaim my Dyribal language. Teaching my nieces and nephews ‘djina’, ‘dingal’, ‘mala’, and ‘banggu’ so that they can know their bodies as black and their words as wealth. Speaking patiently and with intent to honour the language that my ancestors carried and that carried them for thousands of generations; a slow process of reclamation that swirls in the mouth and unfurls gently.
The contradiction of a government that would force custodians into violating lore and felling? 400-year-old trees, but within the same half century, give seeds of those trees to a rich man for him to preserve the species. A bittersweet notion that these seeds would be forced to take root in an unfamiliar environment by a foreign hand but would thrive nonetheless and outlive those who cut the line.
Sitting with my Nanna and wanting to soak up every detail of her life that she has to share. Knowing that these conversations would have been clearer 10 years earlier and that there are some stories that will never be told again, whether forgotten or forced from memory. Resenting the policies and people that fractured her reality and killed centuries of culture through storytelling; taking her voice so that her own grandchildren will never speak it either.
Genuine rage at the indifference to genocide happening in Palestine from people who claim to be radical, to be sovereign or to be ‘one of the good whitefullas’. People who are insistent that they are ready to do the work to stand with First Nations people but remain silent as another Indigenous community is being slaughtered; who fail to see the glaring similarities in experiences but still preach that they would have been on the right side of history from 1788.
The weight of attempting to hold family together as we break cycles and heal intergenerational trauma. To encourage individuals to take accountability for their abusive and shitty behaviour while simultaneously recognising that the villianising of people without the context of their own abuse is contradictory. Drawing lines and being clear about what is acceptable and what is not; loving myself unconditionally by loving others conditionally.
Trying to be a role model of strong boundaries and healthy relationships for my nieces. To be loving and warm in a world that only ever tries to harden and fill with hate; to hold a space for them to be soft and safe, always.
Carrying death every day; whether it be an anniversary, a death in custody at the hands of colonial institutions; holding the magnitude of a family’s loss and dreading the day that it will inevitably be my own. To hold energy so that grief is in amongst daily processes and shelved, depending on capacity; having to prioritise capitalist gains over resting and empathy and the culmination of it all, forever looming.
Writing this list, reflecting and allowing the rage to move my chewed-up fingertips; frustration at having to be articulate in order to convey a message that feels feral inside my gut. I know that this is not how rage escapes fully but is leaked in tolerable, moderated sips. The nominal complexities of my being an Aboriginal woman summarised in 1500 words.
The intent is not to alienate or complain but to recount reality and attempt to release some of the rage that shapes me. I cannot expect to feel resolved or certain that they will never happen again but to practise that the feelings these moments bring up are real and of consequence. Evidently, I have carried some of them for decades.
This list is not exhaustive, but exhausting.
This list is reality.
