The material on this page is available to AustLit subscribers. If you are a subscriber or are from a subscribing organisation, please log in to gain full access. To explore options for subscribing to this unique teaching, research, and publishing resource for Australian culture and storytelling, please contact us or find out more.
'We get to vote just once every few years, but every single day we consume, we buy, we acquire. Stuff. And more stuff. Each item had to be made or manufactured and transported to us, all at vast cumulative cost to the world's resources. Most of us accumulate far more than we can use, and regularly yearn for a home devoid of clutter.' (Publication abstract)
'I thought I'd drop you a line about life, the state of the planet and the future of our country. Don't worry, it's just a bicycle ride around stuff that we've mentioned in passing but not in writing. Yeah, I know, it's a bit of a pose isn't it - parents publishing letters to their children?' (Publication abstract)
' I am proud to be an Aboriginal woman and a descendant of the Tagalaka clan from Croydon in North Queensland. My mother, Myrtle Rose Casey, once said to me, 'Never forget where you have come from but you don't have to go back there.' She was talking about a time when we lived in shacks on the outskirts of Cairns. As I began writing the Mabo Oration to honour Eddie Koiki Mabo last year, I realised that many young Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people may be aware of the High Court Mabo judgment in 1992, but not of the negotiated settlement that followed the judgment - what is known as the 'grand bargain'. This lack of knowledge is of concern to me, especially since more than half of our population are children and young adults.' (Publication abstract)
'It looked like beer o'clock in a city pub on a Friday afternoon. Suits, noise, movement. But it wasn't. It was 9 am in a suburban courthouse on a crisp April morning. So many men in suits, blokeing around, smiling, shaking hands, patting backs. Solicitors, prosecutors, perpetrators. I couldn't tell the difference. They were lit by the sun shining through the large round skylight above. Some suits were broader than the shoulders under them; others were worn like a second skin. My ex-husband looked comfortable in his, talking to his lawyer, 'I can't believe it...there's no grounds mental problems.' I felt the muscles in my body tighten, snapping back into familiar places.' (Publication summary)
'Saran is six. His family is new to our small, rural town. He is embarrassed when I ask him about the Indian he speaks at home. At the parent-teacher interview, Saran's mother nods while I speak, nods again as the older sister translates. I've not yet met Saran's dad, but Saran proudly tells me he is very very busy at their restaurant.' (Publication abstract)
'Early in my life in Australia, during the year I spent on a bridging visa that included no work permit, and with the little savings I had running out, I rejoiced when a new job offer finally came my way. My prospective employer, Boris, knew about my financial hardships. He was also my co-worker at the only cash-in-hand job I'd managed to find until that point and which earned me five dollars per hour - a Russian video library in St Kilda. My family left Russia for Israel when I was twelve, but now, at twenty-six, I still spoke fairly decent Russian. And I loved that place, which was really a cross between a neighbourhood house and a crazy supermarket that sold everything from smoked salmon to dubbed South American soap operas. Yet I couldn't survive on those wages. And Boris said he had something for me.' (Publication abstract)
'The baby-name book is the size of a pack of cards, left on top of a bin outside the port. I picture a pregnant woman reading it, circling her belly with her palm, looking up to see the ferry arrive which will take her back to England. She's been on holiday, beside a clean, warm beach in France. Maybe she left the book by mistake, having found the perfect name, or maybe she and her husband could never agree. Maybe, the baby never arrived...' (Publication abstract)
'My father, Alex Carey, a fourth-generation Australian, was a lefty and an activist, who worked long hours as a university lecturer. But despite - or perhaps because of - being a largely absent father, he was my childhood hero. I marched with him in peace protests and listened to him address anti-war rallies; I wore a Troops Out badge to Sutherland North Primary School and showed photos of napalmed Vietnamese peasants to friends whose older brothers had been conscripted. Like my father, I exerted little influence.' (Publication abstract)
'Not many people like me. I have no friends. And I would like to know why. People begin friendly enough, at least not unfriendly, and nobody is rude to me, yet none have taken the next step, which is taking an interest in what I have to say, how I manage to live. I don't know what I have said or not said, or what it is about my manner that has put them off. It doesn't take long before I see there is little of hope of them becoming my friend, or friendly towards me, let alone getting to see them again, already they are casting around at other people for possible friendship. People don't seek me out. They don't need me. People quickly lose interest in me. I don't find other people especially interesting either, I can't off-hand think of one I'd like to see again, but at least I stay in the one spot and keep talking - I make an effort. I have things to say about many different topics! There is plenty to notice in a face, including mine. I'd say that's something most people haven't picked up, don't bother about, although it's an area I've been concentrating on for years. If I'm talking to somebody I make a point of paying attention, and yet I notice they don't look at me. People are concerned with themselves, nothing much more. For some time now I have made a practice of looking closely at the face of whoever I am talking to. I am put off by those men and women who have the deep vertical lines running down from the eyes, giving them a permanently worn disappointed look, in men mostly, as if they've thrown in the towel. I don't just scan a face, I have been known to stare too much. Often I finish their sentences for them. On first meeting when the slate is clean I notice their politeness. This is how we are all supposed to be. It doesn't take long for their attention to shift and they move away. And then I never hear from them again...' (Publication abstract)
