those who walked to soak up the moment, smell the roses, or the mangroves, as it were.
Today, Ellen picked up her pace along the boardwalk at Kangaroo Point. Sheâd followed the same routine every morning for years, and even when she was crashing on other peopleâs couches in other suburbs, she always found her way to a place on the river, somewhere, anywhere that gave her a sense of peace. As sweat trickled down the back of her dark red singlet and onto the waistband of her black running shorts, she pounded the pavement in time with the sounds of Michael Bublé blaring through her iPhone. She knew it was loud because those who ran past her smiled in acknowledgement of each song. This canât possibly be good for my ears , she thought to herself.
Although it was autumn, it was still warmer in Brisbane than it was in Mudgee at this time of year, and she didnât miss the frosty mornings one bit. It was the year-round warmer weather and the buzz of activity along the river that had allowed her to fall in love with Brisbane within weeks of arriving. And it was the river, her tiddas and the fact there were more men in the city than the country, that had kept her content ever since.
Ellen paused to stretch her calves and for the umpteenth time to admire the public artwork. As far as she was concerned, Brisbane was way ahead of some other cities with its integrationof local art into the environment. Athletic as a teenager, Ellen had remained the fittest of her tiddas, getting outdoors and exercising whenever she could. On weekends sheâd cycle as far as the Eleanor Schonell Bridge in St Lucia, always stopping to consider the words of Murri poet Samuel Wagan Watson inscribed beneath, glad to see some local Indigenous art getting a start as well.
âIf only theyâd thought about commissioning a local Blackfella to do something, they might not have ended up with this,â sheâd said to Izzy when they checked out the elephant sculpture outside GOMA together. They both wondered how the Maori mob would feel if a Murri artist had won such a commission in Aotearoa. Ellen doubted that would ever happen.
As she reached the steps at the base of the Kangaroo Point Cliffs, boot camp clients were doing their routines up and down the stairs. Ellen took note of the mostly fit, mostly pale people. As both her parents were Wiradjuri, Ellen and her siblings were all much darker skinned than the other tiddas, including Xanthe, whose father was Greek. Hanging out in Kangaroo Point, Ellen had realised she was also darker than many of the locals she passed in nearby streets. Although it was complicated when it came to native title, it was largely accepted among Murris that north of the river was home to the Turrbul mob before the British colonisers arrived. These days, Kangaroo Point had the highest population of Brisbanites living in flats, with a slightly higher percentage of males than females, according to the last census, at least. This statistic alone was enough to keep Ellen loyal to the area.
Ellen felt that Brisbane was still a very white city in many ways. She often thought about her own ancestry as one of the Wiradjuri mob, the largest in New South Wales. âAnd with the best looking people,â Izzy would always joke. She thought about how living on country growing up, knowing her family lines and still working with the mob, had instilled in her a strong sense of Aboriginal identity. And while she never thought about her father, she knew he was a good-looking bloke when he was young; her mother had said so. In fact her mother never spoke harshly of the man she had six children to, not wanting her kids to hate their father. If they chose to do so, it wouldnât be because theyâd been brainwashed. Ellen didnât need brainwashing though; she simply believed that any man who would leave a woman with six kids was a prick and an arsehole, someone worth hating.
Mudgee was full of beautiful
Today, Ellen picked up her pace along the boardwalk at Kangaroo Point. Sheâd followed the same routine every morning for years, and even when she was crashing on other peopleâs couches in other suburbs, she always found her way to a place on the river, somewhere, anywhere that gave her a sense of peace. As sweat trickled down the back of her dark red singlet and onto the waistband of her black running shorts, she pounded the pavement in time with the sounds of Michael Bublé blaring through her iPhone. She knew it was loud because those who ran past her smiled in acknowledgement of each song. This canât possibly be good for my ears , she thought to herself.
Although it was autumn, it was still warmer in Brisbane than it was in Mudgee at this time of year, and she didnât miss the frosty mornings one bit. It was the year-round warmer weather and the buzz of activity along the river that had allowed her to fall in love with Brisbane within weeks of arriving. And it was the river, her tiddas and the fact there were more men in the city than the country, that had kept her content ever since.
Ellen paused to stretch her calves and for the umpteenth time to admire the public artwork. As far as she was concerned, Brisbane was way ahead of some other cities with its integrationof local art into the environment. Athletic as a teenager, Ellen had remained the fittest of her tiddas, getting outdoors and exercising whenever she could. On weekends sheâd cycle as far as the Eleanor Schonell Bridge in St Lucia, always stopping to consider the words of Murri poet Samuel Wagan Watson inscribed beneath, glad to see some local Indigenous art getting a start as well.
âIf only theyâd thought about commissioning a local Blackfella to do something, they might not have ended up with this,â sheâd said to Izzy when they checked out the elephant sculpture outside GOMA together. They both wondered how the Maori mob would feel if a Murri artist had won such a commission in Aotearoa. Ellen doubted that would ever happen.
As she reached the steps at the base of the Kangaroo Point Cliffs, boot camp clients were doing their routines up and down the stairs. Ellen took note of the mostly fit, mostly pale people. As both her parents were Wiradjuri, Ellen and her siblings were all much darker skinned than the other tiddas, including Xanthe, whose father was Greek. Hanging out in Kangaroo Point, Ellen had realised she was also darker than many of the locals she passed in nearby streets. Although it was complicated when it came to native title, it was largely accepted among Murris that north of the river was home to the Turrbul mob before the British colonisers arrived. These days, Kangaroo Point had the highest population of Brisbanites living in flats, with a slightly higher percentage of males than females, according to the last census, at least. This statistic alone was enough to keep Ellen loyal to the area.
Ellen felt that Brisbane was still a very white city in many ways. She often thought about her own ancestry as one of the Wiradjuri mob, the largest in New South Wales. âAnd with the best looking people,â Izzy would always joke. She thought about how living on country growing up, knowing her family lines and still working with the mob, had instilled in her a strong sense of Aboriginal identity. And while she never thought about her father, she knew he was a good-looking bloke when he was young; her mother had said so. In fact her mother never spoke harshly of the man she had six children to, not wanting her kids to hate their father. If they chose to do so, it wouldnât be because theyâd been brainwashed. Ellen didnât need brainwashing though; she simply believed that any man who would leave a woman with six kids was a prick and an arsehole, someone worth hating.
Mudgee was full of beautiful
Similar Books
