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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780702250651 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | University of Queensland Press |
| Publication date: | 08/01/2012 |
| Series: | David Unaipon Award Winners Series |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 84 |
| File size: | 720 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Skin painting
Winner of the David Unaipon Award
By Elizabeth Hodgson
University of Queensland Press
Copyright © 2008 Elizabeth HodgsonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7022-5065-1
CHAPTER 1
Skin Painting
I am sitting in an exhibition room;
alone
I am trying to trace my history
through the paintings I see.
Dot paintings in varying sizes and colours
track the footsteps of the old people.
Behind me are the bark paintings,
their earthy tones connect me to the land.
The eclectic styles of the contemporary
artists are telling their stories
tracing their past.
They are not my stories,
they are a part of my culture; a history we share.
My story cannot be painted onto a canvas –
it is a skin painting.
Somewhere beyond this room is the
sound of children
tumbling into the gallery
flinging backpacks into a corner.
They race up the stairs; crowding into this room.
Their enthusiasm is not unwelcome.
Some dash from painting to painting
talking quickly – giving their own interpretations.
Others move slowly
their eyes following a path of dots
or symbols in the bark.
These children are learning the meanings of these
paintings;
they talk about water holes,
food sources, animal tracks,
the paths of the old people.
These children are learning my culture.
I am wondering about their history;
can they trace their past through these paintings?
I look at their features – eyes, noses,
the shape of their legs, the colour of their skin.
Before I finish a teacher enters and calls them.
At school I spent my time staring
out of the window
uniforms, classrooms, assemblies, British colonisation
lining up for sun-warmed bottled milk –
I wanted to find a secluded spot under a tree
where I could disappear –
disappear from view;
where I could see and not be seen.
I wanted to vanish into myself
into my skin.
Two girls linger by a triptych —
in one panel a naked white man menaces a young black girl.
In the second panel the young girl
is lying on the ground,
her vagina exposed,
her vulva red and swollen–
she is dead.
One girl points at the penis – oh yuk!
Her friend points at the damaged vagina;
they step back in horror
and rush from the room,
grabbing for the safety of each other's hands.
The room is quiet again;
I lose myself in the painting of the girl,
she is young, unprotected.
Little footsteps interrupt my focus,
a small child skips into the room and is surprised by my
presence,
she stops.
She is waiting; she is waiting for her mother.
A woman enters and claims the child
they leave without looking back
I am alone.
I think of the young girl in the painting
her helplessness, her struggle,
her fear, her pain.
The children in another part of the gallery
are animated,
the gallery holds their laughter
throws it from room to room.
On the wall behind me the bark paintings hang –
I ignore them.
I think of the girl in the painting; the children laughing in
the distance.
The bark paintings are drawing me back –
back to my past.
This is my memory of my life;
no-one else can own this memory. I can tell you anything
I can manipulate the truth to my advantage –
how would you know?
When I speak my memory,
its force makes people forget
I can make them doubt their own past
my words can insinuate themselves into their reality
I stand my ground and wait; yes, they tell me, you are
right.
My memory is long and dangerous
I can frighten people with my memory.
If you had my memory how would you hold it?
Could you touch its heart,
feel it beating in the palm of your hand?
Could you breathe in its scent,
hold it in your nostrils; carry it with you
to be recalled anytime?
What if it scratched you, bit into your flesh
jabbed roughly into your tender places?
Would you drop it; try to push it away?
There are too many things I want to forget
but I have a memory that never stops turning.
This room where I sit and remember
is not large,
my life is painted on these walls
my head is a canvas of memories –
painted with splatters, dots
some framed, others are loose, hung askew
I could carry this room in my head.
Bindawalla, binda, bindi, bindii
bindiis prick at my heels in summer
shoeless fair-skinned child.
At Bindawalla, the hospital
where only Aboriginal babies were born,
the nurses laughed as they put me in a shoe-box
and gave me to my mother; she cried.
I was weighed and measured.
With the Apgar score they rated me
to see if I could survive this world on my own.
Little two-year-old in yellow plastic sandals
second-hand, the neighbour's child discarded
bright yellow, soft from wear
shoes that made a dull soft sound –
pflatt, pflatt, pflatt
when she ran through her parents' house
A flash of yellow music at her feet
Mr Cage, can you imagine
a world where the only music
was the music of life; the percussion of the everyday?
clanging of plates, the jangle of cutlery, utensils,
swishing of the straw broom across the wooden floor
empty beer bottles ringing
impatient drumming on an old table
heavy boots pacing the floor.
This was the world into which I was born –
my four years and thirty-three days of life music.
Then the music changed;
the crescendo
a big, black car, a new home.
A life without the sound of my mother.
I am in a room; it is day but the room is dark,
outside I hear children playing, laughing.
In this room is a tall glass cabinet
it is full of objects; collections of a tourist.
I am looking at these things through the glass
I cannot unlock the door.
There are snakes coiled in liquid in glass jars, insects
pinned on boards,
old photographs of people and places,
postcards of deserts and beaches and old cities.
There are big shells and small shells, tiny shells on thread,
beads and seeds and painted sticks, boomerangs,
black dolls with European features and
a stuffed baby crocodile whose rough skin I long to touch.
While I am looking I see the reflection of a man's face in
the glass
it is ghostly, transparent. He stands too close beside me
when he speaks he has an accent – he is English –
I am learning to speak like him.
These things in this cabinet are his possessions;
he has many possessions.
On the wall in this room are bark paintings;
they are too big for the cabinet.
Once I tried to touch the edge of a painting
but his anger and his hands were quick.
I am learning how to please.
Sometimes the man and his wife go away
they drive to Alice Springs in their old car.
When they come back they show us slides of their trip.
On the wall there is a picture of a red rose with a biblical
verse
it reads: suffer the little children to come unto me;
the man takes the picture down,
the wall is bare except for a big blunt nail
when the man shows the slides I look at the nail
mostly it is in the trees or the sky.
There is a slide of an old black man. He is smiling –
his eyes are deep and dark, his teeth are white.
This is our friend Jacky says the man showing the slides
he has another name but we just call him Jacky
and he is a Christian, says the man's wife.
The other adults in the room are pleased at this,
they murmur Amen; I look for the nail in the wall,
it is poking out of the black man's eye.
Another slide – a black woman, she is squinting
this is Jacky's wife, Mary. She's a Christian too
it was wonderful to enjoy their fellowship.
They didn't enjoy the fellowship of my parents
as they tell them their children no longer belong to them.
They held puritanical hands against their faces
to repel the alcoholic fumes,
as my father asks to see his children
for one last time.
These people give me a religion I do not want
they are moulding me with their beliefs,
I am frightened I will burn in hell.
They are changing me, they are changing my mind.
I get out of bed at six o'clock
my bed is always made with hospital corners
there are no wrinkles, my sheets are pulled tight
I stand beside my bed waiting for the inspection
then I dress myself
socks and shoes at all times
an apron over my play dress
no slacks or shorts.
We have bible study every day
they teach us about a god who kills
and a meek and mild Jesus.
When the breakfast bell rings
we line up in numerical order
outside the dining hall.
On command we march single file
and stand behind our chairs
then when we sit
and say grace.
We always use a serviette
and never speak at mealtimes
we eat everything on our plates
and stay 'til everyone has finished.
I go to bed at 6pm
because I am only four years old.
They change my name, I am no longer Elizabeth
because another girl here has the same name;
now I must answer to Beth.
They have given me a number,
this number is tagged on my clothes
my undies, socks and shoes.
It is cut into the wooden towel rack,
the napkin ring,
it is emblazoned on my limp cloth lunch bag.
Later, when I go to school
friends ask why –
I say that's my number; that's me,
I am girl number one.
Little four-year-old with bells on her slippers —
tinkling through the halls of her new home
tip-toeing past his office
his hearing is acute
the door opens
she's ordered in
He locks the door
and I am alone with him – inside.
a betrayal of bells at my feet
Every weekday – porridge
thin, grey,
slimy gruel
warm, sticky
when I refuse
it is forced down my throat
When I don't eat my porridge,
they call me ungrateful,
naughty.
They tell me bad children go to hell.
I have to stay at the table until I have eaten all.
The other children go,
I sit quietly without eating,
watching as the tables around me
are cleared and the washing-up is done.
After the chores,
a couple of the adults come back,
one pinches my nose
grasps my jaw and forces my mouth open,
the other spoons the porridge down.
They don't let go of me until the bowl is empty.
The food doesn't stay down;
when I am released I rush
to the outside toilets.
This is a daily ritual.
Sometimes my big sister
helps by eating my porridge.
She is caught and belted,
then they move her to another table.
Now I am weak and very thin;
the doctor comes to see me.
He is worried that I will die
and orders that I am taken
to the hospital.
Drip by precious drip, my life re-begins
in the hospital bed.
Unfamiliar faces peer at me;
they seemed concerned
with my fragile existence, you're awake,
they say, you've been asleep for a long time.
When I am strong enough
I sit up comb my hair, straighten my sheets,
put on my best smile; and wait.
I wait for my mother,
wait for a visitor from the Home.
I wait and wait.
The pink ladies bring chocolates and smiles.
I see the pain in their eyes
as they ask where my mother is.
I have a toy stroller, filled with dolls
a pink plastic pig with a yellow shirt
a koala made of lamb's wool
and a large dress-up doll.
This is my little family which
I take around the hospital,
pushing the stroller
visiting the elderly women.
They sit me on their beds
we laugh and tell stories.
When the nurse comes in she is cross
and stands me on the floor,
she says that I must walk and build up my strength.
I push the stroller along the corridors
and when I let the stroller go, I fall over.
I am too weak and thin to walk on my own.
One day my guardian comes to visit
I sit up straight, smooth the sheets and smile,
she stands beside the bed and tells me to pack my bag
because I am going home.
She opens the bedside cupboard, pulls out my clothes
throws them on the bed, she is in a hurry
and tells me I am wasting her time.
She leaves the ward.
I get off the bed, dress myself,
pack my bag and tuck my koala under my arm.
My guardian is in the corridor waiting.
She walks quickly to the car while I skip and run
trying to keep up.
I am happy that I will see my sisters and brothers again.
I know many places well – some I can still smell
the coke burning in the huge combustion stove
the bread – day-old – toasting on the top
under the weight of the lid,
slice after slice of warm brown toast
tumbling from the wire racks. Toast enough
for ten children at one time
the steam captured under the cotton cloth trapping the heat
but always cold by the time
we sit down for breakfast.
On a high stool in the kitchen,
writing my first words,
while s he works across the table from me;
I with my pencil
she with her fat fingers working flour and lard
milk and sugar to a sweet pastry dough
rolling and shaping, cutting and trimming
I write two words for every dozen pies
her deft fingers could turn out
quick floured hands – scooping
sprinkling – pie after pie
lined along the table ready for baking.
Whenever I write she leans across the table
takes the paper; she reads and frowns.
In silence she raises the lid
on the combustion stove
drops my words inside.
I watch as the fire leaps up
then dies away from my sight,
write something nice, she says.
She teaches me to write
and teaches me to destroy.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Skin painting by Elizabeth Hodgson. Copyright © 2008 Elizabeth Hodgson. 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,Skin Painting,
I am sitting in an exhibition room; alone,
Somewhere beyond this room is the sound of children,
At school I spent my time staring out of the window,
Two girls linger by a triptych —,
The room is quiet again;,
This is my memory of my life;,
Bindawalla, binda, bindi, bindii,
Little two-year-old in yellow plastic sandals,
Mr Cage, can you imagine,
I am in a room; it is day but the room is dark,,
Sometimes the man and his wife go away,
These people give me a religion I do not want,
They change my name, I am no longer Elizabeth,
Little four-year-old with bells on her slippers —,
Every weekday – porridge,
When I don't eat my porridge,,
Drip by precious drip, my life re-begins,
I have a toy stroller, filled with dolls,
One day my guardian comes to visit,
I know many places well – some I can still smell,
This place that I know well,
My best friend Vicky and I were invited to the minister's place for tea,
Some memory paintings are suitable for public display,
Before Lutanda my father taught us about bush-tucker,
Sometimes I'd buff my shoes until I was mesmerised,
My father gave me a camera,
The adults at Lutanda ran our little lives,
My mother knitted herself a yellow jumper,
The tree-lined street where my guardian's lover lived,
Sometimes we would knock and knock but the door stayed shut,
Father gained custody of me and my siblings,
Now I am fifteen, I am living with my father,
My father is waltzing me around the lounge room,
At seventeen I moved into the anonymity and solitude of Sydney,
Revered in her church community, the step-grandmother,
Have you ever stood on the edge of your country and wondered where you belong,
I am twenty, homeless and restless,
Husband number one tells me,
Husband number one,
My culture and my place were things I did not know how to reach,
I have an obsession with polished boots,
Once, I became a Christian,
There is so much I have lost, there are things I've never known about my people,
When you walk this land do you notice the tracks of my people?,
I am a Wiradjuri woman,
I've heard it said I'm now at the invisibility age,
What is your yardstick, your benchmark?,
I am sitting in an exhibition room in an art gallery,
These words are my phoenix,
I will not deliberately hurt you,,
Acknowledgments,
About the David Unaipon Award,
SWALLOW THE AIR,
SMOKE ENCRYPTED WHISPERS,
HOME,
Copyright,