Collections of poetry and essays about the continuing effects of Australia’s colonial history
This book won the 2022 Stella Prize and shortly afterwards I picked up a copy from Harry Hartog. I am not a huge reader of poetry but there has been some exceptional work published recently from Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander authors and I was very eager to read this award-winning example. It is a very short book so it was ideal for my Short Stack Reading Challenge. While I read it some time ago (the review backlog continues) now, with the upcoming referendum on the Voice, is an especially important time to listen to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people.
Photo is of “Dropbear” by Evelyn Araluen. The paperback book is resting on a large knot of a white gumtree trunk. To the left is bright yellow wattle. The cover is a simple light pink with green text that appears debossed with faint scribbles on it. There is a simple line drawing of a gumnut and gum blossom.
“Dropbear” by Evelyn Araluen is a short collection of poetry and essays that contemplates themes of colonisation, culture and country. Under three broad chapters of GATHER, SPECTRE and DEBRIS, Araluen draws on nature, suburbia, family, language, stories and the persistence of Australiana in the psyche of modern Australia despite its decay in short, sharp pieces.
This is an incredible work that keeps the reader surprised and engaged with experimental form and effective juxtaposition between nostalgic, aching descriptions of beauty and piercing observations about the ongoing impacts of colonisation, work of decolonisation and token settler efforts to address inequality. Araluen particularly hones in on the disjunct between settler celebration of native flora and fauna iconography, while simultaneously rejecting Aboriginal sovereignty. Araluen’s writing is innovative and flexible, traversing a multitude of styles, especially in her free verse poetry, and even adapting techniques like censorship/self-editing and academic styles with considered use of language, be it English, Bundjalung or even profanity.
A cutting insight into the tensions of a modern Australia grappling with a colonial history, beautifully written and captivating throughout.
Historical fiction novel about the impact of colonialism on Wiradyuri people and country
Content warning: racism, colonialism, natural disaster, sexual harassment
I have read a few books by this author and I was really excited when her new historical fiction novel was released back in 2021. I picked up a copy from Read on Books in Katoomba while my significant other was running an ultramarathon, but it has been waiting on my shelf since then. I overestimated how many books I could read during the recent Dewey’s 24 Hour Marathon but this was the second in my stack of blue books and I was determined to read it.
Photo of “Bila Yarrudhanggalangdhuray” by Anita Heiss. The paperback book is in the foreground, and in the background is the Murrumbidgee River, a brown river forking with grassy hills, lots of greenery and a sandy bank on the far side. The cover is also of the Murrumbidgee River with the river reflecting the sky, with cockatoos flying over the water and an embossed design of a lizard in traditional x-ray style.
“Bila Yarrudhanggalangdhuray” by Anita Heiss is a historical fiction novel set in the 1830s about a young Wiradyuri woman called Wagadhaany who lives in Gundagai and works for the Bradley family. Despite warnings from the local Wiradyuri people, the white settlers ignore warnings about building their town on the Murrumbidgee River floodplains and disaster soon strikes. As the waters rise, Wagadhaany and the Bradleys, who refused to leave, make their way to the roof of the house. Although her father heroically rescues many of the town’s residents, after the flood, the impact of colonialism is as strong as ever. The surviving Bradleys decide to move to Wagga Wagga and insist on taking Wagadhaany with them. Devastated to leave her family and her country, Wagadhaany must find a way to be true to herself and her culture while navigating the expectations of the various white people in the household.
This is a beautifully crafted, utterly readable story about the real and ongoing impact of colonialism. Despite the heroism, ingenuity and talent for droving displayed by the Wiradyuri people, they are slowly dispossessed of and excluded from their land. Wagadhanaay was an wonderful protagonist who grows in spite of adversity and finds her own ways to resist and connect with community. Having read “Talkin’ Up to the White Woman” some time ago, I felt like Heiss did an excellent job depicting the seemingly well-meaning, condescending yet ultimately self-serving early white feminism that ultimately perpetuates white power structures. In a way, this is almost worse than some of the blatant racism Wagadhanaay experiences and witnesses. As a reader, seeing Wagadhanaay’s labour and relationships being exploited in this way is utterly heartbreaking. However, Heiss’ use of research and empathy makes these situations completely believable. I also really enjoyed how she wove through Wiradyuri language throughout the book, and the generosity of including a glossary of Wiradyuri words at the back of the book.
A bittersweet novel that, while unflinching in its depiction of colonisation, radiates warmth through romance, family, community and culture and resilience in the face of adversity.
Historical fiction about the impact of first contact between Noongar people, British settlers and whalers
Content warning: colonialism, sexual assault
Last year, even though things were a bit hectic, I decided to take part in the Dewey’s 24 Hour Readathon. I was over-ambitious, and on a whim decided to make a stack of blue books from my to-read shelves/piles.
Photo of a stack of blue books from top to bottom: “Borderliners” by Peter Høeg, “The Sky is Everywhere” by Jandy Nelson, “Breath” by Tim Wilson, “The Children’s Book” by A.S. Byatt, “first, we make the beast beautiful” by sarah wilson, “The Confession” by Jessie Burton, “Bila Yarrudhanggalangdhuray”/”River of Dreams” by Anita Heiss, “That Deadman Dance” by Kim Scott.
I decided to start with the largest book.
Photo of “That Deadman Dance” by Kim Scott. The paperback book is sitting amongst branches of a bottlebrush tree with seed capsules and thin, sparse green leaves. The cover is of a blue ocean against a blue sky, with waves caught in blurry motion breaking over rocks.
“That Deadman Dance” by Kim Scott is a historical fiction novel about a young Noongar boy called Bobby Wabalanginy who befriends British settlers who arrive at what is now known as south-western Western Australia. Charismatic, intelligent and adaptable, Bobby initially plays diplomat and straddles two cultures who are getting along more or less peacefully. He learns to read and write English, and travels on whaling expeditions, and when he returns to his people, he satirises the newcomers through dance, for which he has a particular talent. However, when his friend Dr Cross dies, the impact of colonisation becomes increasingly felt by his people. Disease, environmental destruction, disrespect, exclusion from their own land and, eventually, murder eventually place Bobby in a situation where he has to decide whether to side with the settlers, or his own people.
This is a richly written, thoroughly researched novel that explores an example of colonisation that, despite being initially peaceful, nevertheless required the exploitation of Noongar land and people. Especially through Bobby Wabalanginy’s skill in dance, Scott shows how Noongar culture is living and responsive to current events. However he demonstrates that Bobby Wabalanginy’s diplomacy has its limitations, and his aptitude for diplomacy through languages and storytelling is not, of itself, sufficient to persuade the settlers to engage in treaty negotiations. It was interesting reading Bobby Wabalanginy’s perception of whaling juxtaposed against classics such as “Moby Dick“
However, despite the breadth of issues and detail included in this book, it was not always an easy book to read. The story flips back and forth between Bobby’s childhood and adulthood, and the chapters do not always feel naturally linked. Scott does not differentiate speech from the body of the novel with any punctuation, and as a reader, the sense is that you have to work hard to immerse yourself in the story.
An immersive and insightful example of historical fiction with a free form style that at times requires a lot of concentration from the reader.
Spiritual historical fiction novel about multiple generations of an Aboriginal family
Content warning: racism, segregation, sexual assault
I heard about this book when it was first published in 2020, and it was longlisted for the Stella Prize and shortlisted for the Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards (Indigenous Writing) and the Indie Book Awards (Debut Fiction). I picked up a copy some time back from the National Library of Australia and I’ve been looking forward to reading it for a while.
Image is of “Song of the Crocodile” by Nardi Simpson. The paperback book is standing on an ironing board between a stack of folded clothing on the left and an iron on the right. The cover is of a dead gumtree standing in the middle of a grassy plain with a sunset behind that turns into a starry sky.
“Song of the Crocodile” by Nardi Simpson is a historical fiction novel interwoven with spirituality. The story opens with Margaret, an Aboriginal woman who works at a hospital in a country town called Darmoor laundry for pay and caring for otherwise neglected Aboriginal patients for free. When she loses her job through injustice, it is but one of a long series of injustices that are inflicted upon her family directly and indirectly by the white settlers of Darnmoor including her daughter Celie, her granddaughter Mili and her great-grandsons Paddy and Yarrie. Meanwhile, a sinister and ancient force lurks beneath the town, emboldened by plans to change the course of one of the town’s rivers. It is up to Jakybird, a songman created from a piece of his mother’s hair, to gather together spirits and ancestors to sing the monster Garriya back to where it came from.
This is a beautiful and complex novel that explores the bonds of family, and the violence of colonialism, from every angle. Simpson’s strength is character development and she excels at depicting the irreparable and cumulative damage inflicted upon each generation of the family by white supremacy. The characters themselves were very interesting, and I enjoyed the earthiness of Celie, the otherworldliness of Mili with her reflective eyes and the pain and self-hatred of Paddy counterbalanced by the love of his brother Yarrie. Simpson honours traditional storytelling and it is through Jakybird and the duty he is charged with that we try to make sense of the ongoing and evolving harm perpetuated by colonialism.
A challenging book full of heart and truth-telling and one that stayed with me for quite some time after I finished it.
Dramatic reimagining of Henry Lawson’s short story
Content warning: sexual assault, graphic violence, child removal, racism, family violence
I have been doing quite a lot of running recently, so I am getting through audiobooks a little faster than usual. This has definitely been on my list. We all know the iconic Henry Lawson story about the drover’s wife up against a snake, but I was very interested to try out this gritty retelling.
Image is of the audiobook cover of “The Drover’s Wife: The Legend of Molly Johnson” by Leah Purcell. The cover is of a pregnant woman (Leah Purcell) in period clothing and a wide-brimmed hat holding a shotgun and standing in a paddock. The text says “Now a major motion picture”.
“The Drover’s Wife: The Legend of Molly Johnson” written by and narrated by Leah Purcell is a historical fiction novel that retells Lawson’s famous short story about a drover’s wife left alone with her four children for months at a time in the outback. Molly is pregnant and almost due to give birth, and all she has to protect her and the children is her gun and her dog Alligator. Vulnerable to intruders, natural disasters and poverty, when Aboriginal man Yadaka arrives at her property on the run from the law, she is reluctant to trust him. However, they gradually form a careful bond and Yadaka spends time telling stories to her eldest son Danny who craves a father figure. Meanwhile, Louisa Clintoff has moved from London to the alpine town of Everton with her husband Nate who is to be the new lawman. While they settle in to a completely different lifestyle, Nate’s big task is to solve some local murders. However, what he uncovers is even more shocking than he could ever have expected.
This is a tense, gritty novel that pulls absolutely no punches while re-examining 1800s colonial Australia. While there are plenty of nods to its inspiration, this novel is absolutely its own story and Molly has a voice and a history that shines through more loudly and clearly than ever did in Lawson’s book. Yadaka was a fascinating character as well, with a colourful, complex and painful backstory, he travelled the world while still maintaining a very strong connection with family, country and culture. Purcell’s world is a dangerous one, and in this story snakes are the least of Molly’s problems. The fear and the heartache Molly has for her children’s safety is visceral, and the horrors she encounters as an isolated woman in the bush are all too realistic.
Purcell clearly lives and breathes her story, and she was the perfect choice to narrate it. A seasoned actor herself, she does an excellent job of giving each character a voice and I particularly loved how she portrayed young Danny. While listening to this book, I found myself thinking that it felt like it could have been written for a film. Little did I know that Purcell originally wrote the story for stage and that it has in fact been adapted into a film slated for release next year. This book tackles head-on the treatment of Aboriginal people, and instead of being dismissed as convenient assistants to the white colonial project as Lawson did in his story, Purcell closely examines the many attempts to sever Aboriginal identity and connection to land by settlers. At the end of the audiobook, Purcell shares a bit about the creation of her story and her creative practice as an artist including the consultation with local Aboriginal communities from alpine country in New South Wales as well as her own heritage as a Goa-Gunggari-Wakka Wakka Murri woman.
One thing I did find a bit challenging was the number of narrative perspectives that were in this book. The prose shifts from first person to third person, and there are several characters who take turns in the spotlight. I did find that listening to the audiobook occasionally made it a bit difficult to keep track of who was whom. It is an action-packed book and full of some truly horrifying scenes, a couple of which I missed (with some relief) while out running.
An excellently research story laden with insight, emotion and commentary, I cannot wait to see the film adaptation with Purcell herself in the leading role.
Image is of “The Boy from the Mish” by Gary Lonesborough. The paperback book is in front of sketches and concept designs of an Aboriginal graphic novel character. The cover is of two young Aboriginal men wearing white paint on their faces.
“The Boy from the Mish” by Gary Lonesborough is a young adult novel about Jackson, a 17 year old young Aboriginal man who lives in a rural Aboriginal community near the coast called the Mish. Although Jackson is having troubles with his girlfriend and deciding whether he will return to school for year 12, his life exists more or less in a balance. However, when his aunty comes for Christmas with Tomas, a boy from the city she is fostering, Jackson’s world is turned upside down.
This is an incredibly important book with a fresh and unique take on the young adult genre. Although books that are queer and Aboriginal are becoming more common, this book really engages with what it means to be queer in an Aboriginal community, unpacking masculinity and the importance of culture in navigating identity. Jackson and Tomas are great characters who show some of the diversity of experiences among Aboriginal teenagers. Lonesborough writes frankly about sex and the physical side of exploring sexuality and learning about how bodies work.
There are some really powerful scenes in this book, and some challenging scenes and conversations that deal with racism, police, domestic violence, the care system and intergenerational trauma. Relations between the people at the Mish and those in town are clearly tense at times, and I thought that Jackson’s approach to dealing with these problems was an interesting way to explore both queer stereotypes and stereotypes about Aboriginal men. There is plenty of romantic tension in this book, and I really liked how Lonesborough explores consent, sexuality and respect. I also really liked how Lonesborough highlights the importance of art and how creating art together – either a large traditional piece or a graphic novel – or even working on individual artworks at the same time is a bonding experience.
One thing that stood out to me a lot about this book compared to other young adult novels was how much drinking there was. Certainly there is drinking and parties in other books in the genre, and certainly there was drinking and parties when I was that age – especially around Christmas, but I was surprised at how many of the events in this book involved alcohol. Far be it for me to moralise about alcohol, but I will admit I was a bit taken aback at how ubiquitous it was in this story.
A necessary book that brings queer and Aboriginal perspectives to the forefront and relevance to the young adult genre.
Poetry collection about colonisation, queerness and the tension between city and country
Content warning: family violence, racism, colonisation
I first heard of this award-winning writer and poet when unacceptably they were harassed and abused online after their poem Mango was selected for a New South Wales Higher School Certificate English examination paper. Although I have been meaning to buy their work, it was not until I found myself standing in the poetry section of a book shop a couple of months ago looking for a different book that I saw their newest collection.
Image is of “Throat” by Ellen van Neerven. The paperback book is sitting on steps between two black skate shoes with hot pink laces and electric blue interior that match the fuchsia book cover. The cover design is of a face in blocks of colour split in two, the lips and chin at the top and the eyes, forehead and short hair at the bottom. There is a Sturt’s desert pea flower made out of red fabric in the foreground that commemorates the Frontier Wars.
“Throat” by Ellen van Neerven is a collection of poetry that explores the intersection of being both queer and Aboriginal. Through her poetry, van Neerven grapples with issues that are both personal and political and invites the reader to engage with issues such as racism, deaths in custody, calls for treaty, gender, urbanisation and identity.
Although I am no poetry aficionado, one thing that really struck me about this book was van Neerven’s exceptional and innovative use of structure. Their poem 18Cs, a clear reference to the Racial Discrimination Act 1975 and the protection against offensive behaviour, lists 18 reflections relating to words beginning with the letter C. Similarly, Acts of protection refers to historical legislation that gave governments the power over Aboriginal people’s lives, and uses Roman numerals to emulate subsections of legislation in actually listing things that bring van Neerven comfort. Another poem, logonliveon, uses an Aboriginal flag emoji to punctuate their thoughts about being Aboriginal online. At one point, van Neerven invites the reader to sign a treaty they have drafted in relation to shared power.
I really enjoyed Chermy, in which van Neerven, tongue-in-cheek, reminisces about the “cultural” connection she and her family have with Westfield Chermside, and then more seriously considers the ongoing impact of colonisation and gentrification on connection to country. Van Neerven also writes about issues such as dysphoria, navigating queer spaces, loneliness, longing for country, language and family. Expert was particularly heart-breaking; writing about family violence in a queer relationship where Aboriginal identity is used against them and the stereotype of who is the perpetrator is turned upside down.
There is so much to think about in this book, so I won’t go into much more detail except to say that van Neerven is a deeply profound poet whose work is the finger on the pulse of this nation.
Family saga novel about racism, Aboriginal identity and intergenerational trauma
Content warning: racism
2020 was not a great year for authors. Usually when an author publishes a book, especially with a well-resourced publisher, the author has the opportunity to promote the book through events such as interviews, panels and readings. For many authors last year, social distancing, lockdowns and curfews meant that promoting books in person simply was not possible. This book was published last year and although I saw a lot of discussion about it on social media, unfortunately I don’t think it got anything like the publicity that it deserved. I bought a copy and it is a beautiful book with a striking design including gold foil on the cover. I haven’t been very active on here recently, but this is my next book to review, and given that today is the first day of Reconciliation Week, it is an ideal time to boost an Aboriginal author.
Image is of “Where the Fruit Falls” by Karen Wyld. The softcover book is sitting between three pink lady apples and three potatoes. The cover is red with a winding blue river in the background and the silhouette of a tree in the foreground with apples picked out in gold foil.
“Where the Fruit Falls” by Karen Wyld is a family saga set in Australia in the mid-1900s. After the end of a family chapter, Brigid, a young woman with a white mother and an Aboriginal father who was killed in action, leaves her grandmother’s apple orchard to make her own way. Following a willy wagtail, Brigid finds her way to lost kin to have her twin babies on country and to gradually make peace with her identity. However, in a changing world, her daughters must face their own challenges and survive the prejudices levelled against them for the colour of their skin.
When I’m reading, I usually take notes of my impressions of the book and things I liked or didn’t like. For this book, the only note I wrote was this: “This story feels like a pebble that has rolled up and down a beach, over and over. It may not be the same shape as the original stone, but it is still the same stone; just smoother and a nice weight in your hand”. This book feels like a story that has been told over and over, perfected a little more with each retelling. Some people have described this book as magic realism, however Wyld elaborates a little more on how she considers it a literary device rather than a genre and how she inserts fractures in her her writing to draw the reader’s attention. Embellished in some parts, abridged in others, this story flows with a familiar rhythm.
However, this is by no means a typical story. Wyld makes some fearless narrative decisions that are devastating in their impact and reverberate throughout the whole novel. Brigid is a complex character who struggles to break free from the lessons she was taught about her skin colour and her worth as a child. Through her daughters Tori and Maggie, Wyld explores the stark difference in how people are treated based on their appearance and the assumptions made about their connection to country and culture. Although Wyld never refers to any particular region or city, this book has a really strong sense of place and I really enjoyed seeing the land through Brigid’s eyes and the city through the twins’.
A beautifully constructed and heartbreaking story. Not just this week but every week, I implore you to follow, support and listen to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander writers to learn about and empathise with this country’s history and the continuing impacts of colonialism, and this book is an excellent place to start.
This novel won the 2020 Miles Franklin Literary Award, so it was already on my radar. I bought it a couple of months ago, but was inspired to make it my next book by the recent IndigenousX #BlakBookChallenge.
“The Yield” by Tara June Winch is a literary novel about a fictional place called Massacre Plains. The story is told from three point of view characters: Aboriginal man Albert Gondiwindi, his granddaughter August Gondiwindi and Reverend Ferdinand Greenleaf. Albert has found out that he does not have long to live, and spends his last living days recording the language of his ancestors in a dictionary that uses vignettes from his life to explain the words and their meaning. Shortly afterwards, August finds out her Poppy has died and returns home from the UK for his funeral after many years of estrangement. Things in Massacre Plains are both exactly the same and completely different as she reconnects with her Nana, cousin, aunties and an old flame. In 1915, Reverend Greenleaf pens a letter to the British Society of Ethnography to tell the truth about what happened in the Mission he established in Massacre Plains.
This is a brilliantly crafted novel that combines three narrative techniques to create a compelling and multifaceted story. Albert’s dictionary in particular was such a unique way of storytelling. Albert, who was taken from his family as a child and placed in a Boys’ Home, is visited by his ancestors who lead him through time to gently and patiently teach him the language and culture that would have otherwise been lost to him. His chapters are all the more poignant because they cast into relief how much was stolen from Aboriginal people through colonial violence and racism, making the knowledge bestowed by his ancestors critical. Greenleaf’s chapters are also interesting because they provide the dramatic irony of someone who genuinely believes that they are doing the best for the people in their care, but who is ultimately contributing to their loss of culture and who is powerless to protect them, especially the women, from slavery and sexual violence perpetrated by settlers.
Although less avant-garde in structure than the other chapters, August’s story is no less compelling. When she returns to the home her grandparents raised her in, she struggles to make sense of Prosperous House’s painful memories and the plans for it to be repossessed by a mining company. August’s chapters are in some ways the most heartrending. August has to confront the old trauma of losing her sister Jedda, who went missing when they were young, and face the new trauma of being displaced from her home. These traumas take their toll on August, who throughout her life has struggled with disordered eating. Her journey to the city with her aunty to visit the museum and see her people’s artefacts showed how painful it is that so much Aboriginal history is not even accessible to the people whose heritage it is. Through this experience Winch touches on the idea of repatriation, consistent with the strong theme of returning home that underpins this novel.
Finally, I also really enjoyed reading the Author’s Note and Acknowledgements which provide plenty of recommendations for further reading, some historical context for the compilation of Wiradjuri language and a little bit of insight into Winch’s own research, writing process and family. Winch is a fantastic writer and this is an excellent and original novel committed to truth-telling and full of heart.
I hadn’t even read this book let alone included it on my list, so I immediately bought a copy.
“Talkin’ Up to the White Woman: Indigenous women and feminism” by Aileen Moreton-Robinson is a thesis on the whiteness of Australian feminism. Across six chapters, the book explores:
Indigenous women’s own life writings,
the representation (and invisibility as the “norm”) of white women in feminist theory,
representations of Indigenous women in white women’s ethnographic writings,
representations of Indigenous women in white Australian feminism,
white women’s self-presentation in white feminist academia, and
Indigenous women’s self-presentation within white Australian feminism.
Moreton-Robinson argues that because of feminism’s inherent but insufficiently examined white perspective, Indigenous women are excluded, minimised or merely tolerated conditionally. She argues that because race is considered to be something that is “other”, white feminists are unable to acknowledge their own race and associated privilege, their own role in perpetuating racial discrimination and are therefore unwilling to relinquish some of that power. Moreton-Robinson stresses that because of this, white women are unable to recognise that for Indigenous women, sexism is inextricably linked to racism, and that until racial oppression is addressed, sexism cannot be adequately dealt with.
This is a complex and well-researched book that highlights an enormous barrier to intersectionality in feminism: a lack of self-awareness among white feminists. Moreton-Robinson combined literature reviews, oral history, writing by Indigenous women and other women of colour and interviews with white feminist academics to produce this work. This is an original and critical text and even though Moreton-Robinson wrote this book 20 years ago, the messages are just as relevant today as they were then. The University of Queensland Press has just released a 20th Anniversary Edition which came out a month or so after I bought my copy, which I understand includes additional commentary by Moreton-Robinson that reflects on the book’s reception by white feminists. I’m tempted to buy a copy of that as well!
Although the book is not very long, it is not an easy read. Moreton-Robinson uses an appropriately academic tone to explore complex and challenging concepts, and asks the audience – predominantly white feminists – to critically examine their own assumptions, privilege and complicity in continuing to centre whiteness in feminism. For readers new to feminist theory, this book is a great starting point because Moreton-Robinson provides an excellent historical overview of feminism. However, although Moreton-Robinson is a succinct writer, it is a lot of information to take in and this book unearths some uncomfortable truths about the role white women have played in facilitating racial oppression in Australia, especially in relation to the removal of children and stolen wages. I think the most challenging parts for me were considering mistakes I had made in the past, the diversity of perspectives I surround myself in and roles played by myself and my ancestors in perpetuating racial oppression.
This is an extremely important book that is just as relevant (if not more so) today as it was at publication 20 years ago. I recommend white women reading this book with an open mind, an open heart and a willingness to commit to taking on board the lessons the book has to offer to improve feminist practice starting with acknowledging whiteness and its associated privilege.
Tinted Edges 