Borderland, p.1
Borderland, page 1
Photograph by Giovana Schluter Nunes
About the Author
Graham Akhurst is a Kokomini writer who grew up in Meanjin. He is a Lecturer of Indigenous Studies and Creative Writing at UTS. Graham began his writing journey in a hospital bed in 2011. He read and started journaling while passing the time between treatments for Endemic Burkett Lymphoma. As a Fulbright Scholar, Graham took his love for writing to New York City, where he studied for an MFA in Fiction at Hunter College. He is a board member for the First Nations Artists and Writers Network and Varuna. He lives with his wife on Gadigal Country in Sydney and enjoys walking Centennial Park with a good audiobook.
www.grahamakhurst.com
BORDERLAND
First published in 2023 by
UWA Publishing
Crawley, Western Australia 6009
www.uwap.uwa.edu.au
UWAP is an imprint of UWA Publishing
a division of The University of Western Australia
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
Copyright © Graham Akhurst 2023.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
ISBN: 978-1-76080-264-6
Cover illustration by Charmaine Ledden-Lewis
Cover design by Jo Hunt
Typeset in 10 point Tuna by Lasertype
Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group
For Mum
I acknowledge and pay my respects to Elders past and present on the Turrbal, Yuggera, Lenape, and Gadigal lands in which this novel was written; the Turrbal, Yuggera and Gunggari lands where this novel is set; and all Indigenous lands where this novel is read.
I am forever grateful to Gunggari Elder Uncle Ray Stanley. As former executive committee member and head of The Gunggari Aboriginal Property Association, Uncle Ray Stanley has read many versions of this manuscript and given extensive feedback on representation and Gunggari language use. I could not have written this book without his careful and honest feedback. I must also thank Uncle Ray Stanley for disseminating the work to numerous Gunggari Elders and I thank them all for their time and feedback.
I would also like to thank Gaja Kerry Charlton who is a Yagarabul person, an elder and traditional owner in three native title claims – Yuggera Ugarapul Peoples (YUP), Quandamooka and Kabi Kabi – with Gulf ties to Walangama Country through a great grandmother. As a Yuggera Elder, Gaja Kerry Charlton’s reading was integral to the sections set on Yuggera Country.
This novel had three extensive and generous cultural sensitivity reads, and I would like to give my heartfelt thanks to Nimunburr, Bunuba, and Yawuru editor Rachel Bin Salleh from Magabala Books; Wailwan academic, writer, and theatre maker, Blayne Welsh; and Gamilaraay linguist and author from the Wirrindjarung people, Donna McLaren. This book was made better by their expert reading and cultural advice.
I would also like to thank the staff and academics at the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies Unit at The University of Queensland, and the staff and academics at the Centre for the Advancement of Indigenous Knowledges at The University of Technology Sydney, for being such incredible colleagues and for yarning with me about the book over the many years it has taken to write it.
I would also like to thank the Australia Council of the Arts for the grants that afforded me the time to write this book. I would also like to thank Fulbright Australia, The Roberta Sykes Foundation, The Ian Potter Cultural Trust, and The American Australia Association for funding my studies at Hunter College in New York City, where a late draft of this book was crafted.
I would finally like to thank Charmaine Ledden-Lewis, a talented artist and descendant of the Bundjalung People, for her cover artwork and Casey Mulder, a Ballardong Noongar woman for her insightful proofreading.
This work was created in line with the Australian Council of the Arts guide Writing: Protocols for Producing Australian Indigenous Writing. While this novel is set primarily on Turrbal, Yuggera, and Gunggari Country, specific places, characters, and events exist only in the author’s imagination. Great care was given to the fictional rendering of cultural and cosmological elements in this novel to avoid the appropriation of story, intellectual property, and heritage. All Dreaming stories and cosmological elements are fictional. The stories and totemic symbolic meanings in this book are fictitious and of the author’s imagination.
1
It was graduation day. I sat uncomfortably in the first row of the auditorium at St Lucia Private, waiting to receive my high school certificate. The school band stopped playing and silence filled the Great Hall. I knew we’d have to walk onto the stage soon, shake hands, receive papers, and smile for the camera. The other grade twelve students around me seemed elated, but my stomach was tight.
I felt an attack coming on. I focused on deep, slow breathing like Mum had taught me. I’d been looking forward to graduation all year. To be finally finished with school was massive, but a few weeks ago, out of nowhere, I started to get these panic attacks. It felt like I’d taken a big breath in but then couldn’t exhale and all consequent breaths sat on top. Soon after, the dread would come.
Jenny must have noticed my breathing and put her hand in mine. Jenny was my best friend. Our mums loved cooking together and we had grown up close in Brisbane. Today she’d straightened her long black hair. It was usually a crazy wiry mess like a bird’s nest.
She smiled. ‘It’ll be over soon, Jono,’ she said. ‘Just chill. We only have to play dancing possum for a little bit longer.’
Dancing possum. It was her term for what was expected of us at these events. We were paraded around so the school could show off how ‘socially conscious’ they were and all the wonderful things they were doing to ‘close the gap’ by helping the poor blackfellas. Don’t get me wrong, it was great to be on a scholarship, but it came with conditions; like having to be the very first person on stage after the principal made a speech about you and the only other Indigenous student. It was a bit much.
Principal Davis moved toward the podium. She wore a long green dress, her nails were painted bright pink, and her blonde hair was styled and stiff. She’d moved from Tasmania two years ago, and was known for complaining about the humidity and constantly slurping on a water bottle.
My hands were wet with sweat. The terror was knotting up my insides.
Principal Davis tapped the microphone and waited for silence.
‘Good afternoon, class of 2017. Just before we begin. . .’ She grabbed a piece of paper and read. ‘I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the land that we are gathered on today, the Y. . . Yug. . . Yugaara. . . Yuggera.’ Panic crossed her face and she looked directly down at Jenny and me. Jenny nodded, confirming the pronunciation.
‘Yes. Good. Very good,’ Principal Davis continued. ‘I’m happy to acknowledge them and the Elders past, present, and future.’ She placed the piece of paper on the lectern and cleared her throat. ‘This brings me to the wonderful, just wonderful, scholarship program that the school has invested in over the last couple of years. We have taken it upon ourselves to become an institution that helps establish equality and education for all.’ She raised her finger high in the air. ‘We strive to provide a top-notch private school education for the less fortunate in our society. This year will be the first time we have graduated students from the Great Change scholarship. We have helped two lovely Indigenous students achieve their dream of completing a high school education. I would like to welcome Jonathan Lane and Jenny Pohatu to the stage. Please give a big round of applause as our Great Change scholars receive their high school certificates.’
People clapped. Jenny looked at me. I must have looked pretty sick by the way I felt. She laughed and tugged at my sleeve.
‘Jono, get up. It’s dancing possum time.’ She pulled me up and I walked onto the stage and shook Principal Davis’s hand.
‘Well done, young man. It wasn’t the easiest couple of years but you got there in the end.’ She wiped my sweat off her hand and onto her skirt as I nodded back at her.
‘Thanks, miss.’
I looked out at the crowd. All those people staring at me. What were they thinking? That I was an imposter? That I was only there out of the school’s charity? Each round of clapping rang out like thunder in my head. My breathing quickened. My chest felt tighter. I quickly exited the stage and sat back down. I tried to calm my breathing and with it the sense of dread.
I turned around to find Mum. She was in the crowd somewhere, proud as punch, no doubt. When I couldn’t spot her, I looked out the large windows towards the football oval before the Brisbane city skyline and exhaled a long slow breath. Storm clouds formed on the horizon.
On the window ledge, a magpie was fighting a crow for a chip. When the crow grabbed it, the magpie flapped its wings, lifted itself, then bore down. Its long beak striking one of the crow’s eyes clean out like an oyster scraped from its shell. The crow screeched and flew off. I couldn’t believe what I’d seen. That magpie was vicious.
I watched as the magpie gobbled the chip and then began pecking hard at the window pane. Lightning forked across the sky in the far distance. Loud tapping echoed around the hall. The procession of students receiving their certificates slowed as attention was drawn to the bird.
‘Looks like a magpie wants to celebrate with us,’ Principal Davis said into the mic, then laughed a
The magpie took flight and circled close above us. This wasn’t helping my panic. I wasn’t a big fan of magpies. I’d been attacked heaps as a kid.
Jenny grabbed my arm. ‘It’s a message,’ she whispered, excited.
Jenny and her spiritual talk. She was always searching for meaning in everything, especially when it came to animals and nature. She got her information from these cards she bought at a new-age store in Toombul. It was run by an old woman with dreadlocks, had rows upon rows of crystals and the whole place smelled of incense. We might come across a butterfly which could apparently mean Jenny was ‘entering a time of great change or transformation’. If we saw an owl she claimed ‘something hidden will soon come to light’, and that a robin meant ‘your fortunes are brightening’. Jenny sometimes made out like it was a joke and I could tell she was a little embarrassed to share her beliefs. They were too easily dismissed by people who didn’t agree with them.
Just as I was about to reply What kind of message?, the prefect rushed past, knocking into me while waving his arms overhead attempting to direct the bird to the now-open doors. Heat and humidity flooded into the Great Hall. The crowd was completely distracted and Principal Davis looked beside herself. Through the doors I could see mean-looking storm clouds. They were grey and black with streaks of green and seemed to be moving quickly towards us. A lightning strike lit up the hall and thunder followed soon after.
As I watched the magpie circle, I was surprised to realise that my breathing was back to normal. The panic attack was over. The bird made a flight around the hall then soared high above me and dived. It looked like it was going straight for me. It zeroed in on me. As it bore down I got ready to duck, but the bird steadied, straightened, and shot out through the open doors. The crowd settled, the doors were closed, and Principal Davis continued her speech with a shaky voice.
Jenny looked at me and laughed loudly. People looked over at us. Through snorts and laughter, she gestured towards my shoulder and said, ‘That maggie shat on you. Looks like the message was for you after all.’
Others students sitting nearby caught wind and laughed as well. I felt my face go red and started wiping the bird crap off my shoulder with the only thing I had on me. My high school certificate.
Principal Davis had been right. It had been tough at school for me. I hated the attention I got for looking different and being poor in a school full of rich white kids. I’d been in more than a few fights since starting. The other guys hated me, that’s for sure. It’s like they got some sick enjoyment out of taunting me. I might have been expelled for one more fight, or I might have dropped out if it wasn’t for mum, Jenny, and her mum Naomi hassling me to stay on. I found some of the classes difficult and had to work hard to get through. I also struggled to care sometimes. I mean, who they hell uses algebra. . .ever? It’s a miracle I was graduating.
Jenny didn’t cop as much crap as I did. She took more of her father’s Maori features. I guess she was a different, less confronting type of brown to the upper-class white Aussie kids at school. People even thought she was Greek, which really made her fume. She owned her Ngarabal heritage proudly, and tried to get me to go to all the rallies at Musgrave Park and every other Black event in town. She knew so much more about mob and culture than I ever would.
I didn’t even know who my mob were or where my Country was.
Jenny passed me some gum. ‘So, you’re definitely coming tonight?’ she asked.
‘Huh?’ I was still scraping the last of the bird crap off my shirt.
‘Presley’s party, remember?’ she said, sounding irritated.
I focused in on what she was saying, and her irritation flowed over to me. ‘For the hundredth time, yes,’ I hissed. ‘I’ll go with you to this stupid party. I’ll stand awkwardly while people judge me, and possibly get into a fight with a racist.’
‘Hey, I’m not forcing you to come, Jono,’ she said, and rolled her eyes dramatically.
I realised I was overreacting and laughed. ‘My ring you’re not forcing me ! You haven’t shut up about it. How many times have you begged me? “Please Jono, you never get out, and it will be the best party ever. . .” If I hadn’t said yes I would never hear the end of it.’
‘Yeah, OK, that’s fair, I did hassle. I’m just making sure you’re not chickening out. You have a bad habit of not following through.’ She poked me in the arm.
Thinking about the party made me nervous. I just felt too different to the other students. All I’d known was me and Mum struggling. If I’m honest, it made me angry and jealous to see the wealth of the other kids. They didn’t seem to worry about anything except social media posts and where to go on holidays. But for some reason this party meant the absolute world to Jenny.
Just as the last of the certificates were being handed out, the rain started. It lashed the roof of the hall and came in through the magpie’s broken window. Thunder rumbled right above us, making people jump.
I had to yell to be heard. ‘OK, OK, I’ll definitely come with. Alright?’
2
Walking up the long steep driveway to Steve Presley’s party that night, I was feeling a little unsteady on my feet. Jenny and I had been pre-drinking at hers. I could tell that Jenny was excited and nervous because she kept messing around with her hair and dress. She looked pretty good though. I don’t know what she’d done with her make up, but her light brown eyes looked really big and sparkly. Although, she looked uncomfortable in the high heels she had on, especially walking up the slope. Loud music echoed down the hill. The storm had passed and night was upon us. We were guided by the lights of the house at the top.
Steve Presley lived in a mansion in The Gap, a suburb around twenty minutes’ drive from school. There was a tennis court, a massive swimming pool, a granny flat, and at least five bedrooms. The house was surrounded by bush. His family owned land, which went down past the back of the house until it hit a creek a hundred or so metres away. It was easy enough to get lost if you wandered off.
The party was the biggest I’d ever been to, although that wasn’t saying much. There were people everywhere. They partied on the driveway, they sprawled out along the hill in groups, and they wandered out of the bush on either side of the house with drinks in hand, back from clandestine missions.
Coming up to the house, I saw people dancing on the second-floor verandah. Techno music boomed through huge speakers. There was even a DJ. He was fist pumping the air, turning dials, and holding his expensive headphones to his ear with one hand. He had a Chicago Bulls cap on and was chewing his face off. There were a couple of grade eleven girls dancing in front of his set up. The same girls looked down at me from their vantage point and laughed dismissively. This is why I didn’t go to parties. I felt inferior, like a second-class citizen to some of the rich kids. I was either invisible or I stood out so much that I wanted to hide.
Jenny’s back straightened and she walked more confidently in her heels once we’d cleared the slope. She was stopped briefly and hugged by a couple of her girlfriends on their way to the bush.
I spotted one of my only other friends from school, Sam. He was a champion cross-country runner. He had an impressive ability to train and ace his classes while maintaining an active party schedule on the weekends. In this moment he was drunk and overly happy to see me. He ran over, leaving Courtney, a girl from our year, looking irritated at the doorway. We completely stuffed up our greeting. He went for the fist bump, I went for the standard handshake. After a couple of failed attempts, we laughed it off.
Sam offered me a swig of his wine cask and I obliged. ‘Jono, bro. This is legit the first party I’ve seen you at.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, and drank deeply. ‘I don’t head out much.’
