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63 reviews
What the Light Reveals by Mick McCoy
3.0
In a time when Russia looms large in the news and the President of the United States is compared to Joseph McCarthy and Richard Nixon, picking up Mick McCoy’s What the Light Reveals felt unexpectedly appropriate.
While fiction, the novel is based on the experiences of McCoy’s aunt and uncle, Bernice and Dave Morris. Active Communists, they fled from Australia to Russia after the Petrov Affair in the 1950s with their two adopted sons. The novel compares the Russia of the late 1950s and 1960s with Australia and explores how each nation struggled to deal with difference and achieve acceptance.
Despite the backdrop of the the Cold War, this is a personal narrative that abstains from high politics. What the Light Reveals is a timely reminder of what we – as individuals and Australians – are capable of doing to people of different beliefs. The simplicity of the first chapters are a delight to read: restrained, understated and yet evocative.
However, the quiet power of the opening does not last until the end. I felt as if I were reading two separate novels as the intimate exploration of the private lives of peaceful Australian Communists faded into a loveless and predictable family drama.
As a reader, I felt uncomfortable (and honestly a little disturbed) by the acknowledgements, where McCoy admits to changing a fundamental part of the real life story: in this fictionalised account, the elder son is adopted while the younger is their biological child. While it is an author’s prerogative to change details, this change – and more specifically, the plot that revolves around it and dominates the second half of the novel – left me cold.
Bernice Morris wrote her own memoir, Between the Lines, and I find myself wondering what she would have thought of the change.
Nevertheless, McCoy does have a way with words. Sentences like ‘They are not going to accuse you of journalism, Conrad’ and ‘On a clear day you could see not only for miles but for centuries’ will stay with me.
What the Light Reveals is McCoy’s third novel, following Burning Sunday (shortlisted for the 1999 Age Fiction Prize) and Cutting Through Skin.
NOTE: This review was first published on The Garret (www.thegarretpodcast.com) on 10 February 2018.
While fiction, the novel is based on the experiences of McCoy’s aunt and uncle, Bernice and Dave Morris. Active Communists, they fled from Australia to Russia after the Petrov Affair in the 1950s with their two adopted sons. The novel compares the Russia of the late 1950s and 1960s with Australia and explores how each nation struggled to deal with difference and achieve acceptance.
Despite the backdrop of the the Cold War, this is a personal narrative that abstains from high politics. What the Light Reveals is a timely reminder of what we – as individuals and Australians – are capable of doing to people of different beliefs. The simplicity of the first chapters are a delight to read: restrained, understated and yet evocative.
However, the quiet power of the opening does not last until the end. I felt as if I were reading two separate novels as the intimate exploration of the private lives of peaceful Australian Communists faded into a loveless and predictable family drama.
As a reader, I felt uncomfortable (and honestly a little disturbed) by the acknowledgements, where McCoy admits to changing a fundamental part of the real life story: in this fictionalised account, the elder son is adopted while the younger is their biological child. While it is an author’s prerogative to change details, this change – and more specifically, the plot that revolves around it and dominates the second half of the novel – left me cold.
Bernice Morris wrote her own memoir, Between the Lines, and I find myself wondering what she would have thought of the change.
Nevertheless, McCoy does have a way with words. Sentences like ‘They are not going to accuse you of journalism, Conrad’ and ‘On a clear day you could see not only for miles but for centuries’ will stay with me.
What the Light Reveals is McCoy’s third novel, following Burning Sunday (shortlisted for the 1999 Age Fiction Prize) and Cutting Through Skin.
NOTE: This review was first published on The Garret (www.thegarretpodcast.com) on 10 February 2018.
The Shepherd's Hut by Tim Winton
4.0
This is a brutal and bloody novel. If Tim Winton’s Breath left you drowning and gasping for air, The Shepherd’s Hut will leave you tasting dust, dirt and blood.
The first third of The Shepherd’s Hut displays a mastery of the craft. The urgency of the first person narrative is confronting, and the vernacular of narrator Jaxie Claxton is gripping. Sentences like ‘a shadow doesn’t search for a drain like that’ will stay with you. We accompany Jaxie on his flight – alone, wounded and damaged – through the Western Australian desert. And we know what he is looking for, because he tells us: ‘Peace, that’s all I’m after’.
In this part of the novel, the landscape itself is almost a character, an unforgiving presence as willing to inflict pain as to provide succour. Although the setting and narrator could not be more different (a point which I must emphasise), the bitterness of the journey reminded me of the voyage upriver to the colonial outpost in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.
Once we reach the shepherd’s hut, the narrative opens up. We meet the disgraced Irish priest, Fintan MacGillis. While Jaxie’s first person perspective does not change, the story expands from an exile’s journey to become something of a morality tale steeped in symbolism. Ancient archetypes – the stranger, the other, the secret, the sacrifice, the redemption – are openly explored. There is butchering, blood and a sacrificial goat (both literal and metaphorical), as well as physical and spiritual sacrifices you should read for yourself.
The fallen priest Fintan is a mystery. What did he do? Why is he here? Does the punishment fit the crime? This mystery and religious backdrop prompts several iterations of the father-son story (Jaxie and his father, Jaxie and the priest, the priest and his flock, God and the priest), and allows Winton to explore questions about personal faith and the Catholic Church.
Jaxie, a teenage boy, is openly suspicious of priestly pedophilia. Fintan is not surprised by this, although he denies pedophilia and alludes to other sins… sins involving politics and mass graves. This is only one aspect of the mystery, but it is one to ponder. Winton is asking us to consider what sins – if not pedophilia – the Catholic Church metes out punishment for.
Fintan calls Jaxie ‘an instrument of god’, although it is not clear whether he still believes in the god he once served as a priest. Given the unrelenting themes of punishment, retribution and sacrifice, one suspects Fintan is referring to the god of the Old Testament.
If we stay with the Old Testament reference, it is not surprising women do not play a role in the narrative. We learn about Jaxie’s mother and cousin only though his memories, which are problematic, as Jaxie is the epitome of the unreliable narrator. He remembers his mother Shirley as the light in his dark and traumatised life, and yet we know – because he tells us – they died estranged as a result of his own actions. His cousin, Lee, is another rebellious teenager. The last he knows, she was locked away by his aunt after their incestuous love affair was discovered, shattering their broken family further. Her role in the narrative is that of idealised fantasy… although she doesn’t know it, she is what Jaxie is running towards.
Beneath the symbolism and morality tale, The Shepherd’s Hut is also a comment on Australian society, specifically dying small towns and domestic violence. Winton asks us to consider what happens to a victim of domestic abuse when everyone in a community knows but no one does anything to stop it?
This is a journey of self-discovery, but the discoveries are not always pleasant. Jaxie is a victim who – after failure and punishment, sacrifice and redemption – discovers his own purpose (if not peace). However, the reader is left with pondering the viability (and indeed, the morality) of what we know Jaxie plans to do next.
The Shepherd’s Hut is not perfect, but my goodness, it is a memorable read. It will rank as one of Winston’s best.
NOTE: This review was first published on The Garret (www.thegarretpodcast.com) on 10 March 2018.
The first third of The Shepherd’s Hut displays a mastery of the craft. The urgency of the first person narrative is confronting, and the vernacular of narrator Jaxie Claxton is gripping. Sentences like ‘a shadow doesn’t search for a drain like that’ will stay with you. We accompany Jaxie on his flight – alone, wounded and damaged – through the Western Australian desert. And we know what he is looking for, because he tells us: ‘Peace, that’s all I’m after’.
In this part of the novel, the landscape itself is almost a character, an unforgiving presence as willing to inflict pain as to provide succour. Although the setting and narrator could not be more different (a point which I must emphasise), the bitterness of the journey reminded me of the voyage upriver to the colonial outpost in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.
Once we reach the shepherd’s hut, the narrative opens up. We meet the disgraced Irish priest, Fintan MacGillis. While Jaxie’s first person perspective does not change, the story expands from an exile’s journey to become something of a morality tale steeped in symbolism. Ancient archetypes – the stranger, the other, the secret, the sacrifice, the redemption – are openly explored. There is butchering, blood and a sacrificial goat (both literal and metaphorical), as well as physical and spiritual sacrifices you should read for yourself.
The fallen priest Fintan is a mystery. What did he do? Why is he here? Does the punishment fit the crime? This mystery and religious backdrop prompts several iterations of the father-son story (Jaxie and his father, Jaxie and the priest, the priest and his flock, God and the priest), and allows Winton to explore questions about personal faith and the Catholic Church.
Jaxie, a teenage boy, is openly suspicious of priestly pedophilia. Fintan is not surprised by this, although he denies pedophilia and alludes to other sins… sins involving politics and mass graves. This is only one aspect of the mystery, but it is one to ponder. Winton is asking us to consider what sins – if not pedophilia – the Catholic Church metes out punishment for.
Fintan calls Jaxie ‘an instrument of god’, although it is not clear whether he still believes in the god he once served as a priest. Given the unrelenting themes of punishment, retribution and sacrifice, one suspects Fintan is referring to the god of the Old Testament.
If we stay with the Old Testament reference, it is not surprising women do not play a role in the narrative. We learn about Jaxie’s mother and cousin only though his memories, which are problematic, as Jaxie is the epitome of the unreliable narrator. He remembers his mother Shirley as the light in his dark and traumatised life, and yet we know – because he tells us – they died estranged as a result of his own actions. His cousin, Lee, is another rebellious teenager. The last he knows, she was locked away by his aunt after their incestuous love affair was discovered, shattering their broken family further. Her role in the narrative is that of idealised fantasy… although she doesn’t know it, she is what Jaxie is running towards.
Beneath the symbolism and morality tale, The Shepherd’s Hut is also a comment on Australian society, specifically dying small towns and domestic violence. Winton asks us to consider what happens to a victim of domestic abuse when everyone in a community knows but no one does anything to stop it?
This is a journey of self-discovery, but the discoveries are not always pleasant. Jaxie is a victim who – after failure and punishment, sacrifice and redemption – discovers his own purpose (if not peace). However, the reader is left with pondering the viability (and indeed, the morality) of what we know Jaxie plans to do next.
The Shepherd’s Hut is not perfect, but my goodness, it is a memorable read. It will rank as one of Winston’s best.
NOTE: This review was first published on The Garret (www.thegarretpodcast.com) on 10 March 2018.
Deep Time Dreaming: Uncovering Ancient Australia by Billy Griffiths
4.0
What is the common heritage of mankind? And who are the gatekeepers of that knowledge? These are the questions Deep Time Dreaming forces us to consider. There are no easy answers, particularly as the early decades of archaeology in Australia are rife with questionable practices and methodologies that leave their mark on the discipline – and the physical sites – to this day.
As Griffiths quotes (on page 128), ‘Australia – virtually ignored by prehistorians until the 1960s as a tedious archaeological backwater – is now the focus of the quest to unravel the prehistory of mankind’. Griffiths explores the growing recognition of Australia’s deep past, once considered an empty continent and now proven to be home to the oldest continuing cultures in human history.
The book follows the careers of the most prominent archaeologists working in Australia in the 20th century. This chronological approach highlights the extraordinary development of the discipline – begun by 20th century museum curators literally digging up whatever they found to 21st century researchers rewriting the timeline of humanity itself.
At times, this means Deep Time Dreaming reads as the narrative of inadequately trained white men (many who were not even born in Australia) plundering a past they did not understand. It is mind boggling to consider, but in the early years most of the motley museum curators, historians and want-to-be Indiana Joneses who dug up the deep past had never even met – or tried to meet – an Aboriginal person.
As a reader, this made for a tough few chapters. However, Deep Time Dreaming is worth pursuing. The structure serves to highlight a key point: archaeology in Australia was a white man’s playground for decades. The mistakes made – as much as the discoveries found – leave their mark on the discipline today. My interest as a reader increased as female archaeologists began to make their presence felt, especially Isabel McBryde, who was one of the first archaeologists to connect with the traditional owners on whose land she worked.
There are fewer Indigenous voices in this narrative than I expected. Noel Pearson’s 2004 Quarterly Essay is quoted, as is Stan Grant’s 2016 memoir. However the Indigenous archaeologists trained by McBryde and specifically mentioned by Griffiths as representing her major contribution to the field don’t have a voice.
Deep Time Dreaming was an education for me, highlighting how archaeology and the uncovering of Australia’s deep past has influenced (and been influenced in turn) by politics. Most profoundly, the development of the discipline has gone hand in hand with Aboriginal politics and the changing meaning of identify in Australia. The most moving example is, of course, that of Mungo Lady. She was found and excavated almost by accident in 1968, at the beginning of the Aboriginal rights movement when notions of consent and ownership began to change. Mungo Lady was eventually returned in 1992 in a symbolic act: her remains were reburied in a ‘keeping place’ locked with two keys, one held by the community and one by scientists.
Archaeology is not a static discipline. It is unfolding around us, and as recently as 2017 archaeological research in Australia is pushing back the date of humanity’s past to 65,000 years. These new discoveries in our own backyard force us to reevaluate the tensions between science and culture. Does the deep time record belong to humanity, to the distant descendants inhabiting the same land, or to both? Who should make decisions about access and methodology? And how should we, as Australians, understand and share the history of our continent?
Deep Time Dreaming leaves me with questions, as a work of this import should.
This review was first published on The Garret (www.thegarretpodcast.com) in February 2018.
As Griffiths quotes (on page 128), ‘Australia – virtually ignored by prehistorians until the 1960s as a tedious archaeological backwater – is now the focus of the quest to unravel the prehistory of mankind’. Griffiths explores the growing recognition of Australia’s deep past, once considered an empty continent and now proven to be home to the oldest continuing cultures in human history.
The book follows the careers of the most prominent archaeologists working in Australia in the 20th century. This chronological approach highlights the extraordinary development of the discipline – begun by 20th century museum curators literally digging up whatever they found to 21st century researchers rewriting the timeline of humanity itself.
At times, this means Deep Time Dreaming reads as the narrative of inadequately trained white men (many who were not even born in Australia) plundering a past they did not understand. It is mind boggling to consider, but in the early years most of the motley museum curators, historians and want-to-be Indiana Joneses who dug up the deep past had never even met – or tried to meet – an Aboriginal person.
As a reader, this made for a tough few chapters. However, Deep Time Dreaming is worth pursuing. The structure serves to highlight a key point: archaeology in Australia was a white man’s playground for decades. The mistakes made – as much as the discoveries found – leave their mark on the discipline today. My interest as a reader increased as female archaeologists began to make their presence felt, especially Isabel McBryde, who was one of the first archaeologists to connect with the traditional owners on whose land she worked.
There are fewer Indigenous voices in this narrative than I expected. Noel Pearson’s 2004 Quarterly Essay is quoted, as is Stan Grant’s 2016 memoir. However the Indigenous archaeologists trained by McBryde and specifically mentioned by Griffiths as representing her major contribution to the field don’t have a voice.
Deep Time Dreaming was an education for me, highlighting how archaeology and the uncovering of Australia’s deep past has influenced (and been influenced in turn) by politics. Most profoundly, the development of the discipline has gone hand in hand with Aboriginal politics and the changing meaning of identify in Australia. The most moving example is, of course, that of Mungo Lady. She was found and excavated almost by accident in 1968, at the beginning of the Aboriginal rights movement when notions of consent and ownership began to change. Mungo Lady was eventually returned in 1992 in a symbolic act: her remains were reburied in a ‘keeping place’ locked with two keys, one held by the community and one by scientists.
Archaeology is not a static discipline. It is unfolding around us, and as recently as 2017 archaeological research in Australia is pushing back the date of humanity’s past to 65,000 years. These new discoveries in our own backyard force us to reevaluate the tensions between science and culture. Does the deep time record belong to humanity, to the distant descendants inhabiting the same land, or to both? Who should make decisions about access and methodology? And how should we, as Australians, understand and share the history of our continent?
Deep Time Dreaming leaves me with questions, as a work of this import should.
This review was first published on The Garret (www.thegarretpodcast.com) in February 2018.
Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel
5.0
Honestly, who would have thought historical fiction could be so good?
[a:Hilary Mantel|58851|Hilary Mantel|https://d.gr-assets.com/authors/1334862633p2/58851.jpg] brings to life the English Reformation and explores the court of Henry VIII and the era of Cromwell in this, the first in her prize-winning trilogy.
I can't wait to read [b:Bring Up the Bodies|13507212|Bring Up the Bodies (Thomas Cromwell, #2)|Hilary Mantel|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1330649655s/13507212.jpg|14512257], the second (also prize-winning) novel in the series.
[a:Hilary Mantel|58851|Hilary Mantel|https://d.gr-assets.com/authors/1334862633p2/58851.jpg] brings to life the English Reformation and explores the court of Henry VIII and the era of Cromwell in this, the first in her prize-winning trilogy.
I can't wait to read [b:Bring Up the Bodies|13507212|Bring Up the Bodies (Thomas Cromwell, #2)|Hilary Mantel|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1330649655s/13507212.jpg|14512257], the second (also prize-winning) novel in the series.
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
5.0
I was hesitant about the hype surrounding this book (and movie). I succumbed, and I am glad that I did.
[b:The Book Thief|20555501|The Book Thief|Markus Zusak|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1390676585s/20555501.jpg|878368] is unlike other World War II stories. It is told from the viewpoint of Death. Death, who is haunted by humans and tired from working overtime throughout the war. Death tells the story of the book thief, the young foster child Liesel Memminger.
The novel is set in the fictional town of Molching, located on the very real Amper River and close to Dachau. Liesel is orphaned and taken in by the incomparable Hans Hubermann. Hubermann teaches her to read, and she spends the war taking comfort in the written word. The family hides a Jewish youth, Max, in their basement, and he stays with them until the 1942 bombing of Munich, and Death's services are required once again.
This book will stay with you.
[b:The Book Thief|20555501|The Book Thief|Markus Zusak|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1390676585s/20555501.jpg|878368] is unlike other World War II stories. It is told from the viewpoint of Death. Death, who is haunted by humans and tired from working overtime throughout the war. Death tells the story of the book thief, the young foster child Liesel Memminger.
The novel is set in the fictional town of Molching, located on the very real Amper River and close to Dachau. Liesel is orphaned and taken in by the incomparable Hans Hubermann. Hubermann teaches her to read, and she spends the war taking comfort in the written word. The family hides a Jewish youth, Max, in their basement, and he stays with them until the 1942 bombing of Munich, and Death's services are required once again.
This book will stay with you.
The System of the World by Neal Stephenson
3.0
[a:Neal Stephenson|545|Neal Stephenson|https://d.gr-assets.com/authors/1430920344p2/545.jpg] is a brilliant writer with an unrivalled knowledge (or ability to research) the mundane details of history and bring them to life. If you are looking to write historical fiction, Stephenson's [b:The Baroque Cycle Collection|22535547|The Baroque Cycle Collection|Neal Stephenson|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1407110757s/22535547.jpg|41987074] (this is the third in the trilogy) is unparalleled in this regard.
But I have to be honest. Despite loving the character development Stephenson displays in other works (namely [b:Reamde|10552338|Reamde|Neal Stephenson|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1305993115s/10552338.jpg|15458989]), I found the characters in The Baroque Cycle wooden and often unbelievable. Throughout all three books they appear to be moving deus ex machina style towards their fated end, with the same thought processes and tone of voice employed for wildly different characters.
I struggled through all three out of loyalty to the genre and hope that at least one of the three would be as exciting as Reamde. It wasn't worth it.
But I have to be honest. Despite loving the character development Stephenson displays in other works (namely [b:Reamde|10552338|Reamde|Neal Stephenson|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1305993115s/10552338.jpg|15458989]), I found the characters in The Baroque Cycle wooden and often unbelievable. Throughout all three books they appear to be moving deus ex machina style towards their fated end, with the same thought processes and tone of voice employed for wildly different characters.
I struggled through all three out of loyalty to the genre and hope that at least one of the three would be as exciting as Reamde. It wasn't worth it.
Growing Up Aboriginal in Australia by Anita Heiss
4.0
Growing Up Aboriginal in Australia, an anthology edited by Anita Heiss, is an extraordinary and moving work. It is also, in parts, a difficult and heart-breaking read.
The goal is to ‘break down stereotypes… and to create a new dialogue with and about Aboriginal Australians’ (p. 2). In this, Heiss succeeds.
The anthology highlights the importance of lived experience: Heiss does not tell the reader what growing up Aboriginal is like, she lets the reader consider more than fifty different answers to that question for themselves.
Each contribution is different: not only in terms of the writer’s age, socio-economic background, education and location, but in approach and writing style. There are poems, essays and letters, and they offer varied – and sometimes conflicting – perspectives on what it means to grow up Aboriginal in Australia.
There is no one definition of growing up Aboriginal. It means being growing up surrounded by family, but it also means being removed from kin. It means growing up on Country, but also being a city kid. It means knowing one’s mob and speaking their language, or never knowing your ancestors or what language they spoke.
The point is clear: there is no universal experience of growing up Aboriginal. This seems obvious, and yet, so many of the contributions in this anthology demonstrate that many parts of Australian society still expect Aboriginal people to fit a preconceived definition – or in other words, a stereotype – of what an Aboriginal person should be. As Susie Anderson remembers, ‘if we didn’t fit the idea of what they thought being Aboriginal was, then we must be lying’(p. 9).
Being Aboriginal is one part of the identity of each of these contributors. It may be the main part of their identify, it may not. But every individual in this anthology has layers to their identity. They are not only Aboriginal, they may also be Irish or Spanish or another nationality, they may be gay or straight or queer, they may be Christian or atheist or choose not to say, and they may be sports stars or musicians, parents or children.
To Australia’s shame, there is one universal experience for those who grow up Aboriginal in Australia. Racism.
Some of the most vividly described incidents of racism in this anthology are judgements on skin tone. Carol Pettersen remembers growing up on a mission and being separated from her siblings ‘into separate castes based on the colour of our skins… even though we walked past each other many times daily, we could not talk or hug each other’ (p. 186). Decades later, Ian Dudley recounts being told he was ‘not black enough to be black, always too black to be white’ (p. 74).
This anthology shares memories that are incredibly hard to confront. Katie Bryan recalls how her father – a veteran of World War II – hid his Aboriginal heritage from everyone, including is wife. She remembers her father and others like him ‘had given up the best years of their lives to fight Nazis and they hadn’t reckoned on coming home and marrying into families that espoused similar views’ (p. 49).
Yet confront and acknowledge we must. This anthology is a reminder that the consequences of the past reverberate in the present and are felt by those growing up Aboriginal today. As Celeste Liddle explains, she doesn’t ‘speak Arrernte because it wasn’t passed down to me. My grandmother had been Stolen Generations’ (p. 149).
The most heartbreaking words in the anthology were written by Alice Eather. She wrote, ‘there’s too much negativity said and written about Aboriginal people in communities’ (p. 83). Alice was right. And like so many young Aboriginal people, Alice took her life before this anthology was published. Heiss dedicates this anthology to Alice, and ‘so many others who were lost too soon’.
Note: Black Inc has also commissioned Growing Up African in Australia, to be edited by Maxine Beneba Clarke and published in 2019. Here is to hoping Growing Up Aboriginal in Australia and Growing Up African in Australia are the foundations in an ongoing series exploring what it means to grow up in Australia.
This review was first published on The Garret (www.thegarretpodcast.com) on 24 April 2018.
The goal is to ‘break down stereotypes… and to create a new dialogue with and about Aboriginal Australians’ (p. 2). In this, Heiss succeeds.
The anthology highlights the importance of lived experience: Heiss does not tell the reader what growing up Aboriginal is like, she lets the reader consider more than fifty different answers to that question for themselves.
Each contribution is different: not only in terms of the writer’s age, socio-economic background, education and location, but in approach and writing style. There are poems, essays and letters, and they offer varied – and sometimes conflicting – perspectives on what it means to grow up Aboriginal in Australia.
There is no one definition of growing up Aboriginal. It means being growing up surrounded by family, but it also means being removed from kin. It means growing up on Country, but also being a city kid. It means knowing one’s mob and speaking their language, or never knowing your ancestors or what language they spoke.
The point is clear: there is no universal experience of growing up Aboriginal. This seems obvious, and yet, so many of the contributions in this anthology demonstrate that many parts of Australian society still expect Aboriginal people to fit a preconceived definition – or in other words, a stereotype – of what an Aboriginal person should be. As Susie Anderson remembers, ‘if we didn’t fit the idea of what they thought being Aboriginal was, then we must be lying’(p. 9).
Being Aboriginal is one part of the identity of each of these contributors. It may be the main part of their identify, it may not. But every individual in this anthology has layers to their identity. They are not only Aboriginal, they may also be Irish or Spanish or another nationality, they may be gay or straight or queer, they may be Christian or atheist or choose not to say, and they may be sports stars or musicians, parents or children.
To Australia’s shame, there is one universal experience for those who grow up Aboriginal in Australia. Racism.
Some of the most vividly described incidents of racism in this anthology are judgements on skin tone. Carol Pettersen remembers growing up on a mission and being separated from her siblings ‘into separate castes based on the colour of our skins… even though we walked past each other many times daily, we could not talk or hug each other’ (p. 186). Decades later, Ian Dudley recounts being told he was ‘not black enough to be black, always too black to be white’ (p. 74).
This anthology shares memories that are incredibly hard to confront. Katie Bryan recalls how her father – a veteran of World War II – hid his Aboriginal heritage from everyone, including is wife. She remembers her father and others like him ‘had given up the best years of their lives to fight Nazis and they hadn’t reckoned on coming home and marrying into families that espoused similar views’ (p. 49).
Yet confront and acknowledge we must. This anthology is a reminder that the consequences of the past reverberate in the present and are felt by those growing up Aboriginal today. As Celeste Liddle explains, she doesn’t ‘speak Arrernte because it wasn’t passed down to me. My grandmother had been Stolen Generations’ (p. 149).
The most heartbreaking words in the anthology were written by Alice Eather. She wrote, ‘there’s too much negativity said and written about Aboriginal people in communities’ (p. 83). Alice was right. And like so many young Aboriginal people, Alice took her life before this anthology was published. Heiss dedicates this anthology to Alice, and ‘so many others who were lost too soon’.
Note: Black Inc has also commissioned Growing Up African in Australia, to be edited by Maxine Beneba Clarke and published in 2019. Here is to hoping Growing Up Aboriginal in Australia and Growing Up African in Australia are the foundations in an ongoing series exploring what it means to grow up in Australia.
This review was first published on The Garret (www.thegarretpodcast.com) on 24 April 2018.
Eggshell Skull by Bri Lee
5.0
** Trigger warning: This review mentions sexual abuse and rape**
Bri Lee’s Eggshell Skull is an answer to anyone who ever asks why a woman (or less often, a man) doesn’t report sexual abuse or rape, or doesn’t pursue the matter through the legal system even if they do. Lee does not sugar coat what happens. The wheels of justice turn slowly, and the wheels of justice are not always fair.
Eggshell Skull is a personal story. Lee, a judge’s associate working in the Queensland District Court, lodged an historical sex abuse claim against a friend of her family. Her claim took more than two years to wind its way through the system, and the process – despite having a supportive family and partner – was not an easy one. Lee does not hide the emotional toll coming to terms with her abuse took on her, manifesting as anxiety, self-harm and disordered eating.
Eggshell Skull is also the story of everyone who has ever pursued what recourse is available for victims of sexual abuse and rape in the Australian legal system. And it is this story – or rather, these stories – that make Eggshell Skull so powerful.
Lee’s insights from her vantage point within the system are incisive.
We learn she ‘lost count, throughout the year, of the number of women who excused themselves from sex crime trials because they themselves were survivors’ (p. 22). Ponder what this means: Lee is saying we have a justice system reliant on community, but so many of our community are victims themselves, and they end up recusing themselves from juries deliberating sex crimes because it would trigger their own pain.
We also learn how common it is for the defence to challenge (and remove) as many women as possible from a jury deliberating a sex crime, because women are more likely to believe the accuser, especially in cases when the ‘nice guy’ is alleged to have committed the crime.
Most disheartening of all, we learn it is commonly accepted there needs to be at least four women on a jury in order for their voices to be heard, even behind the closed doors of jury deliberations.
This book is for all of those too afraid to speak out, fearful that they will not be believed. It is also for any woman who finds herself called to jury duty. Don’t recuse yourself: so many other women need you to hear them and speak up for them in that jury room.
I recommend you move Eggshell Skull to the top of your to be read pile. That said, Lee’s account of the way justice is so often not done comes with a trigger warning. If reading this book is not for you, this is the book to buy for your sister, daughter, mother, lover, friend, wife or partner.
And in case you are wondering, ‘eggshell skull’ refers to the legal doctrine that means a defendant ‘must take their victim as they find them’, whether that is as weak as an eggshell or as strong as Bri Lee.
This review was first published on The Garret (www.thegarretpodcast.com) on 26 May 2018.
Bri Lee’s Eggshell Skull is an answer to anyone who ever asks why a woman (or less often, a man) doesn’t report sexual abuse or rape, or doesn’t pursue the matter through the legal system even if they do. Lee does not sugar coat what happens. The wheels of justice turn slowly, and the wheels of justice are not always fair.
Eggshell Skull is a personal story. Lee, a judge’s associate working in the Queensland District Court, lodged an historical sex abuse claim against a friend of her family. Her claim took more than two years to wind its way through the system, and the process – despite having a supportive family and partner – was not an easy one. Lee does not hide the emotional toll coming to terms with her abuse took on her, manifesting as anxiety, self-harm and disordered eating.
Eggshell Skull is also the story of everyone who has ever pursued what recourse is available for victims of sexual abuse and rape in the Australian legal system. And it is this story – or rather, these stories – that make Eggshell Skull so powerful.
Lee’s insights from her vantage point within the system are incisive.
We learn she ‘lost count, throughout the year, of the number of women who excused themselves from sex crime trials because they themselves were survivors’ (p. 22). Ponder what this means: Lee is saying we have a justice system reliant on community, but so many of our community are victims themselves, and they end up recusing themselves from juries deliberating sex crimes because it would trigger their own pain.
We also learn how common it is for the defence to challenge (and remove) as many women as possible from a jury deliberating a sex crime, because women are more likely to believe the accuser, especially in cases when the ‘nice guy’ is alleged to have committed the crime.
Most disheartening of all, we learn it is commonly accepted there needs to be at least four women on a jury in order for their voices to be heard, even behind the closed doors of jury deliberations.
This book is for all of those too afraid to speak out, fearful that they will not be believed. It is also for any woman who finds herself called to jury duty. Don’t recuse yourself: so many other women need you to hear them and speak up for them in that jury room.
I recommend you move Eggshell Skull to the top of your to be read pile. That said, Lee’s account of the way justice is so often not done comes with a trigger warning. If reading this book is not for you, this is the book to buy for your sister, daughter, mother, lover, friend, wife or partner.
And in case you are wondering, ‘eggshell skull’ refers to the legal doctrine that means a defendant ‘must take their victim as they find them’, whether that is as weak as an eggshell or as strong as Bri Lee.
This review was first published on The Garret (www.thegarretpodcast.com) on 26 May 2018.
Remembering the Myall Creek Massacre by Lyndall Ryan, Jane Lydon
4.0
Today, 10 June 2018, is the 180th anniversary of the Myall Creek massacre, where at least 28 Wirrayaraay women, children and elders were killed by settlers and stockmen without provocation in northern New South Wales.
Jane Lydon and Lyndall Ryan’s Remembering the Myall Creek Massacre seeks not only to explain the historical significance of the events of 1838, but also to explore the legacy of those events and their relevance to contemporary Australia.
A quick history lesson: one of the reasons the Myall Creek massacre is significant is because 11 of the 12 perpetrators were arrested and brought to trial, with seven of them subsequently hung. Unusually for the time, white witnesses were prepared to testify, meaning the massacre could proceed to court. The Myall Creek trials represent the last time in the nineteenth century white perpetrators were convicted of killing Aboriginal people in frontier violence, a simply stunning historical fact given that Myall Creek is only one of more than 170 massacres recorded between 1794 and 1872.
Remembering the Myall Creek Massacre is a collection of essays that explore the rifts in Australian society. There was divisive public reaction at the time: outcry against the massacres, but also outcry against white men being convicted and punished for killing Aboriginal people. Extraordinary stuff, and quite often a confronting read. For example, at the same time Eliza Hamilton Dunlop, an Irish immigrant, published ‘The Aboriginal Mother’ (a poem expressing her horror at the Myall Creek massacre) in The Australian there were public fundraising appeals and petitions of support for the men on trial for the massacre.
The trials highlight how class structure stood in the way of justice. John Fleming, the twelfth perpetrator, was protected by his status as a free settler and not only avoided arrest but reentered public life in 1940. William Hobbs, the station manager who reported the massacre, was fired for doing so. The young boy Yintayintin, who witnessed the massacre but as an Aboriginal was not eligible to testify, disappeared soon after the trial and is assumed to have been murdered.
As a child in the 1980s, frontier violence was not a part of my education. As an adult educating myself on Australia’s frontier history, I hope this book (and others like it) reach a greater audience.
However, Remembering the Myall Creek Massacre is not the book to place on the curriculum. Lydon and Ryan bring together their own essays and contributions from other writers in a powerful narrative, but a narrative that relies heavily on academic language. I understand why this is the case: the Myall Creek massacre is a heavily contested event in Australian history and any subjective language is likely to draw the ire of those who do not agree.
But as a reader, I found myself wishing for more of a narrative non-fiction approach. The different contributions also tend to repeat the key facts on numerous occasions rather than explore them more fully. I also question the inclusion of the chapter ‘Walking on Bones’, which places Australian frontier massacres in the international context of genocide. I have no issue with this comparison, however the chapter drew my attention away from the core subject of the book.
Despite the heavy academic tone, I recommend anyone with an interest in Australian history read Remembering the Myall Creek Massacre. The work has prompted me to explore Ryan’s online work defining and mapping frontier massacres in Australia. I have also added Murder at Myall Creek: The Trial that Defined a Nation by Mark Tedeschi (who wrote the afterward to this book) to my reading list.
This review was first published on The Garret (www.thegarretpodcast.com) on 10 June 2018.
Jane Lydon and Lyndall Ryan’s Remembering the Myall Creek Massacre seeks not only to explain the historical significance of the events of 1838, but also to explore the legacy of those events and their relevance to contemporary Australia.
A quick history lesson: one of the reasons the Myall Creek massacre is significant is because 11 of the 12 perpetrators were arrested and brought to trial, with seven of them subsequently hung. Unusually for the time, white witnesses were prepared to testify, meaning the massacre could proceed to court. The Myall Creek trials represent the last time in the nineteenth century white perpetrators were convicted of killing Aboriginal people in frontier violence, a simply stunning historical fact given that Myall Creek is only one of more than 170 massacres recorded between 1794 and 1872.
Remembering the Myall Creek Massacre is a collection of essays that explore the rifts in Australian society. There was divisive public reaction at the time: outcry against the massacres, but also outcry against white men being convicted and punished for killing Aboriginal people. Extraordinary stuff, and quite often a confronting read. For example, at the same time Eliza Hamilton Dunlop, an Irish immigrant, published ‘The Aboriginal Mother’ (a poem expressing her horror at the Myall Creek massacre) in The Australian there were public fundraising appeals and petitions of support for the men on trial for the massacre.
The trials highlight how class structure stood in the way of justice. John Fleming, the twelfth perpetrator, was protected by his status as a free settler and not only avoided arrest but reentered public life in 1940. William Hobbs, the station manager who reported the massacre, was fired for doing so. The young boy Yintayintin, who witnessed the massacre but as an Aboriginal was not eligible to testify, disappeared soon after the trial and is assumed to have been murdered.
As a child in the 1980s, frontier violence was not a part of my education. As an adult educating myself on Australia’s frontier history, I hope this book (and others like it) reach a greater audience.
However, Remembering the Myall Creek Massacre is not the book to place on the curriculum. Lydon and Ryan bring together their own essays and contributions from other writers in a powerful narrative, but a narrative that relies heavily on academic language. I understand why this is the case: the Myall Creek massacre is a heavily contested event in Australian history and any subjective language is likely to draw the ire of those who do not agree.
But as a reader, I found myself wishing for more of a narrative non-fiction approach. The different contributions also tend to repeat the key facts on numerous occasions rather than explore them more fully. I also question the inclusion of the chapter ‘Walking on Bones’, which places Australian frontier massacres in the international context of genocide. I have no issue with this comparison, however the chapter drew my attention away from the core subject of the book.
Despite the heavy academic tone, I recommend anyone with an interest in Australian history read Remembering the Myall Creek Massacre. The work has prompted me to explore Ryan’s online work defining and mapping frontier massacres in Australia. I have also added Murder at Myall Creek: The Trial that Defined a Nation by Mark Tedeschi (who wrote the afterward to this book) to my reading list.
This review was first published on The Garret (www.thegarretpodcast.com) on 10 June 2018.
Cicada by Shaun Tan
5.0
Cicada is a work that packs a punch regardless of your age. Shaun Tan had my family – my 62 year old mother and 46 year old partner, as well as my 7 and 4 year old nieces – quiet, contemplative and on the edge of their seats.
On the surface, this is a commentary about the inanity and heartlessness of 21st century corporate life, told through the eyes of the eponymous Cicada. But this brilliant short story is of course more than that. In only 150 words (many of them repeated), Tan evokes powerful emotional responses as he illustrates literally and metaphorically what it is like to be different, to be alone, and to be marginalised.
Cicada has any number of interpretations, and it is a story I expect every reader will identify with. Depending on your own view point, it is a story about feeling alone before finding your tribe, about being exploited before taking control, about losing your way before finding your calling.
Cicada is not a tale to make you laugh. The refrain ‘tok, tok, tok’ represents everything we feel but can not always express in words. It is injustice, it is abandonment, it is cruelty. But Cicada is also full of hope. By the end, ‘tok, tok, tok’ represents liberation, freedom, and that glorious feeling that all is right with the world.
If you are an adult, Cicada will make you question how you spend your days. Somehow, by the end of those 150 words office life feels like the punchline of a cruel joke.
But Cicada is also a conversation starter. If you have a younger reader in your orbit who may be feeling different from their peers or left out by those around them, this is a story to spark all sorts of discussions.
Despite being set in an office (not the usual haunt of either cicadas or children), Cicada is accessible to younger readers. Whether they are being read to or exploring Tan’s world on their own, Cicada will be a childhood tale that resonates with them into adulthood (as Toni Ungerer’s illustrated version of Han Christian Anderson’s The Little Match Girl still resonates with me).
This review was first published on The Garret (www.thegarretpodcast.com) on 7 July 2018.
On the surface, this is a commentary about the inanity and heartlessness of 21st century corporate life, told through the eyes of the eponymous Cicada. But this brilliant short story is of course more than that. In only 150 words (many of them repeated), Tan evokes powerful emotional responses as he illustrates literally and metaphorically what it is like to be different, to be alone, and to be marginalised.
Cicada has any number of interpretations, and it is a story I expect every reader will identify with. Depending on your own view point, it is a story about feeling alone before finding your tribe, about being exploited before taking control, about losing your way before finding your calling.
Cicada is not a tale to make you laugh. The refrain ‘tok, tok, tok’ represents everything we feel but can not always express in words. It is injustice, it is abandonment, it is cruelty. But Cicada is also full of hope. By the end, ‘tok, tok, tok’ represents liberation, freedom, and that glorious feeling that all is right with the world.
If you are an adult, Cicada will make you question how you spend your days. Somehow, by the end of those 150 words office life feels like the punchline of a cruel joke.
But Cicada is also a conversation starter. If you have a younger reader in your orbit who may be feeling different from their peers or left out by those around them, this is a story to spark all sorts of discussions.
Despite being set in an office (not the usual haunt of either cicadas or children), Cicada is accessible to younger readers. Whether they are being read to or exploring Tan’s world on their own, Cicada will be a childhood tale that resonates with them into adulthood (as Toni Ungerer’s illustrated version of Han Christian Anderson’s The Little Match Girl still resonates with me).
This review was first published on The Garret (www.thegarretpodcast.com) on 7 July 2018.