The Virus
I was 5 or 6 years old
a migrant child of parents
who were swept away from the sooty chimney towns
of Britain’s working class north by the promises of
a bright new life in a young country
A country brimming, spilling and erupting with
outrageous opportunities for people
especially white people
who dreamt of owning their very own land
Australia
We were the ten pound package , government assisted
chance of a life time Brits who
flocked in their thousands to these shores
and landed like sparkling white seagulls
that squabble amongst themselves as they fly in kindred form
Noisy chattering seagulls on the look out for the best morsel they can find
Some have said seagulls all look and act the same…
Poms they called us, the latest flock of new arrivals
following in the footsteps of the convicts
and our sea faring ancestors
who came to seize new territory in a land
that was not young at all.
Big skies, wide streets, pupil dazzling light
Brand new asbestos houses far removed from the
tall sooty terrace flats
cramped side by side
back Home
We staggered wearily, eagerly into government issue houses
that nestled expectantly
in the middle of tiny little paddocks
Neatly sliced quarter acre blocks that beckoned the new arrivals to
seed a brand new life and sow a future far removed
from the misty grey land
where the sun rarely shines….
This was The Lucky Country
and we thought that we were very lucky indeed!
There was much to learn and many new things to see
and for awhile my migrant child’s world was consumed with more space
new friends, big school, new sounds, interesting sights
and beach time delights
In fact we were so immersed in our new life
we were utterly, completely, mind numbingly oblivious
to the Land where we were living…
That is when the virus struck.
I remember the day it happened
Unlike those silent viruses that sit invisibly on taps
waiting to hitch a ride
on fingertips that brush past lips
this insidious, relentless, sickening parasite
travelled effortlessly upon the breath
transmitted upon invisible sound waves
elusive in their source
the destination always the same
It was very hard for young children to escape a
germ such as that!
I was standing by the milk shed when the virus struck
Its current host was a plump red freckly boy called George
He was no doubt named after a king, an uncle or grandfather back Home
The kids called George names like dot-face and carrot top
Giggling and laughing, George entertained us by
pulling faces and joining in the fun
His best friend stood with us, Peter Green,
an Australian boy who was fond of saying
“we go back 6 generations “
even though he didn’t really know what it meant
his father said it all the time
so it must have been important
Peter was teaching George
the real Australian way
We were standing in the cool shade ,
a rare find across the sweltering expanse of the asphalt playground
when the virus emerged
and the first cross infection occurred
In a loud voice that announced his cockney origins wherever he went
George sang out four words in the mocking tone of a confident child:
“Dirty coon, rotten baboon”
Four words that speared my consciousness
and left a tender wound,
a vulnerable space to host a virus
that I was too young to fight
Georges words invoked contempt
a voracious contempt that swept through the crowded school yard
as quickly as it took to
catch one another’s breath
I followed Georges eyes and saw the object of
his loathing
Curly haired Lindy and her little brother Jimmy
the Aboriginal kids
The Blacks
Lindy and Jimmy stood out from the sea of white faces
Shiny black birds surrounded by vicious seagulls
They stood holding the eyes of their attacker
whilst holding tightly onto one another’s hand
Jimmy leaned towards his big sister
terrified that the big kid with the flaming red hair
was about to lunge and squash him then and there
They were the outcast kids
the Abo’s who were never ever invited to play our games.
Peter smiled at George approvingly
and one or two others snickered our way
the virus twisting itself across children’s faces
annihilating the anti-bodies of innocence
feasting upon the collective enjoyment of
someone else being teased.
This particularly robust virus had its own language.
after coon followed different words
boong-boong –that’s the noise they make when the bull bar hits them
…before long other children joined in the heckling
until a bubonic plague of racist torment
swamped us all in its vitriolic grip
That was the day I learnt a new A, B C
the uniquely Australian alphabet
A. B. C.
Abo
Boong
Coon.
This was the alphabet I was infected with as a child
In the lucky country
A magnificent land older than the mountains
with secrets winding back through time
Something terrible occurred
A virus was unleashed long before our little family
travelled to the down under shores…..
What became of Lindy and Jimmy?
Innocent children who were called half castes, treated as out casts
Removed from their Mother, kidnapped before her very eyes
Thanks to the power of forgiveness
and decency
and common sense
strong medicines for curing the malaise
of toxic tongues
and the virus that leaves many deaf and mute and blind
Lindy and Jimmy and I became friends.
Precious friends
…..and together we are all in recovery
from the virus that strikes so many innocent children down.
Carol Omer
