A peace of salami; The "real" wogboy.
It's only been two years since I arrived in Australia, but already my life has gone full circle. I know you"re expecting some story about a poor little wog who arrived in Australia with nothing and now he has it all - but no, that's not the case for me.
I"m not the stereotype Aussie society has come to expect. I feel like George Robinson of the painting "The Conciliation", he was surrounded by Aboriginals, but alas I"m only surrounded by Aussies. .
I want to be understood but there are very few that can. I want to remain anonymous, but it's impossible for me to do. I want to be like the rest of them but I know that I cannot, my skin contrasts, my language and my hair amiss - much like George Robinson.
Reminiscing about the good old days when I could be free, swinging around on the town oak tree, quite like the story of "Sky-High", where an old lady remembers her youth, but different in many ways, of course - we couldn't afford steel. .
I remember leaving my home with the bullets spraying over my split ends, not daring to look back. Everyone was scared. I was thinking of the great poet Peter Skrzynecki crossing his Red Sea, we were all "shirtless, in shorts; barefooted". .
I remember arriving at Easter Island, Australia they sang - "the magic of dreams". Dreams? More like nightmares! I was like the character in Sky-High, I wished I could go back to the time when everything was bearable.
After a while my family was moved to Woomera, then to Calendula and finally to our home in Mt Druitt - a semi-detached asbestos. .
Who wants to know me now? Old wogs at bingo gatherings are about the only ones. I wonder how Peter Skrzynecki felt when he was in my place, surrounded by Aussies he was. It can't be that hard to fit in here, can it?.
I"m by myself now in my new world, I have a plan to tackle life like Hannah did her washing-line. I cannot, must not linger any more with sex, drugs and mindless distractions.