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Wilcannia

I first went through there in 1975,
sitting in the back of my parents’
old, green ‘64 EH Holden.
That tiny town was  boarded up with dark coloured panels,
staring harshly at any intruder,
with eyes bruised and busy with racism.
In 1975 we didn’t know there were two milkbars,
one at each end of this tiny town,
one for the blackfellas and one for the whites.
We went into the first one, the first one we came to,
on the east side of town, the first one.
The large, black Mama
—who was an Aunty, an Elder in this town—
stared at us with distaste and told us we were in
the wrong milkbar, the white milkbar was
on the other side of town.
We went and got our milkshakes
—mine was strawberry, always in those days—and left,
with our own fearful distaste of this small town.
I don’t think I ever went back there,
but it was in the news the other day.
There’s been an outbreak of disease
in that tiny town and all the old blackfellas are getting sick.
The nearest hospital is hours away.
The health minister said it was their fault,
but he didn’t even seem to  know they were the Maari Ma people
he was blaming, who had been asking for help for months.
A few days later he said he “regretted” his comments,
but he didn’t apologise, he just made
more of the same comments that reaffirmed the blame.
It seems it’s quite ok to bruise this tiny town
of blackfellas if you’re white and you’ve never been there.

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2021/aug/27/the-covid-disaster-unfolding-in-wilcannia-goes-way-past-incompetence-it-is-a-disgrace

Other works by Peter Cartwright...



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