Showing posts from June, 2018

Someone’s daughter, someone’s son #2

It’s Monday night and I’m travelling to Princes Park to cry for a girl I never knew. Today I talked to a colleague. “It’s all pretty sad”, he says. Like it was a storm, or an avalanche, that killed her. As I walked to Elizabeth Street, I could see the number 19 tram stops were overflowing. Instead, I took the train up to Jewell and am tramming back down. I know how, because this is my home, the north. My car is nearby at Mum’s house. She followed me and my sister here when Dad left her, when I was pregnant. Tonight, Mum has picked up my ten year old from Taekwondo, so I can go. Tonight, I am glad she does Taekwondo. I am glad she can run fast. I am glad she doesn’t take any shit, even from me. I am leaving behind my child so I can go to Princes Park to cry for someone else’s. On the tram, a couple are looking at their phones, wondering where to get off. I interject, with a small smile. “Third stop”, I say to them. “My friend just texted. It’s near the tennis club.”

Someone’s daughter, someone’s son

They’re talking on the radio about a girl who was murdered. Yesterday her body was found in Princes Park, raped and killed. Police issued photos and identities were kept close as the city waited. Today, a young man turned himself in, and was charged with murder. A small dam broke, as finally, her identity was revealed: a 22 year old, intelligent inner city woman living in North Carlton and beginning a life as a comedian. Tonight, stories are being told of a beautiful person. She had a warm heart, a shy reserve off stage and room-grabbing charisma under lights. This young woman was loved by many good people, people who will grieve for her, and set up funds (and contribute to them), and hold events in her name. Which is right. I have two daughters. As I listen, tears come. I can hardly breathe. ***** We don’t know anything about the man accused except what was said in court today, which is that he has Autism Spectrum Disorder, and is “socially regressive”, whatever that m

A handsome beginning

It’s 10 o’clock on a Wednesday in another inner city café. I’m waiting for a bespoke coffee and an avocado smash, after an early appointment. To my left is a person tapping on a laptop. Ahead is a chatty couple eating brekky burgers and beyond, on a larger table, are two colleagues and letting off steam about some work encounter and receiving longed-for sympathy. The coffee machine roars and gurgles, grounds are sharply tapped out, and fridges open and close. The furniture is upcycled 1950s, and the mod teacups and saucers are perfectly mismatched. Smooth, beatsy music glides above the street art on the walls. We are at ground zero; this is the murmur and rhythm of life in Brunswick. This place has is a bit different though. For one thing, there are no beards. That’s because the couple, the tapper, the workers and the person waiting for a takeaway, are all women. The barista, waitstaff and kitchenhands: women. The staff are a wide variety of faces and bodies and shades and figures