2018
It is a quaint and almost-hipster bar in Footscray. We are women of colour in a writers’ group. We sit over food and drinks and we talk. We speak of identity. The word ‘Australian’ is sounding bitter on my tongue, whenever it rises. Feels heavy, like my mouth does not want to hold it. Cannot. This country that has vomited me up so many times.
I take them and wrap them all up, these moments of small forgettings.
≈
2009
I travelled for a whole month with no problems, then landed back ‘home’ and that’s when all the bullshit starts. I’m standing in the airport, seething with rage. Breathing to control my anger, as the hyper-visible feel they must. A great anger, yes, that bubbles and boils from inside. But remains contained behind a calm face.
♦
The signs were bad from the beginning. There is unprecedented angst regarding my passport. Security guards patrolling around, looking for trouble. Bored bullies with nothing better to do.
“You have an E-card. You can self-process. Just go through here.”
My instructions at Immigration. Okay. That sounds great. On ‘home soil’. My life should be easier. Just need a yellow exit card. Done. Scan.
A customs officer will see you today! The screen shouts at me in text. What? Why?! Malaise fills my insides.
“Step this way please,” one officer says. Suddenly there are too many of them. Blue and white and black. Uniforms. Bulky and awkwardly fitting. They smile but from the corner of my eyes I see them all watching. I’m tired. I don’t need this rubbish. I just want to sleep.
♦
Now the Customs officer is having a look. Peeping at me, the photo, me… one, two, three, four times. Suspicion all around. Hangs heavily in the air like a blanket. It’s real. It’s me. What the hell is your problem? But I respond with only silence.
“Hmm, I’ll have to speak to Immigration.” He says this as he turns slowly. Immigration’s right behind. “Yes, just follow this man please.” I follow the man in a daze. Getting too tired to argue. Weary enough to play their stupid game. Just wanting to get this over quickly. My biggest reassurance—that this, their process, is all in vain. Surely it’ll be over after this second check? They will realise I’m just the same as everybody else. I can’t believe this is happening.
♦
Hah! ‘The same as everybody else.’ The words sounding stupid and naïve, even as I write them:
I will never be the same as everybody else. Sure, I’m travelling like them. Australian passport. A one-month trip to Asia. Carrying no drugs or any other prohibited items. Except for the one, sorry fact that I’m black.
A black, single woman. Travelling on her own. The only one. With an afro weave. The odds aren’t in my favour. I fall right into the hands of paranoid and ignorant prejudice. I don’t stand a fucking chance. I watch all the other white passengers walk by. Too easy. I’m taken aside like a criminal. Breathe, breathe. Contain that anger.
This guy’s trying to make conversation now. Is he serious? But I’m still playing along. Thinking how to make them pay. Trying to think. I can never think in these situations.
Another lady comes along. She’s peering and analysing too.
WHAT THE FUCK ARE THEY LOOKING FOR??
Finally she says it’s all right.
♦
Out of one end of the gauntlet, smack-bang into another. No, it’s not all right. It’s far from over. There is this skinny lady waiting past the gate who asks me a barrage of questions, then tells me to head over to the baggage X-ray once I’ve gotten my luggage. This bitch doesn’t know what she’s talking about. The luggage is late, thanks to Tiger Airways. I pace up and down. Frustrated. Tired. Feel their eyes watching me. I will ignore this lady.
The baggage is here. I can go!
No, not just yet. It wasn’t a joke. I’m summoned to the Baggage Check.
“I don’t understand. I said I have nothing to declare.”
“Oh… we just try to check as many people as possible.” Sure you do.
“Please place your baggage on the counter for examination…” Straight away she starts talking. The legal jargon first. Then: “How was your journey? Where did you go? Purpose? Did you see friends? How long? What’s your occupation? How do you do your hair?” Hair questions?? Oh my God. The bane of my existence. Hair questions irritate me enough. How much more from this bitch?
She talks too fast. A skinny and ugly thing with front teeth that stuck out like a rabbit. I’m beginning to snap back replies. My eyes darting back and forth over my belongings. My belongings, now displayed publicly for all to see. Underwear, tampons, dirty laundry, money… Nothing left untouched. She even opened my diary. At some point the humiliation gets too much. These aren’t my personal items any more. They’re just objects for everyone, the skinny bitch and the men standing beside her, to look at. Breathe, control that anger. And then: What are you looking for??
♦
“Ok, it’s fine. You can repack everything.”
Yeah bitch, I can repack everything. 45 minutes after this bullshit started. For what? Are you satisfied now? How I wish I’d said something.
“Thanks.”
But I just leave.
Downstairs the drama continues. I can’t find my family. Come on! I’m already 50 minutes late. I check my mobile. Optus has eaten the rest of my credit. I can’t make calls. Payphone. I drag all my things. No one is picking up. I’m freaking out. About to go upstairs to get credit when my sister finally rings back: “What?? We’re on our way!” Phew. Sit down opposite a café. Resist the temptation: No, I will not buy overpriced food. Ignore the items that try to beckon me. Tempt me with their glossiness and colour.
♦
This was a big sign, then. I didn’t belong in Perth. Perth itself was trying to keep me out, even as soon as I returned to it. Trying to kick me back. Kick me anywhere, kick me elsewhere. I get hot water for the chamomile tea-satchel stowed away at the bottom of my handbag, and sit down with it. Sigh. My belly protrudes, like a misplaced goitre.
I take them and wrap them all up, these moments of small forgettings. So many moments.
“Welcome back. Welcome back to Perth.”
About the author
Piriye (Piri) Altraide is a Nigerian-born writer, spoken word artist and self-proclaimed dancefloor extraordinaire. Having escaped Perth and her past life as a Chartered Accountant, she is now a Melbournian undertaking a Masters in Creative Writing. Piriye’s work centres on identity, belonging and the journey to self-acceptance in the context of the African-Australian diaspora. Piriye has featured at Afro Hub, The Howler and for Multicultural Arts Victoria. She is a 2014 Perth Poetry Slam finalist, co-curator of RMIT’s Unlecture series, and has had her work published in Mirrors of Africa, Myriad, The Lifted Brow and Milk Crates.