Realising the Dream (Kerry)

You realise the 'brick wall' is an illusion.

“What d’you think, Auntie Pat?” Ali sings out to her aunt who is sitting on the ground at the other end of the wide verandah. She proudly holds up the painting she’s been working on. Its colours gleam in the bright light.

“It’s real good, Ali,” Pat shouts back. “You let somethin’ go I reckon. You bin here a week now, painted every day, just like your grandma used to.”

Ali sets the canvas down on the ground again and studies it carefully. It makes her heart sing to look at it. The wet paint has responded to her mark-making in ways she had not expected. There is a melody playing in her head as she tracks over the beautiful blending of pinks, yellows and sky blues. She loves the boldness of its black background. Picking the painting up carefully, she walks over to Pat. She sits down cross-legged beside the old woman. Pat goes on quietly with her own painting, dipping the brush in the little pots and applying the colours gently to the surface of her canvas.

Ali waits. She closes her eyes. Up close she hears the minute sounds of Pat’s brush on the canvas. There is a cicada scratching a discordant tune in the peppercorn tree beside her. Occasionally she picks up the sound of a crow in the bush over near the shed. Away from the shelter of the verandah the sun burns relentlessly. Ali can feel the luxurious warmth of it on her arms even in the shade. This is her country. It’s in her bones. And in her head.

Pat lays down her brush.

“So, you happy to be here?” she asks nonchalantly.

“It’s not like last time,” Ali replies firmly. ”When Mum brought me here all those years ago I wasn’t ready. I wanted to be a white girl then. At school I always felt not quite one or the other. Not black, not white. Neither.”

Ali fiddles with the buttons on her shirt. It was painful for her to remember how confused she had been.

“You pretty angry those days,” Pat suggests. “Banging your head against the wall don’t help. Your mum show you proper country, your place. But you had eyes shut. Not seeing. Now you see. It’s there. In your painting. Your Dreaming.”

Ali had stopped banging her head against that illusory wall of prejudice and misunderstanding a couple of years ago.

“It’s good to be here. With you, Auntie Pat. Learning about the country, my family.”

Ali spreads her painting out on the ground beside Pat’s. She acknowledges the peace she feels in her heart.