1001 Nights Cast

It started early; earlier than early, I reckon. Though I have no memory of it, I mean: I can assume that it didn’t just start from nowhere, there must have been an earlier time.

Maybe, one of God’s angels sat on my shoulder and whispered to me about the great love, the great understanding, the great way of life, the true way. It must have been something like this because I am touched.

I choose now to resist every disturbance to my conscience. I am formed. Then it was all touchy-feely, polymorphous gooey dribble. I had to grow up and fast. I was told that I could do anything and was the best.

I have dreamt that there is always certainty, if you are true to your beliefs. I have also dreamt that all dreams are true. There is certainty, if not we would be nothing.

So how has it come to this? Despite all the good, the possibilities; somehow there is still corruption.

As a mature citizen I can say my decisions and processes, even if linked to the latest and or most historically resilient medical knowledge proven through time, for example, eat more green and orange, try fruit instead of snakes, etc, are sound. The main reason I am safe is because of God. This is fact. I know it, you know it, we all know it: there is good and there is bad.

All information has gathered in me, building me and growing me to what I am now. Truth, like my body through time has become stronger and more active: flexing, posturing; getting hit, hitting back. Seeing a girl, for the first time. It was as if all feelings prior to this point were gathered as a single entity. I was good, growing, should I tell her? Would she understand? She was way over the other side, in the heat. She didn’t know I was watching her skip down the street. Then I heard the neighbours.

The neighbours…one of them does not speak English!

Strange smells waft over the fence, noises that recall a bad end of town, dancing and laughter. Their life seemed too happy for people who are different. Why don’t they listen to our stories instead of theirs? If I could I would tell them about the girl across the street. I wanted to tell someone, anyone but how could I? How can I describe that which I didn’t understand, that which I felt so strongly about…privately? Besides they wouldn’t get it.

Where had they come from? Their kids were older, smelt of stuff and moved in a posse. Their shorts were weird too: brightly coloured. With hard black hair, the girls looked ugly and scary and had darker skin than the boys. They would laugh and play, and occasionally invite me in, can you believe it? Why? And how could I? They were too weird. I felt they were planning something. Maybe they would grab me and take me to the chook shed for a hiding, make their brothers and sisters laugh at me. Poke fun and speak in tongues. Uncle Joe was right, there were too many of them.

I am trying to explain to you that they were not like me, not like you, they were different and that was bad, really bad—you understand don’t you, you know what I mean: scared. They were hurting me because of their sounds and smells. I had to think; feeling was useless with the strange noises and strange smells. No comfort, can you believe it, I had to think. Like being woken when you really just want to sleep in.

The only answer was to think. I remember the first time. Wound up, so full, so tight, so ready, squinting, willing myself to think. It was no good. Each time I consulted the fence it got worse as if there were a trip wire signalling music, laughter and a spray can of food smells to start up on my approach. I tried not to be seen peering through a gap or standing on an old kero tin, poking my forehead to eye line above the palings. If I were seen I would scurry away in a breath. Sometimes they would call out but I was no fool and sat in a scrub of tea tree, camouflaged, taking mental notes, thinking. Hating.

Later, much later—I had it sorted, well most of it. It helped me figure out what would be best, what to do. The teacher asked the class to write about immigration; what should we do with immigrants? The title wasn’t exactly that, I can’t remember it exactly but near enough. I guessed the government was consulting all the school children for their opinions on the problem and would gather all the information and draw up a strategy based on these views. It took me quite a long time to get out exactly what should happen. My plan was a good one and even though the man hadn’t been on the moon long I figured my response was really, really smart.

‘There is no reason to worry about the language thing or the clothing or their smells’, I wrote. I went on in the best spirit of the enterprise, after all how often am I asked for my opinion, I thought: it’s important too. ‘At first they won’t know where they are and this is the best time to change. A year in a holding centre with English classes and clothing lessons and cooking classes with lots of sport, somewhere away from us maybe north west Australia because there is nothing there’. I thought the teacher would be pleased but I guess she was feeling lonely at not being asked her own opinion.