A diary of an Indigenous footballer's silent struggle beneath the Southern Cross.
A year of pain through my eyes.
English vintage writing chanel
April 20th 2024
Throughout that night, a smile lingered, as if I were someone known for this easy grin. I can't fully explain it. Maybe it was the excitement of being drafted. Perhaps it's the sheer irony of it all. I’m an 18 year old kid, living the dream every young Australian wishes for, playing AFL at the highest level. Being drafted shattered my own preconceived limits, especially in a world that has historically been white. There's a bizarre discomfort in this fortune, a sense that I don't quite belong in this narrative. I carry the weight of my predecessors Gilbert McAdam, Polly Farmer, Nicky Winmar and Adam Goodes, a history spoiled by the blemish of our skin. Will the stares linger? Will they ask “Does he really belong here?” “Is he just another diversity pick?”. I couldn’t escape what was waiting for me; what bedevilled my role models’ careers. Haunting me, leaving an invisible mark. I remember sitting in the bathtub when I was young, scrubbing at my skin until it was raw. I was convinced that if I rubbed hard enough, the colour would come off, that I could somehow fit in better, be like the other kids. I asked my mum why it wasn’t working, she just stared at me. There was no instant answer, just this heavy pause, her lips parting, only to take a breath. Instead, there was this tightening around her eyes, like she knew something. The silence that followed echoed, louder than any words.
April 27th 2024
I am a proud Kokatha man. We occupy areas in western South Australia, the Gawler Ranges. I remember as a child tracking my fingers along the luminescent red dirt, the grain slipping through the cracks like the remembrance of the past times my ancestors faced. The salt lakes shimmer like fractured mirrors, each crack reflecting the death of my people. The Stubborn shrubs clinging to life, their roots digging deep into the parched soil, just like me holding on to all I know, the only thing I know despite the intergenerational colonists pulling me away. This land speaks in silence, each crack a testament to my ancestors who walked this ground and felt its heartbeat. It is a place of stark contrasts, where beauty and brutality of my history coexist. A history that my uncle and aunty instilled in me from a young age. A history suffused by white conquerors, driven with greed and acts of aggression. Massacring the very animals that roamed our sacred lands, shooting indiscriminately as if life itself held no value. Our spears, crafted with the wisdom of our elders, were powerless. Their guns, staining the land red, with blood from my people. Those who survived were left to endure a different kind of pain. The pain of being forcibly taken by white authorities, dragged away into a world of race indoctrination. Parents were left in the wreckage, their hearts broken, their children lost to silence. The kind of silence where the world is quiet outside, the kind that lingers, not just around you but from within. Like heavy stillness beneath deep water, pressing against your chest, making it impossible to breathe, suppressing your thoughts into the depths.
Since my birth, life has been anchored within family, tribe, land, and the Dreamtime. None of these elements can exist independently; they are inseparable, each sustaining the other. I was taught to honour my elders, their wisdom, strengths, and proficiencies woven into every story, song and gesture. They guided me, passing down the very essence of who we are. Yet the silent battles they fought, the demons wrestled with, the scars left behind by colonisation and the attempts to erase us, like shadows in the corner of a room, they were always present. I remember smelling the cheap spirits on my uncle’s breath, watching the way alcohol wrapped itself around their pain, offering a temporary escape. The release of dopamine, flooding their minds with a false sense of relief, a rush that momentarily masked the deep-rooted pain. It wasn’t just numbing or about chasing that brief high, it was a bullet to the brain, a knife to a wrist, a relief, an excuse. It didn’t bring anything permanent, only compounding the wounds. Alcohol became a substance, a tool to endure, inherited from generations before. As of now I carry the weight of my history. I know that my existence is proof of my ancestors' survival.
May 2nd 2024
“Black c**t.”
There it was. My name. The silence, heavy. The stadium, packed, however to me, noiseless and empty. There I stood, frozen, the words slicing through me like a blade, diminishing my voice. Yet Australia’s public remained indifferent, the game continued, the crowd turning a blind eye. I was left standing there, aching, broken, longing to lash out. Even still, the Australian public would denounce me. Visualise me punching a white male. Envision the turmoil, the fury, not at the inequity, but having the carelessness to resist. Imagine if I called a drunk redneck a c**t, he’d be itching for a fight.
By now I should be used to it, I've heard it all before. I remember playing junior football, in the red dirt of the Gawler Ranges, tracking the shredded ball with the same untamed intent as my ancestors. No shoes, no intolerance, every step carrying the weight of generations. How paradoxical that the Sherrin bears a kangaroo on its leather? In both respects, hunting Kangaroo means survival.
I’m nothing more than just another black body, a target. Walking off the field my legs like jelly, operating mechanically, as I stared at my hands. In conjecture with what class of person would voluntarily say “Black c**t.”? Did they get a sick thrill, a release of dopamine, an adrenaline rush? What do they gain?
May 23rd 2024
I had to silence it, the affliction that plagued me. Anguishing for relief, I grasped for the bottle, the burn the only thing strong enough to blur reality, numbing the ache. It felt like it was ingrained in me, passed down from generation to generation, a corrupted inheritance of the construction of Australian society, the systemic discrimination, the historical trauma, the weight of marginalisation that plagues my people. Fixed into the soul, just like “Black C**t”, branded intensely like a wound that refuses to heal or fade. Inevitably, every time I inject substances, every time I drown myself in a drink, it echoes again, a scar that reminds me, where I stand within this country, or within this so-called untouchable institution called the AFL. A place that wasn't built for people like me. I've seen this path, it's my people's impulse of numbing the rage. My uncles, my cousins: Shaun Burgoyne, Danyle Pearce, Cam Ellis-Yolmen and Naish Wanganeen-Mileria, endeavoured to flee the same noise. Now here I am, submerged.
June 1st 2024
My body is desensitised, mind whirling in a coil I can’t straighten. The drugs, serving their purpose, taking the edge off, sufficient enough to create a relapse in recollection. I haven’t been to training in days. My house, a disaster, empty bottles ‘Marker 1’ syringes ‘Marker 2’, cigarette buts ‘Marker 3’, clothes piled in the corner ‘Marker 4’. A crime scene encapsulating the marks of racism. The smell of sweat and rancid beer suffocating the air like the weight of this country’s history: the hangings, the bloodshed, the massacres, transforming to the quiet brutality of being dressed down bit by bit. My teammates, coaches, speculating why I haven’t shown. How can I clarify this experience, this sensitivity? I’m gazing at this half empty bottle, rationalising within all the times I’ve proved myself, voluntarily gone further, trying to be more than just “Indigenous”. And for what? Just so they can butcher it?
June 8th 2024
The AFL, a supposed sanctuary, a business, according to my recollection, where talent outshone. Yet, an unforgivable battlefield of identity. Where Indigenous participants are propelled into the top billing. Required to rebel beyond colonial prejudice, to take it like a ‘man’.
I feel depressed. My therapist suggested I take anti-depressant medication. So I did. The more I take, the more I become anxious toward the organisation. No one would believe the manner in which it sustains comparable ideals of colonialism and racial oppression that have spanned centuries. Careless when over watching the abuse, turning a blind eye to the colour of our skin. My teammates, coaches, those who could advocate, look away, pretend it's not their problem. The AFL affirms to honour us, to celebrate ‘reconciliation’. Where is this so-called reconciliation when I’m abandoned, left to suffocate within the ideals of British colonialists. While the institution remains untouchable far removed from inter-generational pain.
It's a lot to process, I know as my mind is dimmed by the meds. Drifting in vagueness around my home, trying to disguise stale bread as dinner. As I rushed around the kitchen swaying from the meds, I heard the toast pop grabbing the knife and margarine. I smashed the plate off the bench, picking up pieces and taking them toward the bin. As I opened the cupboard underneath the sink, a piece of china was looking me in the eye. I grasped the fragment over my right wrist, everything came together, the humiliation that echoes across two centuries of dispossession, injustice, suffering and survival forced the china to rip through my skin. A hole in which emerged, the blood black. No one is around to help, just like my ancestors, dying alone on the land that is now not ours.