Say it

Start by saying, “I don’t see colour.”
Say it like it erases history, like it makes you virtuous,
like the world is not divided by the exact thing you refuse to acknowledge.
Say it like ignoring a wound heals it.
Say it while locking your car doors in the “bad” suburb,
while gripping your bag tighter in the presence of too much melanin.
Say, “We’re all Australian at the end of the day”
when someone points out that only some of us get followed around in shops,
that only some of us have our job applications thrown out for “complicated” last names.
Say it when someone mentions January 26.
Say it louder when they tell you it’s Invasion Day.
Say it until your voice drowns out 65,000 years of history,
until it buries the massacres, the chains, the bones in the soil beneath your feet.
Ask them, “But where are you REALLY from?”
Because “Sydney” isn’t the answer you were expecting.
Because “Melbourne” doesn’t fit the picture in your head.
Because their skin, their hair, their accent, their existence
must be explained, excused, justified.
Because you have already decided
that “Australian” does not come in that shade.
Tell the brown kid at school that their lunch smells funny.
Tell them your Vegemite sandwich is normal,
that their mother’s cooking is foreign,
that “exotic” is just a fancy word for “other.”
Then tell them to lighten up, it was just a joke.
Ask the Indigenous boy in your class why he gets “free stuff.”
Say it like he’s cheating the system, like the system wasn’t built to erase him.
Say it like land was never stolen,
like he doesn’t walk past statues of men who slaughtered his ancestors,
like he doesn’t hear their names spoken with reverence
while his own history is rewritten in textbooks
or ignored completely.
Laugh when someone does an “Asian” accent,
but look uncomfortable when someone calls out the joke.
Say, “Mate, it’s just banter”
as if laughter has never cut deeper than a knife.
As if a thousand small humiliations
do not pile up into a mountain of shame
that some people are forced to climb daily.
Say, “At least we’re not as bad as America”
when someone mentions Indigenous deaths in custody,
when someone brings up the over-policing of Black and brown bodies,
when someone points out that a First Nations person
is more likely to die in jail than be granted bail.
Say it like it’s a competition,
like being the lesser evil is something to be proud of.
Tell the refugee, “You should be grateful to be here”
as if survival is a privilege,
as if gratitude is the price of entry,
as if they have not already paid with everything they had.
Tell them to “assimilate,”
then mock their accent,
laugh at their clothes,
scoff when they speak their mother tongue,
call them “un-Australian” when they do anything
other than shrink themselves into something palatable for you.
Watch the cricket,
watch the footy,
watch the crowds boo the only Black man on the field.
Say, “It’s not about race”
when an Indigenous player is jeered for daring to be excellent.
When a Sudanese teenager is called a thug before he’s called a hero.
When an entire community is reduced to a gang
for being young, Black, and outside after dark.
Tell the person of colour, “I don’t think of you as (insert race here).”
Tell them you see them as “just a person,”
as if their history is something to erase,
as if their culture is a burden that must be lifted off their shoulders
for them to be worthy of your friendship.
Say it like it’s a compliment,
like the parts of them that don’t look like you
should be grateful for the invisibility.
Complain about “political correctness.”
Say, “You can’t even say anything these days”
when someone asks you to stop saying slurs that should have never been yours to begin with.
Say, “They’re just words”
when words have been used to dehumanise,
when words have been used to justify the bullets, the chains, the exclusion, the fear.
Say it like your right to offend is more sacred than someone else’s right to exist in peace.
Tell the Muslim woman her hijab is oppressive,
while your government decides what she can and cannot wear.
Tell her she should dress how she wants,
then tear off her scarf in the street.
Tell her to integrate, then make integration a moving goalpost,
a door that locks behind her no matter how many hoops she jumps through.
Tell the Aboriginal man, “But you don’t LOOK Indigenous.”
Say it like it’s a compliment.
Say it like his bloodline should be measured in shades.
Say it like you have ever had to prove your right to belong.
Say, “Why does everything have to be about race?”
when it has never been about anything else.
And when someone finally calls you out,
when they hold up a mirror and ask you to look,
laugh and say,
“Mate, you’re being too sensitive.”
Then walk away,
without even trying to understand
the weight of your words,
the length of their history,
the silence that follows.
Because that
that is how to be racist in Australia
without even trying.

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