AustLit

'When I was little, I wanted to have 'normal' skin. I would often pull up my sleeves and look at my forearms, showing them off to the kids at school. These kids weren't really my friends - I didn't have many.' (Introduction)

'In April 2018, before accusations of sexual harassment make him a controversial figure, Dominican-American writer Junot Din publishes an essay that contains a heartfelt revelation of child-hood trauma.' (Introduction)
 

'It was November 2005. We were playing basketball at our local court at the housing estate in Flemington. Most people were out and about. They had broken their Ramadan fast. We were just spending time around the neighbourhood, playing ball. I was with three people, and one of the guys wanted to grab a cigarette. We walked from the housing estates out onto the main street, where the petrol station was. The petrol station was about 100 metres from the local high school. It just happened to be muck-up day.' (Introduction)
 

'My mother's memories of me dancing start in Port Moresby, a toddler grooving along to traditional Papua New Guinean dance.' (Introduction)

'I was born in Hobart, on stolen Palawa land. My dad was from the Central African Republic, and my mum has a Greek background.'

'When war broke out in Somalia, people had to walk. The majority walked to the closest border, Kenya. Many people lost their lives; many women lost their children. We were lucky, my family; we didn't experience qaxay, the need to flee, because we'd left Somalia earlier, in late 1987 or early 1988, before the war We went to Egypt. My mother took my brother and me, and my father followed later.' (Introduction)

'My parents adopted me straight from the Canadian hospital where I was born. They were on a long waiting list, and had a while to go before they would receive a baby. Then, out of nowhere, they got lucky. Another white couple were at the Toronto Women's College Hospital to pick up their new baby, and were disappointed when I was placed in their arms and they noticed my mop of curly black hair and my ethnic features. I was a healthy baby but I wasn't ... white. They no longer wanted me. My parents got a late-night call and, soon after, their first baby. (Introduction)
 

'I am originally from Somalia but was born in Yemen. After leaving Yemen, my family moved to Malta for a few years before migrating to Australia in 1991. My parents couldn't go back to Somalia because the civil war had broken out as they were moving from one country to the other. As a result, my parents had no contact with their families for years. My siblings and I were born in different countries: my older sister and brother were born in Saudi Arabia; my younger brother was born in Malta.' (Introduction)
 

'Mum always finds it hard to talk about him. One day, around age five, I come home from school and ask her why I don't have a father. She isn't prepared to answer at the time, yet she's been expecting this question for a while. The next day at work, she calls a friend in tears, trying to find ways to broach the subject with me.' (Introduction) 
 

'My earliest memories of Pagewood, a suburb of southern Syd-ney, include eating gummy bears from the corner shop and collecting bottle caps with my dad, which we turned into fun toys with coloured thread. There was the Crystal truck that brought us awesome flavoured fizzy drinks while Saturday Disney was on: DuckTales and Chip 'n' Dale: Rescue Rangers. The sun shone through the white venetian blinds in that flat. I longed for days that would never come: where I would draw and mail my colourful, slightly lopsided drawing of Winnie the Pooh that the presenters of Saturday Disney would show during the episode. ' (Introduction)
 

'For me, growing up Somali in Australia meant confusion. Literally and metaphorically. Identity was a complex puzzle, with several missing pieces. The first was language. It meant a loss of culture, a loss of kin and a loss of country. My advice for first-generation Somalis my age and younger is to learn to take pride in our mother tongue. Language is what connects our people, old and young. It is the basic building blocks upon which culture is built. With it, we can learn about our history, make sense of our present and build our future.' (Introduction) 
 

'To be African in Australia is to be among the drifting diaspora. Nomadic beings who find themselves on an isolated continent through displacement or a disconnection from the umbilical thread of the motherland. Sometimes it's a curious heart or a quest to be closer to the ends of the earth that drives this seeking out of a new home. Other times, it's the fissures created by a civil war that cause a fleeing to somewhere safer, before it becomes a found home. Being African in Australia is, in its essence, a journey unusual.' (Introduction)

'Two months ago, my paternal grandfather passed away. It was a Wednesday, usually my favourite day of the week — now always a reminder that it has been (x) days since he left us. The worst thing about grief is the forgetting: those split-second eternities when you are caught between dreaming and waking. Those moments in between heartbeats, as you draw in a breath, before it leaves your body with a sob. The space of a step when suddenly the weight of memories makes you stumble. I still forget there is a gaping hole in the universe in the shape of his smile.' (Introduction)