Riverside Woman

‘If my life were a book, it would be called River City Girl,’ I announce with alacrity, addressing a class of strangers. ‘That’s interesting,’ said the facilitator of the course with a curious look on her face.

There was a pause which signalled that I ought to elaborate. I attempted as succinctly as I could. I told them about how the Singapore River was the place I felt most at home in my country of origin and that because Brisbane was known as the River City, I had essentially flowed from one river into another. The sea of nodding heads and smiling faces around me confirmed that my story made sense.

As I deconstructed the mysterious nature of my response to a simple sentence starter activity, I wished I could have shared more. I wanted to reveal to them that I had been a woman disrupted, disconnected, floating adrift, and struggling to anchor myself in this city I want to call home but of course, I do not and I cannot. 

‘Mesopo…I can’t even say it right,”

‘Mesopotamia!’ I chimed in enthusiastically, feeling slightly clever for having deciphered it instantly.

‘Yes, that’s the one,’ said the psychic reader, smiling at me, sensing that this petty victory of mine pleased me enough for me to relax a little.  ‘For some reason, I am picking up on that word now.’ She advised that I should look into it further, especially, if I were curious enough to find out about my past lives. I was intrigued but said nothing more.

Her face was kind, her voice gentle, and her words were reassuring. Like balm, they soothed and smoothed over the jagged edges of my splintered heart, spirit, and mind. I spent slightly more than half an hour in a room with her, shuffling cards awkwardly, singling them out with a tiny sense of trepidation. As she calmly turned them over and laid them out on the table, I studied her expressions nervously for clues and possibilities. The naked cards stared at me knowingly.  

‘Are good things in store for me? ’ I questioned my spirit guides silently. I had been briefly informed that they were there with me. This was my first ever psychic reading and I was a ball of mixed emotions. There is but only a fine line which separates unshakeable faith from utter desperation.  Fervently praying to hear only good things, I teetered dangerously towards the latter.

Suspended in a whirlpool of doubts, I emerged from the session feeling somewhat lighter and encouraged. I walked out of the store holding on tightly to myself and more importantly, the promise of a better tomorrow. 

The reading had unexpectedly gone relatively well as far as I was concerned. I stood outside the waterfront store and heaved a barely audible sigh of relief. Hope was in the air and so was salt. 

Facing seawards, I took in the expansiveness of the large body of water within the limitations of all my senses. It contained a life force like no other. It beckoned and I heeded its call, hypnotised by its spellbinding ways. 

There were plaques on memorial walls and monuments which informed me of a history I was, thankfully, not privy to witnessing intimately. It spoke of the beginning of a colonial legacy, the establishment of a penal settlement which, I imagine, must have been challenging in various ways for the colonists and convicts involved but must have been particularly agonising for the Ningy Ningy clan of the Gubbi Gubbi people - the first inhabitants of that land where I now stood. 

Like the people on board the Amity which sailed into Moreton Bay in 1824, I, too, was foreign on many accounts. I walked down the pier of the Redcliffe Jetty in a pensive mood, contemplating my predicament as a first generation immigrant finally committed to putting down roots in this country while honouring her past and looking forward to shaping a brighter future for myself and the kaleidoscopic communities I had chosen to be a part of. 

Watching the waves gently crash against the rocks at the dock, I realised that in spite of my fascination with and reverence for stories from the past, I was now perfectly positioned to channel that interest into helping people write, in a metaphorical way, new, exciting, and meaningful stories for themselves and myself.  

I was, at this point, well into my second week working as a volunteer tutor at an institution which provided technical and further education to adult students who came from all over the world. As a result of circumstances and choices, some less fortuitous than others, we were all there sharing space and time, working hard together to teach and learn English from one another. 

‘Why can’t you read Arabic?’ teased a grandfatherly student from Syria, as he flipped through the pages of an Arabic-English picture dictionary. Flanked by his wife and a couple of his compatriots, he smiled widely at me. ‘Well, that’s because I am waiting for all of you to teach me,’ I replied cheekily and they laughed heartily in return. 

When the kindly, mature student from China offered me an orange during our lunch break and asked me if I had brought rice from home to eat, I felt genuinely touched. I recalled then how, not too long ago, I was the recipient of yet another heart-warming gesture.

‘Thank you, thank you. You my daughter. Teacher-daughter!’ exclaimed Gina after completing an online dictation exercise which she found rather challenging. In a moment of unreserved spontaneity, she stood up and hugged me. I did not know much about the struggles and trauma she had lived through in Sudan but I remembered feeling the strength of her inner resilience whenever I was in her presence. 

There is no dearth of stories of humility in this community of inspiring individuals with whom I had made indelible connections. 

There was also a steady stream of fragrant scents wafting through the classroom during lunchtime. Conversations peppered with talk of spice mix recommendations were often heard as well. 

I relished the congeniality of banter and heartfelt exchanges fuelled by curiosity and compassion to hold space for all of our internal and external diversities. 

‘A woman in harmony with her spirit is like a river flowing. She goes where she will without pretense and arrives at her destination prepared to be herself and only herself.’ It was in these words of the late acclaimed poet, Maya Angelou, that I tried to find solace and motivation. 

Interestingly enough, I also learnt that Mesopotamia came from the Greek language meaning ‘between two rivers’ and that it was home to many civilisations and a multiplicity of cultures and languages.

I did not grow up in Australia and I most certainly do not know if I was Mesopotamian in another life.  I am, however, growing into that woman who is learning to fight less and flow more in diverse Australia.

If my life were a book, it would be called Riverside Woman. A little different from my first public declaration but similar in essence. Like river systems of the world, one’s personal evolution ought to make for a meandering tale. 

I am swimming through mine.