Black Grandma – by Emma-Lee Maher
ISLAND | ONLINE ONLY
Strips of coloured paper, gel pens, and scallop-bladed scissors are within arm’s reach. I’m proud of the tree I’ve drawn on the A3 card. I trace each branch with a fingertip sticky with glitter glue. In my envelope, a bunch of photos wait to join my family tree. I feel a bit weird about sticking my dad’s photo down. I haven’t seen him much lately.
I fill the Father space anyway. His photo is next to Mum’s. I only have one photo of them together, taken in Dad’s shed: she’s holding me as a newborn and he’s working on a car engine.
Nan says we’re related to Alexander the Great somehow, and maybe I’m related to Albert Namatjira because I’m such a good artist, but I don’t have their photos to add. Nan tells stories about my great-great-grandparents travelling to Australia from England in the 1920s. They stopped in Freo port on their way to Sydney and bought the biggest, sweetest grapes from the markets – extra to share. Other passengers did the same, so they feasted on grapes for days.
Mum’s dad grew up in an orphanage, so that branch doesn’t grow big. I can go much further on Dad’s side – the Queensland government kept good records on them.
I stick down a photo of my grandad, Dad’s dad. Sydney. He’s in a suit and smiling wide at the camera with a longneck of Swan Draught. Mum always says he was excited to meet me. She liked Sid. I close my eyes, his face melts into the dancing patterns behind my eyelids. He’s beaming at me.
I don’t think my dad saw his dad much either.
I have a photo of Black Grandma. She’s holding me and I can see where my grandad got his big smile from. Maybe that’s where mine comes from too. I split my face in half, baring my teeth as wide as I can until my cheeks ache. In her arms, I look small and pale – only a few weeks old. She was here for his funeral. I wonder if it felt strange, cradling me and not him.
There’s a queue for the metallic sharpies. I draw a big ornate frame around her picture in gold pen, like the ones in the Art Gallery.
Ms Williams says I can’t write Black Grandma under her photo.
And I’m confused – like, why not?
She’s my Black Grandma. ▼
Image: Kris Møklebust - Pexels
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