State of emergency: Brisbane 1982
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 24: Participation Society
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by Edwina Shaw
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Edwina Shaw's biography and other articles by this writer
'What do we want?' ‘The right to march!'
‘When do we want it?' ‘Now!' ‘Joh must go!'
King George Square is crowded with hippies, punks, students, feral socialists and priests, all going red in the face. Yelling. About our rotten joke of a Premier: Joh, the peanut farmer who thinks he's king. He's just announced a State of Emergency for the upcoming Commonwealth Games, giving the police even more power so they can clear the streets of Aborigines, hippies and other unwanteds that won't make a good impression on visitors. Like me. Not that I'm a hippie or an Abo or even a student. I'm an average bloke, jeans and a plain tee-shirt, not a slogan on me. Finished high school last year, thank Christ, and started as a mechanic's apprentice.
Sure, I smoke a bit of dope sometimes, have a few drinks and see a band when I'm out with the boys. I'm young. That's what I'm supposed to do. But here in Brisbane that sort of stuff is enough to get you harassed by pigs every time you step out the front door on a Saturday night. All the big crime is controlled by the police bosses so the street pigs have nothing better to do than lay shit on anyone trying to have a good time. That's a crime in Queensland. If Joh had everything his way, he'd ban fun.
I'm not really into politics and that, they're all bastards. That's what Dad says anyway. But the other week when they tore down the best band venue in the city, like thieves in the middle of the night, I felt so angry I wanted to bash someone's head in. They can't just do that. Someone's got to say enough's enough. That's why I'm here today, really.
Well that. And her. She wanted to come.
That girl. The punk with black hair and too much make up, holding the ‘Joh Must Go' sign. The one throwing back her head and laughing as if she knows what happiness is. That's Beck. She's with me. When we first started hanging out she laughed like that all the time and everything I did was cool and courageous. I was her hero, she said. But now, ever since she started uni, she doesn't seem to think I'm so great after all. The jokes that used to make her laugh aren't funny anymore. She yawns when I talk and there's a hard edge to her laugh that hurts.
I thought it would be great to change her. When we first met she was really straight – a goody two-shoes, ‘straight A' kind of girl. I smiled and nodded approval as she took her first puffs on a joint, showed her how to draw back and keep it deep in her lungs to get the most high in her system with every toke. The first night she got pissed, I patted her back and kept her hair out of her face as she spewed into the garden. It was
me who taught her there was more to sex than kisses and titty-feels. Maybe I should've kept her the
way she was.
Beck's super-excited, her face blotched and angry as she screams, linking arms with all her new mates: ‘Joh must go!' To tell you the truth though, I'm starting to get worried about the busloads of police unloading on to Ann Street. I've seen these demos on TV. I know how they end up. I hate Joh and his police thugs as much as anyone. But after what happened to my brother that night at the taxi rank, when the pigs decided his hair was too long and gave him some scars he'll have for the rest of his life, I stay as far away from anyone in a blue shirt as I can.
I give Beck a nudge and shout into her ear from behind, ‘Let's get out of here, the pigs are just itching.'
‘No way. You go if you like.' Then she mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously
like ‘Loser'.
That hurts. Not because she thinks I'm a coward, because maybe I am. I don't want to get arrested for this. I don't want to get my head beaten in. Calling me a loser really gets to me because lately I've been feeling like I am a loser. I'm losing her, I can feel it. Ever since she started university things have changed. Bloody big-word wankers with their fancy French cigarettes, books and bottled wine.
The hard part of me is steeled, ready for the end, but the underpart that's as soft as a turtle's belly under its shell wants to shout and cry and hold her to me. They'll have to pry my fingers from her one by one. A girl like Beck is worth fighting for. More than a knocked-down building and a rotten old man anyway. I grab her hand to wrench her from the line-up but she's so sweaty it slips from my grip. She's driving me crazy.
‘Do you want to get brained? Come on!'
She whispers in the ear of the tall guy next to her and laughs.
She's laughing at me.
A WITCH IN A SHORT SKIRT WITH WILD WHITE HAIR and skinny legs shoves a piece of cardboard into my arms. ‘No State of Emergency' is scrawled across it in paint that's still wet. I try to give it back but she's already moved on, handing out the rest she's got under her arm. Shit, now it really looks as if I'm part of this. It's like holding a target at shooting practice.
Up front a hippie with dreadlocks down to his bum is standing on the edge of the fountain, yelling and waving his arms, spitting as he shouts about the gerrymander and the right to march and join unions, about how Queensland is fascist, a police state. That part sure is true. Around the edges of the square, coming at us from all directions, a sea of police starts to flood inward. Wave after wave of heavy blue shirts surrounding our small island of protestors. I drop the placard on to the grass and reach for Beck.
‘Come on,' I call over the chanting. ‘We've got to get out of here. Now! I'm not joking.'
She turns and snarls. ‘Go then. Piss off, you coward.'
Something in my guts cracks. I drop her hand and shove my way through the shouting freaks, my face burning.
‘It's not worth getting bashed for,' I yell back.
She'll follow. She always does. Halfway out of the crowd, I stand on my toes and crane my neck to catch a glimpse of her, but she's not trailing after me as I'd hoped. She's not even looking in my direction. All I can see is the back of her messed up hair, like a toilet brush.
Already, on the outside of the circle to the front, protestors are being dragged away, cursing and screaming, getting gravel rash on their backs. Police laugh and encourage each other as they thump into protesters who lie curled like unborn babies on the ground.
Beck's going to be mincemeat once they really hit their stride and no one's stopping them. I try to look in another direction, force myself to keep pushing through, away from her. Let her bloody uni mates look after her. I don't care.
But I do.
I fight my way back through the writhing crowd, determined to bring her out before she's thrown into the watch house or whacked with a baton. Grunting and shoving, I struggle towards the front line, elbows ramming my ribs. I push past people who are ranting, sweating, their eyes wild with excitement and fear.
This girl is killing me.