69 The Mall
Monologue written and performed by Areebah Armani
Browse the tour
Route A
1) Pho Minh Temple | 2) Marion Street | 3) Bankstown Gospel Hall | 4) Bankstown Library | 5) Bankstown Library | 6) Paul Keating Park |
Route B
7) Bankstown Arts Centre – RS1 | 8) Amitabha Buddhist Association | 9) Bankstown Train Station | 10) My Dads Work | 11) Bankstown Centro | | 12) Bankstown Arts Centre – Gallery
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Transcript
“What does your father do for work?”
“I don’t know.”
The answer was acceptable back then. Kids don’t care about mortgage.
SFX: reception background noises
All I knew was that, in December, there was a baubled-up white Christmas tree towering over me when I walked in. Trees were meant to be green and I had never seen the snow up close so the artificial colouring of the artificial tree fed my wild and wondrous imaginings. All the men and women, in their blue and white, shirts and ties. Each was a glittering bauble reflecting the harsh summer sun through the tall windows of the reception. Each from a different place and for a different reason but all on the same tree.
The December wonderland in the reception was almost an apology for the all-year-round “look how big she’s grown” and “I remember when she came in and she was this little.” Sometimes I am still “this little”. Still making puppy eyes at Abbu for shopping money, [sfx: busy traffic] still crossing the always-busy street in a haze, still asking “Abbu, can we have lunch together?” and bringing a box of baked goods back for the rest of the office after gobbling Ali Baba’s chicken curry for the third time in the month.
[SFX: scribbling]
Still writing little stories and doodling little illustrations in the back of my notebooks, like I did in the corner of a cubicle dodging homework. Abbu still has one of my masterpieces, about robots falling in love, pinned up in front of his desk for everyone to read. My cheeks flush with embarrassment whenever I see it but here I am, notebook in hand, everyone praising the work my little hands made.
To me, the office was always soft. Squared-off cubicles melted away into cushioning curves and the heads peeping over the desks to ask about emails and rates were just kids like me sitting cross-legged on the carpet discussing the arduous assignment. They spoke to me like I was a big girl, a grown-up. I revelled in it then but now my tongue twists and retreats down my throat. Now I am a big girl, a grown-up and I do not have as much to divulge with as much excitement. I forget I am not still “this little” and I cannot sit and gossip about meaningless school squabbles behind someone else’s desk.
Here I am, nostalgia in hand. Caressing the spine, fingers bumping along the well-earned creases. Dog ears pulled back, I flick through nostalgia’s tanned pages, careful not to split my skin.
SFX: reception background noises with keyboards clacking
Still the little kid. Still can’t comprehend the numbers on the computer screens, keyboards clacking away. Still don’t really know what my father does for work, on the same corner of the same block with the same boss.
