Manhattan Dreaming (28 page)

It was Martin Luther King Jr Day and the eve of Obama's inauguration. The city was quiet and I still felt a little lost with Libby gone. I took the day off work, as did most of New York, turning it into a long weekend. I hadn't seen Cash since New Year's Eve, and I'd pulled back a little since his revelation at Christmas. He knew something was wrong. He hadn't told me he loved me again – I think he understood that I didn't feel the same. But he still wanted to see me.

We made plans to celebrate MLK Jr Day by going to Miss Mamie's Spoonbread restaurant and then up to the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture in Harlem. I loved Miss Mamie's the minute I walked in. There were yellow laminated tables on red and yellow floor tiles and the Four Tops singing in the background. Families, couples and groups of uni students sat eating all the food the restaurant was famous for. The smell of southern fried chicken lingered in the air and made my stomach pang for food.

‘Can you order for me please, Cash?' I said. ‘I want to eat whatever you think I should try from the menu, you being the food connoisseur and all.'

‘Right, happy to help out. This is one of my favourite places. I recommend the collard greens, southern fried chicken, black eyed peas, cornbread and candied yams.' Cash seemed glad of the small duty.

‘Am I going to be able to eat all that?'

‘I'll eat whatever you can't.'

‘Hah, with a sixpack like that' – I patted his taut stomach – ‘you can afford to. But I can see me having to move into the gym after this meal.'

As I took the last bite of chicken, wishing that I could fit in dessert, I relaxed back into my chair and moaned contentment.

‘I told you it was good,' Cash said, getting up to pay the bill.

After lunch we headed up to Harlem, and the Schomburg Center. Walking through Harlem was amazing, all Blackfellas, hustle and bustle, stalls lining both sides of the road, and plenty of shopping, but Cash was focused on our destination.

‘Come on, Lauren, keep up,' Cash joked, making me feel like I was a six-year-old trying to walk next to a grown-up. He put his arm around my shoulder and marched me along 125th Street, keeping me warm at the same time.

‘I'm a little disappointed I haven't seen anyone get shot or mugged,' I whispered.

‘You're silly sometimes.'

‘I've seen so many crime shows like
Law and Order
and now nothing's happened.' Dad would be disappointed.

‘Excuse me,' a man said as he accidentally bumped me crossing the road. People were even friendlier in Harlem than on the subway. Perhaps it was because it wasn't so cold up there. Harlem seemed to have missed out on the harsh winds that almost froze me down in Chelsea.

At the Schomburg, Cash and I slowly went through the history of Black politics and politicians in America. There was rolling footage of Obama's victory speech and a shrine dedicated to the newly elected president. Cash stood behind me with his arms around my belly and we both cried as we stood watching the footage from 4 November for the umpteenth time, the power of the words and visuals as strong then as they were the day they were first delivered. It reminded me of our first night together.

We separated and I walked through the exhibit checking out everything from the National Convention of Coloured Citizens in 1872 to heartbreaking images of lynchings in 1935.

We reunited downstairs, then held hands and walked quietly through the photographic exhibition ‘Obama: the Historic Campaign and Victory'. I realised that what Cash and I shared was an understanding and respect as people of colour, who have remained essentially voiceless in mainstream politics. But it didn't necessarily mean I had to be in love with him.

As we left I saw Cash put a $100 bill in the donations box without fuss or fanfare and I admired his generosity and commitment to change.

Cash and I shared the most amazing moment in Harlem the next day when Obama was sworn in. As we sat in the huge hall surrounded by thousands of others, my phone kept beeping with text messages from Libby, Denise, Emma, Max, Mum and cousins from back home, all up watching the ceremony. As soon as I got back to the museum I totally ear bashed Wyatt about it all.

‘It was just so exciting, spine-chilling. I'm so, so … happy,' I said, and Wyatt and I just hugged with the emotion of it all.

‘So, it's fair to say you had a good time up there,' he said, slowly letting go.

‘It was the most euphoric moment, so many people, so much expectation and hope in the room. All I could think about was that one day we might have a Black president of the Republic of Australia.'

‘That would be awesome.'

‘Don't you dream about a Native president?'

‘I think it's really possible now, and there's blogs everywhere and groups on Facebook already making lists of who people think might work. Haven't seen my own name up there yet, though.'

‘Haha, would you like me to go into one of the forums and write it for you?'

‘Yes, please! But first, can you answer the two dozen emails I pawned off to you while you were out celebrating?'

I was still excited when I finally sat down at my computer, and too pumped to get straight back into work, so I wrote an email to everyone back home:

Australia Week had been timed to coincide with ‘Australia Day'. It was a day of contention as far as I was concerned. While the date marked the arrival of the First Fleet and white settlers, for Aboriginal Australians it marked the beginning of invasion, colonisation and attempted genocide. At home I always went to Sydney to celebrate at the annual Yabun Concert with Koori musicians and arts and crafts from around New South Wales, but now I chose to go along to the ‘Australia Day' events on 26 January in New York, to see how the celebrations played out in my current home.

Kirsten and I went to the Australian because we both felt like roo and pav. By the time we got there much of the crowd was blind.

The bar was packed and jumping to good old Australian classics by Midnight Oil, AC/DC, and Jimmy Barnes. When Goanna came on singing ‘Solid Rock' Kirsten and I finally found the lungs to sing.

We stood at the bar but it was so loud it was difficult to talk. ‘Let's sit in the restaurant,' I yelled at Kirsten. ‘I need pavlova.'

Kirsten rarely had to wait for a table in any of the Australian establishments in New York.

‘You do realise we'd be accused of being un-Australian and un-patriotic today don't you?' she told me as we sat down.

‘Good. If being patriotic means I have to wear a green and gold headband reading “Made in Australia”, then I am un-Australian. But at least I've got fashion sense.'

‘I should've worn a rugby union sweatshirt,' Kirsten said sarcastically.

‘And an Australian flag tied around your neck à la Pauline Hanson,' I added.

‘The flag should be flown on flagpoles, not bogans.'

‘Sounds like a slogan to me!'

I saw a tiny Aboriginal flag near the coat rack and went and took it off the wall. I stuck it in a glass on our table. ‘There. That's better. I feel like I've made a native title claim on the Australian.'

‘I gave that to Matt, you can't keep it,' Kirsten said, just as a guy wearing an Australian flag singlet came crashing into our table. He looked at us and yelled, ‘Aussie Aussie Aussie, oi oi oi.'

Kirsten pushed him away and then we just sat there quietly for a while. I ate my pavlova and watched the Australian Open on the telly on one wall, while Kirsten watched
Crocodile Dundee
on the wall behind me.

A girl sat down next to us with an Australian flag made into a bandeau top.

Kirsten leaned over the table to me and said, ‘Love, I think we need to come up with some elegant patriotic wear, in the red, black and yellow.'

‘I'll toast that,' I said, raising my glass.

I put a spoonful of pav in my mouth and before I'd swallowed Cash was sitting next to me.

‘Happy Invasion Day,' he said, planting a kiss on my cheek.

‘This is a surprise,' I said, wiping cream from the corner of my mouth.

‘I knew you'd be here and I wanted to see you.'

‘I just spotted someone I know.' And Kirsten was off.

‘We need to talk.' Cash took my hand.

Back at Cash's apartment, the Ozmos had kicked in. I felt sexy and desirable. Sex with Cash was effortless and he always made sure I was pleased before he was. He really was considerate in so many ways.

‘I have something for you,' he said, walking back into the room with a glass of juice after we'd made love.

‘Yum, juice, just what every girl wants.' I laughed.

‘Very funny – it's juice … and this.' He handed me a small velvet pouch. In it was a key.

‘What's this for?'

‘It's commonly known as a key. It opens doors.'

‘Who's being funny now?'

‘You have the key to my heart already. This one is to my door. I want you to move in.'

‘What?' I sat up fully in bed. ‘But it's too soon – we've only known each other a couple of months. And I'm not staying in New York, I go home in July.' I could see his disappointment. ‘I'm sorry, that came out all wrong.' I touched his face.

‘I want to be with you.' He took me by both arms and stared into my eyes. ‘I'd be happy for you to move in here. With my shifts at the restaurant we probably wouldn't see much more of each other anyway, but I want to take care of you.'