Growing up, I knew I was different. But I didn't know what it

Host: The sunset burned low across the red horizon, painting the dry earth in strokes of orange and dust. The wind carried a faint hum of cicadas, that endless sound of time itself whispering through the land. The small town sat still — rusted fences, a closed general store, and the faint scent of smoke and eucalyptus in the air.

In the distance, a single bonfire flickered near the riverbank, its flames reaching up as if trying to remember something — a song, a story, a name.

Jack sat by the fire, boots dusty, elbows resting on his knees, the heat tracing lines of gold across his weathered face. Jeeny sat beside him, cross-legged on the earth, her hands wrapped around a tin cup of tea, her eyes alive with the kind of empathy that doesn’t come from pity, but from listening.

Jeeny: “Adam Goodes once said — ‘Growing up, I knew I was different. But I didn't know what it meant to be Aboriginal. I just knew that I had a really big, extended family. I was taught nothing about who we were or where we came from.’”
Jack: [quietly] “That’s not just his story. That’s the story of half this country — forgetting what it tried to erase.”
Jeeny: “Or being forced to forget. There’s a difference.”
Jack: “You think you can ever really forget where you come from?”
Jeeny: “Yes. When a system teaches you to.”
Jack: “And when you finally remember?”
Jeeny: “It hurts first. Then it heals.”

Host: The fire crackled, sending sparks spiraling into the dark, like small souls returning home. The sky stretched wide, a dome of endless shadow scattered with stars — the same ones that had watched this land long before memory was written in books.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? This idea that knowing your past could be dangerous. That history could threaten power.”
Jeeny: “Because history isn’t neutral, Jack. It’s a weapon — depending on who’s holding the pen.”
Jack: “And who’s holding it now?”
Jeeny: “Mostly the descendants of those who took it.”
Jack: “So the rest of us live on footnotes.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. And when someone like Goodes speaks, it’s not rebellion — it’s reclamation.”
Jack: “Reclamation sounds noble.”
Jeeny: “It’s survival.”

Host: A gust of wind lifted the ash, scattering it into the night, the embers glowing like scattered memories finding their way back into light. Somewhere beyond the river, a didgeridoo moaned, its sound long and low — a sound not performed, but remembered.

Jack: “You know, I met a man once, out near Alice Springs. He said the saddest thing isn’t losing your land — it’s losing the stories that tell you how to walk it.”
Jeeny: “Because the land doesn’t belong to people. People belong to the land.”
Jack: “He said every hill had a name, every rock a history. But by the time he was my age, most of those names were gone.”
Jeeny: “Names are sacred. Take them away, and people forget who they are.”
Jack: “Then maybe remembering is the most radical thing you can do.”
Jeeny: “It is. Because remembering means you refuse to disappear.”

Host: The fire dimmed, its light gentler now, its flames licking quietly at the wood. The air cooled, carrying with it the smell of the soil — dry, honest, eternal. Jack’s voice dropped, not out of exhaustion, but reverence.

Jack: “You know what I find haunting about what Goodes said? That he grew up in a world surrounded by family, but empty of history.”
Jeeny: “Because family isn’t the same as heritage. One gives you people. The other gives you meaning.”
Jack: “And what happens when you don’t have either?”
Jeeny: “You drift. You grow roots in loneliness.”
Jack: “That’s brutal.”
Jeeny: “Truth usually is. But you can plant yourself again — in story, in memory, in language.”
Jack: “Language. That’s the first thing they took, wasn’t it?”
Jeeny: “The first and the last. They knew silence is the easiest way to erase a people.”

Host: A kangaroo stirred in the bush nearby, the sound faint but grounding — a reminder that the land was still alive, still listening. Jeeny lifted her gaze toward the stars, the Milky Way curving like a scar and a map all at once.

Jack: “You ever think about how Australia likes to call itself ‘young’?”
Jeeny: “A convenient myth. The land’s ancient. It’s the memory that’s young — forced to start over.”
Jack: “You think we’ll ever get it right?”
Jeeny: “Not until we stop calling it ‘getting it right.’ History isn’t a fix. It’s a relationship.”
Jack: “And we’ve been bad partners.”
Jeeny: “For generations. But relationships can heal if both sides speak.”
Jack: “That’s the problem — one side’s still learning how.”

Host: The river whispered softly, its surface shimmering in the moonlight. The fire was nearly out now, but its warmth lingered — not in heat, but in memory.

Jeeny: “Goodes didn’t just talk about being different, Jack. He talked about absence — about being told to exist without context.”
Jack: “That’s the cruelty, isn’t it? To make someone live inside an identity they can’t name.”
Jeeny: “And yet he found his way back.”
Jack: “And got booed for it.”
Jeeny: “Because truth sounds like noise to ears raised on silence.”
Jack: “You think he ever stopped being angry?”
Jeeny: “No. But I think he learned to turn anger into purpose. That’s what witness does — it transforms pain into light.”

Host: The moon rose higher, casting silver veins across the dark earth, turning the ash into glitter. The fire hissed its last breath, and the smoke spiraled upward, disappearing into the vast, breathing sky.

Jack: “You ever think what it must feel like — to not know who you are until the world tries to tell you?”
Jeeny: “It feels like theft. But also like invitation — to begin again, on your own terms.”
Jack: “To rebuild identity from what’s left.”
Jeeny: “From what was never destroyed — just buried.”
Jack: “And when you dig it up?”
Jeeny: “You find yourself, and everyone who was told not to exist.”
Jack: “Then maybe the past isn’t gone. Maybe it’s waiting.”
Jeeny: “It always is.”

Host: The wind quieted, leaving behind the hum of the insects, the murmur of water, the pulse of life that never really ends. Jeeny looked at Jack, her expression both soft and fierce.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… when Goodes said he didn’t know what it meant to be Aboriginal, he wasn’t confessing ignorance. He was exposing what was stolen.”
Jack: “And giving it back.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Every word he speaks now fills the silence that once replaced his history.”
Jack: “Then maybe that’s what art, sport, speech — all of it — really is: reclamation.”
Jeeny: “Yes. Not revenge. Just remembrance.”

Host: The first light of dawn began to creep across the horizon — faint, golden, patient. The world shifted from shadow to color again, every blade of grass and grain of sand reclaiming its name.

Jack stood, stretching, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Jeeny followed, brushing the dust from her jeans.

Jack: “Maybe we’re all just trying to remember who we are.”
Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the only real work there is.”
Jack: “And maybe when we do, the world changes — quietly, like morning.”
Jeeny: “No. It doesn’t change. It reveals itself.”

Host: The sun broke through, flooding the red earth with light. The shadows pulled back, and for a moment, everything — the river, the land, the silence — seemed to breathe in unison.

And as they walked away from the fire,
the truth of Adam Goodes’ words lingered in the wind —

that identity is not inherited,
but reclaimed.

That history is not a burden,
but a birthright waiting to be spoken aloud.

And that sometimes,
to remember who you are,
you must first learn
how to listen to the silence
that tried to erase your name —
and answer it
with your own.