Dat Puckin Coon

He gripped the wheel tight and prayed. Eight hours on shift had made him careless and the corner didn’t care. He was coming in way too hot and his knuckles glowed white as he asked for brakes and a lower gear. The big trucks electronics rolled the dice and he held his breath. He felt the load shifting and steered into the tight red dirt corner. Rocks the size of shopping trolleys spilled over the lip of the bucket and obliterated a 4wd drive parked beside the road. The brakes came, the gear came and the monster lurched and slowed. Straightening up he breathed again and looked for the uhf. "You alright mate?" 

"Puck you coon."

...................................... 

I'm seven years old. I'm sitting in the dry red loam beneath the lonely trees. I know now that they are river oaks but in my mind they will always be 'lonely trees'.  The slightest breeze whines soullessly and lost through the needles and freezes in my heart. My four little mates and I are playing cars.  Our parents have spoken much of late of drought and hardship but in my mind the world has never been better. It's one giant sandpit now. Our mines and roads stay drawn in the dust for days on end. 

Mick is up me for burying his 4wd with sand from my Tonka truck. 

"It's pucked now coon. You pucked too." He starts to cry and throws a hand full of sand at me. 

Something fast whistles through the air close by. We duck as one but the stealthily launched thong strikes him square and true.  He renews his wailing.  

"Markel,'ff I ‘ear you’s puckin swearin 'gain, ah'll puckin flog the puckin lotta yas" his mum yells from the verandah.

"Bring me puckin thong back up ere." 

Mrs Johnson eyes us all like we are hardened crims in her dusty courtroom and she comes from the verandah to interrogate us further. 

"Whassiss pucken 'coon' I 'ear ya sayin?" 

"That’s his nickname mum." 

"Youse know what a coon is eh?" 

"Yup," I say, hoping to distract her from Mick for a moment (I'd felt that thong before), "It's cheese Aunty J" 

"hmm, I hearda dat cheese," she says unconvinced. 

"They call us cheese names at school, mum," Mick volunteers. 

"'times 'coon', 'times 'boong',"  he shakes his head, "aint seen no 'boong' cheese tho." 

"Oh jesus puckin 'h', says Mrs J, "youse come up ‘ere on the steps a sec." 

We all gather round her on the steps and she sits down, talking quiet again, which was either good or bad depending on whether she was holding a thong or wearing it.  

"Now youse tell me who calls you these 'cheese' names," she demands.  

"Well 'times it's the grade sevens, you know the big boys and dem." 

"hmmm." she breaths slowing her temper and continues, "They’s got a lotta mean names for us blackfella's now, boongs, coon, blackies, niggas, whatever theys all mean one thing. They mean they think theys better n us. An 's bad nuff theys callin us all dat without youse all callin ‘chother names. 'sides, why youse callin this ere little white fella blackfella names."  

My heart drops, I start to feel different now on the inside as well as out. My skin is Irish white, though well stained with red dirt.  I curse my parents silently and blush cause my mates are looking at me different now. 

"Aww mum, we’s juss callin ‘im that cause he’s our mate," says mick. 

"He’s never gunna be no blackfella tho, so you aint gunna be callin him 'coon' no more." She said with a finality that made me cry.  Tears I'd been holding carefully burst and I sobbed great left out, different, tears. 

"I puckin, sniff, can so be 'coon', sniff, Grandma Rosie took me, sniff, fishin t’other day, sniff and I caught three yellas to her one, sniff, she says, sniff, I was meant to be a blackfella, sniff, but my mum didn’ cook me long enough,sniff."  

Grandma Rosie, who happened to be sitting on the verandah at the time, was a teacher aide at school and the dearest lady I knew.  She was a large round aboriginal lady whos hugs dried up the wildest storms of tears and magically cured gravel rash. My own Grandparents lived some 5 hours away so I never saw them much and I'd kinda adopted Grandma Rosie as such. 

Grandma Rosie laughed now, "Ha, true, that’s true, ya mother always been a shithouse cook, hahahaha." 

She came on over to the stairs and wiped my face with a hanky, "now why you crying kid?" 

"I can't be a coon no more, I aint got no name, my skins the wrong type." 

"Well," she said looking concerned, "we’s gunna find a name for you then, if ya want one." 

"We could call him 'white cunt' like dad calls his boss." suggested Mick and Grandma Rosie and Mrs J start laughing again fit to break the stairs. 

"Now, now, aint, hahaha, no-one using no puckin language, that’s a bad word that one." 

When they got a hold of themselves again, Grandma Rosie looked at me hard and says, "What church your people go to Sunday’s? The little wood one or that flash brick one." 

"The little wood one," I reply. 

"Well there ya go then, You’s a little paddy bastard. These kids can call ya paddy. But aint no-one callin no-one no coon or boong eva 'gain ya hear." 

"Alright," we chorused.  

Grandma Rosie and Mrs J went back up the verandah and had some more cups of tea and us kids went back to the mine.  

.........................................

Some time later the church bell rang which meant that it was 5 o'clock and the pub was opening. That also meant it was time for me to get on home.  I said my goodbyes and took off back down the railway track to the school house where I lived with mum and dad and my brothers and sisters.  

We were all sitting down for tea that night and Mum says to me, "Your looking a little worried tonight, something happen today, you okay?" 

"Sure, I'm alright mum, I'm just confused a bit, it was a funny day." 

"Yeah, what confused you?" 

"Well I started off the afternoon I was a coon, then I was a white cunt, now I’m just a little paddy bastard and it's all your fault cause your such a shit house cook." 

Never did get to see what dinner tasted like that night.