Damian Balassone, on the poverty of spirit.
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Once I ruled the Northern plains, my clan roamed free and wild, the lush Dakotas were my home, the gods were on my side. Every leafy shrub was mine, every blade of grass, every creature trembled when a herd of bison passed. My family has been slaughtered for food, for prize, for fun, of all the kings that roamed the earth I’m now the only one. Am I now a laughing stock? The object of your pity? A weakling of the prairies, while you prosper in the city? And who was it that killed my clan? Let’s set the record straight: that bastard son of Europe’s womb —
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A son has just been born to me but I am in Afghanistan, when I was born my father fought the Viet-Cong in Vietnam. My grandpa blazed Kokoda’s trail and stalled the ruthless Japanese, his father fell in World War I; a martyr in the Pyrenees. His father fought the Afrikaans, I think in 1899, his father stopped the Chinese throngs from claiming gold in Daylesford’s mines. We first came to Van Diemen’s Land way back in 1834, our forebear stole a block of cheese and thus was shipped to southern shores. I’ll teach my son to hate them all:
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John Fleming still rides free one hundred and seventy years after the massacre. The plaque set up to honour the twenty-eight (who were slaughtered for the theft of a cow) has been defaced by Fleming who is still very much alive in Northern