Tracee gets black

The Age's most easily ridiculed writer would currently have to be Tracee Hutchison. Her article about visiting some blackfellas who set up in Melbourne for the Commonwealth games is a good example:

Have you got any blackfella in you? The man asking the question is in the process of smoking me. It seems a strange question to ask a fair-skinned, pale-eyed, blonde woman. I don't think so.

Just sounds like sale assistant talk to me. Never hurts to butter up the customer.

And for some reason, the Fire Man thinks I've got some kind of blackfella spirit inside me. I feel humbled that this healing man might think so.

Not sure why this should be humbling. Is it because there is something nicer about having that touch of primative purity in your blood?

Part of me wishes there were more whitefellas here feeling what I am feeling and the other part is savouring what I know is an extraordinary moment. It is a moment about trust. A moment that says we mean no harm to each other. A moment that tells me about our black history in the most profound way. And it is so understated it is almost overwhelming.

Yes, I always like it when something becomes so understated it circles back on itself and becomes overwhelming.

I find an older man at the sit-down fire and he wants to know my business. I tell him I've come to sit down. We talk for a while and it emerges that I do a radio show and a bit of writing. I thought so, he says. How can we get our message across?

How did he know she was a broadcaster? More of that ancient aboriginal mystical foreknowledge, or does he just own a radio?　（ＯＫ，　ｓｈｅ　ｍａｙ　ｎｏｔ　ｈａｖｅ　ｍｅａｎｔ　ｔｈａｔ　ｔｏ　ｓｏｕｎｄ　ｍｙｓｔｉｃａｌ，　ｂｕｔ　ｓｈｅ　ｌｅａｖｅｓ　ｔｈａｔ　ｉｎｔｅｒｐｒｅｔａｔｉｏｎ　ｏｐｅｎ．）

The smell of gum leaves is still in my clothes as I leave 3CR and I'm wondering if that black spirit the Fire Man talked of is something we all might have more of if we took a little time to sit down for a while.

Ｈｏｗ　ｖｅｒｙ，　ｖｅｒｙ　ｔｗｅｅ，　Ｔｒａｃｅｅ．