direction, while a priest stood by the grave, waiting to conduct the burial. We are your dad, who you visit on warm summer nights, and he talks about the old days; when he met mum; when he worked in the cane fields. We are the migrant family next door, who laugh till they cry, telling of how, when they arrived in the fifties, they went to the milk bar for a gelati. The owner just kept saying “Gilleti” and offering them razor blades. We are the Vietnamese mother who tells you one day how she came to Australia. She quietly talks of three weeks at sea in a small boat, crammed in with twenty others, knees to chest, cold, wet and hungry. We are anyone who has lived in Australia. Often, our stories will be your stories; but some will be strange, different; some will be funny and others will bring tears. We are the story tellers who started with memories that turned into stories. We wrote them down, and learned the frustration when the words wouldn’t come; and experienced that magical moment when the words took over, and the story wrote itself. We became authors. Now here we are. These are our stories; our country’s living history.

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