The poetry prize that made me ask, ‘How are we still here?’
Words by Grace Atta
‘Only applicants born in Australia will be considered’ for the University of Adelaide’s Bundey Prize in English Verse
Although I am absolutely under no illusion that racism has vanished from 21st-century society, I must admit that each time I am reminded of its ubiquity that I am nonetheless stunned and re-enraged. How are we still here?
I was faced with this question once again, when learning of the University of Adelaide’s Bundey Prize for English Verse. The Bundey Prize is a poetry competition which has been held annually by the university since 1912, when it was established in an endowment by Ellen Milne Bundey. It remains the only poetry competition at the university open exclusively to students, but not limited to the Creative Writing or English Department. Not to mention, it awards the winning undergraduate or postgraduate student $200.
So naturally, as a budding poet myself, it piqued my interest. Alas, there was a relatively big catch… an application criteria that is what seems to be a tall order for the Aussie population, of which only around 30% are first generation Australians.
‘Only applicants born in Australia will be considered’ and the ‘prize winner will need to provide a copy of their birth certificate’ to prove it.
My experience of racial discrimination has been virtually non-existent. Aside from the family trips through airport security with a carry-on of Arab heritage (as an Australian-Egyptian), I recognise that otherwise I present as any other ‘white Australian’, and possess the privilege that comes with that. The matter of my ethnicity, in my parents’ ‘cross-cultural’ marriage — as it was so often referred to — and my overseas birthplace, rarely raises an issue… with the inspiration for this piece being an obvious exception. So, to preface, I prefer to remain a listener and learner in discussions like these, because I know my experiences are limited and hardly comparable to those had by people of colour.
The birthplace rule for the Bundey Prize does sit, however, in an interesting space within these discussions. The way it discriminates is not overt. At least not in a visual, appearance-based sense; it won’t insult you on the street, stare at you with contempt on the bus, or assume you’re up to no good as you shop or go for a run. It does nonetheless point to a key facet of racial discrimination in this country — and that is the question of ‘what does it mean to be Australian?’ and ‘am I Australian enough?’
I always struggle to define what it means to be Australian outside of a legal context, even though I know (and will later argue) that the law fails us in many ways. In terms of national identity, we fail by refusing, still till to this day, to acknowledge Aboriginal Australians and Torres Strait Islander peoples in our constitution as the traditional custodians of this land.
The point I’m making is that despite these very serious concerns, I think maybe I rely on the law for my national identity, because I’ve never felt I fit the stereotype of what it means characteristically to be Australian. I don’t follow the AFL. I’m not too big on shrimp, BBQs, thongs, or swimming in the ocean just outside the shack my family doesn’t have. What’s more, I never say mate or greet people with g’day. What sort of Australian am I?
Though, maybe I have come to rely on that certificate of Australian citizenship because I eventually learnt, and accepted within myself, that no such ‘Australian characteristics’ could be universally true. Being Australian could equally mean saying ‘football’ and referring to soccer. Or enjoying kebab, noodles, or curry, wearing slides, and sticking to the sidewalk beside the ocean. So when I read ‘born in Australia’, I heard a call from the past, both in a historical and personal sense. The Bundey Prize unashamedly promotes the notion that people can simply add new, unachievable conditions on what it would take to call themselves an Australian, to have the opportunities of an Australian, to be celebrated… as an Australian.
Unfortunately, it isn’t actually a false notion. Not legally, when it comes to donations, bequests and charitable trusts. By law (in the Equal Opportunity Act), exemptions exist for charities to discriminate based on sex, gender, sexual orientation, race or age when offering donations. Notably, such exemptions equally exist to allow minorities within these demographics to be exclusively celebrated… as always, freedom is a double-edged sword.
I’m not certain Ms Bundey’s intentions were necessarily racist. Her own father, who was a lawyer and Member of Parliament here, was born in England, with the prize in fact being created to honour both him and her mother. I would like to think (perhaps optimistically) that Ms Bundey was simply trying to describe a concept or piece of legislation (Australian citizenship) which would not exist until 1949. Perhaps she simply wanted to encourage and celebrate this new kind of poetry, that being ‘Australian poetry’?
But I am purely speculating. Regardless of intention at the time, on Ms Bundey’s part or the University’s, I don’t believe that this changes our responsibility in the present.
Having accepted the donation over a century ago, the university is legally unable to return the funds and must use it as prescribed by the donor. Furthermore, when in contact with a university spokesperson, they confirmed that the possibility of challenging the birthplace rule in the Supreme Courts is ‘not something the University would look to do’.
So, where does that leave us?
It is my belief that in instances like these, where there is a discrepancy between the justice system and what is truly just, we must — as cliché as it is — look to ourselves to initiate change. It is not revolutionary to say that if the institution cannot fulfil their obligation to do what is right, then we as individuals must take that duty upon ourselves. In this instance, by each of us refusing to participate in the Bundey Prize for English Verse.
Although for many of you, forfeiting this opportunity is no great loss, I put to those, for whom it would require a sacrifice, that poets have long been a voice for progress. What an honour it would be to join them in solidarity. Not to mention the irony that would emerge if one was to be awarded for scathing words on society’s failings a prize that only added to its imperfections.
It would be my hope that such a sacrifice would not be prolonged. That perhaps a generous old scholar who still regularly sits down with their issue of On Dit will now see the dilemma at hand and their ability to resolve it. My hope is that we can recognise this university’s student poets should be given every opportunity to be celebrated for their work, but not at the cost of ruling out potentially a third of their competition. A new prize which does not care for your origin in birthplace or faculty, but only the quality of your poetry, is one that would truly reflect and fairly celebrate the students at this university who call Australia home.
I leave one final thought, for that hopefully generous reader and anyone else who has it made this far. If one decision, made by one person, can have ramifications a hundred years on, what are you putting into motion? Will another writer a century from now, be asking that same question: ‘How are we still here?’
