Our mothers were friends before we chose their wombs, both Meanjin black women grown out of the lands of the Turrrbal and Jagera people.
Blue Butterfly’s Mum, Jill, passed that Bundjalung and Butchulla blood to her, as my Mama Bee passed the Meriam and Malay blood to me. Jill and Mama Bee would spin tales of how they’d squeeze their swollen bellies together when Blue Butterfly and I were fish in the womb, kicking each other, making it known that we were ready to be reunited. It was confirmation that our souls were in union long before we were swimming in their bellies.
Our fathers were tethered through our mothers. My father, Boricua had an intentional limp to his walk and Puerto Rican swag from growing up in the 1970s Bronx. Blue Butterfly’s father, Gap Tooth, had a black southern Georgian accent.
As the years deepened, so did our soul-ship. To this day I can’t think of a time I didn’t want to be with her. I would pace up and down the house when I knew I was about to see Blue Butterfly and her coconut scented silky brown skin and curly luscious hair.
Blue Butterfly was the first person I told that I was attracted to boys when we were fixed to the TV in her room watching MTV. Jill yelled out for us to shut up because she was screaming so loud and bouncing so hard on the wooden floors that her racket echoed around the suburban streets. She always had a way of chasing the darkness away through deep belly laughs.
She always had a way of chasing the darkness away through deep belly laughs.
Blue Butterfly was asleep next to me that summer when my Dad called.
“Are you gay?” he asked on the other line in his New York accent which sounded slightly aggressive.
“Yes” I said. I paused for a while. He didn’t say anything, his breathing sounding so loud in my ear now that it became unbearable. I felt the worms eating away at my stomach, hollowing out my insides all the way to my heart. I threw my phone across the room and curled up next to her.
Some days I’d get sad because boys would tell me that they didn’t like skin like mine.
Blue Butterfly would give me hope that when I moved out of Brisbane, I’d be a “piece of meat” for sweaty men, “Oh yes darling, you won’t have any troubles when you move to Sydney!”
Sydney was our true north. All we wanted to do was act, go to the Sydney acting school NIDA, and see our names spelled out in lights.
Blue Butterfly and I were part of the biggest mob. Young people with skin like ours attracted attention from the people with no colour shouting names at us and calling the police, or “ninganas”. Blue Butterfly took it upon herself to confront the colourless people; gesturing her hand in front of their faces while spitting gibberish. “That black girl is cursing us!” the colourless people would say, and the mob would erupt in laughter.
She had a good way of turning deep pain into joy, healing us from the inside out. “How do you know?” she would say after I asked if she was okay. I was so enmeshed with her that I could always tell when her eyes had changed.
Our sails were set on drama school and a couple of years after high school we finally made it in together to a drama school in Brisbane.
One day we got the bus home together. She got off at a different stop and our usual hug didn’t happen. “I don’t want to make you sick,” she said, waving and smiling. I noticed that she wasn’t quite right but knew that she’d be fine after a rest.
She had a good way of turning deep pain into joy, healing us from the inside out.
I checked my phone later that evening and noticed that Blue Butterfly had tried to call me several times. I’d call her in the morning. I was too tired and stoned to hold a conversation. I woke up to her fiancé Hal calling me which struck me as unusual. Perhaps we had plans I’d forgotten about. I picked up, he paused.
“Something bad has happened,” he said.
“What?” I said calmly, knowing it was to do with Blue Butterfly, but no idea what.
“She’s dead. I’m so sorry. Blue Butterfly is dead.”
The heaviness filled the entire room, a rumble rippling out across the floor from where my knees had collapsed.
“She took her own life. Oh god.”
Blue butterfly set me on a completely different path that day she chose to leave.
At her funeral, I stood alone at the podium on behalf of my family and read a poem by E.E Cummings, telling her that I carried her heart in my heart.
Most of the time I can walk without her, it’s taken a long time; but she has given me that strength. When I do need her, I see the image of a Blue Butterfly, reminding me that we have no beginning and we will have no end.
You’ve given me the strength to grow my own wings, I miss you girl.
If you need mental health assistance or support, contact on 13 11 14, on 1300 22 4636 or talk to a medical professional or someone you trust.
Axel Gee is a Melbourne-based artist, who writes words and makes art that moves. You can follow Axel on .
This article is part of the First Nations Writers’ collection, a specially curated series chosen from the 2020 SBS Emerging Writers’ Competition submissions.
National NAIDOC Week (4 – 11 July 2021) celebrates the history, cultures and achievements of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. Join SBS and NITV for a full slate of , and follow NITV on and to be part of the conversation. For more information about NAIDOC Week or this year’s theme, head to the .
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