I experienced a twisting wrench in my stomach, a tightening chest. I took a deep breath but struggled to get air. It reminded me of a time I was given dope cake at a house party during college; I couldn’t feel the air going into my lungs and panicked, thinking I couldn’t breathe. My cousin Jimmy put me on the trampoline outside and talked me down until everyone else had gone home.

I felt for the package in my jeans. It was there. Part of me had hoped I’d lost it somewhere, so I wouldn’t have to go through with it. You’ll be fine, I heard Jimmy’s voice say in my head. No one’s ever died from dope cake, and no one’s ever died from what you’re going to do.

The protesters filtered through the stone gates onto the lawns. I was surprised at how succulent the grass looked. Looming above, like a love sonnet to colonialism, stood the sandstone monstrosity of Parliament House. To us, it was the physical manifestation of Australia Day, an ongoing reminder — a memorial, really — of the European invasion and all we had lost. A middle-aged hippy with grey pigtails and patchwork overalls gave it the finger as she passed through the gates, cursing the rotten bastards inside.

People gathered below the steps. Above them was an open area, bordered by a square, yellow hedge. This was our stage. A sound crew in black t-shirts fiddled with the PA as a group of official-looking people milled around. Stiff-legged Jack and others I knew were amongst them. Their faces became solemn as they readied themselves to take turns addressing the ravenous media, gathered there in numbers.

A dark man with a long grey beard tested the microphone and introduced himself as the MC. He wore one of the protest shirts, distributed to the crowd by the marshals earlier in the day. In bold, white capitals, it read: CHANGE THE DATE. The rally kicked off with a minute’s silence, for the fallen heroes of the black resistance, and all the blackfellas who had passed on since. The crowd parted for a faux funeral procession, led by two wailing women Elders, arm in arm. Following the women were four community members, hauling a fake coffin constructed of thin plywood, painted matte black and adorned with eucalyptus branches and bright wattle flowers.

I felt a stab of envy toward the pallbearers. It was an honor to carry the coffin, something reserved for those who have fought in the struggle. I was overlooked, year after year, which was fine — I was young. But one of the pallbearers this year was new in the community. How had they got to be there? If I hadn’t respected the ceremony, I might have sworn at them, out loud. Declared them a greenhorn in front of everyone.