Beginning with an anecdote is de rigeur for personal essays, and ones about Western Sydney often seem to begin with a racist encounter. I won’t lie, I was tempted. But describing the dirty looks I receive each week from that old white woman at my daughter’s Irish dancing class doesn’t get me very far, and it certainly doesn’t help me answer, ‘What does Western Sydney mean now?’
This essay was commissioned as part of a joint SRB-UtP project titled Radical Accessibility.
Read the full essay here.