How to produce a Language Party (from scratch)
Language Party Canberra, December 2019
It’s a frosty night in spring, and I tread a tentative step inside one of my city’s most bohemian bars. I’m here in search of a storyteller for what will be Canberra’s maiden Language Party – due to be held on the first day of summer. I find a seat alone, wait for the show to start, and try to look less unsure of myself by fumbling through my phone and re-reading old messages.
Afghani Dari poet and storyteller, Hangama Obaidullah. Photography by Sean Davey.
I’m at Mother Tongue Multilingual Poetry Night, an eclectic and intimate event held by local poet Jacqui Malins. Here, fellow poets and performers read their own writing – or share a piece of folklore – inside this darkly lit bar, scattered with vintage couches, standing lamps, and various ephemera.
While I’m nervous because I don’t know anyone in the room, more pressingly, I have a lot riding on this event. I’m a couple months out from the start date of Language Party Canberra and eager to pull together a full line-up of storytellers. I’m one person short. Will someone from Mother Tongue Poetry fit the bill?
A Tongan father and daughter duo glide on stage and begin singing traditional islander songs. They wear white cotton pants and a straw dress, respectively. A Chinese poet shares a deeply personal poem about heartbreak. The audience claps loudly in response.
Later, an Afghani refugee shyly rises. In her mother tongue of Dari she speaks to us about the role of strong women and the importance of female voices being heard. The curls and the guttural sounds of her Middle Eastern language are delivered like music: a firm, determined beat marks her words. The audience falls silent. We tune into every sound – not understanding, yet understanding.
Her name, I discover, is Hangama.
After the show, Jacqui encourages interested poets or performers to speak to me about participating in the language party. There I am: up the back, waving, looking nervous.
Hangama’s is the only face to approach me, tucked away in my corner. I soon learn she’s a photographer, a writer, a student and a mother. She’s excited at the idea of sharing Dari more widely – and just as importantly, her thoughts on the repression of women in her home culture, ideas laced through the poetry she’s delivered tonight.
I drive home elated. With Hangama on board, our storyteller ship now has a full crew. It’s time to set sail into these unknown Language Party waters together.
Hangama on stage in December. Photography by Aishah Kenton.
Canberra, at a glance:
Population: 305,000
Distance from Sydney: three hours south by car
Number of countries represented: 180
Newest migrant country groups: Afghanistan, Iraq, and Myanmar
Aboriginal ancestral group: Ngunawal
‘Hello’ in Ngunawal: Yadhungdhunga
Canberra’s Lake Burley Griffin at sunrise. Photography by Jennifer Pinkerton.
With its abundance of 1970s architecture, public servants, and bushland, Australia’s capital city of Canberra – at first glance – may not seem overly multicultural. Dig deeper, however, and a pool of linguistic diversity wells to the surface. Twenty per cent of Canberrans speak a language other than English at home – the most common of which are Mandarin, Italian, Arabic, Cantonese, and Greek.
I grew up in Canberra during the 1980s and 90s, and apart from knowing a pinch of Thai and French, I am not bilingual. That didn’t stop me from wanting to throw a Language Party in my hometown, however. Celebrating (and knowing) the diversity within our community makes for a better city – and the landscape of other languages is a beautiful, and unifying, thing to behold.
A blurry picture from Canberra in the 1980s, taken during my walk to school. Photography by John Pinkerton.
Aside from a desire to expose the rich vein of migrant and refugee languages pulsing through Canberra – such as Dari – I also nursed a strong interest in Canberra’s original language: Ngunawal.
In South Eastern Australia, so many Aboriginal languages have faded from view and usage. Was Ngunawal intact? I’d need to find out – and to do so without the scaffolding of a university community or a local Indigenous language centre. First things first, however, we’d need some kind of funding.
Step by step, here are the actions that turned our Canberra party from an idea into a live experience.
1. Securing Funding
Language Parties are often birthed on a shoestring budget, but hosting one for the first time requires marketing, a fairly extensive search for storytellers, an appealing venue, photography, and catering.
Our parent organisation, the Aikuma Project headed by linguist Steven Bird, was fortunate enough to receive a 2019 grant from the Aesop Foundation, the philanthropic wing of a global skincare brand. This foundation seeks to “amplify the voices of those who may not otherwise have a platform”, and the Aikuma Project’s grant supported big picture-coordination of parties around Australia to celebrate the UN Year of Indigenous Languages. To put on something locally, however, we’d need another small pot of money.
Initially, Steven and I looked into various sources of federal and philanthropic funding. But soon, an advertisement for ‘City Renewal Grants’ emerged. Many local governments based in capital cities offer similar grants. The idea behind these is to create buzz in the Central Business District (CBD), and to tell different stories about the city – other than those of business and commerce.
With its ample helpings of heart and soul, a local language party seemed like a great match for the grant. And it was. After attending a grant information session, spending a couple of weeks preparing the application (this was a lot of work!), and waiting a few months to hear back, ultimately we were successful. The grant totalled just over AU $7,000.
This covered some of the producer’s salary (that’s me), small payments for the storytellers, a consultation fee that would enable us to partner with (and pay) an Aboriginal organisation, venue hire, catering, photography, videography, sound equipment services, and some public relations/social media activity.
On July 1, we were rolling. We had five months to pull a party together, which seemed… ample. And it was. Our schedule would end up looking something like this:
August: planning
September: partner organisation relationship building
October: storyteller recruitment
November: rehearsals and event promotion
December: show-time
2. Partnering with a Local Indigenous Organisation
A contact at Canberra’s City Renewal Authority suggested I make myself known to respected Ngunawal man Wally Bell. Wally runs the Buru Ngunawal Corporation, an organisation that mostly provides cultural heritage assessments to development projects, but also boasts a deep interest in preserving and celebrating Ngunawal culture.
I met Wally for coffee, explained the language party concept, and asked about how the idea might work as a culture-championing event for him. Pretty quickly, we knew this was a good match and decided to team up. Wally and I would meet another couple of times in the lead-up to the party – mostly to check that the event was coming together in a way that suited Buru Ngunawal.
Ngunawal traditional custodian, Wally Bell. Photography by Sean Davey.
As it turned out, the Ngunawal language had received a bit of love over the last few years – by way of language workshops held for local Ngunawal people, as well as the translation of ‘Welcome to Country’ announcements for government officials. But the language had not yet been shared with the public in a less formal, grassroots way.
Wally connected me with his cousin Glen, who lived on the northern NSW coast. “Glen’s the language guy”, Wally explained in his typically laconic fashion.
Ngunawal storyteller, Glen Freeman. Photography by Sean Davey.
When later I met with Glen, I discovered that Ngunawal had not been spoken in a public forum for over 140 years.
Glen’s passion project was to learn the structures and patterns lying within the fragments of language that remained, and then transpose these rules to the formation of more words. He was building a Ngunawal vocabulary, and with it, the power to put stories together. This in itself was quite a task – but putting together a five-minute oral tale challenged Glen in a whole new way.
For Language Party Canberra, we decided he’d tell the story of Wanagan (the white cockatoo) and why the bird is so raucous. In Canberra, these loud squawking creatures are an ever-present part of the landscape. “Alright, alright, keep your voice down!” I remember my grandmother saying, as she’d try to talk over the sound of a teeming flock of cockatoos on our veranda during summer nights.
Glen’s story selection seemed like a perfect choice to reflect this unofficial animal ambassador for our city. With a ‘hero language’ now in place, we settled on our date in December. And Glen began the difficult task of constructing Wanagan as a story. Being witness to his achievement would become one of the most rewarding and moving aspects of the show.
(Read more about Glen’s journey).
3. Bringing in Bi/Multilingual or Multicultural Organisations
Owing to Canberra’s size, the city is blessed with a few bilingual and multilingual groups, such as the International Mother Tongue Movement that conducts a pride walk each February; Mother Tongue Open Mic Poetry that holds multilingual poetry nights (as mentioned); and the ACT Bilingual Education Alliance that hosts community events and supports bilingual learning.
I contacted all three groups, hoping they might provide help in finding storytellers. To my surprise, I instead received partnerships. All three groups helped to promote our event and also put me in touch with passionate locals eager to share a story in their mother tongues.
I started making calls. The recruitment drive was on in earnest.
4. Hunting for Volunteers
From his office in Darwin, Steven used his university contacts to place a call-out for volunteers through Facebook. Within no time, the wonderful Anthony Harris – a real estate agent with a love for fine clothing and Aboriginal culture – put his hand up. Quickly, I was back at the coffee shop: meeting Anthony in person, seeing where his skills could be best be placed, and working out how to proceed together. Anthony’s enthusiasm helped spur me on.
Later, PhD candidate and linguist Alexandra Marley joined the fray. She proved priceless at rehearsals as she guided storytellers in the best way to share their languages on stage.
Linguist and Language Party volunteer, Alex Marley. Photography by Sean Davey.
The value in having a passionate core of volunteers couldn’t be underestimated. At the very least, such people provide emotional support and share in the joys and challenges of putting an event together. Similarly, increasing the brainpower focused on the show made last-minute problem solving a far easier task.
5. Finding Storytellers
From the get-go, I was eager to uncover and share Canberra’s minority languages: the more rare and unusual, the better. Similarly, I wanted to present geographical diversity. To this latter aim, we sought languages from different continents.
Bangladeshi Kokborok storyteller, Abhi Tripura. Photography by Sean Davey.
Thanks to our partner organisations – which came to also include ACT Libraries, which runs Bilingual Storytime – I connected with speakers of Benin (Nigeria), Isixhosa (South Africa), Kokborok (a hill tribe language from Bangladesh) and Welsh (Wales). Over the phone, I smooth-talked all speakers into taking part – everyone, that is, apart from Hangama, whom I’d later meet in person. Though the talking here need not have been smooth! All were keen to take part and excited by the prospect of sharing their languages live.
From here on in, the Language Party started gathering its own energy. As more happy faces came on board, the more our momentum built.
South African Isixhosa storyteller, Thandazwa Katase. Photography by Sean Davey.
6. Choosing a Venue
Considering our event marked the start of summer, we opted for a park venue. The City Renewal Grant specified that our party must be held in the CBD. This left us with one only park. Luckily, it was a beauty.
We got to work hiring a sound professional to project our spoken stories deep into Glebe Park, chose a location within the space, and started rubbing our hands together with excitement. We were after a festival-meets-picnic atmosphere, and this spot was perfect. Little did we know the weather would have other plans.
7. Setting up a Rehearsal Schedule
Just over two months out from the party, I invited everyone along to a meet-and-greet at a city café. Here, we introduced ourselves in English. The storytellers taught us how to say ‘hello’ in their languages, then introduced themselves in their mother tongue.
Welsh storyteller, Alison Walker. Photography by Sean Davey.
It was uplifting, exotic even, to hear the languages come together for the first time – to tune in to their various dips and rhythms. Everyone fell silent as each new language was tentatively shared. The sounds were unusual and captivating. I couldn’t wait for our first proper rehearsal when the storytellers would reveal their chosen stories.
We held two group rehearsals in total, plus a third one-on-one rehearsal (involving a single producer and storyteller). Six weeks out from the show, the first of these was held at my place, which helped build rapport and connection. Three storytellers showed up.
For the second rehearsal, we went to the park – so everyone had a chance to practise in the place they’d eventually perform. Three storytellers showed up.
On this occasion, we also introduced our crew to our newly recruited emcee, Kingsley – who, for many years, has been pioneering an app that shares his language of Benin. We felt it was important to have the party led and hosted by an energetic member of Canberra’s multicultural community.
Emcee and Nigerian Benin speaker, Kinglsey Omosigho. Photography by Sean Davey.
Kingsley was the perfect poster boy. His catchphrase was “language is my passion”. In the weeks that would follow, Kingsley joined me for an interview with local ABC radio promoting the party. He and I also rehearsed his emcee notes one-on-one, as his role was so critical to the mood we hoped to create on the day: one of openness, appreciation, and connection.
8. Almost Show-Time… with a Hitch
We sent out a press release to local media two weeks out from the show, which triggered a flurry of radio interviews. We also started sharing ‘excitement-building’ posts on our social media platforms. A quick check on ticket sales revealed we were almost sold-out.
With the party almost upon us, I started religiously checking the weather forecast – perhaps like a bride awaiting her wedding. The picture wasn’t looking pretty: December 1st was predicted to carry strong winds and almost arctic levels of cold.
“Welcome to the world of climate disruption where a ‘normal’ summer is an unpredictable soup,” I thought to myself, as spirits started to flag.
Right from the beginning, as my mind conjured images of what our local language party would look like, I’d imagined a park. As I mentioned, I wanted a picnic atmosphere: audience members spread out on rugs, tall oak trees rising around us – a different experience of the ‘city’. This idea was eventually reflected in our poster. And as mentioned, our storytellers had eagerly rehearsed in this very space, delighted at the idea of performing in such peaceful, pretty surrounds.
The prospect of moving things inside felt like a disappointment almost too big to bear. And icy winds? Would people want to come out at all in these conditions? Again, nerves colonised my head.
Thankfully, we had booked a back-up venue. So late one afternoon – a week or so before the show, while still deeply unsure how things could be salvaged – I climbed the stairs at small city bar, Hippo & Co.
There, I was greeted with a saloon vibe: a long leather bench ran along one wall, small wooden table dotted the space, and eclectic objects hung from above the bar. Above all, the space was cosy and charming: not such a bad place to hole up during the rain, the wind, and whatever other horrors the weather wished to hurl at us.
Moving indoors wasn’t what I’d hoped for, but it was workable. More than that, the bar was welcoming. In fact, this space would work well. My spirits started to lift.
One Fine Day
December 1st rolled around quickly, and as the sun sunk low behind a grey, cloudy sky audience members started to trickle in, climb the stairs, help themselves to our cheese platter, and find a seat.
With his commanding, gentle presence, Glen’s cousin Wally Bell rose before us and delivered a long and heartfelt Welcome to Country. He explained the Ngunawal people’s connection to Canberra – both spiritually and historically.
Next, Glen took to the stage, sharing the little-known fact that his language had been dormant for over a century. His story would represent Ngunawal’s coming back to life, he said.
Though nervous at first, Glen gained confidence with each minute he performed. It was clear he relished his time on stage. Once deep into the bones of his story, he moved around the space, flapping his arms to inhabit the character of Wanagan, and ending with a screech that revealed ‘Wanagan’ means ‘wake up’ in Ngunawal. “Wanagaaaan!” he called out. It was an arresting way to finish; I couldn’t have been more proud of him.
Stories followed in Kokborok, Welsh, Isixhosa, and of course, Dari. Through the first of these two languages, spoken by Abhi and Alison respectively, we learnt about the Bangladeshi hill tribe tale of the man with three heads, as well as about the mythical Welsh town that disappeared under water.
Hangama shared her moving poem about the strength of women. And finally, Thandi enthralled us all with her tale of the jackal and the tortoise from South Africa. Like Glen, she slunk and jumped around the stage so as to fully animate her animal characters.
During our language panel, conducted after the stories were told live, the storytellers described their languages as their “heart and soul”. Some storytellers were brought to tears explaining the feelings – including sheer joy – that flow when they speak their mother tongue.
Pride too overflowed within Glen and Wally. “You could see how proud they were. You could see it in their eyes,” said Wally after the event. “And for me to see Glen telling that story – that was something really special. That was a proud moment for me.”
Meanwhile, the spring in Glen’s step seemed supercharged.
Looking Forward
A week after the show, we all gathered at another bar (it was still freezing!) to debrief and decompress. Most storytellers wanted to share how much the party meant to them. Others were keen to contribute ideas for a new-and-improved version of the party to be held in 2020 (however, Covid might have other ideas). Happily, many storytellers also had a replenished list of individual goals that emerged from the show. Sharing their languages publicly had filled something in them: they were keen share more.
Alison, for example, now wanted to collect oral stories to deliver at Welsh holiday camps. She had arranged to meet two audience members for informal Welsh lessons over coffee. Hangama had been offered a slot telling stories in Dari at ACT Libraries – as well as a potential exhibition of her photography during refugee week in 2020. And Glen was hatched plans for a Ngunawal dictionary – made using symbols rather than letters.
Many, too, had collective goals for 2020. Two of our volunteers discussed holding an event for NAIDOC week in July (a week celebrating Indigenous culture), and Hangama was dreaming up a language party featuring a line-up of refugees living in Canberra.
What started out as one event, I then realised, had become like starter yeast for many different and new incarnations. Each storyteller directed offshoots from the show’s energy into personal goals, or into impetus to create language-based events with others.
Wally holds a candlelight culture conversation after the show. Photography by Aishah Kenton.
Wally’s words filled my head. When I’d phoned him after the show, to see how things affected him, he’d urged: “Keep progressing with it. Especially with the enthusiasm you have among the performers. You could see how proud they were. Keep that momentum going.”
In pulling together a party, from scratch, we’d birthed a new community. New voices were rising in our city centre, in languages kept private – or worse, forgotten – for far too long.
Language Party Canberra collective. Photography by Sean Davey.
—Jennifer Pinkerton