The main language of my Sydney suburb wasn’t even on the census

Sometimes when I am standing in our backyard, my little son tells me he “wants to see the whole world”. This is my cue to hoist him up so he can stand on my shoulders. He takes his time, looking into backyards and no doubt endearing himself to the neighbours. It’s getting harder to do now that he is four, but I love the fact that in that exact moment Liverpool is his whole world.

Liverpool, or Livo as it’s often known, has always been my home. Located about 30 kilometres south-west of the Sydney CBD, the suburb sits within the City of Liverpool Local Government Area, in the heart of south-west Sydney.

It is a place often defined by those outside it. The Liverpool I hear about is jarringly different from the place I experience every day. Painted in broad brushstrokes, its residents are reduced to caricatures that bear little resemblance to the people I know. It’s hard not to have a chip on your shoulder when you grow up here, and I admit that mine is bigger than most.

One of my earliest memories is eating with Mum at the Coles Cafeteria, burning my mouth with chips that were all heat and no flavour. I remember strutting through Liverpool Plaza when I was five or six because the butcher had handed me the bag of mince and called me Mr Muscles. Later, Westfield Liverpool became our regular teenage haunt, where we would wander aimlessly, bumping into other groups of friends who were doing laps of their own.

The streets of our city have never been more intriguing. Universities, once faraway things, have landed like spaceships. They jostle for attention in the heart of the city, towering over the main street. The old shops I knew growing up are largely gone, with new things popping up in their place. Ristretto and Co is a great example, unashamedly Liverpool with a tiny hint of the inner west. Al Barakeh is the locals’ choice for charcoal chicken, while the southern end of the CBD comes alive at night, with people moving between restaurants, dessert shops and the occasional shisha bar.

It’s not uncommon to see food trucks and marquees setting up for festivals in Macquarie Mall, with the Eurofest Night Market Festival a hit with my family. Thousands of people come from across Sydney for the foods, atmosphere and performances that showcase the cultural diversity at the heart of Liverpool’s identity. Crepes, waffles, pancakes and churros all compete for my daughter’s attention, while one of my sons heads straight for the cevapi.

While I couldn’t find it when I was filling out the census, the universal language of Liverpool is the grind. It’s the early starts, physical work, long commutes and jobs that can’t be done from home. The grind was brought into sharp focus during COVID-19. As the helicopters were completing flyovers of our suburb, people from Liverpool were keeping the wider city afloat.

The sound of my wife, a teacher at the primary school up the road, teaching her students every day, was a constant in my house during lockdown. So too were her trips into school to supervise the kids who came in that day, so their parents, working as tradies, cleaners and nurses, could earn a living.

Occasionally, I manage to sneak away from work to surprise my kids after school. When I make it for afternoon pick-up, I hear snatches of conversation from around the globe. Serbian, Arabic, Hindi and English all intertwine as we shuffle through the gates on a shared mission to get our kids out as soon as possible to beat the rush and the traffic. Liverpool isn’t just modern Australia, it is a window to the rest of the world. Not a melting pot, as many would characterise it, but a mixed plate, where each component has its own distinct flavour and identity. It’s complex, it’s colourful, it’s messy – and it’s what I love about Liverpool the most.

The bell rings and my big son tears towards me like a labrador with big paws and a bigger backpack, nearly knocking over several of his classmates. My daughter takes her time, still young enough to be happy to see me, at least until I politely decline her request to go to the shops. As we join the crowd spilling out of the school gates and onto the streets, it’s hard not to feel part of something bigger, a place that is very much alive.

You can see these signs of life if you know where to look.

It’s there in Macquarie Mall during the day, where the old blokes play dominoes and chess beneath the umbrellas. Their voices and passions rise and fall, weaving in and out of the staccato rhythm of pieces clacking on tables.

You can hear it at the Collingwood Hotel when rival tribes come to watch the game. The roars of triumph are only cut short by buzzers going off, a reminder to collect a meal that comes on a plate the size of a hubcap.

It’s there with the kids kicking around a ball at Collimore Park, as the sun goes down. Cries of “last goal wins” fill the air as they fight over who gets to be Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi.

Like my little son standing on my shoulders in our backyard, I want to see the whole world. And fortunately for me, it’s right here in Liverpool.

Tom Nance is an occasional writer and life-long resident of Liverpool.