Danzal Baker learned early on about the affect of shame in remote Indigenous communities.
"I've seen that happen so often," the 23-year-old rapper and dancer says.
Growing up in the Arnhem Land communities of Milingimbi and Maningrida, he had cousins who could have excelled in gymnastics or AFL, he says, but lacked the confidence to push themselves.
"A lot of good opportunities that come through that [but] most of them get scared and don't want to do it," Baker tells the ABC's One Plus One program.
"People would be like, 'Shame, no, I don't want to do that — too many people watching'."
These days, Baker, better known as Baker Boy, uses his national platform to try to combat that pervasive feeling.
Outside of a music career that has earned him numerous awards and tens of millions of streams on digital platforms, he has become a powerful advocate for young Indigenous Australians realising their potential.
In doing so, the 2019 Young Australian of the Year has given prominence to the idea of Indigenous musicians singing in language, as he does, flipping between his first language Yolŋu Matha and English.
But even Baker Boy once had to reckon with his own insecurity.
The culture shock of leaving community
When he was growing up, Baker's father was part of a travelling dance troupe called Baker Boys who blended the dances they learned watching Fred Astaire videos with hip hop.
"They were mission famous," Baker says. "They performed and danced around remote communities in Arnhem Land."
At boarding school in Townsville, the younger Baker explored other skills, but dancing seemed as if it was written into his DNA.
"In the community, I was just like my dad, and all my cousins would call me Baker Boy as well — Little Baker Boy."
After boarding school in Townsville, he moved to Brisbane to study a diploma at the Aboriginal Centre for Performing Arts.
"'I want to go back, I don't like it here. I am by myself, I don't know anyone, I am so scared'.
"Aunty said, 'Just stay there for a couple of weeks, a month, then call me back and I will book your flight — you can come back'."
When she checked in a month or so later, he had settled in. He wanted to stay.
Later, when he moved to Melbourne and was again separated geographically and culturally from his community, he faced the same initial feelings.
"I don't know where this road goes to, I don't know where that road goes to," he recalls thinking.
"The weather scared me. It was freezing. Especially for me to come from hot to cold. I never wear so many clothes in one day."
As he would later rap on his 2017 breakout song Marryuna: "City lights, the sound, too much for my mind."
Breaking records and promoting language
Eventually, he found work with the arts company Indigenous Hip Hop Projects.
He was sent to Warburton, in the far east of Western Australia near the Gibson Desert, to run dance workshops with kids in the remote community.
He loved it and returned several times.
Meanwhile, his own performance career took off.
In 2017, having uploaded a few songs to triple j Unearthed, he won the station's National Indigenous Music Awards (NIMAs) competition.
In January the following year he had two songs in the Hottest 100. Marryuna, at number 17, was the first track featuring Indigenous language to land in the top 20.
Major festival appearances followed, as well as shows supporting 50 Cent and Dizzee Rascal.
Last month, he won Artist of the Year at the NIMAs for the second year running.
When he was named Young Australian of the Year in 2019, part of his acceptance speech was delivered in Yolŋu Matha.
"Most of the time a lot of people come up to me and say, 'It's really good to see people represent their culture and also try to keep the language strong'," he says.
"I want to see more people from all the remote communities around Australia do that."
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'A superhero in the community'
He still feels the pressure of representation, and admits to nerves ahead of big shows.
His family and his community keep him strong, he says, reminding him he is making them proud and "putting them on the map".
Now living in Ballarat with his partner and their British bulldog, Djapa — "the Baker Dog", who has his own Instagram — he misses his home, particularly fishing and the smell of the fire or a fresh catch.
But he knows the positive difference he is making.
"My dad told me when he goes to work, in the morning, and sees all the kids go to school, they scream out 'Baker Boy, Baker Boy'," he says.
"Some of the parents would say to my dad, 'Your son is like a superhero in this community, everyone wants to be like him'.
"I would love to see people try and take opportunities. Not only to do what I do — perform and rap and dance — but follow their heart and follow their dreams and goals.
"The only thing I want them to take is take charge."
Watch Kurt Fearnley chatting with Baker Boy on One Plus One, here.
https://news.google.com/__i/rss/rd/articles/CBMiYmh0dHBzOi8vd3d3LmFiYy5uZXQuYXUvbmV3cy8yMDIwLTA5LTA1L2Jha2VyLWJveS13YW50cy1pbmRpZ2Vub3VzLWtpZHMtdG8tZm9sbG93LWhpcy1sZWFkLzEyNjIyNzc20gEnaHR0cHM6Ly9hbXAuYWJjLm5ldC5hdS9hcnRpY2xlLzEyNjIyNzc2?oc=5
2020-09-04 21:02:00Z
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