Not Just Black and White

by Lesley Williams

  Although at times school felt like it was my life, this kind of thinking appealed to my rational and analytical side. I saw the merit in Mum’s argument: if I’m thirteen years old, with four more years of schooling ahead of me, and the average life expectancy for a woman is about eighty, then I could look forward to at least sixty years of living free from the pissy girls.

  Chapter 23

  Tammy

  For the first part of my childhood, I was a bit confused about the difference it made to me being a brown-skinned girl, when everyone else around me was white. Drummed into me at home was the belief I could be anything I wanted to be. Yet I hardly ever saw Indigenous people in the kind of roles I imagined could be for me. Images of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people were largely non-existent on television in the 1980s, except for the occasional cameo appearance on bush tucker programs, or for those who made the headlines on the evening news for all the wrong reasons.

  One of the first images of a successful black person I saw was of Michael Jackson. The release of his albums Thriller and Bad, and the years of publicity that followed, meant I had a staple diet of images of a successful and celebrated young black person. Seeing him on television made such an impact on me that I hoped Santa would bring me a Michael Jackson doll, so my Barbie could have a black husband.

  Whenever my cousins in Cherbourg and I played our own game of ‘Mr and Mrs’ there was always fierce competition as to who married Michael. Usually the older girls were quickest to lay claim, leaving the rest of us to squabble over the remaining Jackson brothers, like consolation prizes.

  ‘Well I’ve got Jermaine – he’s the better-looking brother, anyway.’

  ‘Have him, ’cause Jackie’s mine. Ooh, I love his hair.’

  ‘Tito has the nicest smile.’

  ‘After Michael, Marlon’s the best dancer.’

  ‘No he’s not, Randy is.’

  ‘Go away – Randy’s not even part of the Jackson Five.’

  ‘But he’s still a Jackson brother.’

  Even including poor Randy, there still weren’t enough Jackson boys to be shared around among my cousins. Those without a spouse played the part of either Janet or La Toya, the sisters who would come over to visit their make-believe brothers and their wives. They were minor roles in our epic fantasy, no matter which way you looked at it.

  When it was my turn to miss out on having a Jackson brother as my make-believe partner in our pretend – or as we say, gam’min – show, I didn’t mind. I happily played along but I said, ‘Anyway, you can only pretend Michael Jackson is your husband,’ because I believed that one day I’d be meeting the real Michael Jackson – although my cousins didn’t believe me.

  It wasn’t until the mid to late 1980s that I began to notice another black television personality, this time a woman, and started to look upon her – or more correctly, her character – as a role model. It all came about when our family acquired a new television antenna and video recorder – bought from a small cash gift secretly given to Mum by our great-grandmother on our father’s side – whom we affectionately called GG. Finally, we had static-free reception to watch The Cosby Show. Until then our television set had been restricted to two channels – a commercial network and the government-operated ABC. A third channel could be seen only if someone sat near the lounge room window and held a coat hanger above their head attached to the aerial cable.

  The Cosby Show was a sitcom centred on the lives of a successful African-American family. It featured Dr Huxtable, his wife who was a lawyer, and their five children. It was the smart and witty mother, Clair, who captured my imagination; and it was then that the idea of becoming a lawyer first entered my mind. It seemed irrelevant to an impressionable child that the Huxtables were a different kind of black people in a different country. I identified more with this fictitious black family living on the other side of the world than the people I saw regularly on the local streets. In this way, week after week, for a number of years, I had in my mind a clear image of at least one professional black woman I wanted to be like.

  Simply by having the opportunity to go to school, my brothers and I knew we were privileged. We were the first generation of Aboriginal people in our mother’s line to have access to even a standard primary school education. It was an opportunity our mother never had, and we knew it was not to be wasted.

  With older brothers who had either graduated or were about to, the notion of not completing high school never entered my mind. It was much harder for Dan and Rod, who didn’t have role models to show them the way to achieve their aspirations in life. Yet, they each ‘made their own path’ – graduating from high school and then later university, making it easy for me to follow.

  Like them, I was determined to study and do well, but I didn’t enjoy my early years at school. My plan for high school was simple: if I had to study hard so I could do well academically, then I needed to have some good distractions too, to keep me interested in school. I was good at sport and debating, so I would do those extra-curricular activities as often as I could, to keep me engaged with the school. I also enjoyed fundraising for local community causes through our school-based Interact Club, an affiliate of the Rotary organisation. Our junior debating team performed well against the other schools in the district, and so it gave my friend Lance and me the excuse to spend some of our class time in the library researching our debating topics. But then, sometimes we would just use the time to gossip or philosophise on worldly matters.

  Other students chose to break from classes by wagging, or heading off down the back paddock for a smoke, even risking suspension. Our wag – in the library – was with teacher approval, so we never got into trouble. Plus it had the added bonus of helping our debating team to win! My plan to balance education with fun was working.

  With the support of a tight-knit group of friends and good teachers, I started to enjoy my time at school. This translated into a solid academic performance, which, in turn, made it more enjoyable going to school. In my mind, all I had to do was keep this up for the next few years, while steering clear of the usual perils of teenage-hood; then I’d be done with school. It seemed easy enough, I hoped.

  Although I had the motivation to study, the actual process of studying and obtaining an education was difficult for many reasons. While there was much my mother could do, it was when I started high school that I realised she could no longer help me with my homework, especially those maths and science questions I still find tricky. Sure, she continued to be a great help in proofreading my English assignments and checking for spelling mistakes – she has always been a good speller, thanks to playing the game Scrabble. But as to the substance of the work, Mum was not able to help out to the extent she would have dearly liked to.

  Lesley

  It wasn’t until my children were all showing potential at school that the possibility first dawned on me: they might actually complete high school and one day even go on to university. But most importantly, they might then go on to have a job and be able to choose the kind of work they would do, rather than being forced, like I was, to do manual labour.

  Yet I’m the first to admit, it was difficult knowing how to best support my children’s education. Not only was there the issue of trying to help them when I had only a limited education myself, but I also had the extra challenge of supporting a ‘gifted’ child – Rodney. He was identified as academically talented by his primary school teacher, and arrangements were made for him to be included in the region’s Gifted and Talented program. Although I didn’t completely understand what this meant, I’d always suspected Rodney was exceptionally bright. I doubt he got his brains from me, because I was hopeless at school.

  Rodney had not long started school when he and his brother, Dan, would build, out of Lego, elaborate cranes with winches and semi-trailers fitted with working gearboxes and steering axles. The boys were obsessed with the mechanics o
f how things worked. They particularly liked to study the gantry at the timber factory where their father had worked. They would watch the crane unload the logs off their dad’s truck, then go home to try and replicate it out of Lego blocks. At school, from grade six onwards, Rodney participated in the national Westpac Maths Competition and was consistently awarded high distinctions every year. His exceptional performance continued throughout high school, where he was ranked in the top percentile of competing students throughout the nation.

  Looking back now, I wonder if I did enough to support and nurture Rodney’s special abilities? At the time, the best I knew was to ensure that my children’s home environment encouraged them to learn. I’d raid second-hand stores for desks and chairs to go into their rooms. At Christmas, in addition to toys, they’d receive books, encyclopaedias to help them answer those homework questions I couldn’t, and even a pair of binoculars so they could see Halley’s Comet and study the stars. I simply wanted my kids to realise that there was a ‘great big world’ out there, waiting to be explored.

  Like most people at the time, there was no way I could afford to take the kids overseas and visit the amazing places I’d seen in books in the library – it was just too expensive and unrealistic on my wage. This was long before the days of budget airlines and the internet – today, everything you might want to know about the world is just a mouse click away. But then, sometime in late 1986, I read in the newspaper that the Queensland Government was planning to host a world expo in Brisbane, as part of the 1988 bicentennial celebrations of European settlement in Australia. This meant that from April to September countries would be on exhibition, right here ‘on our doorstep’!

  I was excited. It seemed the world was now accessible to us. Immediately my mind started ticking over, thinking of how I could buy tickets for the kids and I to attend. If I couldn’t take the boys and Tammy overseas, then the next best thing I could do was to take them to Expo ’88.

  I started talking with my good friend and fellow work colleague, Ann Knight. She too, was planning on taking her boys to Expo ’88. Together, we made enquiries about how we could purchase tickets. I’m not sure how it came about, but I was able to use my membership with the Teacher’s Credit Union to buy season passes through small fortnightly instalments deducted from my wage. It took twelve long months of saving and scrimping on our already tight budget to pay them off, but eventually I did.

  When Expo ’88 finally rolled into town, the kids and I looked for any opportunity to head down to Brisbane to use our passes. We’d stay overnight at relatives’ places and then catch the train the next day to the Expo site. We visited a total of seventeen times over six months, viewing nearly all of the hundred or so pavilions that showcased the very best of international art, culture and history. There was, I remember, a fascinating display from NASA, and I know the kids really loved seeing the talking car ‘KITT’ from the 1980s hit TV show Knight Rider at the popular Universal Studios exhibit.

  Thinking back to that time, it’s hard to find the right words to describe the impact Expo ’88 had, at least on me, and I hope the children, without understating its importance. I guess all I can say is that it was life-changing. Although there was much more I had yet to learn about other people and their cultures, Expo nonetheless gave me a glimpse, for the first time, of the world around me – a world, that as a child growing up in the Camp under the Protection Act, I had been restricted from knowing.

  IV

  Uncovering the Truth

  ‘Each archive box, official letter and file note revealed more of the picture of our life under this control.’

  Chapter 24

  Lesley

  I knew something was wrong when my sister, Sandra, called me at work. It was a weekday in August 1991, and I was standing at the workbench in the school library. ‘Pa’s had another stroke. This time he can’t speak and is paralysed down his right side. The doctor in Cherbourg is also concerned about his leg – it’s gangrene and needs to be seen by a specialist.’

  From the urgency in my sister’s voice I knew the end of our father’s life was nearing. It could be days or a few weeks before it was time; nowhere near long enough to make up for all my wrongs and wipe clean a guilty slate. I’ve never forgiven my eleven-year-old self for how I behaved the day Pa was removed to Fantome Island. As the white officials were taking him away, I had played on with friends at school. When I finally returned home it was too late, his chair in the kitchen sat empty. For the five long, guilt-ridden years he was away, I waited to hug him, the way I should’ve when he left. This time the goodbye would be forever. I had to make it last.

  Pa’s leg had to be amputated. Various family members took time off to be with him. I took a week’s leave from work so I could also be at the hospital in Brisbane. I searched for him among wards filled with the dying and those who weren’t really living – rooms where machines beeped, doctors rushed and families huddled. Eventually I found him in an enclosed area of the veranda, slumped in a wheelchair, dehydrated and withering in pain.

  I wheeled him back to the ward, just as the staff were collecting the lunch trays.

  ‘Are you finished with that, sir?’

  ‘Yes he is,’ I said as I pushed aside the uneaten food.

  ‘Not hungry today?’

  Pa mumbled in place of words as the food trolley was steered away.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got something nicer for you,’ I whispered in his ear and opened a container of chopped fresh rockmelon and pawpaw. The sweet smell of life filled the air, masking the sickly smells of leftover hospital food, disinfectant and despair.

  I shovelled spoonfuls of fruit into his mouth and hoped each one would miraculously make him better. But all he could manage was a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

  ‘It’s good you have come to visit,’ the wife of another patient remarked, ‘because we don’t think your father is fed when your family isn’t here. The food is plonked in front of him and there’s no one to help him eat. Sometimes we feed him ourselves. It’s sad to see a dear old man like him not being well looked after.’

  ‘Thank you … for caring,’ I struggled to say, before spooning Pa another mouthful.

  On 31 August 1991 our dear Pa died. By the time we buried him I was emotionally drained. Thankfully, the school holidays were soon upon us and I used the time to bunker down at home. The depressed state of our overgrown garden looked about how I felt. Since the infamous ‘pawpaws’ had been dug up and destroyed by the local police detective, there wasn’t a lot left in the garden other than my strategically placed cacti beside the kids’ bedroom windows, a few geranium bushes along the front of the house and a whole bunch of weeds in between.

  We’d inherited the geraniums from the previous tenants. They were my kind of plant: tough and hearty – survivors like the kids and me. Instead of dying, they seemed to thrive in the harsh conditions, with their pink and red blossoms softening the unruly appearance of our yard. The wilted plants seemed to appreciate my spur-of-the-moment watering, and I found it soothing to hear the droplets pitter-pattering against the leaves.

  One day, as I was watering the garden my neighbour, Jim, called me over to the fence. He and his wife, Mary, were good people. They were always friendly faces in the neighbourhood, willing to chat and offer a hand if it was needed. Our kids would often spend the weekends together, riding their bikes and playing with the other children in the street.

  ‘I thought you might like to have these,’ he said as he handed me the bundle of papers his secretary had put together, from the old government records at Cherbourg. Included in these documents were records relating to my family’s history, including their financial records. Seeing these documents for the first time got me thinking about my own wages, from when I had worked as a domestic servant at Condamine and Taroom.

  My early employers had never paid me directly, like Andrée did; rather, they wou
ld give me odd bits of pocket money here and there. They’d supposedly sent the bulk of my pay back to the white officials in Cherbourg to deposit on my behalf, not in a bank but in a government-controlled savings account. Although it was my money that the white officials were managing, not once did they ever provide me with a statement or an update on the balance of my savings account.

  I suspected my wages and savings might be held in the Aborigines Welfare Fund, which I had read about in a newspaper article I had cut out and kept. But until now I had never been able to do anything about it, because I didn’t have any proof to back up my claim. I always knew I would need evidence to prove that the government had actually withheld my money. Without documented proof, it was just my word against theirs. Jim’s gift was like turning a light on in the dark.

  I decided to ring Alex. Ever since we were kids growing up at Cherbourg, my protective big sister always knew what to do.

  Five months after Pa died, in January 1992, Alex arranged a meeting to discuss the standard of Pa’s treatment with a conciliator and the hospital’s superintendent and director of nursing. Alex had been training to be a social worker and as part of her studies, she’d learned all about the Queensland Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission complaint-making processes and knew someone who worked there, Clare Tilbury. Honor and Alex were undaunted by the meeting. They were the strong ones in the family, and weren’t deterred by the presence of government authority figures. For me it was different, and my stutter returned.

  Tammy

  But Mum, what I don’t understand is why you were intimidated when your older sisters weren’t, yet you’d all had similar childhood experiences?

  Lesley

  We may have had similar beginnings but we each ended up taking different paths. My sisters got married much earlier than I did. This meant they had a much earlier start and lived relatively independently from the government – and out from under its radar – since at least the 1960s. To their credit they started mixing with the broader community much earlier, making new friends – white and black – learning skills and generally developing their confidence. Whereas I’d remained under the government’s control until I married in the early 1970s.