Not Just Black and White

by Lesley Williams

  I guess you could say, for most of my early adult life I was protected, one way or another. During my first twenty-five years I was protected by the control of the white officials and later protected by Andrée’s kindness. Then when I got married I was still protected, but this time by the well-meaning intentions of my husband. Living in mice-infested shacks in the middle of nowhere meant I didn’t have to confront racism and learn to stand up for myself. There was no need for me to mature or develop social skills or even get a driver’s licence when I had a husband who took care of most things. Of course all that changed after I was widowed; I was forced to grow up and start to learn to stand on my own two feet.

  Compared to my sisters, I can now see how my development was stunted – for although I was approaching my forty-fifth year, I still lacked the skills and the mindset to completely move beyond the Protection Act era of my childhood. I guess you could say I was stuck in the past, because I’d allowed myself to be a victim of the past.

  Out of the group sitting at the table, I was the one who had spent the most time with Pa immediately after his operation. Despite my reluctance to speak, the hospital representatives were keen to hear examples of how he was mistreated.

  ‘Y-y-you have to understand …’ I said softly, ‘how distressing it was … for me and our whole family to witness the way our father, a respected Elder in the community, was treated.’

  Clare Tilbury from the Human Rights Commission encouraged me to continue and recount what I saw. It helped that she’d previously worked with Indigenous people and was aware of the communication difficulties some of us have. She knew how to prompt sensitively, to put me at ease, and gradually my nervous stutter disappeared.

  The superintendent and the director of nursing both scribbled notes as I spoke. My self-esteem blossomed each time they jotted down parts of my story. This was a sign that they valued what I said and more importantly, believed me.

  Our family wasn’t after compensation for Pa’s treatment, just an apology and an acknowledgement that our father deserved better. We received an apology. I can’t remember exactly what was said, but the words were not important; like racism, it’s not the words themselves but how they make you feel. Until then I’d never heard a white official admit a mistake and offer an Aboriginal person a heartfelt apology.

  After the formal meeting Alex approached Clare.

  ‘Are you available to meet with Lesley and me? We have something important we’d like to talk to you about.’

  I confidently followed Alex and Clare down the corridor and into her office. I delved into my carry bag and pulled out the newspaper article I had cut out and gave it to Clare to read.

  ‘It’s a long story but … my neighbour gave me these,’ I said, handing her the financial records of my family. ‘I’m sure the government must have more documents about the wages I never received when I was sent out to work as a domestic servant.’

  Alex and I watched as Clare’s eyes moved down to the end of each page.

  ‘What do you think Lesley should do?’ Alex asked. She was as keen as I was to know what my next steps should be.

  Clare took a moment to think as she stacked the newspaper article and financial statements neatly in a pile. ‘The records from your neighbour are a good start, but if you don’t know how much money you are owed in total, or the conditions of your employment, then I think you’re going to need more evidence,’ Clare said. She then swivelled around in her chair to face me. ‘Lesley, you should write to the minister for Family Services and Aboriginal and Islander Affairs, Anne Warner, and tell her that you wish to recover the wages and savings the government has held in trust for you.’

  ‘I-I-I’ve never been any good at writing. I have trouble stringing two bloody sentences together, let … let alone write a letter to a m-m-minister,’ I said, the stutter returning.

  ‘Well that’s nothing to be embarrassed about,’ Clare said. ‘We can’t let that be the reason that stops you from getting your wages.’ She spun back around in her chair and started typing the letter on her keyboard.

  ‘Now is your title Mrs or Ms – which do you prefer?’

  ‘Mrs,’ I said in a clear voice. I couldn’t understand what this ‘Ms’ business was all about. Willie might’ve been dead for over eight years but I was still his wife, Mrs Lesley Williams.

  ‘Give me a week or two to fix this up and find out the minister’s postal address,’ Clare said, handing me a draft. ‘Then I’ll send you the final copy. If you are happy with it, just sign it and send it to the minister; if not, don’t hesitate to give me a call on my free-call number and we’ll make some changes’.

  Chapter 25

  Lesley

  I expected to receive an instant reply from the minister, but it didn’t come. And in keeping with Granny’s ancient wisdom, there wasn’t a willie wagtail bird – to tell me that I’d be receiving good news – anywhere in sight. The days rolled into weeks before a letter from the minister finally arrived, in an official-looking envelope, trimmed with the government seal and other tell-tale signs of importance.

  I didn’t have the guts to read its contents; instead I put it at a safe distance on the table in the kitchen, until I eventually found the courage to open it:

  Dear Mrs Williams,

  Thank you for your letter dated 21 February 1992 …

  My eyes were stuck on the opening words: ‘Thank you.’ I kept re-reading them, flattered and feeling terribly important that the minister was actually thanking me for writing to her. My joy and self-importance quickly disappeared as I read on.

  Apparently the records were in such a poor state that the Minister believed it was too difficult for the Queensland Government to work out what happened to the money it had withheld from Aboriginal workers, for ‘safe-keeping’.

  While the minister was prepared to arrange for government officers to research any files that concerned me, she was not hopeful these records would show where my money went. I rang Clare Tilbury, disheartened and disappointed, that a cheque for the amount of my lost wages and savings wasn’t included with the letter in the envelope.

  ‘So what do I do now?’

  ‘Well why don’t we write back?’ Clare suggested.

  ‘And thank her for the letter!’ I interrupted, excited by the cheekiness of thanking the minister for such a letter.

  ‘Yes,’ Clare chuckled. ‘We can thank her for the letter and accept the offer of having your departmental files searched.’

  I stopped laughing and suddenly became concerned by Clare’s suggestion. ‘But I don’t trust the government to find my files. If the white officials kept my money, then how can I be sure they’d give me all of my records and not just the ones they want me to see? If all of my financial documents were there, it’d tell me exactly how much money I’m owed. Why would the government want me to know that?’

  ‘People have rights these days, to see their own government records,’ she explained. ‘There is a new law called the Freedom of Information Act, which gives you the right to make a request to the Department of Aboriginal and Islander Affairs to view your own records.’

  ‘I still don’t trust the bloody government and I definitely don’t want bureaucrats going through my personal records. I want an independent person, a blackfulla like Bob Weatherall – the man quoted in the newspaper article. He’ll know what to look for because he’s already started researching the Aborigines Welfare Fund.’

  Surprisingly, the minister agreed to my request, making it one of the first cases where an Aboriginal person had exercised their freedom of information rights to view their departmental file. My records would be released for one day, on condition that they were viewed at the department’s building.

  On the day appointed for me to view the files, Grandma and Grandfather Williams agreed to look after the children. I woke up before dawn to catch the train, which took three h
ours to travel from Gympie to Brisbane, arriving late at the city’s Roma Street Station. I knew I’d be hard-pressed to make my ten o’clock appointment with the department, so I took off on foot as fast as I could along George Street, the main drag of Brisbane, which houses some of the state’s most powerful institutions. At one end is parliament and the governor’s old residence near the beautiful Botanic Gardens, and in the other direction, stands the Supreme and District courts. Midway between these two seats of power was my destination: the new building housing the Department of Aboriginal Affairs.

  I hurried past the dilapidated old building, where the once almighty Head Office of the Chief Protector stood, and which for some time had sat vacant. Its dusty windowsills and peeling paint seemed like scabby scars of the past. Earlier in my life I had thought the white officials at Cherbourg and those at the Department of Native Affairs were the centre of authority over us. It was only later that I came to understand they were just parts of a larger state system. Around the corner, in front of the department building, I found Bob Weatherall and my sister Alex, waiting patiently for our meeting.

  ‘Lesley, the department called me the other day,’ said Bob. ‘The director wants to briefly meet you before you view your files.’

  I strained to hear his words over the growl of city traffic. ‘No way!’ I was adamant I wasn’t going to meet the director by myself. ‘You fullas have gotta come with me.’ Alex reluctantly nodded. Her nervousness was obvious.

  Bob led the way to the reception area while my sister and I trailed behind. I thought of an earlier meeting when Andrée had sashayed down the hall to meet with the white officials about my employment contract during the mid 1960s. I recalled the hint of perfume that had remained with me in the reception area, like a familiar companion, as I’d waited nervously for her to return.

  This time, a tall, middle-aged man came bounding out of an office and into the waiting area. ‘Hello, I’m Jim Wauchope, the director,’ he introduced himself, stretching out a long arm. ‘You must be Lesley. It’s nice to meet you.’

  I shook his hand, surprised by his sudden, energetic appearance. ‘Please come in and have a seat,’ he said, directing Alex, Bob and me to a number of chairs beside a large table. I tried not to stare – the man sitting on the other side of the desk from me wasn’t at all as I’d imagined. For starters, he seemed nice and chatty, not a monster at all. With a broad toothy smile, he was nowhere near as scary as I remembered the bigwigs used to look when they visited Cherbourg.

  In those days a man in Mr Wauchope’s position wielded such power: to split families, to send children and young people away to work as servants, to take our wages and savings, to decide the rations we ate, and to lock people in the settlement’s gaol for weeks at a time without the benefit of a trial. The chief protector and director were to be fearfully respected; and now Alex and I were sitting in his office, within arm’s reach.

  There was some small talk as Mr Wauchope tried to engage me in a conversation, but I didn’t know what to say and was far too shame to speak. I thought of the hours of etiquette I’d practised as a young debutante, learning to curtsey, dance and walk properly before our official presentation at the debutante ball. I’d forgotten most of it by now, so I thought it was best just to keep my mouth shut and not say much, in case I said something stupid in front of Mr Wauchope. Smile. Sit up straight. Be on my best behaviour. Let Bob do the talking. Soon the meeting will be over.

  When the time came for me to see mine and my family’s secret government file, Bob left Alex and I to view the records in private, knowing their contents would be hurtful and distressing. The two of us followed the government official to the lift that would take us downstairs to the viewing room.

  ‘What are you guys doing here?’ whispered a voice from across an office divider. An Aboriginal woman sat tentatively at a nearby workstation, checking over her shoulder to see if anyone of authority was watching.

  ‘I’ve come to view my records so I can recover my wages and savings from when the department sent me out to work.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to do the same thing for my mother, but with no success,’ the lady replied, before quickly resuming her seat. The government official who was assigned to look after us saw that we were talking and she signalled for Alex and me to follow her into the lift.

  ‘You won’t get very far, you know,’ the Aboriginal lady whispered as we walked away.

  ‘We’ll soon see about that!’ I said, rather too loudly.

  The viewing room contained several large archive boxes crammed with records. In addition, there were countless piles of papers, stained and dusty, stacked loosely into bundles along the table and on the floor beside it. I was stunned to see the sheer number of records the white officials had kept on my family.

  ‘Well, when you think about it, no wonder there’s so many records,’ said Alex. ‘The white officials watched us like hawks, and we had to get permission from them for this and permission for that … I’m amazed we didn’t need permission to scratch ourselves.’

  I wasn’t content to simply read the files; there wasn’t enough time to do that properly. I only had access for one day, so I needed to make copies that I could read later, in my own time. I snooped around the department’s office and found a couple of photocopier machines sitting idle in a hallway nearby. ‘Do you mind if I copy a few of the records?’ I asked the government official, charged with the task of looking after us.

  ‘Sure. Help yourself to the copier,’ she replied. And help myself I did.

  Alex worked one machine; I operated the other. I even arranged for my son Dan to help out with the copying as soon as he finished his university lectures. I wasn’t going to leave, even for a lunch break, until everything in that room relating to us was copied.

  I was cautious about touching the brittle, old paper – not wanting to tear or damage the fragile edges. It suddenly struck me as ironic that I was showing all this concern about the bloody paper when those who had written derogatory comments on it had shown so little for our feelings and privacy. From the mundane to the personal, no part of our lives was private and sacred, or too sensitive for the white officials to discuss. They recorded our medical ailments and travel movements. They discussed whether Pa could purchase a dining table – out of his own money!

  ‘Look at this,’ I called out to Dan. ‘Before your grandparents got married they first needed permission from the government!’

  ‘What?’ my eldest son asked, stunned by what he’d just heard.

  I showed him the ‘Application for Permission to Marry’ form. ‘There’s a section that the protector or superintendent on Cherbourg had to answer: “Are the applicants of good character?” ’ I read out. ‘ “Are they free of disease?” ’

  ‘Mum, I didn’t realise how much power the government had over Aboriginal peoples’ lives.’

  ‘Neither did I then, son.’

  ‘So you didn’t know about these cards then, that I’m copying?’ Dan asked, handing me a copy still warm from the photocopier.

  ‘No, I never knew this existed,’ I said, studying the details on the card. ‘Alex, come here and have a look at this.’

  There were several cards, which I now know are called Social History Cards, that listed the personal details of our father, and Granny and Grandfather Chambers. It recorded the details of when they were ‘admitted’ to Cherbourg, their children’s names and designated religion. Next to their name the white officials gave each of the inmates a number and listed their so-called ‘breed’ – ‘full-blood’ or ‘possible half-caste’. I couldn’t believe the white officials were talking about my family, and not bloody cattle or sheep.

  I wanted to continue. I wanted to leave. I wanted to pack away the records, to reseal the archive boxes shut. I wanted to remember my childhood the way I once did. Those innocent memories of snuggling close to four others in a bed to keep w
arm at night, of bathing in front of the wood stove in the kitchen, of watching Granny and Ma transform the rations into wholesome meals for twelve, dessert included. These records tainted those memories. The thumb-stained papers showed us for the first time just how much of our hardship in the Camp had been unnecessary.

  My fond recollections of Granny caring for us, when our parents couldn’t, were invaded by flashbacks of her needless suffering. I thought of her going to bed early, too tired to tell stories, because the joints in her elderly body ached after her day’s work. I also wondered about the wages Grandfather had earned throughout his entire working life, yet with not a penny left for Granny to inherit?

  Now their own records showed the extent of the deception of these white officials whom Granny had trusted. They had allowed an illiterate old woman to struggle on her own, to feed nine grandchildren and one great grandchild on little more than rations and a few added ‘treats’ paid out of her paltry wage, of 15/- (shillings) or $1.50 in decimal curency per week. The officials did this, while they kept a portion of her Child Endowment entitlements – paid by the federal government to low-income families, both white and black, to help with the cost of raising children in Australia. Her endowment money would later be added to the state government’s own coffers. Then the white officials had the audacity to hover, watching for signs of neglect, waiting for a reason to remove us from her care. But Granny – dear old, determined Granny – never allowed it to happen. She was not going to lose us the way her mother lost her.

  It wasn’t just our family who were deceived. In 1959, in just one year alone, over £1.5 million (about $17 million in today’s value) of Aboriginal workers’ wages, savings and Child Endowment money was withheld by the then Queensland Government, while children suffered from malnutrition, didn’t own shoes or warm clothes, and lived in overcrowded houses without running water and access to a continuous source of electricity.