In disgust we slammed shut the cabinet drawer where we found them, but there was no way we could ever remove the images from our minds. Instead, the photographs were now added to the collection of other horrific memories we had unintentionally acquired throughout the course of Mum’s research.
So it’s not surprising that, at around this time, I noticed a change in our once-peaceful mother. Gone was the timid and the outwardly meek person my brothers and I had known; in her place was a very angry and determined person. As I watched my mother’s character morph I also felt a change happening in me. I developed a strong urge to protect our mother. It was a similar feeling to the one I experience today, when I see my own children hurt or distressed in the playground. Except, back then, I was a child, and the person I wanted to protect was the parent.
I can see now that my mother’s pain was spreading unwittingly like a contagious virus, from her into me – and goodness knows who else.
Lesley
I didn’t realise you felt that. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say, I’m lost for words …
Chapter 27
Tammy
All of the pain that I’d successfully concealed away inside – buried and hidden by life’s distractions – came to a head and leached out when I saw, in the high-school yearbook, that word written across my photograph: Nigger.
I’ve been called lots of different names over the years, but this was the one that stung the most. It had been a long-held tradition at my high school to publish an almanac highlighting the achievements of students throughout the year. There were class photographs of each year level and excursion summaries, alongside write-ups about academic and sporting triumphs of individual students. Students could purchase copies of the magazine, and a copy was always added to the school’s library collection, for posterity. It was in this copy that I found the photograph of me defaced – with the word nigger scrawled across it.
I was devastated and incensed. Why would a fellow student do this? Why try to demean me as a person to my peers, and anyone else who happened to browse through the yearbook? With the scrawl of a pen the achievements for which the yearbook honoured me – athletic, academic and public speaking – were reduced to nothing.
I realised then that this pain had been simmering within me, bubbling without escape, for years. I understood why I so hated the girls in preschool who ran away from me in the playground, and the boy at the hockey fields who hit me with the apple core. Now I hated the person who wrote nigger across my photo. I hated not standing up for myself all those years before by just finding new friends, and by not throwing the damn apple core back. And I realised how I had come to hate, with equal passion, the white officials whose records my brothers and I had read during our school holidays.
Native, gin, inmate, half-caste and octoroon – these terms that once identified Aboriginal people littered the pages of those records, and were painful reminders of my extended family’s suffering. The countless official reports and leather-bound volumes necessary for our mother’s research had begun to corrode my young mind. It had been such a struggle to confront and absorb the information, and to contain the emotions aroused in me. And now I had to deal with this fresh abuse.
I tracked down the culprit and confronted her near the school’s old parade ground. Our friends quickly gathered around us – hers on one side and mine on the other.
‘Why did you write it?’ I insisted on knowing. There was a brief silence and our eyes met for a long moment.
‘Well that’s what you are,’ she smirked.
That was it. I couldn’t contain my rage any more. Adrenaline surged. I lunged and hit her, smack bang in the face.
I had become a troublemaker, just like the kind the lady in the street had warned my mother against. It was daughters, she had said, and not sons, who were the cause of a mother’s trouble. My vow to ‘stay out of trouble’ was in tatters, less than three years since I had made the promise to myself. I couldn’t understand how it had all gone so wrong. My brothers had managed to sail through their teenage years, unscathed and without causing added burden to our mother. As the youngest of the three, all I had to do was follow their lead, by going to school and then getting a good job – it was that simple. Yet, somehow I’d stuffed it up. This was my problem, not Mum’s. I had to find a way to fix it.
Later that day, I was told the father of the girl I hit contacted the school and notified them of what had happened to his daughter. I’m not sure what was said between the school and the girl’s father, or whether he even knew about the actions of his daughter. Nevertheless, I was to report to the senior mistress early the next morning.
That evening, like a wannabe lawyer-in-training, I retreated to my bedroom to prepare. The lawyer at the Aboriginal Legal Service who had so arrogantly dismissed my mother’s case was no role model – I was yet to meet a lawyer in real life whom I wanted to emulate. Instead, my mind turned to attorneys of the fictitious kind – the legal heroes and heroines of television, whom I looked upon for inspiration. There was my pin-up girl, the classy Clair Huxtable of The Cosby Show. I tried to channel her unflappable cool-under-pressure demeanour. And in terms of tactics and courtroom strategy, I thought of Matlock – perhaps the all-time greatest attorney of 1990s daytime television – because I had yet to see him lose a case.
With these greats of TV land as my legal guides, I walked with my witnesses into the senior mistress’s office the next morning. With a freshly ironed school shirt on, tucked neatly into my skirt, I was ready for the school’s inquisition and the chance to defend myself.
‘So what do you have to say for yourself?’ the mistress asked, after outlining the complaint made against me by the girl’s father.
‘Well, Ma’am,’ I began, clearing my throat. ‘There is quite a bit I do want to say. But if you could just excuse me for a moment …’
Somewhat surprised by my pause, she watched me slide my hand into my shirt’s breast pocket. Out came a neatly folded statement. From this I recounted – with the support of my witnesses – the contested events in the parade ground. Then, with as much flare as the flamboyant television lawyers, I pleaded the defence of provocation.
‘This was not a case of schoolyard violence, for violence’s sake,’ I argued. ‘The complainant provoked me by her racist actions. Although violence can never be justified, in these circumstances, my behaviour can be explained.’
On that note, I finished my submission and waited for the senior mistress to deliver her verdict.
I wasn’t to be suspended from school; but I was to be placed on probation with a stern warning. ‘Future acts of violence will not be tolerated,’ the mistress lectured and I nodded, although I don’t recall a similar warning being issued to my accuser, about racism also not being tolerated at the school. But at the time, this wasn’t my main concern. For I had a more pressing matter to deal with. Mother.
Against Mum, my TV-learned skills amounted to nothing. No slick submissions or carefully constructed arguments to sugar coat my actions would fool her. Besides, long ago I’d learned she had a nose for untruthfulness and could sniff out dishonesty or a con-job a mile away. It wasn’t telling her I feared most, as I had been wronged. Rather, it was her disappointment I dreaded. More punishing than being grounded or having extra chores to do was the knowledge that my actions would cause additional stress in her life. I knew she wouldn’t see this as ‘just a fight’; instead, Mum would spend half the night analysing the incident, in case it was a sign of something much bigger – the start of my downward spiral, a slippery descent she’d seen for so many other Aboriginal youths.
Statistically, the odds were that us kids would get into trouble. Black, poor, from a single-parent family: on paper my brothers and I were the ones ‘most likely to’ drop out of school, be incarcerated, have a teenage pregnancy. All our lives our mother had wanted and expected better for her children – better tha
n the unfortunate future predicted by statisticians.
I returned home later that afternoon and found her in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. With her mind distracted, I felt it was as good a time as any to make a full confession.
‘But it’s all right; there’s nothing to worry about,’ I was at pains to point out. ‘I took care of it and was let off with a warning.’ She continued chopping the carrots in silence. I’m sure it was a deliberate tactic. I just wished she would yell at me and send me to my room. ‘Anything but silence!’ my conscience begged.
And then it came: the Look. That slight rise of an eyebrow, a twist of the face, a sadness in her eyes – an expression that can only be felt, not described. I stood on one side of the kitchen bench, she on the other. With knife in hand she hacked through the raw vegetables with dramatic effect.
Lesley
I was actually wondering desperately, ‘What do I say? What do I do?’ Tammy was at a crossroads and could go in any direction. I’d felt her slipping away from me, becoming more withdrawn and agitated than usual. But what was normal for a teenager in these times and circumstances? Finally I found words.
‘Don’t you think there’ve been many times in my life when I felt like getting stuck into someone too?’ I growled.
Tammy sank into a chair, heartsick. I hadn’t meant it to come out like that. I could see that my daughter needed words of wisdom, not a bloody lecture.
Tammy
‘Tid-Tid,’ Mum cooed my pet name, before walking around the bench to sit beside me. ‘There’s a lot I don’t know in life and there’s a lot I’ve got wrong. But what I know, I’ve learned from my own experiences and from watching others.’
I appreciated her honesty and the tenderness of the moment. It had been a while since we had shared a moment like this. The sudden closeness, though, made me uncertain. ‘There are two ways to fight racism,’ Mum continued. ‘The first way is to fight with your fists. But if you keep on fighting that way, sooner or later you’ll end up in gaol charged with assault. Or worse you might accidentally punch someone the wrong way and bloody kill them. And at the end of the day you’ll be feeding into the stereotype of yet another blackfulla locked up in gaol.’
‘I suppose,’ I shrugged. ‘So what’s the other way?’
Our eyes met and I was sure she could see my vulnerability. I returned to the safety of a distant gaze, partly out the window.
‘Fight the bastards back!’
My eyes snapped wide open in surprise. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
‘That’s right, you heard me. Fight ’em back! Except, this time, you fight ’em with your talents and achievements. Bruises heal. But it hurts a racist more and for a hell of a lot longer, when they see you achieving. Let them see you getting on with your life, because every time they see you achieving, it reminds them they weren’t able to stop you.’
Chapter 28
Lesley
‘Aunty Les! The police are here for Tammy.’
The frantic yells for help from my niece Belinda interrupted my afternoon tea. Her voice could be heard across two backyards as she jumped the fences and burst into our neighbour’s house looking for me. At least six months had passed since my daughter’s ‘nigger incident’ and now, from my friend’s window, I could see a police car parked in our driveway for the whole wide world to see.
‘Oh, don’t tell me she’s being charged with assault!’
‘I don’t know, Aunty. Just come quick.’ Belinda dashed out the door and led the way home, but my legs couldn’t keep up with those of a thirteen year old. They’d long lost the spring to hurdle over fences like they once used to, back in Cherbourg.
‘Tell the police to wait!’ I panted, with an arm propped on the clothesline trying to catch my breath. ‘I’m coming.’ My chest throbbed with tightness from an unseen weight bearing down. I was too friggin’ old to be jumping fences to rescue my teenage child from her troubles.
Waiting for my arrival was a uniformed police officer. He stood stiff and serious like members of the force usually do.
‘W-w-what’s the problem?’ I gasped, still lost for breath.
‘Shhh,’ hissed Rodney trying to quieten me down. He and Belinda formed a huddle around Tammy as she made a telephone call, while the police officer hovered, not so inconspicuously, nearby. To make matters worse and to add to my embarrassment, Rodney’s school friend, Austin, sat in our lounge room and was watching the whole drama unfold.
‘What’s going on here?’ I’d run across the backyard and scaled a bloody fence expecting to see my daughter handcuffed, not chatting on the damn phone! The police officer pulled away from the scrum and straightened himself.
‘Ma’am, the station was contacted today from an interstate source.’ The officer continued in the usual police-speak, in which the facts are delivered as if by machine: precise, detached and impersonal. ‘Contact was requested to be made with a female person by the name of Tammy Williams of this address. I’ve been instructed to have the female person telephone a specific number.’ The way the officer stood and spoke, the uniform and badges, the police car – everything was so formal, official … and scary.
‘But I-I-I don’t understand. Who is she calling? And why?’ I cried.
The officer shook his head. ‘I really don’t know anything further, ma’am.’ Then he leaned towards me and whispered, ‘I hope you don’t mind me standing here while your daughter phones, because I’m just as keen as you are to find out!’
I was comforted by his tone, and that he didn’t know either. I must admit it was strange to be so close to a police officer as we huddled to eavesdrop on my daughter’s phone conversation.
‘Is this an early April Fools’ Day joke?’ Tammy asked the unidentified person on the end of the phone line. It was 31 March 1993. Surely we weren’t victims of a practical joke?
‘Look, you need to talk to my mother … I don’t think we have a passport …’ she said, handing the phone over to me.
‘Hello?’ My voice echoed into the unknown. I had no idea who the hell I was talking to or what the call was about. Everyone, including the police officer, crammed closer to hear more.
‘Hello, Mrs Williams. My name is Gina Mendello.’ The voice had a strong American accent, which only added to my bewilderment. ‘I’m from Sony Music Australia and let me apologise for sending a police officer to your home. I am sure it would have given you a terrible fright. But it was the only way we could get in contact with Tammy.’
‘So, she’s not in trouble then, hey?’
‘No, far from it,’ the American voice chuckled. ‘Mrs Williams, I’m not sure if you are aware, but a couple of weeks ago Sony held a nationwide competition. In a series of television commercials aired throughout the country, children were invited to write a letter or a poem, or draw a picture outlining what they believe to be the biggest problem the world faces. Tammy wrote a touching letter about racism and inequality.’
My mind raced as I struggled to process all this. First the police car, then the American voice, and now a letter … I did vaguely remember Tammy staying up late on a school night to write that.
‘But it was only last week she posted it,’ I responded. ‘How can this be happening so soon? It must’ve been one hell of a letter for you to be ringing us?’
‘I assure you, Mrs Williams, it was!’ Ms Mendello explained. ‘We received Tammy’s letter on the final day of the competition and, out of the tens of thousands of entries we received, her letter was a standout. So much so, that she has been selected as one of two children to represent Australia at the Heal the World Children’s Congress, which Michael Jackson is hosting at his Neverland Ranch. The cost of the entire trip for Tammy and a chaperone will be paid for by Michael Jackson and his foundation.’
‘Michael Jackson … paying for the whole trip?’ I struggled to grasp the facts.
/> ‘Michael Jackson?’ repeated the police officer, my son and my niece, in a shocked and confused chorus.
‘Shhh,’ I signalled with a finger pressed to my lips. I needed to hear everything.
After the phone call the police officer prepared to leave but asked one question before he left: ‘Why didn’t you include your phone number on the letter?’
‘Because Mum’s always lecturing us about not giving out our number,’ Tammy explained, changing her voice to mock mine: ‘I don’t want undesirables bloody ringing us, trying to flog off their products.’
‘I don’t talk like that!’ I protested.
‘Yes, you do,’ Rodney jibed, with my niece enthusiastically agreeing.
‘Well, it seems not even Michael Jackson can call you!’ the officer laughed as he walked back to his car.
‘Ma’am, it was a pleasure to meet you and your family,’ he said. ‘Now if you will excuse me, I must return to duty.’ As he spoke, his voice changed, as did his appearance. Hat on head, tall and straight, the transformation back to no-nonsense authority figure seemed complete.
‘Hey, wait!’ called out Rodney’s friend, Austin, who until now had sat quietly on the couch watching the Williams family drama play out. ‘Sir, is there any chance of giving us a lift into town on your way back to the station?’
The officer looked at his sedan, which was fitted with an iron grille designed to transport prisoners rather than ferry innocent youths around. ‘All right, but one of you will need to sit in the back, behind the cage.’ The boys complied and the police car drove away.
I imagined the neighbours tut-tutting to each other: ‘It really is sad, isn’t it? They were such good kids. Who would’ve thought they’d end up in trouble?’
Tammy
In 1992, initially with proceeds from his Dangerous world tour and from other private donations, Michael Jackson created the Heal the World Foundation with the aim of improving the conditions for children worldwide. In keeping with the objectives of the foundation, a World Children’s Congress was planned at Michael Jackson’s home, ‘Neverland’, in California. The conference would provide a forum for forty-six children and youth, representing eighteen countries, to explore, through a series of seminars and workshops, critical issues facing children and youth globally. The youth ambassadors were selected through various international contests. In Australia, entrants were asked to identify a particular critical issue and write about it, or to represent the topic through art.
Not Just Black and White Page 20
