Not Just Black and White

by Lesley Williams

  A month before our departure, the trip’s co-ordinator, Ellen Brogden, whom we had met at the children’s summit in San Francisco, contacted us at home in Gympie with some delightful news.

  ‘Ever since I heard about Lesley’s campaign to recover the long-lost wages and savings of Aboriginal workers from the Queensland Government, I was determined to do whatever I could and within my power to help out with the cause. So I’ve made arrangements for her to have some time at the end of the youth delegation presentations to speak directly with the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights.’

  I was ecstatic to hear the news – in part, because it relieved me of the guilt I’d been carrying inside. For most of that year, my mother’s campaign had been put on hold as she chaperoned and supported my overseas exploits. Although I was proud to have shared such a life-altering journey with her, I knew it came at a personal cost. Her commitment to obtaining justice for Aboriginal workers had been put on hold, so that I could fulfil my own dreams and ambitions. This was her chance to get back into the campaign and put the state government on notice. Even though she’d been quiet in recent months, she had by no means given up.

  Lesley

  I stood alongside Tammy, on the foreshore of Lake Geneva and took in the breathtaking scenery. In just under an hour, I’d be speaking in front of a room full of people, including none other than the High Commissioner for Human Rights, and the other young people who’d also travelled to Switzerland as part of the delegation. I had first met most of the young people in San Francisco at the World Summit of Children. There, they spoke well and to the point, yet with passion and conviction. They didn’t bloody stutter or ramble on, like I sometimes did. They knew what they wanted to say and how to say it with confidence and poise beyond their years. Being in their presence only emphasised the difference in my age and skill. And my own daughter was part of this same group – a group I was intimidated by.

  What the hell was I doing? I shouldn’t be here. I wasn’t smart enough. I hadn’t done anything special to warrant the chance to speak to the United Nations High Commissioner. I was a chaperone, a ‘bag carrier’ – here to support my daughter. Even then, my teenager didn’t really need me. And neither did her brothers, I reflected. My children had grown up; I no longer needed to mother them in the way I used to.

  Tammy talks about Clair Huxtable of The Cosby Show as being a role model. As a child, Tammy had first got the idea that she could be a big-shot career woman through that character. I had modelled my life on Ma and Granny. They got married, raised their children and the grandchildren that followed, living out their days just as the white officials ordered. And just like them, I have had the same roles – domestic servant, wife, caregiver. But it had been years since I’d been somebody’s wife, and my time as a caregiver was practically over. So now what was I supposed to do with myself?

  In America I saw what other black people my age had achieved in their lives, and I wanted some of that success too. Nothing flash or over the top, just to buy my own home and have a well-paying job, one that wasn’t of the menial kind. Perhaps if I were ten years younger, I thought, I’d have a better shot at working towards creating that life. But I wasn’t. I was middle-aged and staring down the barrel of retirement. It seemed I’d left it too late for any sort of career change. I had no higher education and only limited work experience. And being among so many smart young people only highlighted my faults.

  *

  The alpine-fresh breeze stung my cheeks as it swept across the lake from the mountains. Although it got cold in Cherbourg, this was a European coolness my face wasn’t used to. I turned towards the imposing buildings of the United Nations to seek shelter from the cold.

  ‘Oh,’ I sighed, feeling the weight of expectation weighing on my shoulders, ‘I don’t think I’ll worry about it.’

  ‘Won’t worry about what?’ my daughter asked.

  ‘You know … speaking to the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights.’

  Tammy

  I was dumbfounded. Mum had given up. She spoke flippantly, as if deciding between one mundane task and the next. As if not speaking to the High Commissioner were on par with deferring a visit to the shops or the movies. Had she forgotten her own words to me at ‘Neverland’ only six months earlier, when she encouraged me to make the most of the opportunity and turn it into a life-changing experience? We’d travelled halfway around the world with the support of so many people who believed in us. Now she had the ear of the United Nations and she was saying, ‘I won’t worry about it’?

  ‘Well, what would I say?’ Mum shrugged, when I pushed her for a reason. Her poor excuse infuriated me.

  ‘You’ve spent years bloody researching. You’ve got the facts and you know the history better than anyone else. Tell the High Commissioner the same thing you’ve been telling everyone else for the past three years!’ What happened to all the great speeches and lectures she had given over that time? My growly voice sounded like hers when she was much younger. In many ways, it seemed, I was becoming my mother.

  ‘It’s different for you and the rest of your generation,’ Mum said to me. ‘You have confidence … you believe in yourself.’

  I was shocked by this revelation. I’d so often thought of her as gutsy and determined.

  ‘What about the time before Dad died, when you fronted up at the principal’s office with your plan to work at the school? Or the time when you rang up Mr Kelly for a job on his bean patch? Where’s that confidence gone?’

  ‘Gone!’ she scoffed. ‘I had no bloody confidence in the first place. I did what I did because it had to be done. It was desperation, not confidence, that got me those jobs … to put food on the table, to look after my kids. If I didn’t, then who else would’ve? I had no choice but to dig deep, and do whatever was necessary to provide for you lot.’

  My mother’s eyes moistened and it wasn’t from the cold. She looked away quickly so I couldn’t see her tears. But it was too late for her to hide from me, like she had done so many times before. I’d already seen the vulnerability that she had tried to keep hidden. For the first time in all of my seventeen years, I’d only just begun to understand her. She had been living for my brothers and me. She was devoted, self-sacrificing. Her actions were admirable. But now it was time she stopped living for us and started living ‘for Lesley’.

  ‘Remember, Mum, when Gem-Gem broke down for the third time in a week, and Grandfather Williams came with a jerry can full of petrol to help us?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she laughed, dabbing the creases of her eyes with a tissue.

  ‘And I was in one of those obnoxious moods, complaining about how our car always broke down.’

  ‘Oh, you weren’t that bad, Tid-Tid,’ she soothed instinctively. ‘You were just frustrated.’ I shook my head – here she goes again in mother-mode, trying to make her near-adult child feel better, even at her own expense.

  ‘Mum, that night in the car, while we waited for Grandfather, you told me something I’ve never forgotten. You said: “If you don’t want to live like this for the rest of your life, then do something about it”.’

  Her eyes flickered with a spark of thought.

  ‘Then what about you?’ I continued, hoping my words would motivate her the same way hers had for me when I was troubled. ‘How do you want to live the rest of your life? And what are you prepared to do about it?’

  Lesley

  Once, long ago, I’d accepted my life for what it was – that of blackfullas living under the Protection Act with our limited education and skills. We were inadequate, and anyone growing up on the outside must have had a headstart in seizing life’s opportunities. It was hard to shake off such thinking.

  My thinking was that the time had passed for me to make a decent life for myself, and that’s why I had poured myself into the role of ‘mother’. Now my life seemed nearly over, whereas theirs were beginning
. So I did everything I could, with what little I had, to give my kids a chance at creating better lives for themselves. Yet I’d never asked myself what I wanted – yes, me, Lesley – for the remaining years of my life, once they had gone.

  The restlessness I had felt when I first returned home from America was my spirit telling me that it didn’t want to sit idle. I was no longer satisfied to merely coast along. Feeling I’d outgrown my possessions told me that I was growing as a person. The second-hand furniture and knick-knacks I’d collected along the way were trophies from my old life of struggle. They represented the person I used to be and not who I was when I got back. I needed to let some of the pieces go, so I could move on and grow.

  In Geneva, I realised this could be my time. Time to do the things I wanted to do, without worrying too much about the children. Time to focus on my campaign for the return of Aboriginal workers’ wages. So what if I was nearly fifty? I had another thirty-odd years left – thirty more years of opportunities ahead of me. And it could all start today, with the opportunity to speak personally with the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights about the forced labour of Aboriginal workers and the stealing of their wages.

  I’d be bloody stupid if I didn’t seize this, I thought. This was one opportunity that wouldn’t pass me by.

  My speech went really well, although I was initially very nervous and intimidated by the High Commissioner’s presence. I don’t know why, when I had earlier seen the way he listened intently and appeared genuinely moved by the youth delegates’ presentations. I took a deep breath and began.

  ‘I know you are really busy,’ I rushed to say, ‘so thank you for making time to hear me speak Mr … umm …’

  My mind went totally blank. Everyone was looking at me. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten his name! My right leg started shaking profusely beneath the table and I was worried the young people sitting next to me would see it.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he smiled warmly. I took a moment to try and compose myself as he continued encouraging me. ‘Now what is it you would like to talk to me about?’ he asked in a friendly tone, more akin to people gathering around a dining room table than inside a meeting room. ‘Just take your time, because I am in no hurry.’

  The words of José Ayala Lasso put me at ease and I was able to continue without any further stumbles. I somehow managed to hold back my emotions until the end, when I got a little teary. My tears weren’t caused, on this occasion, by reliving those painful memories of when I worked as a domestic servant. Instead, I was overwhelmed that someone important, like the High Commissioner for Human Rights, was finally listening to me.

  To my surprise he walked over and asked if he could give me a hug as I dabbed away the tears. He then explained that, although he was limited by what his office could do, he would write to the Australian Government and advise them that he had been made aware of the issue.

  Following this meeting, my sister Alex back home in Australia said there were reports in the Aboriginal media that ‘two women had just spoken to senior officials at the United Nations’. I wasn’t sure if this referred to us but, nonetheless, I hoped the Queensland Government would think it was. Then they’d realise I meant business and was ready to take them on. I walked out of the meeting full of confidence and proud of what I had achieved.

  ‘Wow, Tid-Tid,’ I whispered to Tammy, gripping her forearm in disbelief as we made our way back to the hotel. ‘Can you believe I just spoke to the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights?’

  ‘I know!’ my daughter laughed. ‘I was right there beside you – or don’t you remember seeing me there?’

  I continued to share my thoughts aloud to her – and with anyone else walking by. The enormity of what I’d just accomplished suddenly sunk in. ‘If I can speak to a bigwig like him, then I …’

  I pulled Tammy to a stop, causing the other youth delegates behind us to suddenly swerve around us.

  ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ I asked Tammy. ‘I can speak to anyone!’

  The rusted cogs in my brain started turning and clanking over as my mind slowly started to fill with ideas of who else should be on my list of bigwigs I must speak to.

  ‘Queensland’s premier, of course. Or even the prime minister?’ my inner voice pondered. ‘Well, why can’t I speak to both?’

  I felt as though I could do anything – never before had I felt this strong and confident. As the burden of fear and insecurity lifted, the possibilities for my campaign for the return of Aboriginal workers’ wages seemed endless.

  VI

  Reconciling with the Past

  ‘There was no one present whom I feared, or felt inferior to, despite the differences in our race, class and occupations.’

  Chapter 34

  Tammy

  We returned home from Geneva three weeks later, in November 1995, to confront a political firestorm that had been slowly building over the previous few years. Throughout the 1990s the nation was polarised by an ongoing race debate between Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians. From the chambers of Federal Parliament to bar stools in outback pubs, most Australians had a view on land ownership – specifically whether native title rights of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders to enjoy their traditional lands could co-exist with the rights of pastoralists who believed it was their land. The High Court had made a highly controversial judgement that both interests could be held simultaneously, but countless others begged to differ.

  To add to the tension, the Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission’s report into the state-sanctioned separation of children from their Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander families was released. During a sixty-year period, from 1910 onwards, the forced removal of Indigenous children was a widespread and common occurrence. The inquiry estimated that between one in ten and one in three children had been separated from their families and placed in institutions operated by governments or churches, and then adopted out, usually to white families. Yet in the face of the report’s recommendations, then prime minister, John Howard, maintained his government would not be offering either an apology or financial compensation to those families so traumatically fractured.

  ‘Australians of this generation should not be required to accept guilt and blame for past actions and policies over which they had no control,’ he asserted.

  The bitter division between black and white reached fever pitch when, at the 1996 federal election, controversial candidate Pauline Hanson easily won the regional seat of Oxley on the outskirts of Brisbane to become its member of parliament. In her maiden speech, Ms Hanson used the occasion to rant about the ills of political correctness and how government programs seeking to alleviate chronic social problems of many Indigenous people were ‘reverse racism’ and ‘separatist’. Immigrants were also within her sights.

  ‘I, and most Australians, want our immigration policy radically reviewed and multiculturalism abolished. I believe we are in danger of being swamped by Asians,’ she argued, before a conspicuously bare House of Representatives. ‘They have their own culture and religion, form ghettos and do not assimilate. Of course, I will be called racist but, if I can invite whom I want into my home, then I should have the right to have a say in who comes into my country. A truly multicultural country can never be strong or united. The world is full of failed and tragic examples …’

  Hanson then called on the newly elected Australian Government to immediately cease foreign aid, in addition to reviewing its membership and funding of the United Nations.

  After Pauline Hanson spoke, the prime minister’s office was noticeably silent, and many saw this delay as a missed opportunity to reconcile the tensions she was intensifying across the nation. Although the prime minister later tried to distance his government from Hanson’s position, his comment that ‘people can now talk about certain issues without living in fear of being branded as a bigot or as a racist’ belied his
sympathies. Pauline Hanson soon formed her own political party, One Nation, and it began sprouting branches everywhere.

  Lesley

  Pauline Hanson had the greatest support in Queensland, in the rural areas where Aboriginal men and women had been sent by the state government to work tending the farmers’ crops, mustering their cattle, cleaning their houses, rearing (and in some cases bearing) the farmers’ children. This labour had been underpaid for a century. Yet remarkably, this gross injustice was overlooked and conveniently forgotten by government and citizens alike. Rather, Australians have long focused on statistics of Aboriginal unemployment. I was appalled by how easily the entire Aboriginal community was branded as welfare dependent and accused of coasting on the backs of the taxpayer.

  If there was anything I’d learned from my time speaking with groups in America, it was that anger and ‘aggro’ alone got you nowhere – no one listens to that. If I wanted to change the public’s perception of blackfullas, especially of those of us who were sent out to work as servants, I had to find a way to connect with people on a personal level, free of animosity and guilt. Only then would people be willing to listen and become receptive to what I had to say.

  During those Hanson years, many people in the community bristled and got their backs up as soon as I began talking about the treatment of Aboriginal workers. The word ‘Aboriginal’ itself, and anything associated with it, was emotive, arousing reactions from people, both good and bad. To be heard, I had to unwrap the racial layers of the issue; I had to focus on the question of fairness.

  ‘Many would agree that “a fair day’s work deserves a fair day’s pay”, and that whether you’re black or white, everyone should get paid for their labour,’ I started to explain. The strategy worked. It resonated with people, because most Australian adults are workers, and they understand ‘the good old Aussie battler’, struggling through life, working to earn a living. Not to receive all of your wages or savings for an honest day’s work is an injustice for any worker, regardless of skin colour.