‘Well, then, it looks like I’m not that smart after all,’ I smiled. The brother shook his head.
‘Sis, you really had me going there for a minute. I was proper wondering if I could take that flash car of yours for a spin! But no good, you on foot like me!’
‘Yeah, a “foot falcon” is about all I got.’
It’d been a while since I’d had a good laugh. What I missed most about being at home in Gympie with Mum and my brothers was the laughter and playful banter. No matter how sad and depressing our circumstances there was always a daily dose of humour to get you through, even on the bleakest of days.
I pulled out the retractable handle of my court bag and stood up, straightening my black suit jacket and crisp white shirt beneath.
‘Anyway, brother, I’ve got to go and prepare,’ I said, tilting my head in the direction of the courtroom. ‘All the best.’
‘You too, sis. I just hope the next time I see you it’s not in there.’
Chapter 36
Lesley
By the time 1997 rolled around, I had more to contend with than the misinformed comments made by supporters of Pauline Hanson’s One Nation party. I was battling to get support from my own people for the Justice for Aboriginal Workers campaign. I had been working on this cause, which was to benefit us all, for nearly five years. Now the campaign was breaking up into groups with their own interests. Up to this point, we had all worked together on a shared mission: recognition and wage justice.
Part of the reason for the tension was that there were personal and community politics at play. It seemed everyone had their eye on the dollar signs rather than the issues. Even the lawyer from the Aboriginal Legal Service, who had earlier dismissed me for being ‘thirty years too late’, was now suddenly offering his services to me.
My confidence grew with each meeting, as audience numbers swelled. But over time there was a steady decline in the attendance of Elders – those who had gone out west to work and never received their wages. Scores had died; many more stayed at home, as their bodies struggled with the ills of ageing. Very few of these old folks survived healthily into old age, given the food and healthcare dished out to them in their early years. In their place younger people – with an education and political smarts – took up the fight.
Alongside them were seated those in my age group who had also been sent out to work under the government’s regime. Until recently, their presence in the campaign had been next to invisible. They were the ones Mervyn Reilly had warned me about, way back in 1993, when only a few dozen had bothered turning up to our first rally at the Roma Street Forum. ‘When the government agrees to pay back our money … all them Johnny-come-latelys will be here,’ he had said to me. I’d sensed, back then, that he was right, but I didn’t want him to be. Hadn’t our Elders raised us to not act selfishly? Weren’t we supposed to be a communal mob – who shared and cared for one another?
I was about to start another meeting. The Gympie-to-Brisbane train had arrived late at Roma Street Station, barely giving me enough time to catch a taxi to South Brisbane and set up the hall before the meeting started. There was a good turnout of people, perhaps eighty in all, but one reassuring face was missing: my sister, Alex. She had had another appointment in the city and was unable to attend, so this time I was operating solo.
The kiss-on-the-cheek greetings and other niceties went on until I opened the meeting. Not long after, a middle-aged Aboriginal woman interrupted me. ‘How long we gotta keep coming to these meetings?’ she sneered, striding down the centre aisle to the front of the room towards me. She stood next to me, while I remained seated, towering over me with her height and confidence. Gossipy whispers flitted throughout the room. ‘When are we going to get our money?’ she demanded. Did she think I had a cool million sitting in my handbag waiting to be handed out?
‘Yeah!’ someone else heckled. ‘I want my money back.’
‘Look, I want my bloody money back, too,’ I snapped in return. ‘But just like the rest of you, I don’t even know when, or even if, the government will give it back to us. That’s why I’ve called this meeting – so we can work out the next steps of the campaign together.’
I understood why people were frustrated and angry. They wanted their money – we all did. But at the time I didn’t know why the hell they were yelling at me and not at the government representatives who’d come to sit in on the meeting. The departmental officer was scribbling notes on a page as the audience exploded – hurling accusations and demands in a wild free-for-all. I cringed at the political consequences of such public squabbling. It wasn’t a good look, especially with the state election looming. I knew the current conservative government would only hold a public inquiry into the matter if there were some votes in it. But if we were seen to be fighting amongst ourselves, then no government, Labor or Coalition, would want to hold an inquiry. The excuse for their inaction would simply be, ‘blackfullas can’t even agree among themselves’.
The sister of the original troublemaker had now joined her on centre stage. Members of the audience egged them both on as though they were ringside at an outback pub fight. The meeting had quickly descended into a shambles. The sisters muttered to each other. But against the noise I couldn’t understand what they were saying.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t hear. What is it you’d like to say?’
‘You!’ the younger sister boomed, with her finger pointed at me. ‘You’re just doing this all for show.’ She cast her arms up and out towards the audience, insinuating to them that I wasn’t really interested in justice for Indigenous workers, and was holding this community meeting just so I could get the attention.
‘Look, there’s no need for friggin’ insults! Can we get back to the meeting?’ I was pleading with them to stop. But my accusers didn’t listen.
‘Look at you … you think you’re better than us,’ one of the sisters hissed. ‘You and your daughter … tripping around overseas, big-noting yourselves, like proper uptown blacks.’
‘Yeah, you wanna clean up your own backyard first, before going overseas,’ the other sister chimed in.
‘W-w-what are you talking about?’ It’d been a while since I had last stuttered. It’d been even longer since I had felt so intimidated. Not since the days of Miss Elder and her domestic-science classes – when she smacked me in front of the class for being a ‘naughty girl’ – had I been so publicly reprimanded. This time, however, my dressing-down wasn’t at the hands of a bitter government white official, but from one of my very own.
‘M-m-my daughter Tammy, she won the trip …’ I tried to explain, ‘I-I-It’s got nothing to do with the campaign.’ But it was useless trying to defend or explain myself to people who wouldn’t listen. I wished Tammy were with me. But then again, I’m glad she wasn’t there to see me humiliated in this way.
I’m not sure how long the verballing continued, or what else was said. I just remember sitting at the front of the room, staring into space. I no longer had the confidence of the woman who’d recently spoken to the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights. Nor did I have the fight left in me like that once-gutsy widow who’d successfully raised three children against the odds. Instead, I was just a middle-aged version of the meek and intimidated girl who’d lived in the Cherbourg Camp, wishing her big sister Alex was there to hide behind.
I looked around the room for signs of support. There was none. Although most of the insults came from the sibling troublemakers, not a single soul in the room came to my defence – that is what hurt the most. The vast majority sat in silence, watching the spectacle unfold. Perhaps they felt intimidated by those with the loudest voices. A few in the audience smirked as if they were enjoying the entertainment. Others had been persuaded by the verbal attacks, enthusiastically nodding their heads. Whenever I looked at them, they’d quickly look away, to avoid making even the briefest connection. Was it because they felt embarrass
ed for me? Or were they embarrassed for themselves, ashamed they hadn’t stood up and told the sisters to stop?
Who knows? In the end, it made no difference. It didn’t change the fact that in a room filled with my own mob I felt so alone. No one had the courage to stand and defend me.
‘D-d-does anyone else … umm … h-h-have anything else to say?’ my voice quivered. There was a deafening silence. No one else came forward. Enough had been said. I wasn’t going to fight back with verbal insults of my own, and turn the battle – originally against the Queensland Government for the return of our wages – into a war among ourselves.
‘Well, you all seem to have made up your minds. It seems you don’t want to work with me for all of us.’
Tammy
Mum’s attempts to hide her pain at this shambolic meeting couldn’t deceive her sharp and observant solicitor. Tony Woodyatt from Caxton Community Legal Centre called me from his office after witnessing the brutality of Mum’s community meeting-come-lynching. He knew she was on a train, en route to the flat I shared with Rodney.
‘Today, at the meeting, your mother was given a hard time. She’s going to need someone to talk to … with someone she can trust. Tammy, I know she will open up to you and your brother.’
‘Thanks, Tony, for the heads up. I’ll tell Rod and we’ll be ready for her when she arrives home. But I think it’s best not to tell her about your call. Instead, we’ll let her tell us about the meeting when she feels comfortable to talk.’
‘Okay, if you think that’s best.’ Tony paused before saying, ‘Tammy, you already know how special your mother is. Both Jean Dalton and I think the world of her. She didn’t deserve to be treated in that manner. Take good care of her tonight.’
Almost as soon as I hung up, I could hear the sound of metal on railway tracks. Soon she would walk the short distance from the train station to our apartment, and be buzzing on the intercom downstairs. She had barely entered the lounge room before her eyes welled with tears. Finally, she was safe to release her emotions – safe from the glaring eyes of those who accused her. Here, with only her son and daughter present, she no longer needed to mask her feelings. Rodney and I tried our best to soothe her, and make her feel strong again. But her pain was still too raw, and she had lost so much faith in her own strength.
Chapter 37
Lesley
Failing to get support for my campaign from my mob coincided with the fact that I was running out of money to fight the cause. QAILSS had earlier given me some support and I was hopeful that we could continue to work together. Unbeknown to me, they were successful in receiving $700,000 from the taxpayer-funded Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission (ATSIC) for additional research and to help pay the costs of mounting a possible legal action on behalf of Aboriginal workers. It is little wonder that so many in the Aboriginal community, including the two sisters who publicly attacked me, were keen to work with the organisation rather than with me.
With the alluring promise of a class action and the hope of being awarded a slice of the millions of dollars owed to Aboriginal workers, the sisters helped QAILSS to sign up most of the attendees at the meeting. I was devastated. I felt betrayed. I had little money and little support. There wasn’t much left of my campaign. I had tried for too long to do this as the old people would have – when times were tough at the Camp at Cherbourg we all pulled together, helping each other out. But times had changed. Many of those old people, along with their old ways of doing things, were no longer here. Without the Aboriginal community working on a united front, there was no pressure on the government to hold a public inquiry. All that was left was for me to go it alone.
Reluctantly, I instructed Tony Woodyatt and my barrister, Jean Dalton, to draft a letter of demand to the Queensland Government for the return of my wages and savings. This went against my belief that the campaign for the return of Aboriginal workers’ wages was bigger than just one person, but without the support of the community I felt I had no other option. I also knew that if the government failed to comply with my demands, then the next step would be to commence the expensive process of a Supreme Court action. Tony and Jean had informed me of the risks, and I had no idea how I would cover my legal costs in the event that I lost. As a last-ditch effort, Tony wrote to QAILSS on my behalf, asking if they would contribute the modest sum of $6000 towards the costs of my case. An undertaking was made to repay the grant if I was successful in suing the government and was awarded costs. Our reasonable request was met with silence. For weeks I heard nothing; then three months later in June 1997, I finally received a letter: ‘This organisation is unfortunately not in any position to assist you in respect to the funding of outlays.’
Jean Dalton told me not to worry about her fees, reassuring me that ‘we’ll come to some sort of arrangement’. I was grateful for her offer, but there wasn’t much I could do about the government’s legal expenses. Their team of lawyers would most certainly bankrupt me if I lost.
‘Do you have any assets of value?’ Tony delicately asked.
‘Other than my clothes and furniture, all I’ve got is Gem-Gem, my 1983 Gemini.’
There was silence and I could sense Tony’s and Jean’s concern. Although they were my lawyers, they’d also become my dearest friends, taking me to lunch whenever I was in town – even if it was to places to eat that I wasn’t too keen on, like Yum Cha and other exotic foods, which my simple taste buds weren’t used to. But it was the thought that counted.
‘Well, you know what,’ I said, trying to lighten the mood, ‘if I get sent to prison for not paying my legal bills, at least I could do with a bloody good rest!’
Tammy
In May 1997, six days after Mum served the government with her ‘Letter of Demand’ for the return of her wages, a week of ‘reconciliation’ was declared to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of the constitutional referendum – the historic one that removed the discriminatory references to Aboriginal people from the national Constitution. The occasion prompted the racially fractured nation to consider what kind of society it wished to create as it moved into the new millennium. Events were planned across the country, culminating with the gathering of 1800 delegates at the Australian Reconciliation Convention in Melbourne, many of whom were Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander community leaders.
Then prime minister, John Howard, was the headline speaker during the opening session, which was to be nationally televised. As part of the line-up, the convenors had invited me and another young man, to make comment after the keynote address. We waited with some trepidation in the wings for our turn to walk out onto the stage.
Some of the delegates were unforgiving of the prime minister’s delay in rebuking the divisive comments of One Nation leader Pauline Hanson. Many more had been deeply offended by his insistence to not offer a formal apology on behalf of the nation to the ‘Stolen Generations’ – the many Indigenous children who had been taken from their families under government policies.
‘It cannot seriously be argued that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people are not, as a group, profoundly disadvantaged,’ the prime minister’s voice reverberated throughout the tense auditorium. His carefully chosen words hung in the air as if the audience’s ears were reluctant to hear them. Some moved uncomfortably in their chairs.
‘In facing the realities of the past, however, we must not join those who would portray Australia’s history since 1788 as little more than a disgraceful record of imperialism, exploitation and racism.’
The tide of emotion this prompted in the audience could no longer be contained by politeness and good manners. The crowd interjected with an eruption of booing. Others stood and turned their backs on the nation’s leader, refusing to listen to another word, until his speech was over. The prime minister reacted by raising his voice to match the hecklers’. And when those in the audience resorted to using gestures to show their displeasure,
the nation’s leader responded by thumping the lectern and actually shouting his speech: ‘Such a portrayal is a gross distortion and deliberately neglects the overall story of great Australian achievement that there is in our history to be told!’
His voice boomed: ‘And such an approach will be repudiated by the overwhelming majority of Australians who are proud of what this country has achieved, although inevitably acknowledging the blemishes in its past history.’
When the speech was over, it was to the relief of many in the crowd, some too distressed to remain seated for a minute longer. Patrick Dodson, the renowned Aboriginal leader, did his best to settle the emotions of the audience through his wise words and counsel – as did the other guest speakers who had the misfortune of being scheduled immediately after the prime minister’s impassioned and provocative speech. It was then my turn to front the agitated crowd.
From beneath the bright spotlights I could just make out those who sat in the front few rows. The faces of those staring up at me were angry and disappointed. Delegates had travelled great distances, hopeful of reconciling our racially divided nation. Many had by now walked outside in disgust, while those who remained were talking to people beside them, or sitting stony-faced. I took a deep breath. I kept telling myself it didn’t matter that the audience were unlikely to listen to me. There would be at least one person listening keenly – and it was her presence that really mattered most to me – Mum.
I began with a reference to Helen Keller, the young woman who overcame loss of sight and hearing to become a renowned rights campaigner and author. She was once asked, ‘What could be worse than to be born blind?’ and she had replied, ‘To be born with sight and to have no vision.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I pressed on, ‘I firmly believe you must have a vision – some focus in your life – a vision to help you to achieve your dreams and ambitions.’ My voice started to regain its confidence as it eased into a rhythm. ‘I stand here as an Australian and I see so many people before me, who share the same vision as I do: a vision of a united Australia which respects this land of ours, which values the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander heritage, and provides justice and equity for all.’ The audience’s mood no longer deterred me. My words were just as much a personal affirmation to myself of what is possible, as they were a reminder to my mother – who sat disillusioned and wounded in the audience, fresh from her own community’s betrayal. I wanted her to know that, as I had matured and grown into a woman, she had been the central source of my inspiration:
Not Just Black and White Page 26
