As I look back on the lives of my grandparents, and even my mother’s life, I realise I am speaking before you with thanks to their personal dedication and commitment to reconciliation. It is the struggle of our forebears that has resulted in my generation being presented with many opportunities. In particular, my brothers and I enjoy the right to have access to secondary and tertiary education – a right my mother could not enjoy.
This reconciliation convention marks the dawn of a new era, that in future years will be looked upon as being of critical importance in the history of our country. The timing of this movement is perfect. Within just a couple of years we will be entering a new millennium and celebrating the Federation of our country. The truth of the matter is that time does not stand still. We do not have the time, and now is not the place for bitterness and racial hatred.
Specifically, in response to the prime minister’s failure to apologise to the members of the Stolen Generation, and to my mother’s campaign to have the issue of Aboriginal forced labour recognised by the broader community, I added the following remarks:
Undoubtedly there are a number of steps to reconciliation. But the most important step, I believe, is for all Australians to adequately address and acknowledge the atrocious events of our past. Only after this has been achieved can we all begin to live and focus upon our future.
To round off my speech I chose to leave the audience with some extracts of a poem by the late poet Oodgeroo Noonuccal, an Elder and original campaigner of the 1967 Referendum. Her words in ‘Let Us Not Be Bitter’ articulated my thoughts better than I could ever say, and were eerily relevant. In the poem she encourages our mob to do ‘away with bitterness’ and ‘judge white people by the best of their race’, because ‘the prejudiced ones are less than we’. She invites us to stand alongside her and ‘look forward, not back for a new time has come for us’.
Lesley
I smiled broadly as the audience clapped, so proud of my Tid-Tid. She knew just what to say to inspire and motivate her own mother – but also in a speech that was broadcast live into lounge rooms right across the nation.
Chapter 38
Lesley
After the National Reconciliation Convention, I was more determined than ever to continue my battle for justice against the government – even without the backing of the Aboriginal community. Jean Dalton pointed out the strengths and weaknesses of my case – it wasn’t the strongest of cases, but I was undeterred. I’d come this far in my campaign; I wasn’t about to give up.
Although the filing cabinets at home were filled to the brim with government records I’d gathered during my research, there were still pieces of evidence missing. Without them, the lawyers said, my prospects of winning were slim. So I made yet another trip to Brisbane, on a mission to plug the holes in my case.
The latest premises to house the re-named Department of Family Services and Aboriginal and Islander Affairs was by no means new, although an improvement on the old building that had once stood across the road. The elevator rattled and groaned, then shuddered to a halt on the second floor. I’d been told by the ‘personal histories’ staff, down on level one, that key government financial records relating to Aboriginal savings accounts and the welfare fund were kept under wraps in a restricted access room on level two. There I headed, no longer intimidated by the department and its white officials.
I pushed the service bell located next to a locked door. It swung open to expose the busy bureaucracy. A young attendant stopped, wide-eyed and surprised to see me standing in the foyer of this restricted-access level.
‘Hi,’ I shot out a hand with a nice-to-meet-you smile. ‘I’m Lesley.’
‘Yes, I know who you are,’ she replied, awkwardly accepting my handshake. I was taken aback by my apparent notoriety, as if I were some sort of radical to be avoided.
‘I’d like to see the financial records the department has on …’
‘You’ll need to make a request to the manager and she’s not here,’ she said, cutting me off mid-sentence, as if there was nothing more to discuss.
‘So …’ I sighed, with a sarcastic raise of an eyebrow, frustrated at having to prise snippets of information from a so-called servant of the public. ‘Do you know when she’ll be back? Or perhaps I can make an appointment to see her when I’m next in town?’
The young official looked Aboriginal in appearance. But she wasn’t sympathetic to my questions, and the longer I stood there, the more agitated she became. Normally I’d have asked about her mob and we’d have introduced ourselves the way blackfullas generally did. But I held back.
‘Look,’ she whispered, inching closer; for a moment, it seemed I’d broken through her stony exterior. Her eyes looked cautiously over my shoulder towards the elevator’s door. ‘I can’t be seen talking to you.’
I guess it was understandable that the government’s dealings with me changed after my Letter of Demand had been served; which was then followed by a Writ filed in the Supreme Court registry, signalling the start of legal proceedings. Gone were the days of easy and inconspicuous access to files, leather-bound books and archive boxes that had been tucked away on shelves and forgotten. While these records had been out of sight and out of mind, so was my research. In the early days this had been to my advantage, allowing me to snoop around unattended in libraries, archive facilities and even in the Department of Native Affairs offices. As long as I stayed in my designated room, they’d let me copy what I liked. This informal arrangement worked because no one knew what was at stake, and they’d doubted my persistence.
‘Oh, you won’t get very far,’ I’d once been told. But I was not going away. Nor would I allow myself to get lost in the paper maze of records, documents and files, which all too regularly led to dead ends.
Lack of money to finance my campaign, Aboriginal politics, stalling tactics from successive governments – none of these could stop me. My Letter of Demand and Writ made this clear. However, the Queensland Government was just as determined to defeat my case. Where I had to assemble a team of legal people who were willing to work for free, the government, with its massive resources, could pick the canniest for theirs. They had access to my personal departmental file containing my work and savings account transaction history, and detailed file notes on all meetings and telephone conversations I’d had with government representatives. They were under orders from their manager to be guarded in their interactions, so as not to jeopardise the government’s position. Some in the department were as nervous of me as I had once been of them.
On 13 June 1998 the Labor party won the Queensland state election. My campaign had outlasted two governments and this was now the third. As each new government came into power, there was a shuffling of public servants across departments. Despite all these changes, there was yet to be justice and recognition for Aboriginal workers.
I was sceptical whether the premier-elect, Peter Beattie, would be any different from his predecessors. As with governments before him, he rebranded the old department with the more politically correct title: Department of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Policy. There was, however, one change that did catch my attention. The appointment of the department’s bigwig – the new executive director, the equivalent to the chief protector, or director, of Native Affairs, who had once ruled like a tin god over the lives of Aboriginal people – was now held by a smart and savvy thirty-something blackfulla, a woman by the name of Kerrie Tim.
For months after her appointment, at government events, I’d watch from across the room the way Kerrie mingled with Elders and community folk. It seemed that whoever had raised her had done a good job. She respected Elders in the way the old people once taught – a way many of our young people appear to have forgotten, or not yet learned. She’d take the time to talk with Elders, squatting beside their chairs while they spoke, so that she wasn’t standing over or casting a shadow upon them.
&nbs
p; Not only did Kerrie behave differently, she also didn’t look like other high-ranking people in government. Blackfullas would laugh whenever ‘the suits’ attended community events in the park. To us, their dark pants and jacket, teamed with white cotton shirt and solemn face, looked like they were in a state of mourning. Good on them for wanting to be respectful and dressing professionally, but at an outdoor festival in the midday heat couldn’t they wear something more comfortable – or at least take the bloody jacket off and try to fit in! Kerrie was different; she knew how to switch between worlds – with power suits reserved for the politics of Parliament House and jeans for sitting under a tree in the park, talking blackfulla politics with the mob.
There was little about Kerrie Tim that fitted my stereotype of how I thought a departmental head should look and act. But then, bigwigs in the Queensland Government had never before included an Aboriginal woman, and especially someone so young.
*
At the International Women’s Day dinner of March 1999, I saw Kerrie work her way towards me through an adoring crowd.
‘Hello, Aunty,’ she said, when she reached my table, and then bent to kiss me on the cheek. This was her way of showing respect to me as an Elder although she was the one with the high falutin’ job.
‘I know we’ve seen each other before, but we really haven’t had a chance to talk. Do you mind if I join you?’ she asked, pulling a chair out and waiting for permission to sit.
‘Let me begin by apologising to you,’ she said.
‘What for? You haven’t done anything wrong.’ My response sounded pissy, although I didn’t mean it to be. Sure, I was suspicious, but I didn’t begrudge her my respect just because she was working for the other side.
‘Aunty, I’ve been reading your file.’
‘File!’ I said defensively, although this really shouldn’t have come as a surprise.
‘The department has kept a file documenting the contact you’ve had with the government over the years. Other than the sheer size of your file, what shocks me is that the majority of interactions you’ve had with my department are via letters, which have therefore first gone to our lawyers. I can’t believe it’s been such a while since anyone of seniority in the department has taken the time to sit down and actually talk with you.’
‘That’s right, it’s been a while,’ I agreed. ‘Whenever I visit the department, it’s like no one wants to talk to me in case they get into trouble.’
‘Well, I’m sorry if that’s how you’ve been made to feel,’ Kerrie offered. I wanted to believe in her sincerity, but I’d been stuffed around by well-meaning people many times before.
‘I also apologise, as the executive director,’ she persisted, sensing my doubt, ‘for your lack of opportunity to meet with a senior officer of the department.’
I peered deeply into her eyes – the glistening black pupils – in search of the true emotion that made her say those words to me. When we were growing up in the Camp, the old people told us, ‘If you want to tell if a fulla has a good spirit, look him in the eye.’ I couldn’t see any traces of cunning or deceit, or of a government representative trying to butter me up with kind words and a fake apology.
‘So, Aunty, if it is okay with you,’ Kerrie continued, ‘I was hoping we could spend some time getting to know each other – talking blackfulla-to-blackfulla – with no lawyers involved, just you and me?’
Chapter 39
Lesley
In good faith, I accepted Kerrie Tim’s offer and we met privately on several occasions over the five months that followed. In the beginning our talks were little more than an opportunity to suss out and size each other up. Over time, and once satisfied we could each keep confidences, our conversations progressed onto more meatier matters: about our fears and dreams and hopes for the future, about how our upbringings had shaped the kind of people we’d become. As Kerrie relaxed and opened up, her voice changed to a more familiar tone: in the style of our mob when in the comfort of their homes.
Our meetings slowly progressed to include others, each of us choosing our most trusted confidantes and advisors to join our discussions. Kerrie chose her policy advisor, Jacqueline Jago. I chose my children, and when they couldn’t be there, Stephen McDonald, an old school-friend of Willie’s and loyal campaign supporter of mine.
Tammy
I wanted to believe, as desperately as Mum did, that Kerrie Tim was everything she thought her to be. But a fierce protectiveness kept me guarded. Although Mum never asked, I felt it was my duty, as one of her loyal offspring, to be on the lookout for anyone who might emotionally harm her. The encounters she’d had, first with the lawyer from the Aboriginal Legal Service, and more recently at the community meeting, had made such an impact on me that I felt an overwhelming impulse to protect her whenever I sensed similar danger.
Mum asked me to accompany her to a meeting with Kerrie, in her executive suite, high up in a government building. From this height the sounds of life faded into the background, and could so easily be ignored. Her office revealed something of her – family mementoes took pride of place on a bookshelf, and the room was decorated in contemporary Aboriginal artwork in energising tones of blue, green and turquoise. Kerrie appeared to have found the right balance of tradition and contemporary, not just in her office decor but in the way she lived her life. From her changing wardrobe of jeans to suits, Kerrie seemed to navigate with confidence and flare between the black and white worlds, refusing to accept the lonely grey world in between, where I’d been struggling to exist. I liked her immediately and couldn’t help but admire her. But I wasn’t at the meeting to make friends – well not yet anyway.
‘Why should Mum trust you?’ I challenged, as if she were a witness that I was cross-examining.
‘That’s a fair question,’ she nodded, half expecting my enquiry. ‘Aunty,’ she said, shifting her attention from me and back to Mum, ‘I’m not going to try and convince you that I can be trusted. To earn your trust will take time, and will ultimately depend on my actions, not my words. I realise that you’ll only come to trust me after I’ve delivered on my promises.’
Mum nodded in agreement, clearly liking Kerrie’s no-nonsense style – as I did. ‘You see, I might have this role in government, but I’m a blackfulla too, from up Cloncurry and Mount Isa way. When I learned about this sad chapter in Queensland history, I was devastated to think how it’s scarred our mob. So many of our people are hurting.’ She turned towards the personal keepsakes on the shelf nearby and smiled tenderly at them.
‘I am a product of parents who placed respect at the heart of everything in life – to have respect for self, for others and for country. My parents passed on to me the belief that it’s possible to live in a world that is good for everyone. But we each have to do our own bit and share the responsibility for making this happen; and that’s what I intend to do.’
The sunlight caught fine silver streaks in her black hair. Kerrie was of my generation, but her wisdom belied her years. I understood why Mum trusted her.
‘So, Aunty, what can I reasonably do to help right the wrongs of the past, so you feel that you’ve got closure?’
Not one to miss an opportunity, Mum replied, ‘You can start off by giving me all of my records.’
Lesley
Of the thousands of pages of government records kept on my family, the documents I needed most were noticeably missing. They were the records showing the withdrawals and wage deposits into my personal savings account along with the balance remaining. Without these documents I wouldn’t be able to prove the exact amount I was owed or that any had been misappropriated.
I needed the records for my case but, more importantly, these missing pages could fill gaps in my life story for myself. Beyond the standout memories of my working life, the details had fallen away. I didn’t know when I started or finished a job, or how much I was supposed to be paid, or wheth
er I was entitled to holidays. I became obsessed with researching all this because I believed I could, for the first time, be privy to the details that had regulated my early working life.
*
Whenever Kerrie was unavailable, I’d meet with her understudy, Jacqueline Jago. Jacqueline had the enthusiasm of youth and, like her boss, an easy-going manner. I liked and trusted Jacqueline enough to invite her into my home, so she could get to know me better, away from the distractions of the city. At my home I introduced her, through photographs, to Granny and the rest of my family, and showed her around Cherbourg, as I remembered it, through sketches and a mud map. She listened with interest as I shared with her my experiences of living and working under the control of the settlement superintendent and the white officials.
Although Jacqueline had seen my work records countless times before, and had spoken about their contents with government strategists and lawyers, she hadn’t heard the human story attached to them. I wanted her to understand, before she returned to her office later that afternoon, something of the living, breathing person who was behind those faded pieces of paper she’d come to know in my file. I wanted her to learn something of what it was like for me as a teenager to be told to leave home against my will, to work as a servant for someone unknown, and of the humiliation I felt when the lady of the house wouldn’t let me use the spare bedroom or inside toilet.
Not Just Black and White Page 27
