Snake Circle

by Roberta Sykes

  I had arrived back at the Medical Service with promises of hand-knitted leggings, sweaters and scarves from Aboriginal people whom I had informed that Harvard was near Boston, and that I understood it was very very cold.

  I thought of the contrast between this unknown white person on the Southern Highlands, making his demands to learn my mother’s personal business, and these mainly elderly Aboriginal women, and even some men, who had so warmly embraced the idea of my standing up to the government and going off to seek education elsewhere. Then I knew I was doing the right thing. If I could bring back a degree from Harvard, I wanted the community to feel part of it, to know they had enabled me, that it was ours to share.

  At the Health Commission, I was widely greeted and encouraged. People from other floors and other departments came to my desk, to introduce themselves and let me know of their support. The Chair of the Commission, Roderick McEwin, whom I had met at various meetings several times, called me back as I was leaving and gave me his words of support. Momentarily I had thought he might have intended to chide me for speaking to the media without official consent, so when I heard his kind comments of praise for my work and encouragement in my studies, it was hard to wipe the smile from my face.

  Still, we had not raised the amount required, and many of my current friends fell in behind me with their support.

  Christine Kankindji and her children were sharing a flat in an old building in Paddington with Maureen Morales, and poor as she was, Christine was determined to host a fund-raising cocktail party to help me. I hardly knew anyone there but was gratified to see such a good turnout of support. I was introduced to Maureen’s sister, Patricia. She was an elegant woman who I learned was married to Laurie Brereton, a political aspirant for state government, who turned up later. When he arrived, he came almost straight towards me although, of course, I did not know him.

  After a few encouraging words about my efforts to get to Harvard, he said, ‘If we [the Labor Party] win in this next election, I’m going personally see to it that Aborigines get equality in the Public Service.’ He was so intense that I barely knew how to respond, but I felt relieved.

  It was refreshing somehow just to know that someone outside our oppressed group of government employees knew about our situation, that we Blacks were just temporary, without security of income, and excluded from superannuation and any of the other rights and benefits of permanence. I had been working at the Health Commission for five years by this time, and although I didn’t often think about our tenuous position, when I did so, it caused me anger, sadness and confusion.

  Elaine Pelot, was a white American woman who married a Jewish doctor, and I had been Matron of Honour at her wedding. To help, she held a fund-raising dinner, inviting many of her friends. Despite my attendance at their nuptials, I had always felt distanced from Elaine, in large part because of her oft-repeated tales of having grown up with a ‘Black Mammy’ in America’s south and in a family where some relatives, she said, were members of the Ku Klux Klan. I had often wondered if, by befriending me and other members of the Black community, she may have thought she was doing some kind of ‘penance’. Still, my mission felt so imperative and I appreciated her support and assistance.

  I had for some time been working with Pat Laird, and her husband Kenneth, towards the publication of an anthology of my poetry. Ironically, it had been rejected by my old employer, Richard Walsh, who had moved on from his days as editor of Nation Review and now headed up Angus & Robertson publishers. Pat, who ran the small Saturday Centre Press from her flat, had heard me read at one of my very occasional public performances of this nature. She contacted me and asked me to participate in readings she was organising to be held at the Ensemble Theatre. Judith Wright, she told me with great excitement, had agreed to come down from the country and read on the condition that I was also on the program. Flattered by the attention of Australia’s leading poet and aware of her lengthy and abiding friendship with another heroine of mine, Kath Walker, I had agreed.

  When my news broke in the press, Kenneth was in hospital as he had recently been diagnosed with cancer. This left Pat and me to finish the work. Pat carefully typed up the stencils on her electric typewriter and put them through the press, and all the other work—folding, collating and pasting of pages and covers—was done by hand. Normally the author would purchase completed books from Pat, from those surplus to sales through her poetry club, then sell them on with a small mark-up that would add to the profit of our royalties.

  Kenneth suffered complications from his radiotherapy and was dying. Pat said he was so enraged at the treatment I had received that his dying words were, ‘Give Bobbi the books. Let’s make the bastards eat their words.’ So the full income from sales of this first limited edition of Love Poems and Other Revolutionary Actions was added to my coffers. Added to my soul was the additional burden of expectation of my success uttered by a dying man.

  Love Poems was launched at the Aboriginal Medical Service. The next day, one of the mainstream newspapers captioned their report of the event with ‘Black Radical Turned Poet’. The idea that people were supposed to be so simple that they could not be two things at once greatly amused me, especially since, as mother, educator, writer, lecturer and filmmaker, I already had many strings to my bow.

  My book initially attracted negative criticism from some quarters, particularly from academics at one of the major universities who thought they owned the bible of what should constitute ‘poetry’. When Love Poems was highly praised by Judith Wright, however, they fell quiet and the small print run soon sold out.

  Muriel Hamilton, who worked at the NSW Health Commission’s Aboriginal Health office in Redfern, offered to help me make clothes to wear while I was away. Muriel had previously been a seamstress, and she owned an industrial sewing machine and over-locker. As well, she had contacts in the industry to get patterns and have the buttonholes bound. We had a little fabric left over from some rolls of heavyweight denim which Sandra Bardas had sent up from Melbourne for another project, and I bought small quantities of other material as directed by Muriel. During our every quiet moment, we sweated over her machines, eventually turning out a couple of pairs of jeans, a straight skirt, as well as a pleated skirt with matching vest and colour-coordinated blouse.

  Students at the Aboriginal and Islander Dance School, with which I remained associated, put on a special benefit performance to raise funds for me, with the encouragement of Carole Johnson. Kempsey-based Benelong’s Haven, an Aboriginal alcohol rehabilitation program under the directorship of Val Bryant, dispatched representatives to attend, carrying an envelope of money they had collected amongst themselves on my behalf. Carol had filled a little purse with American notes and coins (‘so you won’t be stranded at the airport, unable to even make a phonecall’) After the performance, when I was called upon to come forward and be presented with these gifts, I was so moved I burst into tears.

  I received a phone call from Reverend Martin Chittleborough at the Australian Council of Churches. Was this, I wondered idly, in response to the publicity or had they received an inquiry from the World Council of Churches in Geneva? As it turned out, the call had been prompted by a combination of both. He asked me why I hadn’t come directly to the Australian Council of Churches, and I assured him that I had done just that, as soon I’d learned of the refusal from the government.

  As Black Women’s Action still did not have the twelve-thousand dollars required, the Australian Council of Churches said they would make a contribution and underwrite my program. They sent a letter immediately to Harvard University to that effect, and advised me that they would make up any shortfall. Reverend Chittleborough suggested I should also contact the Australian Catholic Relief and tell them I had received support from the Australian Council of Churches. This elicited another donation towards our goal.

  Much earlier, I had gone to the United States Consulate to find out about the process of applying for a visa. ‘Come back just a few d
ays before you want to leave,’ I was advised by the Black American man who attended to me at the counter. ‘It only takes a few hours to issue a visa.’

  With Big Naomi’s meticulous care of the bookkeeping, and her regular updates of how funds were progressing, I soon felt assured that we would reach our target. I returned to the US Consul’s office to organise the visa because I didn’t want to leave this vital piece of travel documentation until the last moment.

  When their office phoned me to come over and pick up my passport, stamped for entry, I felt gloriously happy. This feeling, however, was not to last.

  There were dozens of details to be taken care of during my final week, in my work at the Health Commission as well as at home. I had applied for study leave and had been assured of a job to come back to. At home, there were newspaper deliveries to cancel, outstanding bills to be paid, and detailed instructions to complete for Russel to enable him to run the house in my absence. I was concerned about leaving him alone in that dark and leaky house. I was particularly anxious that if water again shorted out the electricity wiring in the ceiling and caused another fire, he might be sleeping and not wake up. Still, apart from impressing on him these dangers, there was nothing more I could do. It just seemed to be one more of the risks I had to take, the sacrifices I had to make, in order to achieve my goal. If I could just get past the next few days, winding things down and packing, I’d be in the air and away. My thoughts did not go any further, I had no comprehension of what to expect after that. I felt I was really stepping out into the great unknown.

  Early in the week a message was awaiting me on my desk when I arrived at work, would I please phone the US Consulate? When I did, I was asked to come to their office and to bring my passport. I did so, and there a Black American gentleman, Ken Shivers, who I learned was vice-consul for non-immigrant visas, requested that we talk in another office adjoining the counters.

  ‘This is quite embarrassing,’ he said, ‘as I have to tell you that when we sent your visa application to Washington, it was rejected.’

  His manner was very friendly and he looked genuinely distressed at having to deliver this news.

  ‘So, what are you saying? That I can’t go?’

  ‘As soon as we received word, I telexed them, and impressed on them that this was a very public matter, that your going to Harvard has been on the front page of the newspapers, and their decision should be reconsidered. I am hoping for a positive result. But in the meantime, I’m obliged to ask you some questions and to cancel the entry visa we gave you.’

  Oh, my, four days before I’m due to leave, and this is my position.

  ‘What are the questions?’

  Are you, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?’

  I almost fell about. I had recently seen a theatrical production at the Ensemble Theatre with a theme around just this type of interrogation. Indeed, ‘Are you or have you ever been’ may have been the title of the play. I did not think it prudent to burst out laughing, but could not stop a large grin spreading over my face.

  ‘Are you joking?’ I asked, thinking perhaps this part of our talk was a lark, a lightening of the atmosphere of gloom which had been slowly descending since our meeting started. Frankly, I thought this particular line of questioning had gone out in the dark ages.

  ‘No. And if you have been a member of the Communist Party, that doesn’t necessarily exclude you from entering the United States. But you have to be honest about answering.’

  ‘The honest answer is that I am not, and never have been, a member of the Communist Party, In 1972, we used their offices to roneo off copies of things sometimes, but we also used to use the office of some nuns and even some politicians. This didn’t make me a nun or a politician, and it certainly didn’t make me a communist.’

  I wondered if my photo, prominently displayed on the front page of the Communist newspaper, Tribune, snapped at a demonstration in support of Angela Davis, had anything to do with all this. I was going to ask but then decided silence would be a better exercise of my discretion. If his office did not already know about that, it might have been folly to draw it to their attention.

  ‘Okay,’ he replied, relieved at getting this part of his duties completed. ‘Now, the situation is this. If you will leave your passport here with me until we receive an okay from Washington, then I won’t have to deface the visa stamped in your book.’ He could see I wasn’t clear about this, and explained further: ‘A passport with a visa that has been stamped “Cancelled” attracts suspicion at just about every entry point in the world. They want to know why. You want to leave when, Saturday? Okay, leave the passport with me until Friday. We should have it all sorted out by then.’

  On my return to work sans passport, I started ringing around, trying to make contact with Department of Foreign Affairs officials. I thought a bit of diplomatic pressure might help. As well as promises of phone calls, I was able to secure a letter of support from their Sydney office which I took to the Consulate.

  ‘If it was up to me, I would give you the visa immediately, and I already did,’ Ken Shivers reminded me when I saw him. ‘It’s not me who needs to be convinced, it’s Washington. Phone calls have been coming in, but it’s not necessary. I’m doing all I can. I genuinely want you to go. I’ve heard about you, I’m familiar with your work, and I know this would be a great opportunity for you and your people.’

  A researcher for John Singleton’s program on Channel Ten rang me, inviting me to appear on his show. I had been interviewed on Singleton’s chat show before. Despite his negative reputation in the Black community based on racist remarks he commonly passed which were reported in the media, I felt it important to use every possible vehicle to alter the poor image the white community held of the Black community—and his show was just one of them. At the time of my first interview I had been especially incensed by Singleton’s statement that he would not hire any Aboriginal models to work for his advertising agency, because Aboriginal people were ‘unattractive’. Although he had been forced to retract his statement publicly on another television program, I had taken it upon myself to challenge him on this point and find out whether or not he had yet employed any people of colour. Of course, he had not. It had not been a particularly noteworthy interview, with Singleton apparently making a lot of effort to be civil, even while he was being patronising.

  If I agreed to this second interview, I was told, it would be alongside Dr Nugget Coombs and the author Thomas Keneally, both of whom I knew to be stalwart supporters of Black community goals. Between us, I felt, we were bound to be able to score a few points.

  On this program, which was supposed to be a discussion of the legitimacy of the Aboriginal claim for land rights, John Singleton used the opportunity to publicly air what he thought he knew of my parentage. ‘How can you speak about Aboriginal land rights. Your father was an American seaman, wasn’t he?’ Singleton asked almost as soon as the short segment began. Though I was sitting with two white males and we were all talking in support of land rights, their entitlement to speak on this subject was not being challenged. Nugget Coombs stepped in and very quietly, very calmly, put Singleton back in his place. He was the old statesman talking to the brash and foolish young man, and Singleton gasped to find himself being spoken to in this way.

  As soon as the program crossed to an advertising break and we were to be dismissed from the set, I leapt to my feet and abused John Singleton roundly. I was sick of whatever sins my mother and father may have committed being visited upon me. I demanded to know who his mother and father may have had sexual relationships with, if he could prove his own parentage. Nugget Coombs and Tom Keneally also made their displeasure clear.

  David Halpin, a journalist friend, learned of the episode from members of a musical ensemble that had provided the theme and musical segment in the show. They had gone directly to the Journalists’ Club after work and told everyone present how pleased they had been to see someone give Singleton his ju
st deserts. David rang me to let me know how others present had responded, and to make sure that I hadn’t allowed John Singleton to undermine my self-confidence and desire to succeed in my mission. I assured him that a twerp like Singleton did not have the capacity to do that.

  Aboriginal Health Section employees had planned to give me a ‘farewell and good luck’ lunch on the Friday before I was to leave, but when the day dawned I had still not been able to confirm my entry into the States. Another message from the Consul’s office lay on the desk, and, absent-mindedly thinking it was the same message I had responded to earlier in the week, I shot it into the wastepaper bin. I planned to walk the few blocks to pick up my passport as soon as I cleared everything else I had to do. The Consulate was only open until noon each day, so it was imperative that I do so by then. After that, I would join the staff at the lunch.

  The note, containing only Ken Shivers’ name and number, somehow beckoned me. I reached into the bin, retrieved it, and dialled the number. It was a direct line to his desk and he answered immediately.

  ‘I’m afraid we received another refusal from Washington overnight. Can you come in and see me this afternoon?’

  ‘But your office closes at midday. I’m being taken to a staff lunch. How will I get in?’ I could hear desperation rising in my voice. Was this to be a farewell lunch, or would I still be sitting up here at my desk come Monday?

  ‘I’ll leave word at the door for security to admit you.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll come as soon as I’m able.’

  Although everyone was very amiable and presented me gifts, a beautiful thick hand-knitted sweater amongst them, lunch for me was incredibly tense, and I’m afraid I radiated my stress to everyone. I gulped the food and left earlier than was socially polite, but I think everyone understood. My nerves were as tight as a violin string as I gave my peremptory thanks, warning people not to be surprised if I turned up to work on Monday. Then I sped off down the street towards the Consulate.