Naomi took over the spare room that I had hoped to use as an office in which to write my thesis. I enrolled her at Rindge and Latin High School, a bus ride from where we lived but only a short walk from the Education School which I attended.
The Dean, Paul Ylvasakir, was again pleased to see me. Knowing that I worked at the Health Commission all the time I was home, he warned me again against jumping straight back into study. When I told him Naomi was with me, and that we were living in the Fresh Pond high-rise buildings, he picked up the phone and called one of his friends who ran a private sports club almost across the street from our building.
‘There’s a nice swimming pool, sauna, playground, even a kiosk, and it’s yours anytime you want to use it,’ he said after replacing the phone. ‘I’ve arranged for you and your daughter to have a month’s membership free. By that time, school will have started, and it will be beginning to get too cold for you hot climate people to think about swimming.’
Oh, what bliss. Naomi and I wandered over there for a few hours at a time, several days a week. Although I could convince the body to veg out and soak up the rays, my mind continued to race, turning over every aspect of all the things I was trying to achieve by coming so far and being in Boston. I was reminded anew of the weight of responsibilities I felt I was carrying.
I was girding my loins for this penultimate assault on the workload for my doctorate. There were things I needed—tranquillity, a place to study, a desk upon which to assemble my work and write, and some form of relaxation. I settled on dealing with the most physical of these requirements first, hoping the rest would flow from there. I asked Kenton to drive me to the nearest timber yard, or lumber yard as they call it there, where I bought wood, glue, screws and screwdriver, a saw, putty, sandpaper and varnish, then went home and built myself a solid work desk. Although it dominated the room, the desk was big enough for the borrowed electric typewriter, my books and files, and some space left for looseleaf work.
Liz Fell, a long-time friend who worked at the Australian Broadcasting Commission in Sydney, had visited Harvard to make inquiries about the Neiman program for journalists. During her stay, she had introduced me to Phil Stone, a professor at the School of Science. Phil and I continued to meet socially from time to time, and once we had discussed spinal problems. Now he offered to lend me a rocking chair, similar, he said, to the one President Kennedy had used for his bad back. I was disappointed when he brought it around as it was in such poor repair, but this too turned into another hands-on project of the type that always helped me stay grounded. I stripped the woodwork back and painted it royal blue, bought cane which I soaked until it was soft in the bathtub, then wove a new back and seat before making bright cushions with which to finish it. I now had both my workspace and my ‘relaxation’.
I had agreed to be a teaching fellow in Community Psychology for Dick Katz’s class this year. I had anticipated being able to complete all my coursework requirements and teach simultaneously, though I knew that making sure Naomi was where she was supposed to be would prove a strain.
Professor Courtney Cazden was my adviser, and when we were discussing the program I planned to undertake, I told her that I intended being a teaching fellow for Dick. ‘Well, there’s no reason why you can’t be a teaching fellow and earn academic credit for doing so,’ she told me.
Teaching fellows hold down paid positions, so the idea that I could earn cash and academic credit was extremely appealing. I went to see Dick, signed the required papers, and told him that Courtney had said I should also arrange with him to have the experience entered on my academic record. ‘Well, I don’t know if I can do that. I ‘ve no idea how I ‘d mark that sort of work,’ he replied.
Back to Courtney’s office. ‘Well, now you go and tell Dick that if you are still teaching at the end of the semester, then obviously you’ve passed.’
Courtney, who stood a good few inches shorter than me, was the most practical and highly organised woman I met on campus. She had became a good friend to me and later visited Australia a number of times.
Teaching fellow meetings were held in Dick’s office prior to holding classes, and I made enduring friendships with the people with whom I worked, Rebecca Reichmann in particular.
Rebecca had a most interesting background and a wonderful perspective which she shared with me. An American, as a child she had travelled on a student exchange program to a remote location, Alor Star, in the rice bowl region of Malaysia. There, the local children hid behind bushes and giggled at tourists as they walked past, whispering amongst themselves about these big ‘ugly white Americans’. Rebecca joined them, hiding in the bushes and whispering too, and felt herself totally accepted by the children with whom she played.
On her return to America, Rebecca confided that she took a good look at herself in the mirror and became disturbed to find that she was, in fact, one of the big ‘ugly white Americans’. As soon as she had finished her schooling and was able, she ran off to South America, to another remote location, where women were valued for the hard work they had to do. Rebecca, being bigger and taller than the local ‘nut brown women’, worked hard in the fields to win their friendship and respect. After a while, though, and despite the acceptance she had won, she realised that it didn’t matter how long she stayed or how hard she worked, she would never become one of the nut brown women that she so yearned to be.
Returning again to the United States, she consciously availed herself of all the privileges accorded to white Americans, and was in the process of completing her doctoral studies at Harvard. Meanwhile, and as her colour and status allowed, she joined the Boards of various agencies which, amongst other things, allocated funding to global projects. In this capacity, she participated wholeheartedly and, she said, when the other members of the Boards looked around, they never saw that they had a little nut brown woman sitting there with them. Consequently she had been able to ensure that the needs of the people whom she cared about, the nut brown women of the world, got their fair share of consideration and funding.
Although we received training for the teaching roles we were about to play, I was anxious about the whole procedure. I was quite used to getting up in front of an audience of strangers, giving a presentation, fielding questions and then walking away. However, I was nervous about this, my first experience of teaching an all or majority white group over an extended period, and being in the position to grade them. I felt unable to share this aspect of my anxiety with Rebecca or with her friend, Virginia Gonzales, both of whom had considerable experience as teaching fellows.
For quite a few of the students, too, a Black woman in front of the class was a novel experience. In the early stages I was uncomfortable with this role reversal, and noticed discomfort amongst some of the scholars. Was I transferring my nervousness? I wondered.
One evening, shortly after I had begun taking the class, I was approached in Conroy Commons by a white student from my group. He had wanted to ask a question in class, he said, but had decided not to do so. I invited him to sit down and tell me why. He had not been able to think of a way to frame his question, which was something to do with minority group response to stress, that would not offend me. We discussed his query, and I was able to answer and relate it to the readings, and he went off quite happily. His parting remark, ‘I didn’t want to get marked down, that’s why I didn’t ask you in class,’ was edifying, and I thought it over for quite some time.
With reflection came the realisation that I, too, had struggled throughout my life, white teachers in front of me, to frame questions and comments in ways that would not offend them. So it was probably second nature to me now. Their grading of my ability to frame questions and answers in ways that supported the views they already held on matters such as race, and not my knowledge or academic curiosity, were often the criteria which decided my future. It was the same now with some of these students, who were concerned that I might misuse the authority with which I had been entrusted.
/> I noticed that not all the white students in my group were similarly restrained. It was soon easy to spot those students who had had Black teachers in the past and were comfortable with the arrangement, or those with Blacks in their social circle with whom they had developed rapport and a mutual respect. One such young woman, in particular, turned out to be the niece of Jerry Lewis, well-known comedian, who had come to Harvard from California to undertake her Master’s degree. She spoke frankly about her uncle, the serious and private person who contributed much of his time and money to particular charities concerned with medical research for children. She said how difficult it had been for her to reconcile his public persona, as a pratfalling comic, with the man she knew and admired for his kindness and humanity. It had only been when she could see his stage work as something he did very successfully for a living, as a job, that she could make sense of her enigmatic kinsman.
There were just a few Black students in my group, but not all of them were comfortable with a Black in a position of authority, either. One, a part-time Master’s student whom I had known the previous year, came to me after hours and said, ‘I don’t know what to call you this year.’
‘I’m the same person I was last year. What did you call me then?’
‘Yes, but you weren’t grading my work last year’
‘I don’t grade essays on the basis of what anyone calls me, in class or here at Conroy Commons. What you put on the page after you’ve done the readings and what knowledge you bring to bear on the question, that’s what I’ll be looking at. If it would make you feel better, you can switch groups—or I can have a second marker look at your paper if you’re worried I may be unfair’
‘Oh, no. I want to stay in your class. It’s so interesting. I just feel a bit strange, that’s all.’
‘Well, get over it. You didn’t come to Harvard to be taught by Blacks? I can understand that. I don’t condone it, but I understand it. We’ve all been brainwashed to think Blacks don’t know much. I have trouble with the idea that I might know something sometimes too.’
The little extra money I earned from this part-time teaching position eased my financial burden to the extent that I felt I could participate in a few off-campus social activities. Rebecca, Virginia and I went downtown one day to spoil ourselves by having a facial at a large department store. Never before had I had such a luxury, and I was quite excited at the prospect.
The beauticians took us each to separate cubicles, where we had couches upon which to lie and covers to protect our clothing. My face was whisked clean with a square of cotton wool, then a tiny mask was placed across my eyes to protect them from a steam machine which was run over my skin before I was left sitting in this steam environment for a few minutes. Soon a soft white towel was used to mop my face and a dollop of cream was applied, before the clothing protection was whisked off me and I was directed back into the lobby to pay.
Is that all there is to it? I wondered as I sat there alone, waiting for Rebecca and Virginia to join me. We had all been ushered into our cubicles at the same time, so I thought that my wait would not be very long. Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen, during which time the manager came by and saw me sitting there by myself waiting on my friends. I began to realise that, whatever the full beauty treatment was, I had not received it. My joy at having come on this outing was replaced with deep disappointment and embarrassment. The manager, too, realised I had been given short shift by my operator and came over and offered me a free manicure, no doubt as a gesture of apology. I declined. If the white women—and they were all white women—who worked in this salon were so concerned about touching the skin of a black woman, they should have put up a sign saying so, and saved me from having to pay for a service I so obviously did not receive.
When Virginia and Rebecca joined me, I stood up and left with them, and we were well and truly away from the salon before I shared with them what had happened. They had received twenty more minutes of indulgence than I had been given, and they became very angry on my behalf.
‘No, I don’t want to go back. I’ll just never do it again,’ I told them as we wandered between the counters making our way towards the front door. I was tearful with the emotional pain of the experience and unable to summon up the energy even to go back, as Rebecca and Virginia were keen for us to do, and demand a refund of my money.
Meanwhile, at her school, Naomi was discovering that Americans were more open about all manner of personal things than was the case with Australians. One day she came home so upset she was on the verge of tears.
‘Mum, do you know that kids here introduce their brothers and sisters as “step-brothers” and “stepsisters”. A girl actually introduced me to a boy today who she said, right in front of him, was a “half-brother”. Really! Can you imagine that?’
I had, of course, heard these expressions in Australia, but only rarely. They certainly were not terms used in our family and I understood Naomi’s shocked response.
‘I would never call Russel my half-brother,’ she said tearfully, ‘and I’d be really hurt if he thought I was only half his real sister. You don’t think about us like that, do you, Mummy?’
Putting an arm around her shoulders to comfort her, I assured her that she and Russel were both my babies, both from that special place under my heart.
‘How can they do that to each other, Mum? Put up a wall like that between themselves. How can they be so hurtful?’
‘Perhaps they’re used to it.’
‘There will come a day in their lives when they’re sorry,’ she said, insightfully and defiantly. ‘My brother is the closest person to me in the whole world, and if he thought I was only his half-sister, he’d probably take a step away from me—and then he mightn’t be there for me when I need him. Oh, Mum, how can people be so stupid—and so cruel?’
This event had opened up a Pandora’s box for Naomi, an exploration of the relationships between people, the love they have for each other, and how they demonstrate that love.
Not too long after that she again came in after school and mused around me. ‘Mum, did you tell Dad it was alright if he didn’t support me? All the other children of divorced parents get money from their Dad.’
‘No, I didn’t tell him it was alright,’ I said shortly. This was an area I didn’t want to get into with her, remembering how William had threatened to disclose to Russel the true nature of his birth if I pursued him for child support, even for Naomi. The very idea caused me enormous pain, and I did not want to reveal any of these things to her merely because some children at her school had set her thinking.
Still, I could see, although she hadn’t said so, that Naomi felt she had a right to her father’s support. The standard of living for our family had been compromised, we had lived hand to mouth all these years, going without and never having enough money for things we often needed. The way Naomi had expressed her concerns made me feel that I had been complicit in some way.
I determined then that, on my return to Australia, I would, belatedly—but not too late—go to the courts to try to get for Naomi what was her due. Russel was already a man, and I would not include him in my attempt for child support. I reasoned, therefore, that there would be no questions raised about him, as would have been the case had I applied to the courts earlier.
A child has a right to the standard of living that can be provided by both parents. Naomi’s right, I understood, had been subsumed and consequently negated, first by the criminal circumstances of her brother’s conception, and, mixed up in all that, by her own father’s desire to wield the love he knew I had for both children in a way that would benefit him financially.
I felt skewered by the circumstances that had overwhelmed my life. They had so often forced me to take options that I felt to be in others’ best interest but which had left us all somehow deprived. We had all paid dearly for the crime that had been committed against me—a crime which had had resonance for all of us through all these years.
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nbsp; I wept bitter tears every time I thought about all this, and often felt suicidal under the burden of my grief. Why had no one ever tried to help us? I sometimes wondered. but no sooner had this question formed in my mind than the answer quickly followed: perhaps because I hadn’t been able to tell anyone, and those whom I had told had, in the main, betrayed me.
For weeks then, whenever Naomi saw something in a store she wanted, or asked for money for the movies or a treat which I could not afford, I spiralled into such sorrow and depression that she stopped asking. When I noticed this, I felt an additional burden of guilt.
Is there no end to this pain, no way I can work myself out of this complicated situation? I’d fret as I lay in my bed at night.
I became fatalistic. All pain passes—or else you die. I had read this somewhere, and it seemed right for the occasion. If I didn’t die—as indeed I had not—then what was left for me was work. Tunnel-vision, that’s the key, I reassured myself. Hit those books, study hard, concentrate on work, there is always another meal to be cooked, another load of washing to be done. If I can just keep going, one day I will look around and maybe the pain will have gone.
Fortunately, there were other distractions. Peter McKenzie, whom I had met in Sydney, came up several times from Clark University to visit. I found myself often quite cross with him. Living on his Aboriginal Overseas Study Award, he frequently turned up with boxes of winter shoes and boots, clothing and other items, barely able to stagger under his new purchases but without a penny in his pockets.
Snake Circle Page 21
