‘Well, you’ve made us all look like snails. I’ve been working on my thesis for three years. you’re an inspiration, sistah, and now I’m going to be graduating out of here myself come spring.’
‘You’ll write, won’t you? I don’t want to lose touch. Having seen you come in and out of this place in record time is just so motivating. Don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone work so hard and so fast in all my life. Girl, you be going somewhere, and I want to stay in touch so I know where you’re at!’
Kenton had become fascinated by the idea of faraway Australia, and decided to accompany me home to visit for a week. He wanted to see if there was any possibility of emigrating, of continuing our relationship now that my studies had come to an end. I realised I would be embarrassed by my derelict house and our family’s living standards, but he assured me that he had come from a poor home too. We drove through a blizzard to depart from JFK Airport, New York, leaving his car with my friend Adrienne Jones, in foreign service at the Australian Consulate.
On the long journey home I had a lot of time to reflect on my life and how far I had come. A Black girl born in a country which had let me know early on that my value would only be measured by my ability to scrub floors and do laundry. Abandoned by my father, whoever he might be, raped, my body thrown into the bush, I had, as a consequence, been left to my own devices to survive and ensure the survival of my two children alone. I had taken what few opportunities the spirits had arranged should be extended to me, and worked hard to do the very best I could with them. The crimson robe and mortar board in my suitcase, I felt, were testimony not just to my academic ability—but to the ability of Black people everywhere, in the face of all manner of hardship, to continue to survive.
The summer sun was shining brightly and my children stood blinking as we came out of Immigration at Sydney Airport. I had been in touch with the Harvard Club of Australia and had learned that they were looking forward to staging a degree presentation ceremony for me, as soon as my testamur arrived.
I felt warm and happy as my daughter hugged me and my son loaded the suitcases into the back of his van. I was home in time for Christmas, and that’s all, at that moment, that mattered to us.
Epilogue
Early in the year of 1984, I single-handedly, and to warm applause, integrated the Harvard Club of Australia, as the first Black Australian to become a fully fledged member. Ironically, this occurred at a luncheon at the American National Club where, almost two decades earlier, I had worked as a waitress.
Dr Margaret Guild-Wilson, another Harvard Education School graduate, was the driving force behind the Harvard Club of Australia’s sponsorship of a special graduation ceremony where I was presented with my testamur several months later. Held on 24 May, 1984 in the Great Hall of the University of Sydney, the oldest tertiary institution in Australia, this was, I believe, the first Harvard event ever held outside its own campus with its full cooperation and consent. The music for the Harvard anthem was flown over especially for the occasion, the majestic sounds of the organ adding to the ambience and significance of the night.
Dr Guild-Wilson informed me that she had already made representations on my behalf to have Sydney University Press publish my thesis, Incentive, Community and Achievement: An Analysis of Black Viewpoints on Issues Relating to Black Australian Education. I was very gratified by her support.
I stood looking down at the assembly from a small anteroom upstairs where we were robing for the procession. As I did so, I was momentarily overcome by nervousness at the culmination of this train of events which had been set in motion by the visiting Black scientist, Professor Chester Pierce, years before. I felt my debt of gratitude to be enormous. As others helped me to don my crimson robe officially for the first time and adjusted it around my shoulders, I realised that it was symbolic of the weight of responsibilities which I had chosen voluntarily to assume—to create a chain of Black Australian Harvard graduates. This thought was foremost in my mind.
My sister Della had moved back to Australia from New Zealand, and she and her daughter flew in from Adelaide for the ceremony. Another young girl from the Black community whom I took briefly under my wing, Mandy Hamilton, also attended. Naomi, Mandy, and Della’s daughter Carlena, played a major part at the ceremonial finale, racing up to the stage and presenting me with enormous bouquets. My son, Russel, was also present, beaming his good wishes to me throughout.
I was disappointed that my youngest sister, Leonie, chose not to attend. We had grown increasingly estranged, though it would be difficult to put a date on when this process had begun. I had, much earlier, exacerbated the rift perhaps with a sharply worded reply to a letter she had written while she was in hospital recovering from cosmetic surgery—in pursuit of earthly and transient beauty by having ‘tummy tucks’. I thought it hypocritical of her, as a Jehovah’s Witness, to place herself in a position where she might have required a blood transfusion if complications arose, and then court death by her refusal of this medical procedure. Re-married and still deeply involved with this religion, she wrote to me now saying that she was ‘not allowed’ to come to my graduation.
Mum, by this time obviously well along the road towards senile dementia, had to be cajoled and bribed to attend. She said she was unable to come to Sydney because it was too cold. I had to promise that she could wear my kangaroo skin coat before she agreed. She was seated in the front row, where she spent a few minutes making small talk with the woman beside her before being introduced. For the next few weeks we all heard, repetitiously as the demented are inclined to do, how surprised Mum had been to learn that ‘the nice lady’ who sat beside her and talked with her was none other than Lady Black, the wife of the Chancellor, Sir Hermann Black, who officiated at the ceremony.
Many Harvard doctoral and other graduates flew in from around the country, and, in their crimson robes, provided the spectacle and pageantry required of such formal proceedings. Dr Nugget Coombs, though not a Harvard graduate, had written to me supportively throughout my studies, and made a point, each time I was home in Australia, of taking me to lunch to brief me on changes in the political situation in the country. As Nugget had been adviser to seven Prime Ministers over the years, I considered these briefings added to my understanding of Australia’s history and contemporary situation enormously, and I insisted he be invited to give an Occasional Address.
My dear friend Sandra Bardas, as a surprise for me, made arrangements through the university’s technical department to have the event filmed on video. And she and husband David flew up from Melbourne to attend.
How pleased I was to look around and see how many friends were in the audience, amongst them Fred Hollows, Lloyd McDermott (the first Aboriginal law graduate), Glenda Humes, and oh, too many to list here. I was grateful to be able to share the occasion with them.
Not everything was idyllic. I had put out a general invitation to members of the local Black community, only to learn later that many had feared the formality and felt unable to turn up. An Aboriginal Health Conference was being held elsewhere in the grounds of Sydney University and I had asked Naomi Mayers to tell the participants that they would be very welcome to walk over at the end of their day’s meeting to attend. I even phoned the conference organisers again on the morning of the event to remind them to make such an announcement. No announcement was ever made.
Marjorie Baldwin, who had flown down from Cairns to be present at my graduation, was walking back through the university grounds when she came upon an Aboriginal woman whom she knew, sitting on the lawn. The woman, a participant at the Health Conference, was upset to learn from Marjorie that she had missed a very special and joyful moment in history. She said that she would have attended because she was just sitting around bored, wishing she had something to do. I was very sad when I heard this, and astounded anew at the extent of envy and jealousy which existed in some quarters of the Black community. I wondered whether they were mindful of the negative effects this was having on the people they claimed to
be helping.
I felt very proud when, during the presentation, John Doherty, then-president of the Harvard Club of Australia, informed the audience that not only was I the first Black Australian to have gained a doctorate from any university in the world, but also only the fourteenth Australian to have earned a doctorate from Harvard.
My heart thumped when Sir Hermann Black, speaking of the Peter B. Livingston Award I had won, the many talks I had given on Australian race relations at universities in the American east, and the exhibitions that I, at times assisted by Peter McKenzie, had organised, said, ‘I feel a special humility in the presence of Doctor Sykes since, as a post-graduate student myself at Harvard, long ago in the years 1936-37, I cannot match the academic achievement of this distinguished woman during her stay there.’ I wondered would I too be permitted to aspire to anything like the lofty heights achieved by Sir Hermann in Australia, or would racism continue to be a barrier to my achievement?
Both speakers applauded the contribution of the ordinary Australians who had, through their financial, practical and emotional contributions enabled me to be conferred with this degree, and I was deeply gratified to hear them being so recognised.
The Institute for Aboriginal Studies in Canberra, though, sent a carload of Aboriginal representatives. These young people carefully positioned themselves to ensure that I met them each individually so that they could shake my hand, introduce themselves and congratulate me. The evening had been such a high moment, and they were flushed, as I was, with the sheer spirit of it all.
Any official Australian Government involvement or endorsement was conspicuous by its absence. However, Bronson Dede, the Nigerian Ambassador, came up from Canberra to attend. Following the official part of the evening, Bronson hosted a dinner in his suite at the Regent Hotel, to which he asked me to invite any of my friends. Regrettably, by the time he was able to reach me with this offer, a large number of my friends had departed or made other plans. Our small party included the Aboriginal artist Phemie Bostock, who presented me with a sculpture she had made to commemorate my success, and Geraldine Willesee, who had helped shuttle members of my family to the ceremony, and my sister Della.
I arrived at the Regent Hotel a little late as I’d had to take my mother and the children home. So I called at the front desk to check Bronson Dede’s room number. The clerk glanced at his computer and gave me the number. As I walked away, he called, ‘Dr Sykes, Dr Sykes’, and it was a moment before, with a thrill, I realised he was speaking to me.
I turned to hear—‘Dr Sykes, the Ambassador is expecting you.’
Was I, I wondered, walking towards the elevator on clouds, just dreaming?
Yes, dreaming, it occurred to me then. Snake dreaming.
Snake Circle Page 28
