‘Well,’ Tony said, using another of his standard lines. ‘The white man’s law is all about power relations and built on the lies of colonisation.’
Tony had always known how to read an audience. It was a gift, one that had served him well most of his days, especially after the Tent Embassy when he became a vocal advocate for the rights of his people. He could sense the audience getting caught up in what he was saying, seemed to know intuitively just what they wanted to hear.
Darren Brown, the young Aboriginal law school drop-out was his target demographic. Tony felt rejuvenated just seeing the look of reverence and animation that Simone had once worn on another young face. He settled back comfortably into his chair.
‘So, what did you want to talk to me about then?’
‘We are trying to get heritage listing for the Tent Embassy. I need to pull together as much information as I can so I can prepare the proposal. So I guess I thought I could interview you now, ask a few questions and, if that’s okay, come back again for some follow-ups.’
‘Sure,’ replied Tony. ‘Whatever you need.’
‘Great,’ Darren smiled. And then, looking serious, ‘It’s such an honour to get this chance to talk to you.’
‘Well, I’m not sure about that,’ responded Tony, attempting modesty. ‘But before you ask away, let me tell you something.’
Aware that Darren was hanging onto his every word, pen poised and writing pad ready, Tony paused for effect. ‘The first thing you need to appreciate,’ he continued, ‘is that the Tent Embassy was the culmination of all the work that had gone on from the 1880s through to the 1930s and beyond to improve the lives of Aboriginal people. But, at the same time, it was the beginning of the modern land rights movement as well.’
Tony leaned a little further back in his chair. Darren, with brow furrowed, scribbled quickly.
‘You see,’ Tony continued, ‘what we did at the Tent Embassy had its intellectual beginnings in the work of men like Fred Maynard, William Cooper and William Ferguson. They were men who worked on the land. They wanted to know why they were stopped from earning their own livelihood, from owning the land themselves when they worked as hard as any white person. They argued for citizenship rights - equal rights - because they had grown up unable to earn equal wages, unable to apply for the same level of financial support as white people when they were unable to find employment, even needing to apply for permission to move from the reserve and to marry.’
Tony watched as Darren tried to write down everything he was saying and paused to give the lad time to catch up.
‘These men, the Maynards and Coopers and the like, they were self-educated men and their Australia was one that was riddled with the inability to enjoy the basic rights and freedoms that all other Australians enjoyed unquestioningly: the right to family, the right to livelihood, freedom of movement, freedom of speech, freedom from racial discrimination.’
Tony was working himself up speaking on one of his favourite themes. He spoke about the way leaders like Maynard and Cooper had believed that Aboriginal people, through their own hard work and initiative, could improve their own socio-economic circumstances and shake off their poverty.
‘What do you think William Cooper would think if he saw the state of Aboriginal communities and families across Australia today?’ Darren asked, looking up as he hunched over his notepad.
‘Hmmm, good question. Well, I’d guess he’d probably be impressed by the way in which our people have gained access in the last three decades to many opportunities that were unthinkable previously. In Cooper’s day, who’d have thought we would have the numbers of Aboriginal graduates from high schools and universities that we have now. We’ve seen more and more Aboriginal people become nurses, teachers, lawyers, doctors, accountants, engineers.’
Tony gave Darren time to catch up. He thought about Simone, how his throat was thick with satisfaction as she walked across the stage in her graduation gown, the hem swaying around her high heels.
Darren looked up from his notebook.
‘How did you come to be at the Tent Embassy?’ Darren asked.
‘I remember hearing through the black grapevine that these blokes - Billy Craigie, Michael Anderson, Bertie Williams and Tony Coorie - had gone to Canberra and set up a protest right in front of Parliament House. I’d grown up on an old mission and me and my mate, Arthur Randall, had hitched rides, jumped a train and even walked part of the way until we got there. Heaps of people had arrived by then.’ Tony could see the images, the crowded tents and tarpaulins as they clustered together on the lawn. He could remember the pungent, rank smells of communal living. ‘We were drawn there by the frustration that nothing had changed since the ’67 referendum.’
Tony explained how people had organised, protested and advocated for the two decades leading up to the vote to change the Constitution in 1967, in the expectation that it would provide new opportunities. ‘But we woke up the morning after and nothing had changed. We came to realise that we needed something more. The time for this movement was ripe. The moment had come. And I just knew that I had to be a part of it.’
When Darren finally looked up at him Tony was reminded of how strong the young man’s features were. Dark eyes and thick lashes. Clear skin. Sleek lines on his face. But he could see something else in Darren, something in the intensity with which he wrote Tony’s answers, with which he had devoted himself to something he believed in. It reminded Tony of himself when he was younger.
‘When I was your age, I didn’t have the opportunities you have now. You should think of that before you throw them away. Why did you drop out of uni?’
‘Family things, I guess. My mother got sick and then I got caught up with this.’ Darren waved his notebook.
‘Well, the Tent Embassy is important. No denying that. And I know how it is with blackfellas and their families. But you’ll be more valuable to our community and better able to provide for them if you get the best education you can. There’s something for you to think about before I see you next.’
*
How easy the telling of this version of history had become, as though it really had been the truth. A favourite theme of his speeches, Tony thought, still sitting at his desk an hour after Darren had left, was the way white history was a fabrication, a story woven with lies. And the irony was that his own history had become the same thing. And while he had told the story of how he had been drawn towards the swelling activity on the lawns of Parliament House, the truth was he had been running away. Running away from secrets, dark secrets.
Tony had invented his own rules for survival back then, a list of five principles he had created during the rough and tumble of that trip to Canberra. He had scribbled down what he referred to as ‘Tony Harlowe’s Five Survival Rules’ on the inside cover of a copy of George Orwell’s Animal Farm, one of his favourite books, one of the few things he had taken with him when he fled his old life.
One of the rules was to stay in the spotlight. After all, if people don’t see you, how do they know you exist? Everything is judged by appearance; what is unseen counts for nothing. Tony’s intention was - had been for a long time - to attract attention by being larger, more charismatic, more mysterious than his rivals. Cicero once said that even those who argue against fame still want the books they write against it to bear their name on the cover. We will let our friends share almost anything, but nobody wants to share their fame or reputation.
For years Tony Harlowe had wanted to make a name for himself, had wanted to be someone. The first rule for survival he had written down was ‘Be someone else’. And the Tent Embassy had given him a stepping stone from which to do that.
6
SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA
My meeting with Professor Young is still scheduled for 4 pm on the third Thursday of the month even though I am in Sydney. The time difference means I have to dial his office at 6 am. I have risen early, barely sleeping last night for fear of not hearing the alarm. I cannot help but s
mile to myself that I will be having a conversation with Professor Young while I am in my pyjamas; I am usually so meticulous about what I wear and how I look when I get ready to see him. My notes lie scattered across my bed.
Professor Young had not been happy about my going home. I had told him that I had to attend to some family business but he had not seemed very sympathetic.
‘It’s a mistake,’ he had said bluntly. ‘Every student I have ever known who thought they could do the bulk of their research and writing around the distractions of their home town has always found out that they can’t.’
And I have to admit that, as with most things, he has been right. The pages I had sent him earlier in the week were cobbled together a few days before they were due. I had lost the discipline of the routine I had fallen into in Boston. Here in Sydney there always seemed to be other things to do during the mornings when I would usually be working on my writing and in the evenings when I’d be doing my reading.
I’ve spent plenty of time consoling Tanya about her break-up with Terry and this has required long phone conversations, sleepovers, shopping trips and going to the movies. I’ve also been catching up with other friends and emailing Jamie, who is in Perth for a few months for work and not due back until December.
And I’ve also been distracted by not being able to shake my suspicions about my father’s infidelity. For the last three weeks, I’ve been trying to find any evidence of it. But he has had no late nights and my several unannounced trips to his office have uncovered nothing.
He has not always been so careful. When I was a child, he would take me to a movie most weekends - just him and me, father and daughter. It was our ritual - looking through the movie guides, making a list of the films we wanted to see, writing down cinemas and times, making sure we arrived in time to catch the trailers in case there were movies about to be released that could be added to our ‘must see’ list.
One day, when I was about twelve, we had gone to the movies and, it seemed by chance, ran into one of my father’s friends. Her name was Liz. On the way home, my father said, ‘It might be best not to tell your mother about Liz. Let’s make it our little secret.’ In my innocence I enjoyed the conspiracy of silence, seeing it as no more than a secret I shared with my dad.
The next few times that we went to the movies, we always seemed to run into Liz. I thought it was simply the strangest coincidence. And although I was sometimes tempted to tell my mother about this funny circumstance, I felt bound by my loyalty to my father not to reveal anything of it. Then, after several months, we saw Liz no more.
In time I began to understand what the arrangement had actually meant and how I had been used to cover my father’s infidelity. How he had used, even abused, our trips to the movies, our special time together. I said nothing to my mother. I knew she would be hurt.
When I was fourteen I stopped going to the movies with Dad. I began to resent him. At times I couldn’t listen to his political rhetoric, his talk about principles and human rights, all delivered in his self-righteous manner without reflecting on what a hypocrite he was, a hypocrite with a lack of morals. Especially when I compared him to other men who did not seem so morally flawed. Men like Jamie, who never gave me a moment’s doubt. Men, I think now, like Professor Young, dignified and intelligent, an embodiment of what a perfect father should be.
‘Well, Simone,’ asks Professor Young, his voice echoing with the distance, ‘I can see from your briefing note that you have shifted your focus since our last meeting in line with what we discussed. What is your central argument now?’
‘I have been thinking about our discussion. So, I’ve been reading what people actually say about sovereignty when they talk about it. You know, thinking about how they would answer if they were asked, “When you talk about being sovereign, what do you mean?” ’
I tell Professor Young that I know there isn’t much written on the issue that begins from the Aboriginal perspective, at least in academic discussions and debates. And when that point of view is taken seriously, it is clear that people are not talking about ‘sovereignty’ as we would understand it under international law. ‘Listen to this from Kevin Gilbert - he was an Aboriginal poet and an advocate for the recognition of Aboriginal sovereignty - in a draft treaty he wrote with the Aboriginal Members of the Sovereign Aboriginal Coalition in 1987:
We are free to manage our own affairs both internally and externally to the fullest possible extent, in the proper exercise of our Sovereign Right as a Nation … Our Sovereign Aboriginal Nation, fulfilling the criteria of Statehood, having Inherent Possessory Root Title to Lands, a permanent population and a representative governing body according to our Indigenous traditions, having the ability to enter relations with other States, possesses the right to autonomy in self-determination of our political status, to freely pursue our economic, social and cultural development and to retain our rights in religious matters, tradition and traditional practice.’
I explain that I think within this concept of ‘sovereignty’ and ideas about the legal implications of recognition there is no claim for separatism from Australia but instead there is a desire to negotiate a better position within the Australian state.
‘What does this “position within the Australian state” look like?’ he asks. I imagine Professor Young, his eyes slightly squinting from the low sunlight that would be streaming over him now.
‘Well, there is a strong aspiration for a capacity for decision-making, for community governance but there are a vast range of other goals: the recognition of past injustices, the aspiration for land justice, the protection of culture, heritage and language, to be able to access the same services and have the same opportunities that other Australians have.’ As I explain this idea, I recall my father talking about each of these things.
‘That’s the next stage of your project, Simone. You need to map out what this “Aboriginal sovereignty” means to Aboriginal people and then map the pathway between where your legal system is now and where it should be going.’ I hear a note of caution come into his voice. ‘It may need a political solution at the end of the day, but even so you need to think about the role the law can play in that pathway.’
I had been thinking too much like a lawyer, I realise, but I liked the message better when it came from my work with Professor Young than when my father said it.
‘I know that you were skeptical about how much I would get done here,’ I say to Professor Young, ‘but I think with this as the new focus of my research, it may be fortuitous that I am back here in Australia.’
‘Hmmmm. My warning about the dangers of attempting to do your project away from the school still stands. You have the opportunity to work at one of the world’s greatest law schools without distraction. Have the family matters you wanted to attend to resolved themselves?’
‘Yes. Yes they have. And I will be making plans to come back in the next week or so.’ I wince a little, knowing that is not quite the truth.
There is silence, long enough to express disapproval. And then I hear Professor Young sigh.
‘And what are you reading, Simone?’
I imagine his mannerisms, his facial expressions, the way he tilts his chair sideways so that he can look out the window that is usually behind him as he talks to me.
‘I have just finished Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day,’ I tell him. I don’t add that I only finished it last night, knowing Professor Young would ask me this question. He always does. Even if I’m tempted to just watch a movie and bluff, I always read a book. But I got caught up in this one and reading it had not been a chore.
The novel tells the story of an English butler, Stevens, who dedicates his life to the service of Lord Darlington. It had promised to be a love story and begins with Stevens receiving a letter from Miss Kenton, the former housekeeper at Darlington Hall, alluding to her unhappy marriage. Darlington Hall has just changed owners and Stevens has a new employer, the wealthy American Mr Farraday. Stevens,
under the pretext of seeing if he can offer Miss Kenton - now Mrs Benn - her old position back, accepts Mr Farraday’s offer of taking a ‘motoring holiday’.
It emerges that Stevens and Miss Kenton, when working together during the years leading up to World War II, had an attachment that bordered on romantic - always implied but never declared - as they shared intimate moments such as taking tea and talks at the end of the day. Stevens’s inability to express his feelings to the more passionate Miss Kenton eventually led her to accept a marriage proposal from Mr Benn.
Lord Darlington was a Nazi sympathiser. In the aftermath of the war he is disgraced for his naivety in dealing with the Nazis before hostilities broke out and for his hopes of brokering a deal between Hitler’s Germany and Great Britain. Stevens had been totally loyal to Lord Darlington, as any good butler would have been but he seems incapable of believing his master could be wrong in his politics and actions.
Miss Kenton has now been married for over twenty years and while her relationship with her husband has not always been easy or happy, she has grown to love him in her own way. With the arrival of a grandchild she chooses to stay with her family rather than return to Darlington Hall and Stevens returns there alone.
‘And what did you think?’ Professor Young asks.
‘At the end of the book Miss Kenton has a family, even though she is not always happy and her family life is not perfect. Her husband loves her even if he does let her down but, sadly, Stevens has none of that. Instead he sacrificed his life to the service of a man who was morally flawed and eventually disgraced. What did he have to show for all the hard work, the loyalty?’
We talk about the importance of work/life balance as I bundle up my notes from the meeting. I lie back on my bed, looking at the ceiling, and listen to Professor Young.
‘People didn’t have as much choice in those days though, did they? If you got married, you pretty much had to leave your employment. Domestic service in someone else’s house certainly wasn’t conducive to having a family of your own.’
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