Mazin Grace

by Dylan Coleman

  When my uncles have finished I go over to empty out the tub. There’re yumbra mooga floating on the surface of the stinkin’ water. Attracted by the smell, they have now drowned. When I empty the tub, they skid over the ground and come to a sticky halt in mud. Then, using all my strength, I drag the tub back towards the front door. As I heave, I can see the tub gougin’ a deep line in the dirt behind me. In the past when I decided to have a bath, I’d usually bitten off more than I could chew. The tub was so heavy that nearly always I had to get an adult to help me lift it into our room. And after my bath, it was always too heavy to drag it out again and Ada would growl me for being such a nuisance ’cause she’d have to drag it out herself.

  Now that I’m bigger and stronger I can just manage by myself to pull the tub across the yard, through the front door of our cottage and into our bedroom. Nudgin’ it into the corner means no-one can see me through the gaps in the door. The hinges are loose so even when the door’s closed, if you look real hard, you can see through into the bedroom.

  After the copper boiler heats up, I pop a bar of Velvet soap into the tub, then cart bucket after bucket into the bedroom, pourin’ the steamin’ water into the tub until it’s deep enough for a nice bath. I slip off my clothes and step into the tub with one leg. The water’s hot. I pull my leg straight back out and I can see my skin is red. Grabbin’ at the edges of the metal tub, I lower my leg back in a little longer until my skin adjusts to the heat, then I step into the tub with the other leg. As I gently lower myself into the hot soapy bath the smoky blue metal sides of the tub feel hot in the palms of my hands.

  My knees are drawn up close to my body because the tub’s small, round shape doesn’t allow me to stretch out. I can only roll my body sideways. There’s no chance of being completely submerged, but the water that laps at my shoulders and the top of my knees feels relaxin’. I grab my ankles and squeeze the tension out of my body. Closin’ my eyes, it feels good to let go of all the stresses I’ve been carryin’ around inside me for so long, just lettin’ them wash into the water. My breath begins to deepen and slow down as I melt into the warmth. Openin’ my eyes, I can see dirt streakin’ down my legs from the layers of mud on my knees so I feel for the Velvet soap on the bottom of the tub. It slips from my fingers a couple of times until I grab it with two hands and bring it to the surface. I turn the soap in an old cloth until it’s slimy with suds, then let it slip back into the depths below. I move the cloth over my knees and legs, around the back of my neck and over my shoulders and under my armpits, washin’ my body in all the places that are in need of washin’, washin’ away all my stinkin’ smells. It feels so deadly to be sittin’ in the water and cleanin’ myself like this.

  In front of me, above the water line, I can see small biggy ngunchu hairs stuck to the inside of the tub. Or is it wombat hair? I try not to think about the things I’ve seen being cleaned in this tub. Kicking my foot through the water at the end of the tub I wash the hairs away and still my mind, trying to wipe it clear too. I tap my foot in the bath and the water turns into a chant.

  ‘Williams’ Pigs, Williams’ Pigs, Williams’ Pigs. You’re nothin’ but Williams’ Pigs.’

  A sickenin’ understandin’ washes over me with the lappin’ of the water. They called us Williams’ Pigs because we’re Old Rod’s stock, sloppin’ in his pig troughs, bein’ thrown his scraps. I shudder again. Although I feel clean on the outside, and even though the sores on my wrist have now cleared up, the festerin’ filth is still inside me. Out of the blue this feeling comes up and falls, appears and disappears again. Sometimes it lies quiet, forgotten. That’s how I like it, hidden and invisible, but here it is again rearin’ its ugly head as I wash myself clean in a bath. Will I ever feel clean?

  Lyin’ back in the bath I think about how things have been for me and what it might be like for me headin’ over to live in Adelaide with Eva and the other girls from the Mission. I’m scared for myself and for my minya sisters but I can’t wait to get off the Mission away from all those rotten, mean kids who’ve made my life a misery as far back as I can remember. And I’m nervous too, I know how walbiya mooga have funny ways, how they can cut you down with a nasty word or even with just a glance, ignore you, pretend you’re not there and treat you like dirt. Goin’ to Adelaide means I’ll be at their mercy. But at least I’ll be with Eva and the other girls and we can stick together, look out for each other, like Mission mob do when they leave town.

  In more recent times, Eva and me have learnt a lot about how walbiya mooga live from our trips to the farm and outings with Dave and Aunty Mim and maybe this will help us cope better. Eva and me have learnt to clean. And we’ve learnt a lot when we help with the cookin’, what the different frypans, saucepans, and kitchen pots and pans are used for, and how spices and herbs are used in the mai. And makin’ the beds that have sheets on them, and showerin’, brushin’ our teeth, and washin’ our face every morning with a flannel and towel, and usin’ a brush or comb, not a fork, to do our hair. We’ve learnt how to set the table with all the forks, knives and spoons, how the plates and glasses are set out, and how everyone sits around the table at breakfast, dinner and tea time, what they eat and how they act by using walbiya manners. We’ve learnt so much in just a short space of time. I’m sure knowin’ all these things will help us when we’re goin’ into the walbiya world. Sometimes Dave and Aunty Mim even take us into Ceduna with them for shoppin’ and other times down the beach. Sometimes it’s hard to go back to the Mission after the luxuries and comforts of the farmhouse.

  The bath water has soaked my fingers ’til they’re all wrinkly like a gubarlie or tjilbi. I think about Old Rod again, and how I tried to work out the riddle of who he was, and how even when I did, it didn’t solve anything for me ’cause I still felt I didn’t belong anywhere. And nothin’s changed. I’m still a blackfella who’s a whitefella’s kid, a big shame job to Nyunga and walbiya mooga on the Mission, and to walbiya mooga in town. It’s like they’ve thrown a blanketie over us, the children of a black woman and a white man. We’re hated on one side for bein’ whitefella kids, and on the other side for bein’ Old Rod Williams’ bastard kids. Us girls don’t fit in anywhere, just one big shame job place set aside just for us to live, like a sty for pigs.

  I realise that Old Rod wasn’t just cryin’ about his sins that day in his car, he was cryin’ about what he’d done to us. He’d brought us into the world to be hated by everyone. Sometimes, I even feel like Ada hates us too. Maybe she hates herself for what she’s done.

  I slide forward and dunk my head under the water, lettin’ the air in my lungs bubble to the top. I hate myself too, I think, as the last of the bubbles pop on the surface. I hate myself for bein’ here in this place and for being despised by everyone. I break the surface of the water and gasp for air. Maybe, I’m already in hell with fire and brimstone and that’s God’s way of punishin’ me for who I am.

  The water in the tub laps in big waves, some splashin’ over the edge of the tub. Maybe things’ll change when I go to school in the city. Other girls that come back from there seem different, know more, are sure of themselves. Maybe that will happen to me too.

  My thoughts swirl around with the suds. Tiltin’ my head back I stare at the wall, all the stains and marks from me and my sisters over the years. The kitchen walls and floors are like that too. No matter how hard Mumma, Ada and the aunties have scrubbed our cottage over the years it is still caked with dirt. But somehow it doesn’t matter, the main thing for Mumma, for all of us, is that we’re with Mumma and we’re safe and together. Mumma must be feelin’ sad with her family goin’ away, makin’ their own lives. I look up and see a loose spiderweb floatin’ in the corner of the ceilin’. All her family have just drifted away.

  I think back to when I lay on the bed with my jinna minga and how the old fellas growled me for runnin’ ’round dangerous places, dangerous campsites to step on mumoo. How shame I felt when the
y accused me of that. I feel that shame now, but for different reasons. I remember the relief I felt when my old Jumoo told me I didn’t have a mumoo inside my leg. I let go of that shame, only for it to jump back into me again when he told me I had walbiya gu minga inside my leg.

  I shudder. I was so scared, wonderin’, ‘What is this walbiya gu minga? How did it get there?’ Then, I was sent away for all that time, not bein’ able to see my family for so long. Somethin’ started to die inside me then, somethin’ that connected me strong-way to my family, somethin’ that guided me, Nyunga-way, right-way. After that it was like I was sittin’ back and lookin’ at everyone ’round me in a different way. Sure I came back ahead with my studies but somethin’ had shifted inside me. That walbiya gu minga in my leg was like a poison, makin’ me sick from deep inside. Not knowin’ who I was, was eatin’ away at me too. When they cut me open and scraped the white man’s sickness outa me, only then could I get better. But I can’t scrape the whiteness outa me. I can’t scrape out that shame of who I am.

  Lookin’ at the sun stream into the minya dusty window on the side wall, I think that knowin’ who my father was made me feel good but when he left it felt like a part of me died too. Maybe not knowin’ made me sick in the first place. Anyway, I’m still a bastard, a child born from my parents breakin’ the fourth Commandment. God wouldn’t want me this way so I might as well curl up and die.

  I close my guru mooga shut tight-way again and lean forward, my head between my legs, try to think of some good things, nice things, things that make me feel better. I see Ada dressed in deadly white clothes goin’ to a tennis match at Charra, to play against walaba weena mooga. She looks real graceful as she throws the tennis ball high in the air and slams it into the court on the other side of the net. The walaba weena jumps out the way to stop the ball hittin’ her and Ada wins the point. I feel real proud of her, she’s a deadly player always thrashin’ those other weena mooga and she looks real yudoo in her white tennis bultha. I always wanna touch her clothes ’cause they look so pretty, so fresh and clean. I reach my murra up, wanting to stroke the nice fabric.

  ‘Get your bugadee murra off my bultha,’ I hear her growl me, slappin’ my hand away.

  I look up at her sad-way. ‘It’s real pretty, Ada,’ I say, but she pushes me away.

  I step back and look at my hands. They have dirt all over them. I look down at my dress, it’s streaked with dirt, so are my legs and my feet.

  I cover my face now with my clean hands and start cryin’. ‘I’m lookin’ forward to this big adventure to the city, away from everythin’ that I hate so much,’ I tell myself. ‘Everythin’ will get better once I’m there and my sisters will be safe.’

  The water is gettin’ cold so I get out of the tub and dry myself with some old clothes, then put on a dress that I’ve picked out from the Children’s ’Ome. I haven’t realised that I’m still cryin’ until my tears drip onto my clean dress. The hidden wave washes up again and I throw myself on our bed, breathin’ out deep loud sobs.

  ‘Grace?’ Mumma’s old voice is close to my yuree. She cups her wrinkled hands under my chin and turns my face to look at hers. ‘Why you look so sad, girl? It’s not the end of the world, you know.’

  I grab her hand and squeeze it, holdin’ tight as I can.

  ‘Oh, Mumma.’ Tears runnin’ down my face. ‘I hate my life so much. I hate this Mission and the nasty kids here. I hate how Ada leaves us kids the way she does, I just hate who I am and I just wanna die.’

  Mumma sits down next to me then and puts her hand over my shoulder and pulls me into her mimmi like she use to when I was little. ‘You listen here now, girl,’ she says. ‘You gotta stop this feelin’ sorry for yourself. You’re special young woman and those kids see that in you so they wanna pull you down but you’ll only be pulled down if you let it happen. You just gotta walk with your head high like our Old People and stop feelin’ so sorry for yourself.’

  Mumma’s dress is wet from my sobbin’.

  ‘I’m not special. I’m whitefella bastard kid,’ I blubber.

  Mumma sighs. ‘You remember that story I told you ’bout your Granny Charlie that time at Denial Bay?’

  I nod. I can recall what she said about Granny being strong and standin’ for things that are wrong, and how sometimes, when you’re beaten and put down all the time, you start believin’ you’re low and you look ’round at your own mob and start thinkin’ the same about them too. So you start actin’ that way towards yourself with no respect, and towards your own mob disrespectful-way, too. Mumma was right, but hell it isn’t easy to look at things that way, ’specially when what people say hurts so much.

  ‘You be proud of who you are, Kokatha and walaba. There’s no shame in that. The Good Lord made you that way, girl.’

  ‘But I’ve been born from breaking his Commandment.’

  ‘Now don’t you go talkin’ like that, Grace. We’ve all been born into sin, that’s what Pastor always says. God loves each and every one of his children and through his Son Jesus dyin’ on the cross, all our sins are washed away and don’t you forget that.’

  I sit up and wipe my face on my dress. Mumma pulls me into her again.

  ‘What about my minya sisters when I go to Adelaide? What if you go, Mumma, who will look after them?’

  Mumma gives a big sigh and rubs my arm.

  ‘Ada’s just goin’ through a bit of a hard time, tryin’ to cope with Old Rod’s passin’. She’ll settle down properly again soon, and I won’t be goin’ anywhere until she does.’ We sit down on the bed together and Mumma continues. ‘Everyone has their own way of copin’ when a loved one dies.’ Mumma’s voice sounds sad and distant. She pushes my wet hair away from my face. ‘She might even find a husband now, nice fella to look after her and them minya ones properly.’

  I turn towards her and think of Papa.

  ‘As you grow older, Grace,’ Mumma goes on, ‘you’ll find the wisdom to know what you can change and what you can’t. The Good Lord will give you that wisdom if you pray and ask ’im for it.’

  I nod again, to her familiar words.

  ‘You must never lose faith in God, and never forget who you are. Will you promise me that?’ She looks at me with old knowin’ eyes.

  Somethin’ happened then, I sat up and wiped my eyes. Mumma always has a way of making you feel better about yourself but this was different. It was as if suddenly I knew what I had to do and where I was goin’. I was leavin’ the Mission and makin’ a new life for myself. In my mind I was already there. I was free at last. Soon my bag was packed. I was saying my goodbyes, I was ready to go.

  Author’s note

  My mother and I are Kokatha women. We are of the south-eastern group of the Western Desert peoples who, by traditional Aboriginal lore and Kokatha custom, are inseparably connected to and with the areas in and around the Yellabinna Regional Reserve and Wilderness Protection Area, Yumbarra Conservation Park, Pureba Conservation Park, extending just west of Fowlers Bay, to the east of Elliston following our Dreaming tracks towards Port Augusta, where our country takes in sections of the Gawler Ranges in South Australia.

  The Kokatha language place names along these Dreaming tracks are evidence of our connection to country. My mother, her mother and grandmothers all lived on the Koonibba Lutheran Mission on the far west coast of South Australia, and always travelled beyond the Mission to maintain our country. Although today my family, my mother and I still hold strong to our Kokatha culture and language, we have had to fight colonial forces ploughing through the landscape of our Aboriginal identity from frontier times to the present. Over the years, government bodies, policies and institutions have all had a massive impact on our Aboriginal country, culture and sense of self.

  The storytelling process is important to us because of its capacity to tell truths overlooked by history as a Western discipline, and to challeng
e non-Aboriginal historical and current accounts, and acts of colonisation. Hearing a story in our own voice, in our own language, in our own way of speaking – and from our own perspectives as Aboriginal people – can be empowering. But it can potentially also bring about understanding and healing. This has been my mother’s experience in telling her story, and it has been my experience too.

  ‘You’re Aboriginal. Always be proud of that.’

  My mother’s words are etched in my mind. As a child I saw my world in two parts: me as an Aboriginal person, and everything and everyone outside of that as separate. At a very young age, growing up in Ceduna in the 1970s, I realised that Aboriginal people were treated differently by others, spoken about negatively: we were perceived as being ‘less’ than everyone else. I also saw the distress this caused my mother and other Aboriginal family and community members.

  Yet I knew, from what my mother had taught me, that being who I was, an Aboriginal person, was a good thing: everyone who treated us differently from that belief was wrong in their negative actions towards us, and should be questioned or challenged. It was very complex, often distressing and even traumatising (and at times it still is), especially given that we lived in a small rural town with many people who had openly racist attitudes. Sometimes it was very confusing: we grew up under the assimilation policy that encouraged Aboriginal people to marry into and blend with the white community, but my siblings and I didn’t look all that dissimilar to others in the community. Yet there were always times when we were set apart for who we were as Aboriginal people, sometimes in the most painful, discriminating, and humiliating ways.

  My mother wanted her story to be told. She wanted: