My Place

by Sally Morgan

  The rest of the afternoon wasn’t too traumatic. Little things like the chooks and dogs running wild and a few guests ending up drunk didn’t seem to matter. Everyone enjoyed themselves immensely and quite a few people commented that it was the most unusual wedding they’d ever been to. Mum took this as a compliment.

  It was close to midnight when the last guest finally left. No one had wanted to go home.

  ‘I did all right, didn’t I, Sally?’ Mum asked smugly.

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied, ‘maybe you should go into the catering business.’

  ‘I was thinking that myself!’ I glanced at her in fear. We both laughed.

  Shortly after my wedding, I found out that I had passed all my units at university except Psychology. I wasn’t surprised. I disliked the work I was doing so much that I hadn’t bothered to study for my exams. I decided to change my major for the following year, but Paul talked me out of it. ‘You’ll have to repeat,’ he said.

  ‘Repeat?’ I was disgusted at the thought. Another year with the rats was almost too much to bear. However, when I looked at the alternatives, I realised that I could be jumping from the frying pan into the fire. Also, I’d heard that there was some human content in third-year Psychology. So I decided to persevere.

  Towards the end of the summer vacation, Paul and I moved into a run-down old weatherboard house in South Perth. The toilet was miles down the back of the yard, only one gas burner worked on the stove, the hot-water system wasn’t even as decent as the old chip heater we’d had at home, and the place was infested with tiny sandfleas. After living in there for a few weeks, we also discovered that there were rats residing underneath the floorboards. For some reason, none of this seemed to bother us. We thought the place had character and it was adventurous being on our own.

  And I was learning new skills, like how to cook and make beds. Considering what a good cook Nan was, it might have been expected that I’d have more flair. I was hopeless. Nan had never allowed us to cook as children, the kitchen was her own private domain. And as for helping around the house, well, that was quite unheard of. There had been occasions when Jill and I had attempted to wash up the dishes, but Nan had always shooed us away with the comment, ‘You stay out of my kitchen.’

  To Nan’s credit, she had taught me how to light a fire, chop wood, gut chickens and look after sick animals. However, I found these were skills I rarely had to use now.

  After a while, Jill moved in with us and then two other friends as well. We were a happy little group. Most of our evenings were filled with Bob Dylan music, poetry and long discussions about current world issues. It was a lovely time in my life.

  The day the university year began, I had to force myself to attend. I was convinced I was going to fail again. Many times, I came near to giving up my course entirely, but Paul always talked me into continuing. He gave me the impression that some of my attitudes were very immature. That was quite a shock. I had never thought of myself as being immature before.

  Now that Jill and I were once again living in the same house, we often had long talks about our childhood. And the subject of Nan’s origins always came up.

  ‘We’ll never know for sure,’ Jill said one night. ‘Mum will never tell us.’

  ‘Hmmn, I might start pestering her again. We’re older now, we’ve got a right to know.’

  ‘What does Paul think?’

  ‘When I asked him whether he thought Nan was Aboriginal, he just laughed and said, “Isn’t it obvious. Of course she is.”’ Paul, of course, had been brought up with Aboriginal people.

  ‘I don’t think we can really decide until we hear Mum admit it from her own lips.’

  ‘That’ll be the day.’

  A few weeks later, Mum popped in her for usual visit, laden with fattening cakes and eager to tell me about the latest bargain she’d bought at auction. I’d been to too many auctions with Mum in the past, I knew that many items that looked like bargains at first glance turned out to be a total waste of money on closer inspection. The auctioneers had become so used to Mum buying things no one else would buy that they often knocked things down to her without taking any bids from the floor.

  ‘One-o-four will have it,’ they’d shout, as a hammer without a handle or a duplicating machine that didn’t duplicate came up for grabs. ‘You’ll have it, won’t you, one-o-four? You buy anything for a dollar.’ One-o-four was Mum’s permanent bidding number.

  ‘Come out to the car and see what I’ve bought,’ Mum said excitedly. ‘You won’t believe it.’ That was the trouble, I never did.

  As she opened up the back of the car, she said generously, ‘You can have whatever you like, there’s plenty here.’ Mum always bought in bulk.

  Apart from the usual assortment of rusty tools and various other odds and ends, Mum had, in fact, actually bought something useful. There was a box of Indian-made cheesecloth shirts. Although, as it turned out, there were also seven other boxes that had to be picked up later. Approximately one hundred and forty shirts in all.

  ‘I’ll sell what we can’t use at Trash and Treasure,’ Mum said. It wasn’t a good suggestion, Mum always came home from those markets with more than she had taken.

  ‘Aargh! I don’t even want to think about it. Let’s go and eat that cake you brought.’

  We went in and settled down in the kitchen and I made a cup of tea. Mum was soon in a relaxed and talkative mood.

  Then, after a while, there was a lull in the conversation, so I said very casually, ‘We’re Aboriginal, aren’t we, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ she replied, without thinking.

  ‘Do you realise what you just said?!’ I grinned triumphantly.

  Mum put her cake back onto her plate and looked as though she was going to be sick.

  ‘Don’t you back down!’ I said quickly. ‘There’s been too many skeletons in our family closet. It’s time things came out in the open.’ After a few minutes’ strained silence, Mum said, ‘Why shouldn’t you kids know now? You’re old enough, it’s not as though you’re little any more. Besides, it’s different now.’

  ‘All those years, Mum,’ I said, ‘how could you have lied to us all those years?’

  ‘It was only a little white lie,’ she replied sadly.

  I couldn’t help laughing at her unintentional humour. In no time at all, we were both giggling uncontrollably. It was as if a wall that had been between us suddenly crumbled away. I felt closer to Mum then than I had for years.

  A beginning

  I was very excited by my new heritage. When I told Jill that evening what Mum had said, she replied, ‘I don’t know what you’re making a fuss about. I told you years ago Nan was Aboriginal. The fact that Mum’s owned up doesn’t change anything.’ Sometimes, Jill was so logical I wanted to hit her.

  ‘Jill, it does mean something, to have admitted it. Now she might tell us more about the past. Don’t you want to know?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so, but there’s probably not much to tell.’

  ‘But that’s just it, we don’t know. There could be tons we don’t know. What other skeletons are lurking in the cupboard?’

  ‘You always did have too much imagination!’

  ‘I’m going to keep pestering her now till she tells us the whole story.’

  ‘She won’t tell you any more.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ I replied, ‘but the way I look at it, it’s a beginning. Before, we had nothing. At least now, we’ve got a beginning.’

  ‘Mum’s right about you, you should have gone on the stage.’

  When Mum popped in a week later with a large sponge cake filled with chocolate custard, I was ecstatic. Not because of the cake, but because I had a bombshell to drop, and I was anxious to get on with it. I made coffee for a change and I waited until Mum was halfway through a crumbling piece of sponge before I said, ‘I’ve applied for an Aboriginal scholarship.’

  ‘What?!’ she choked as she slammed down her mug and spat out the sponge.

  ‘There
’s an Aboriginal scholarship you can get, Mum. Anyone of Aboriginal descent is eligible to apply.’

  ‘Oh Sally, you can’t,’ Mum giggled, as if speaking to a naughty child.

  ‘Why can’t I?’ I demanded, ‘or are you going to tell me that Nan’s really Indian after all?’

  ‘Oh Sally, you’re awful,’ Mum chuckled, and then she added thoughtfully, ‘Well, why shouldn’t you apply? Nan’s had a hard life. Why shouldn’t her grandchildren get something out of it?’

  ‘Exactly,’ I replied.

  I don’t think Mum realised how deep my feelings went. It wasn’t the money I was after, I was still receiving the Repatriation scholarship. I desperately wanted to do something to identify with my new-found heritage and that was the only thing I could think of.

  When I was granted an interview for my scholarship application, Mum was amazed. I think she expected them to ignore me. She was very worried about what I was going to tell them. Mum always worried about what to tell people. It was as if the truth was never adequate, or there was something to hide.

  She had been inventing stories and making exaggerated claims since the day she was born. It was part of her personality. She found it difficult to imagine how anyone could get through life any other way, so consequently, when in response to her question about my interview, I answered, ‘I’m going to tell them the truth,’ she was flabbergasted.

  I was successful in my scholarship application, but for the next few months, I was the butt of many family jokes. We all felt shy and awkward about our new-found past. No one was sure what to do with it or about it, and none of the family could agree on whether I’d done the right thing or not. In keeping with my character, I had leapt in feet first. I wanted to do something positive. I wanted to say, ‘My grandmother’s Aboriginal and it’s a part of me too.’ I wasn’t sure where my actions would lead, and the fact that Nan remained singularly unimpressed with my efforts added only confusion to my already tenuous sense of identity.

  ‘Did Mum tell you I got the scholarship, Nan?’ I asked one day. ‘Yes. What did you tell them?’

  ‘I told them that our family was Aboriginal but that we’d been brought up to believe differently.’

  ‘What did you tell them about me?’

  ‘Nothing. So relax.’

  ‘You won’t ever tell them about me, will you, Sally? I don’t like strangers knowing our business, especially government people. You never know what they might do.’

  ‘Why are you so suspicious, Nan?’ I asked gently. She ignored my question and shuffled outside to do the garden. A sense of sadness suddenly overwhelmed me. I wanted to cry. ‘Get a grip on yourself, woman,’ I muttered. ‘You don’t even know what you want to cry about!’

  Slowly, over that year, Mum and I began to notice a change in Nan. Not a miraculous change, but a change just the same. Her interests began to extend beyond who was in the telephone box opposite our house, to world affairs. Nan had always watched the news every night on each channel if she could, but now, instead of just noting world disasters, she began to an interest in news about black people.

  If the story was sad, she’d put her hand to her mouth and say, ‘See, see what they do to black people.’ On the other hand, if black people were doing well for themselves, she’d complain, ‘Just look at them, showing off. Who do they think they are. They just black like me.’

  About this time, Nan’s favourite word became Nyoongah*. She’d heard it used on a television report and had taken an instant liking to it. To Nan, anyone dark was now Nyoongah. Africans, Burmese, American Negroes were all Nyoongahs. She identified with them. In a sense, they were her people, because they shared the common bond of blackness and the oppression that, for so long, that colour had brought. It was only a small change, but it was a beginning.

  In a strange sort of way, my life had new purpose because of that. I wondered whether, because Jill and I had accepted that part of ourselves, perhaps Nan was coming to terms with it, too. I was anxious to learn as much as I could about the past. I made a habit of taking advantage of Mum’s general good nature.

  ‘Where was Nan born, Mum?’ I asked her one day.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Up North somewhere.’

  ‘Has she ever talked to you about her life?’

  ‘You know she won’t talk about the past. She says she can’t remember.’

  ‘Do you think she does remember?’

  ‘I think so, but she thinks we’re prying, trying to hurt her.’

  ‘Mum, is there anyone who could tell me anything about Nan?’

  ‘Only Judy.’

  ‘Who? Aunty Judy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would she know anything about Nan?’

  ‘Nan worked for their family.’

  ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘Oh, you know, housework, that sort of thing.’

  ‘You mean she was a servant?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘How long did she work for them?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Sally. Why do you always bring this up? Can’t we talk about something else?’ Nearly all of our conversations ended like that.

  Amazingly, I passed my Psychology unit at the end of that year. I even scored a B. I was looking forward to my final year because there was quite a large slice about people in the course and that, after all, was what I’d come to learn about.

  By now, both Jill and I had many friends at university. All our lives, people had asked us what nationality we were, most had assumed we were Greek or Italian, but we’d always replied, ‘Indian.’ Now when we were asked, we said, ‘Aboriginal.’

  We often swapped tales of what the latest comment was. A few of our acquaintances had said, ‘Aaah, you’re only on the scholarship because of the money.’ At that time, the Aboriginal allowance exceeded the allowance most students got. We felt embarrassed when anyone said that, because we knew that that must be how it seemed. We had suddenly switched our allegiance from India to Aboriginal Australia and I guess, in their eyes, they could see no reason why we would do that except for the money.

  Sometimes, people would say, ‘But you’re lucky, you’d never know you were that, you could pass for anything.’ Many students reacted with am embarrassed silence. Perhaps that was the worst reaction of all. It was like we’d said a forbidden word. Others muttered, ‘Oh, I’m sorry …’ and when they realised what they were saying, they just sort of faded away.

  Up until now, if we thought about it, we’d both thought Australia was the least racist country in the world, now we knew better. I began to wonder what it was like for Aboriginal people with really dark skin and broad features, how did Australians react to them? How had white Australians reacted to my grandmother in the past, was that the cause of her bitterness?

  About halfway through that year, 1973, I received a brief note from the Commonwealth Department of Education, asking me to come in for an interview with a senior officer of the department. I was scared stiff.

  Two days later, I sat nervously in the waiting area. I had pains in my stomach. I always got pains in my stomach when I was nervous. I’d been for interviews before, but always with more junior staff of the department. The senior people never usually concerned themselves with trifling matters like students, they were more concerned with important things, like administration. Several people walked past and eyed me curiously. I suddenly had the distinct impression that something was very wrong.

  ‘You may go in now,’ the woman at the reception desk suddenly said.

  ‘Thanks,’ I smiled and walked slowly into the office.

  ‘Mrs Morgan,’ the senior officer said as I sat down. ‘We’ll get straight to the point. We have received information, from what appears to be a very reliable source, that you have obtained the Aboriginal scholarship under false pretences. This person, who is a close friend of you and your sister, has told us that you have been bragging all over the university campus abut how easy it is to obtain the scholarship without
even being Aboriginal. Apparently, you’ve been saying that anyone can get it.’

  I was so amazed at the ridiculousness of the accusation that I burst out laughing. That was a great tactical error on my part.

  ‘This is no laughing matter! This is a very serious offence. Have you lied to this department? I want to hear what you have to say for yourself.’

  I felt very angry. It was obvious I had been judged guilty already, and I knew why. It was because Jill and I were doing well. The department never expected any of their Aboriginal students to do well at tertiary studies. They would have considered it more in keeping if we both failed consistently.

  ‘Who made the complaint?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. We promised confidentiality.’

  ‘It was no friend of ours.’

  ‘This person is a student and knows you both extremely well.’ ‘But that doesn’t add up. If they know us really well, they would have been to our home and met my grandmother and mother, in which case they’d never had made this complaint.’

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘You’ve obviously already judged me guilty, what else can I say?’

  ‘I expected more than that from you. You don’t seem very keen to prove your innocence. You do realise that this is a most serious offence?’

  I’d had it by then. ‘Look,’ I said angrily, ‘when I applied for this scholarship, I told your people everything I knew about my family, it was their decision to grant me a scholarship, so if there’s any blame to be laid, it’s your fault, not mine. How do you expect me to prove anything? What would you like me to do, bring my grandmother and mother in and parade them up and down so you can all have a look? There’s no way I’ll do that, even if you tell me to. I’d rather lose the allowance. It’s my word against whoever complained, so it’s up to you to decide, isn’t it?’

  My heart was pounding fiercely. It was very difficult for me to stand up for myself, I wasn’t used to dealing with authority figures so directly. No wonder Mum and Nan didn’t like dealing with government people, I thought. They don’t give you a chance.