I am pleased to say that attitudes towards Aborigines have changed. Their culture, and especially their art and dances, are accepted and enjoyed all over the world. Aboriginal people everywhere are making sojourns to their traditional land, searching for their roots, their history and their heritage.
One thing I find most interesting is that with the resurgence of the popularity and the spreading of Aboriginal culture, many well-known Aboriginal identities have gone to the extent of adopting traditional Aboriginal names, proudly announcing to the world that they have a heritage, a history, and are proud to be recognised as an Australian Aborigine.
There were quite a few children like myself who never forgot some special words. Those in authority were successful in changing our attitudes towards Aboriginal culture. Yet they couldn’t remove the words. The words stayed with us. Words remained in our sub-conscious mind despite the intensive conditioning by those in authority. Mardu words such as marmu (devil) and marlba, meaning malevolent spirits, and mabarn, a term used to describe the Mardu doctor or medicine man. Or it can be any objects that have magical powers to heal, recover lost property and avenge those who have harmed you.
The word mabarn was recalled instantly when my stepmother Winnie mentioned in whispered tones that my father had to visit the Mabarn man. I understood exactly what she meant. Memories of a cold, blustery, windy day at the camps at the Moore River Settlement came flooding back. My friend Shirley Riley and I (both seven or eight at the time) were taken out to dinner by Shirl’s married sister Nora Walton. Two chooks were killed and cleaned for the occasion, and we were given a giblet each. We were absolutely delighted when we saw the unusual geometrical design on them. We rushed to the nearest shrubs where we dug holes and buried them. “This gunna be our mubarns eh Kady,” Shirley said seriously. I nodded in agreement as we returned to the camp. The aroma of curried chicken floated towards us.
“Where are those giblets you girls? Bring them here, I want to clean and cook them for yous now,” Nora told us.
“...Clean...”, “...cook....” We looked at each other across the open fire. Shirley was pouting in disappointment, mirroring my feelings exactly, for in that moment all our hopes of obtaining magical powers vanished immediately.
I am pleased that those years of fear and uncertainty are behind me now and my knowledge of my traditional culture is constantly expanding. Although I don’t participate in the religious activities, I am well aware of their significance and also of the roles the participants play in them. As a family member I can choose whether to become involved or to remain a casual observer. I now converse and communicate in Mardu Wangka and listen more intently as the Dreamtime stories are told so that I can share them with my children and grand-children. This is my heritage, this is theirs too.
It wasn’t until after my marriage to Kent Williamson, the handsome, charming, garrulous man with wavy auburn coloured hair and the mischievous green eyes, that I began to question the relevance of my Christian values and how to apply them in a negative situation such as a marriage breakdown. Ideally we weren’t supposed to fall out of love, under any circumstances.
I fell in love with him when I saw him lying on his side chewing on a stalk of a yellow sour grass plant. It was there I perceived and desired the man of my dreams. There could be no one else. On that day on Bill and Betty Hammond’s farm east of Dorrington, youth and spring had all the ingredients to nurture and develop into a full blown romance.
I still have visions (though they are vague) of the vivacious self-confident young woman full of gaiety and expectation of love, sitting on a large grey rocky granite—my special place—sharing this lovely view with this handsome young man at my side.
Beauty and colour were everywhere, in every direction as far as the eyes could see. The farm in the springtime was beauteous, bountiful and blessed and Dorrington was unforgettable. Spread out all around us was a gigantic patchwork quilt of nature: the verdant green fields of wheat, barley and oats, paddocks of golden dandelions, the pale lemon-coloured sour grass plants, the pink, white and yellow everlastings covering every available space under the wattle thickets along the fences.
How many times had I stood on top of this rock and felt an uncontrollable urge to sing a certain hymn appropriate for the mood and sight. It was a favourite song of everyone.
There is spring time in my soul today,
More glorious and bright
The little ones who didn’t know the words of the verse would join in the chorus with gusto and enthusiasm.
Oh there’s sunshine, blessed sunshine,
Where the peaceful happy moments roll,
When Jesus shows his smiling face
There is sunshine in my soul.
I felt like a mountain goat, surefooted, full of life and expectations. The world was at my feet.
Dressed in dark blue serge trousers and a red, black and white checked shirt, Kent Williamson tried desperately to convince me that sexual intercourse was a ritual, an act of love performed anywhere, at any time by a couple in love.
I reminded him that I grew up with rigid Victorian values and codes of behaviour reinforced by the bible. Warnings against human follies were strongly supported by adages, proverbs, texts and quotes from the bible. I never realised before that I had certainly lived a sheltered life.
“Go no further than kissing,” warned Mrs Hammond. “Tell him that you’ll accept nothing less than a wedding ring.”
I heeded her advice and I never weakened.
Our marriage took place at the Dorrington Church of Christ, performed by the Rev. John Crowley. My matron-of-honour was my best friend Jane Walters, and my junior bridesmaid was Annette Hammond. Both wore ballerina length dresses of leschenault-blue organza with puffed sleeves, carrying bouquets of pink roses, and pink everlastings, and coronets of pink roses in their hair. I wore a traditional-length gown of white satin, and carried a bouquet of white roses, frangipani and white honeysuckle, and borrowed Mrs Hammond’s long lace veil.
The groom, his best man and groomsman (his brothers Paul and Garry) wore pale grey suits, white shirts and blue ties. It was the happiest day of my life. I was given away by Mr Hammond, my boss and friend. The reception was held at the church hall and was attended by all of the Hammonds and all of the members of the Young Peoples Christian Endeavour Union. “A dry wedding,” sniffed Sara Jane, Kent’s mother, because no alcohol was served.
My heart was full of happiness as I accompanied my new husband back to settle in his hometown of Geraldton, a beautiful coastal town north of Perth. To me marriage was a goal achieved, a fulltime career and more importantly a sacred institution.
It was my fundamentalist Christian ideals that created so much confusion; its conflicting views and contradictions that caused my breakdown.
We have romantic role models for falling in love, those who have set the behavioural patterns for lovers, but there are no role models for getting out of love, are there?
You see, I couldn’t understand, and I bewailed the fickleness of a man’s love. For years I had to endure the selfishness of a charming husband who was unfaithful and disloyal at every opportunity.
What a trusting and naive wife I was then. Even when he didn’t return home at the weekends. There was nothing mysterious with his absences, there was no need to be alarmed or concerned. His explanations and excuses were nearly always plausible. And besides he was always considerate and caring. I never doubted his word and accepted his denial of everything. Why shouldn’t I, our marriage vows were sacred weren’t they? Or so I thought.
As the years rolled by, things got worse, his attitude towards me changed drastically. I found myself contending with unfair condemnation, cursing and swearing, using descriptions and vile names I never heard in my entire life.
I had to endure barbed remarks which were just as painful as physical violence. These attacks came at regular intervals. There were insulting accusations implying that I had slept with every man I had any kind o
f contact with.
My mother-in-law Sara Jane’s behaviour was no better. She was a vicious and vindictive woman. I never understood why I was singled out as her victim to humiliate and intimidate. Perhaps it was my Christian upbringing that was my downfall. “Respect your elders,” we were taught—even when they didn’t deserve it. My attitude must have been interpreted as meekness, and I was a person “to be set upon”. “Condone their follies, forgive their faults.” It was easy to be rhetorical and sit in judgment from afar but what was I meant to do, suffer humiliation “until death do us part”?
No way. If I am to be restored to a strong individual, a woman in my own right, I need to grab with both hands the separation that is offered. There is no hope of reconciliation. I know now he is incapable of remaining devoted to me, I must accept that and pick up the pieces, care for and love my children and start a new life. I have resolved never to get involved with anyone again, though I still have the unconscious desire to be appreciated and loved.
Holding steadfast to my Christian beliefs almost ruined my life. I was fast becoming a neurotic woman addicted to Valium. I was rescued from this fate by some strong and practical advice from my dearest friend and matron-of-honour at my wedding, Jane Walters.
“Go back to study. Do something different,” she advised.
I took her advice and enrolled at the Geraldton Technical College and faced the most difficult challenge of my life. For a middle-aged woman whose formal education never passed the primary stage, this task was daunting.
Two years later I applied and was accepted as a student with the Aboriginal Bridging Course at the Western Australian Institute of Technology. Kent couldn’t resist the temptation. He just had to call in just as we were about to leave for Perth. “You’ll never make it. You’re too dumb,” he said.
Midway through the course I was almost convinced that he was right. But I wasn’t giving him the pleasure of saying “I told you so”. I may have lacked confidence at times but not stamina, persistence and determination.
And so with my friend David Larsen’s support and encouragement I took advantage of the means of study and I was able to complete the Aboriginal Bridging Course successfully.
My first contact with David Larsen was at the official welcoming ceremony for the incoming students. Regular interaction and socialisation between the tertiary and the ABC students on the campus brought us together often. I felt comfortable with this quiet, sensitive caring man. He wasn’t as handsome as Kent Williamson. He was average looking, fair haired, tall and slender, but he had other qualities that I admired in a man. He was the grandson of a Danish sojourner from Copenhagen. Father of three grown-up children, he was divorced from his wife because life with him was “dull and boring”. His interests were reading, films and fishing. At that stage in my life I was convinced that I had become frigid and unable to share an intimate relationship. I was content to leave things as they were, sharing friendship and companionship.
The Graduation
It was 4 o’clock in the afternoon and the heat was unbearable, so still and sweltering. The Fremantle Doctor was late coming in as usual. I had planned to sleep through it, but my three boisterous grandsons decided otherwise. There was only one place left where I could relax and reflect on events and incidents of the past year, and that was the bathroom.
So for the next twenty minutes I soaked in a tepid bath undisturbed.
Three years ago the chances of furthering my education were so remote that even doing a course at a TAFE college seemed highly unlikely. Yet here I am on this hot November afternoon preparing for a very special evening—the graduation ceremony of the Aboriginal Bridging Course students 1981 at the Western Australian Institute of Technology. There are eighteen graduates, sixteen women and only two men; the females outnumber the males once again. This is a statement in itself and one that should dispel the myth that has persisted throughout the decades that women are merely “breeders, feeders and follow the leaders”. We see ourselves as strivers and survivors. Our contribution not only to Aboriginal society but to the wider community is well documented. Women hold prominent positions and are attaining increasingly important roles in administration at all levels in welfare, education, business and the arts.
There are a few students like myself still suffering low self-esteem and the effects of traumatic experiences. A couple of students who have had little or no contact with Aboriginal people were going through an identity crisis. Thankfully, all these problems have been overcome and adjustments made by the end of the course. I readily adjusted to city life but found it extremely difficult being a fulltime mature-aged student on a tertiary campus. But persistence and determination paid off in the long run. All the study and hard work had come to fruition, and I want to look my best this evening.
Later as I sat at my dresser the reflection in the mirror showed a fairly attractive woman with careworn lines around the eyes and greying around the temples. A grandmother of forty-one years, this woman with dark neatly trimmed hair brushed up into a flattering style. It was normally straight, thick and lacked lustre. But today it was glossy and seemed to make my dark eyes look brighter. Later when my daughter Vicki completed the facial makeup, she stood back and surveyed her handiwork. She nodded, satisfied with the results, “Mum you look different, beautiful in fact. A little bit of makeup, a bit of colour here and there, especially mauves and blues really suits you, you should wear it often.”
I was flattered. I have never worn makeup before. My Christian principles disallowed and discouraged with adages such as “A little bit of powder, a little bit of paint, makes a lady what she aint.”
When David Larsen, my companion and escort, called to pick me up, I could see that he approved of my new image—my glamorous, flattering appearance
“Gee, Kate you look lovely,” he said.
I am glad I chose to wear the mauve and white suit with matching white shoes. I felt all bubbly and beautiful as we drove to the campus at Bentley.
The day that I strived for these past three years had finally arrived. And as I took my place in the second row with my fellow graduates, the class of ’81, I became acutely aware of the ambience—an atmosphere filled with nervous anticipation and excitement that seemed to permeate the entire length and breadth of the Hollis Theatre.
However, my nervousness and anxiety quickly disappeared as I stepped on to the podium to receive a handshake and a certificate from the dean of the faculty of education.
This ceremony may have been regarded by a few as just another graduation ceremony: a presentation of rhetorics and concluding with the usual congratulatory speeches, followed by a vote of thanks and an invitation to share refreshments at the main cafeteria. But to me the ceremony signified something special. It meant that I had reached yet another goal in my life—a personal achievement worth sharing with an audience—one that I had doubted I would ever attain. Seated amongst the audience, sharing this special moment with me were my four very proud children, their spouses and my five grandchildren.
Firstly there was my eldest child Kevin James, 21, a plant operator with Carnarvon Shire Council, and his attractive wife Helen and their two sons Richard, 3, and Paul, 1.
Next to them were my daughter Vicki, 19, clerk/typist with the Department of Social Security, Cannington, her husband Marty Harris, trainee welfare assistant at a juvenile centre, and their sons Peter, 5, and Shane, 4.
Marise my youngest daughter came down from Port Hedland with her handsome husband Johnny Morgan and my only and beautiful granddaughter Jasmine, 3. At 17 Marise still looked too young to be a mother—just a baby herself.
Kent, the baby of the family, a sixteen-year-old apprenticed motor mechanic, intended joining his father and uncles on the Main Roads Board (Murchinson Area) when he qualified.
With the formalities over, the refreshments devoured and enjoyed, everything was going perfectly. There were more congratulatory hugs and kisses from fellow students, family and friends. But my high
est accolade came from my eldest son Kevin James who waved and yelled before disappearing around the corner, “Well done Mother duck, we’re all proud of you.” I was proud of me too, the only grandmother in the class.
That evening was still mine, as my friend David cheerfully reminded me. Next on the agenda was a celebration party at Dulcie Miller’s home in Como. Dulcie was a second year social work student—the same year as my friend David—and she was the most helpful and popular person on campus. Many of us benefited from her support and informative discussions.
David and I didn’t go directly to Como but drove to South Perth to the foreshore and sat on the edge of the river’s cool grassy banks.
“I brought a bottle of champagne but forgot to bring two glasses,” he said apologetically. “But I hope you don’t mind using this.” He handed me a small plastic bottle of orange juice.
Mind, I didn’t mind at all—unromantic though it may seem. Starting off with an orange juice, followed by an orange and champagne cocktail and ending with champagne. It sounded perfectly wonderful to me.
Some time later David took the empties and deposited them into the nearest rubbish bin. I walked and stood on the edge of the foreshore and gazed wistfully across the river to the brightly lit city with its scores of twinkling lights and colourful neon signs that seem to enhance the beauty and the brilliance of our night-time capital city. I listened to the humming and the throbbing of the city itself, and watched the twin head lights of the moving traffic; going to and fro; in and out; full of purpose, either going home or going out.
This beautiful view was reflected in the river’s edge on the opposite side. Though now the twinkling lights seemed to be multiplied many times to become streaks of brilliance and colour. The transformation was magical. The normally murky brown Swan River seemed to be momentarily transformed into a huge mirror. In the darkness the ripples and the low swell lapped against the shoreline, breaking and rejoining in an endless movement, never stopping, never still.
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