Not Just Black and White

by Lesley Williams

  Fresh from the humiliation of being labelled a nigger, and of the ongoing involvement in my mother’s campaign for the return of Aboriginal workers’ wages, there was no other issue that captured my attention more than discrimination in society and the inequality it causes. But the nagging, self-doubting voice inside my head questioned whether I had the ability to express myself on paper. There would be tens of thousands of children vying for the chance to travel to ‘Neverland’. Just because I could write school assignments didn’t mean I would be good enough to enter a nationwide competition: Who do I think I am to believe I’d be good enough?

  For several days I believed this voice. Yet as each day passed, the decision to do nothing – not to write, not to honour my instincts but give way to self-doubt – gnawed at me. The unease of not writing then became just as disturbing as the voice of doubt. I was confused by these polarising feelings and sought the advice of a teacher.

  Since the ‘nigger incident’ a number of my teachers – Ms King, Mr Hoskings, Ms Dargusch and Mrs Smith – each took me under their wing and encouraged me to remain focused on my schoolwork. They gave me the confidence to believe, when I didn’t, that I was a good student capable of a bright future. Ms King taught English, theatre and drama, and her bubbly personality made her a clear favourite with most of the students. She was someone I trusted and who I knew wouldn’t laugh at the nerve of me contemplating entering the competition.

  ‘Don’t consider it a contest; instead, use the process as a healing exercise,’ she urged, bolstering my spirits. ‘You will be surprised by how therapeutic it is to capture your thoughts in writing. If you then decide to enter the competition with your essay, you have absolutely nothing to lose. Winning, of course, would be terrific, but even if you don’t at least you’ve had the chance to work through the emotional issues affecting you.’

  I went home and wrote late into the night:

  Imagine if we all lived in a world where inequity had no place in society. No matter how disadvantaged you were, you would always be considered equal to the rest of the world …

  My pen moved in waves of inspiration. One page, two and soon three – the words flowed easily as I drew strength from my experiences. The grammar was less than perfect, the content far from scholarly, and the handwriting not very neat. But it was a letter written with heartfelt conviction, along with the simple beauty that comes with that, as well as the flaws. I wrote of the effects of racism on those who are victims, and of their need for role models. The letter was as much about educating the reader about racism and inequity as it was about healing the author. Each page was decorated with eye-catching Aboriginal motifs I’d traced and coloured around the border. The letter ended after five pages, with a final message to the reader:

  Before I go, I wish to share with you a poem which I can relate to and I know other people would feel the same way. Unfortunately I am unaware of the poet but I truly believe he or she must have suffered some form of inequity in their lifetime:

  When I’m born, I’m black

  When I’m young, I’m black

  When I’m sunburnt, I’m black

  When I’m cold, I’m black

  When I’m old, I’m black

  When I’m dead, I’m black

  But when they’re born, they’re white

  When they’re young, they’re yellow

  When they’re sunburnt, they’re red

  When they’re cold, they’re blue

  When they’re old, they’re grey

  When they’re dead, they’re purple

  And they still have the nerve to call me coloured!

  Thank you for allowing me this opportunity to express my true feelings about inequity being the biggest problem in the world. I will continue to express this view until the world’s attitude changes.

  Yours faithfully

  Tammy Williams

  xox

  After I had signed off, I felt a release of emotion, but my uneasy ambivalence about the quality of the letter persisted, until I posted it. Then this sense changed to a knowing – a quiet and poised confidence – that I’d soon be heading off to ‘Neverland’.

  V

  Beyond the Gates of ‘Neverland’

  ‘It felt like I had a second chance at my childhood. And that helped heal and change the adult I’d become.’

  Chapter 29

  Tammy

  April 1995. A large brown gate manned by a guard marked the entrance to the home of the world’s most flamboyant performer, Michael Jackson. The country scenery was unremarkable. From the main road there was nothing much to be seen – no amusement-park rides, over-the-top mansions or zoo animals anywhere. Instead, well-fed cows ambled about on the grass wilting under the Californian sun.

  As we were driven up the private roadway that continued deeper into the Santa Ynez Valley, the landscape unfolded to reveal the storybook haven the tabloids wrote about. Before our eyes lay a shimmering lake and beds of golden marigolds, bright against acres of emerald grass. Enormous trees arched across the property, like ancient mystical creatures, their bark skin worn and craggy. Like a loving grandparent keen for a cuddle, the old trees’ branches stretched outward, beckoning to be climbed on.

  The driveway continued over a stone-arched bridge and towards a Tudor-style ranch. And there, standing out the front to meet us, was the legendary Michael Jackson – and his wife of less than twelve months, Lisa-Marie Presley. So of course, the world’s media were there in droves – even a helicopter hovered overhead – eager to catch a glimpse of the newlyweds at home surounded by hordes of kids.

  Although it was surreal, I did have some prior warning. The executive director of the Heal the World Foundation had been in contact with me the day before we arrived. ‘Tammy, I have been asked to invite you to be the chief spokesperson at the press conference scheduled tomorrow at Neverland Valley ranch. There will of course be significant media interest in the World Children’s Congress. However, Mr and Mrs Jackson would like the focus to remain on the young people and not on them. Do you feel comfortable speaking to the media? Have you had any experience?’ he asked.

  ‘Umm, well, I have spoken previously … to the Gympie Times,’ I said, proudly recalling my recent interview with our local paper. The Queensland Sunday Mail and a few local television outlets had also got wind of my impending trip to ‘Neverland’ and interviewed me. Despite the director not being familiar with the Gympie Times, he must’ve thought my experience was enough to let me progress onto the international stage.

  Not long after arriving at ‘Neverland’, I was separated from the other children. With their parents, they’d boarded a steam train that would take them to the other side of the property – where the movie theatre, amusement rides and zoo were located; I was to follow after the press conference. I was led behind the Jackson house, where I received instructions from the PR advisor and a few words of encouragement, while my mother lingered protectively nearby.

  I tried to forget about the helicopter and the scrum of reporters that waited around the corner. To calm my nerves I thought of Mum – how she had the guts to speak publicly at rallies in her fight for Aboriginal workers’ wages, despite her speech impediment. I was so intent on psyching myself up that I practically ignored – but for some small talk and smiles – the presence of my host standing nearby in a courtyard. I had long been a diehard fan, and Michael Jackson was my childhood role model and a person I’d sworn I’d someday meet. But this was not the time to act like a crazed fan. There was more at stake than asking for an autograph.

  The pressure was on. I had to focus. I wanted to show the foundation’s director and Mr Jackson that their selection of me wasn’t a mistake – that, although I had limited experience, I could, if I put my mind to it, be as good as anyone else.

  In my hands were ‘thank-you’ gifts – of Aboriginal art and traditional artefacts, bro
ught from Australia. I clutched the objects like a security blanket, not ready to let them go. The decoratively painted nulla-nulla, a traditional hunting tool and occasional weapon, was a symbol of my journey. It reminded me of where I had come from and what I had fought to overcome, to be standing there, inside the gates of ‘Neverland’.

  ‘Are you ready, Tammy?’ someone asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I beamed – ready as I could ever be, at age seventeen, to give my first international press conference.

  I walked out with the other young spokespeople to where the media was assembled in the foreground of Michael Jackson’s home. From this point on, though, my memories of the event are a little patchy, perhaps because of the adrenaline that was running through my body. Some things I recall: the news crews appeared to lunge forward and jostle for their place in the scrum as we appeared, feverishly adjusting their lighting and testing their equipment before the interview started.

  ‘Move back and give them some space,’ one of the PR people told them, ‘they are only kids.’ I wasn’t sure where to look or which reporter to talk to; there were so many different ones pointing microphones towards my face.

  Other details, like what I said and how long the press conference lasted, would be lost to memory except for the newspaper clippings and recorded footage that were shown on the evening news in the United States and back home in Australia. These mementoes, along with other keepsakes Mum and I received throughout the conference, serve as a lovely reminder of our time at ‘Neverland’ and reassure us, it wasn’t simply a dream.

  For us, being at ‘Neverland’, with its bright green grass and colourful flowerbeds was, in more ways than one, an oasis in the parched Californian landscape. The spectacular surroundings and warmth of the staff made it easy to forget the stresses of the world outside. Tiny pixies and elf-like figurines were sprinkled like fairy-dust throughout the enchanted gardens. They sat beneath flower petals or beside memorable quotations etched in sandstone. With a little imagination they sprung to life, fluttering their wings and waving their magical wands.

  Soft music filled the valley, coming from what appeared to be common garden stones. These cheery sounds mixed well with the scent of fresh popcorn and melted butter, wafting like an alluring perfume from the movie theatre. Inside, smartly dressed attendants stood behind a candy-counter ready to serve the forty guests and their parents. Ice creams, drinks, chocolates and lollies – all the young moviegoer’s usual favourites – were stocked neatly on display.

  ‘How much are they?’ I asked, pointing to the limited edition Moonwalker chocolates made in Switzerland, especially for patrons. The attendant smiled at my naivety.

  ‘At “Neverland” everything is free.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Yes. The candy, popcorn and soda, and rides on the steam train and in the amusement park are free too,’ the attendant gestured. ‘You and your mom can even take a horse-and-carriage ride to visit the zoo and see the baby animal farm … it’s all free. But what we like is good manners,’ he smiled, sounding like Willy Wonka in the chocolate factory.

  I’m not sure at what point freedom of choice – to choose anything you want with little restriction – turns into greediness and becomes a vice? Without doubt there were times when Mum and I crossed the line in this paradise, tempted by more than our stomachs could comfortably hold, like the gluttonous Augustus Gloop in the Roald Dahl parable. But a consequence of such unbridled freedom was a novel experience for us: the liberty to live totally free from worry and concern. It was the first time since the bean patch, when at age five I got an inkling that money was tight, that my choices weren’t second-guessed by guilt or remorse. Here, I had the freedom for the first time ever to choose from a menu based on my appetite and not on cost, to enjoy a good time, without wondering whether my family could afford it or not.

  ‘Neverland’ was not just a haven where I could marvel at the surroundings. It was a sanctuary for the mind, for both my mother and me. In all of my childhood memories seriousness shadowed her. Even when she laughed and joked, she would soon revert to deep thoughts. I can only imagine what she must have been thinking, as she raised the three of us by herself in those circumstances. Over the years her intense concentration and constant worries manifested, making her look and act older than she was. That was until she arrived at ‘Neverland’.

  I’m not sure what came over her, because the change was sudden. One minute she was standing beside me in Michael Jackson’s amusement park, and the next minute, she was gone. I looked up and caught a glimpse of her holding the reins of a carousel pony. Music began to play and the ride’s lights started flashing – almost as bright as the toothy grin Mum flashed towards me, each time she swept past. I stood there and watched her, the same way she’d once watched me when I was a child – on the merry-go-round at the Gympie Show – without a care in the world.

  Lesley

  Hey, knock it off – you make it sound like I was bloody Tinkerbell running around with Peter Pan! But seriously, I can understand what Michael Jackson meant when he explained his reason for creating ‘Neverland’, because he didn’t have much of a childhood. Sure, I have lots of happy memories from my childhood days – of growing up in the Camp with Granny and Grandfather, Ma and Pa, and the rest of the family. But I have good memories only because we were prepared to make the most out of what little we had. With a bit of imagination, a fence paling became a cricket bat, and a rusty tin can and strand of wire became a steamroller. We’d spend hours inventing games and making up our own fun with the other children.

  For a blackfulla living in the Camp, you could say we had a happy childhood, but we didn’t know or expect any better. Compared with the superintendent and white officials’ children – or almost all whitefullas living outside in the wider Australian community – were our childhoods good? Yes, I thought so. But when I learned, through all the research I did, of the unnecessary suffering of our people, it ate away at the happy childhood memories I did have. Then as an adult, I became bitter and angry, thinking about all we had missed out on. The fact that we felt happy was testament to the love and resilience in our own family.

  At ‘Neverland’ I couldn’t help but feel like a child all over again – a lucky child. I climbed into a tree house, picked flowers, lay on the soft spongy grass, patted the baby farm animals, ate chocolate bars and popcorn … I even drove around in a bloody motorised go-kart! I did everything this old body of mine could handle. It felt like I had a second chance at my childhood. And that helped heal and change the adult I’d become.

  Tammy

  By the second day at ‘Neverland’, the flashing neon lights of the amusement park didn’t look as bright and enticing. We were no longer content to gorge ourselves with chocolates and popcorn or dash between rides. Mum and I sat by the water fountain, watching the rides twist and twirl nearby. Although we loved the experience and were grateful for the opportunity, getting a sugar fix or an adrenaline rush was not the reason that I had penned the letter and entered the competition. Nor was it the reason our host had given, when explaining why he invited forty children and their parents from around the globe to ‘Neverland’.

  ‘Mr Jackson?’ I said after the press conference, away from the lenses of the media. He seemed surprised by my address and began to blush.

  ‘Oh please,’ he said kindly in his typical falsetto voice. ‘Please, call me Michael.’

  I didn’t want to be presumptuous and assume I knew him. After all, I only knew ‘of him’ through the pictures in glossy magazines and, of course, his voice – but I didn’t know Michael, the person. Besides, I was a child and he was an adult. My mother raised me to be respectful of elders and not to call them by their first names, unless they had introduced themselves to me as such, as he did.

  ‘Michael, why did you hold this children’s conference, and fly us all out to “Neverland”?’

  He said: ‘It ha
s been a dream of mine to make the lives of children better, through my Heal the World Foundation. So I wanted to hear directly from you – the children – what you see, through your eyes, as being the main problems in the world and how they should be solved.’

  As the week-long conference progressed, I reflected on his words. If I remained distracted by the entertainment, I would be squandering the opportunity to contribute usefully and grow as a person – and it would also be a waste of Michael Jackson’s money, I thought to myself. In which case, any of the thousands of young people in Australia who also wrote letters and entered the competition would’ve been a more deserving winner than me.

  The generosity shown to us by the foundation was overwhelming. The airfares, food and five-star accommodation in Beverly Hills when we arrived in Los Angeles – everything was paid for and every detail taken care of. Even before leaving Australian shores, Michael Jackson’s record company, Sony, arranged for the clothing store Sportsgirl to provide me with a new wardrobe – they must have been sensitive to the likelihood that our family’s finances were tight. On top of all that, to be bestowed with the responsibility at the conference of speaking to the world’s media on behalf of the world’s children – never had so many people believed in me and shown us such kindness and generosity. I was immensely grateful, hardly able to justify all of the attention

  ‘I suppose you gotta make the most of the opportunity,’ Mum encouraged me, bending down to pick a sunny marigold.