Not Just Black and White

by Lesley Williams

  After our tour, we stayed in Los Angeles with Debbie Scott and Rodney McMahon, whom we’d met earlier at ‘Neverland’. Rodney was Michael’s videographer and, at the time, was filming footage associated with his new album, HIStory. After the shoot, Rodney would return home late at night and keenly document my story, with the help of friends in the entertainment industry. They were surprised – as were we – about how little the American public, at least during the 1990s, knew about Aboriginal culture. Fresh in people’s minds was the movie Crocodile Dundee and, for many, that was the extent of their knowledge of Australia and its Indigenous people. Others who’d never seen Crocodile Dundee, especially school-age children, had even less of an idea.

  ‘Do you wear clothes or walk around naked?’ they’d ask. ‘Do you cook in a kitchen on a stove, or outside on a fire?’

  The children didn’t mean to be offensive; they just genuinely didn’t know anything about Aboriginal people. Besides, how could I be insulted by their questions when I was just as ignorant as them?

  Word spread throughout each of the communities we visited and soon we became inundated with speaking requests. People welcomed us to their schools and asked us to join them for dinner, so they could have their own cultural awareness training. In just one week Tammy and I spoke to twenty-four different groups, all keen to meet the ‘visiting Aboriginals’.

  I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but somewhere on our travels I lost my nervous stutter, or more accurately, my stammer became much less obvious. This gave me confidence to keep speaking in public; knowing that my words and thoughts were flowing more freely. The more I talked publicly, the more comfortable I became with my voice and the way it sounded.

  Tammy

  While Mum saw the similarities in the disadvantage suffered by minority groups in America, I saw what was possible through their successes.

  When we left Australia in 1995, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders made up only about two per cent of the nation’s total population (eighteen million, as it was then). Because there were so few, it wasn’t until Mum and I boarded our first plane that I’d ever seen a black flight attendant before, let alone a pilot. Mum gazed proudly at the smartly dressed attendant, as if she were her own offspring; and for most of the trip I too couldn’t stop staring. The fact that the black flight attendant remains such a standout memory for me speaks volumes. Although I grew up with positive words of encouragement from my mother, it was actually seeing black people in significant roles that helped me to believe we could do anything. Seeing such role models with whom I could identify was especially important for me, and I think it still is for young Aboriginal people today.

  For years I’d noticed that few of my role models resembled me – doctors, bank tellers, judges, teachers, even fictional roles on television had skin tones that were different from mine, all bar Clair Huxtable. The glamorous flight attendant was a living and breathing example of what was achievable and not merely imaginable. Of course, when we arrived in Los Angeles and saw more people of colour working in jobs across all levels of society, the idea was reinforced that I truly could choose any career pathway I wanted.

  We spent a few weeks in Los Angeles before I attended the World Summit of Children in San Francisco with Michael Jackson’s staff from the Heal the World Foundation. Our host, Debbie Scott, and the foundation’s events co-ordinator, Marilyn Hopkins, kept feeding me positive affirmations to go with the powerful images I was already seeing.

  ‘Bubba girl, you are all that,’ Marilyn cooed like the older sister I’d always wanted, ‘but if only you realised it.’

  I looked away, embarrassed by the praise. But here lay the problem. I had to start believing in myself, the way others did.

  ‘The moment you finally understand your potential, Tammy, is when you will start achieving your full potential,’ she added.

  With those words of encouragement and the phenomenal experiences of the previous three months, I was ready to embrace the next chapter in my already blessed life.

  *

  In June 1995 I joined 130 youth delegates from forty-five countries in San Francisco at the World Summit of Children. One of the intended outcomes was to compile a report, to be presented later to the United Nations Committee on the Rights of the Child, on the progress governments worldwide have made in honouring their international commitments to children. The summit coincided with the official fiftieth anniversary celebrations of the signing of the Charter of the United Nations. Dignitaries and leaders had descended on San Francisco, the site of the charter’s signing half a century before, to honour the significance of the occasion.

  Lesley

  The Mistress of Ceremonies, Shirley Temple Black, the former Hollywood child star and now politician, walked onto centre stage, signalling the start of the dedication ceremony of the newly named United Nations Plaza. On 26 June 1945 – just one year before I was born – its founding members, including Australia, signed the Charter of the United Nations. I had grown up oblivious to its existence, and then when I did finally discover that such a document existed, I wondered how it applied to us blackfullas, living under the oppressive Protection Act. Yet somehow, through a strange twist of fate, I was now sitting among its leaders, half a world away from Cherbourg, waiting to hear my own child speak at the official United Nations celebrations.

  Tammy and a handful of youth ambassadors from the summit were invited to open the proceedings with a recital of the Preamble to the Charter of the United Nations. Snipers, armed with rifles, were strategically positioned on top of buildings, and dark-suited men with communication wires coming out of their ears, prowled through the audience without a hint of a smile.

  I always got nervous when Tammy gave a speech, even when she had been part of the high-school debating team. The thought of my daughter standing on stage, and in the middle of all this, made me especially uneasy – only three months earlier, in April, a bomb had exploded in Oklahoma City, killing 168 innocent people. Since then, government buildings all over the United States had been placed on high alert. With leaders, such as the United Nations Secretary-General Boutros Boutros-Ghali and Archbishop Desmond Tutu, gathered in the United Nations Plaza, the US authorities wanted to ensure their security wasn’t going to be compromised by an assassination or terrorist attack.

  I started to panic and think irrational thoughts about the safety of my daughter, and all the other young people. Who was going to protect them? What could I do, from my seat in the audience? Besides, I was here as a chaperone – to ensure my underage child didn’t get up to mischief – I didn’t sign up to be a friggin’ bodyguard!

  Life – our life – seemed surreal in that strange and frightening moment. It’d been a whirlwind experience in the twelve weeks since Tammy and I had left Australia en route to ‘Neverland’. I thought we’d return with some memories and an autograph or two, and then we’d revert to our old way of life, with me worrying about my ‘troubled teenager’. Yet here I was catching a glimpse of her between the heads of the dignitaries seated in the rows in front of me – the seventeen year old I’d been fretting about. There she stood, confidently, on stage and seemingly oblivious to the drama that could unfold around her. In only mere weeks, my daughter had transformed from an inexperienced schoolgirl to a worldly young woman. It all happened so fast.

  But then again, I always knew she’d make something of herself, the same way her older brothers had already done before her. Ah Willie, you would’ve been proud, I sighed. Was this the ‘better life’ he’d wished for his children before he died?

  I thought of that measly $20 sitting in my purse soon after I became a widow. Back then it was all I had to rebuild our family’s shattered lives. I guess we did all right, I whispered, before closing my eyes.

  My mind flashed back to days much earlier – back to that time when government officials restricted Aboriginals in our contact with those on the outside. Ba
ck to times when those in parliament debated long and hard whether it was possible for a blackfulla to lead a productive life in mainstream society. Much had changed between then and now. Who would’ve thought such change was possible, in the space of one generation? My daughter’s presence on stage and her youthful voice projecting out to the world of nations symbolised just how much had changed – for our family, at least.

  Chapter 32

  Lesley

  All too soon it was time to come tumbling back to reality. We returned home. Everything in our little house was in its place, just how we had left it. Somehow, though, we were the ones who no longer fitted. Our closed-up house had lost its homely feel; it seemed still, cramped and stale. My bedroom still had signs of a frantic last-minute pack: items tossed out of a suitcase to make way for other, more appropriate pieces. It brought back memories of excitement and worry – of being too wound up to sleep on the eve of our first overseas trip.

  Around me were all the things that I’d pined for and missed – things collected over the years through hard work and sacrifice. Just twelve weeks earlier I had looked at them with pride and joy. Now they appeared tired and tacky. I’d outgrown them. Our bedspreads were dated and becoming threadbare in patches. The hand-me-down net curtains hanging in the lounge room were mended with sticky tape, to stop them from fraying at the edges. The old kitchen cupboard, which years earlier I’d given a new lease of life with a lick of bright paint, looked to be on its last legs. The things I felt most connected to were my metal filing cabinets with the research documents I’d collated for my campaign to claim our wages and savings, stored safely away inside.

  I didn’t want to feel like this about my once-precious little possessions. Each object had a memory. Some pieces of furniture linked me back to Willie, when we were still a family of five living in the Calico Creek valley. Other pieces reminded me of the challenge that followed to build a life for my children after their father died. Together, all of the possessions, though not worth a lot of money, had priceless memories attached to them. So why didn’t they bring me comfort and a sense of contentment, like they used to?

  My feelings weren’t confined to my house and once-prized possessions. Even my job at the school, which I had been so desperate to get, no longer brought me the satisfaction and fulfilment it once did. Eleven years earlier, the traineeship as a teacher’s aide at the school had provided hope for my family. I thought it could save Willie from his depression and be the answer to our money worries. Then when he died, the job had provided a regular source of income, so I could offer a better life to my children. The job had been our life raft. It gave us security. To be a teacher’s aide was my proudest achievement outside of the family. But, for some unexpected reason, I didn’t want the job any more.

  Tammy, on the other hand, seemed immune to the ‘Neverland blues’. She switched back from the world stage to the classroom with ease. Perhaps that was because our return had coincided with her final school semester, and she was soon to have her high-school graduation, which marked a new beginning in her life.

  To me, it felt like I was grieving. As much as I tried, I couldn’t squeeze back into the mould of my old life.

  Tammy

  I may have returned home, but the way I saw it, the journey was continuing. Within weeks of arriving back home in mid 1995, I was invited to travel overseas again later that year, to the United Nations Human Rights Council headquarters in Geneva, Switzerland. There I would join a small delegation of young people and present the deliberations of the World Summit of Children in San Francisco to members of the United Nations Committee on the Rights of the Child and the High Commissioner for Human Rights.

  As soon as Michael Jackson’s foundation heard of my invitation, they generously offered to pay all of the travel and accommodation costs for me and my chaperone-mother. I was relieved to have their offer of support. It meant I could concentrate on my final term of high school, and prepare for the exams that followed without the distraction of having to find my own sponsorship to Switzerland. But then my thoughts turned to the other young people I’d met at ‘Neverland’. They were articulate and passionate and no less worthy than I to be afforded the opportunity to speak at the United Nations. Many of them came from countries ravaged by war and famine, and the chances of them finding sponsorship from within their countries seemed doubtful. I felt strongly that it wouldn’t be right for me to continue to accept assistance from the foundation when there were so many deserving others in greater need.

  Coming from a country as rich in opportunities as Australia, I was hopeful that Mum and I could somehow secure our own funding for our travel costs. The decision to forgo the foundation’s sponsorship, though, was not without risk. I realised that if I relinquished it and then we couldn’t raise the money, I wouldn’t be able to go. There was no way Mum, on her modest wage, could afford to pay for the trip.

  To our surprise, the people of Gympie and those who lived in the nearby country towns weren’t going to let that happen. With the help of the local media who ran an article on my need for sponsorship, support came from nearby schools, service clubs and community organisations, such as the Gympie Widgee Youth Service, as well as philanthropic groups, such as the Australian Youth Foundation. The Cherbourg Aboriginal community also came on board, with Mum’s sisters, Aunty Sandra and Aunty Jeanette, offering to take charge of fundraising activities within the community. They organised talent quests for the youth and dances for the oldies, and the proceeds of each event went to my appeal. Many individuals and long-time family friends gave support.

  Soon cheques and money orders, ranging from $20 to $1000 were being delivered to our mailbox. They came with heartwarming cover notes and cards signed by children, pensioners and even federal politicians. There has never been another moment in my life when I’ve been so humbled by the generosity and goodwill shown to me by others – friends and strangers alike.

  Lesley

  I couldn’t believe what was happening. Even today, I still struggle to find the right words to express my gratitude for the community’s kindness. It wasn’t just the sums of money that people were donating, which touched my heart, but the considerate gestures people made, without being asked, to show their support. For instance, Carole Mules lent us coats and leather gloves to take to Geneva, to help shield us from the alpine cold. Local lawyers Maxine and Bob Baldwin, who were instrumental in co-ordinating our fundraising strategy, hired Tammy and I to babysit their kids – paying us generously in the process, at an embarrassingly inflated price – just so we could have spending money.

  Even earlier in the year, when Tammy and I were away in America for twelve weeks, all our neighbours rallied around to help out. They took turns to collect the mail and keep a protective eye on the house. Some even tended our garden. My straggly geraniums showed their happiness by greeting us home in an array of colours – then of course they friggin’ died as soon as I once again took over gardening duties. With all of the attention our little house had received, it had never looked so good as it did when we were gone!

  The kindness and goodwill shown to us by the broader community was overwhelming and unexpected. I’m not sure, exactly, why I was so surprised by the extent of it. The kids and I had worked hard over the years to prove that we were decent hardworking members of the community – to be judged by our character and not the colour of our skin or negative stereotypes. We’d lent a hand painting the walls of the Scout den and helped fundraise for the White Stars Hockey Club, and generally been involved in our local community as best as we could. So perhaps the community was returning the support our family had given it over the years?

  It doesn’t explain, though, the sheer volume of support both Tammy and I received, from so many people and organisations throughout the broader Australian community. And most were people we hadn’t even met. Even today, I still wonder what on earth compelled complete strangers to give such support to our
fundraising appeal? Whatever the reason, Tammy and I were grateful that they did, and humbled by their thoughtfulness.

  Although, there was a small, insecure part of me that questioned: Are we really worthy of their generous support?

  Chapter 33

  Tammy

  October 1995 was a painfully busy month, culminating with an injury to my spine, only a few weeks before we were due to fly out. It was caused by nothing so extraordinary as to warrant such eye-watering pain – just a handstand into a forward roll in gymnastics at school, which didn’t quite go right, despite the padded mat! That day I limped gingerly through my classes and was very relieved to get home and down some painkillers the moment I walked through the front door

  An X-ray at the clinic confirmed the worst – a crush fracture – putting my impending overseas trip in doubt. But there was no way I was going to miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime: to speak at the United Nations. How could I disappoint all those in Gympie and Cherbourg who were backing me, all because of a silly sore back? So with plenty of painkillers and physiotherapy treatment in the weeks before we left, Mum and I were able to complete the thirty or so hours of torturous travel to arrive at our destination: Geneva, Switzerland.

  *

  Geneva was postcard perfect. The cool water of the lake reflected the dramatic landscape across its surface. In the distance the Swiss Alps, dusted with icing-sugar snow, gave the illusion of bridging the gap between heaven and earth. For Mum, the emerald grass surrounding the sandstone buildings of the Palais des Nations couldn’t have been any further away from the barren laneways of her childhood home.