Not Just Black and White

by Lesley Williams

  Of course, there were some whose opinions I could never change and they resented the public attention my cause was receiving. They made their feelings known by crossing the street so they didn’t have to walk near me, or making prank phone calls to my home. Once, a noose was hung outside the front door of the local Aboriginal organisation where I served as chairperson. But none of that was enough to shut me up and stop me from talking. I’d waited a long time for my turn to speak.

  I now had people’s attention. Yet to change their perspectives and opinions I needed to give them information. And to obtain justice for Aboriginal workers I needed to persuade the public to take supportive action.

  Disappointed with the response I had earlier received from the Aboriginal Legal Service, I was later introduced to Tony Woodyatt, a solicitor and the director of Caxton Community Legal Centre. Until then, I’d thought all male lawyers wore the standard uniform of black suit and tie, but Tony looked and acted so casually when I first met him that I mistook him for a client at Caxton rather than the boss of the organisation. What I liked most about him was that he spoke a language I could understand; he didn’t use big flash legal words all the time.

  As a community legal centre, Caxton operated on the smell of an oily rag – relying on grants, donations and volunteers to try to meet the overwhelming demand for their legal services. However, with some strong advocacy from Tony, Caxton’s board agreed to support me.

  I was always reluctant to head straight to court. There were risks involved – particularly financial ones, like paying for the cost of a Supreme Court action. If I lost, I’d have to pay not only my barrister’s bill but the government’s astronomical legal costs as well. I realised that even if I had a personal win in the courts, that wouldn’t, in itself, get recognition for those Aboriginal workers who’d helped establish the state’s farming and agricultural industries. Nor would it change the stereotypes of Aboriginals as lazy people who don’t like work. Even if Aboriginal workers as a group mounted a class action, many of our older people didn’t have time to fight it out in the courts. They were aware that the landmark case of Mabo took over ten years before it was finally resolved on appeal by the High Court of Australia.

  ‘We’ll all be dead before we get any sort of recognition,’ many argued. ‘Too late then, ’cause we won’t even know about it.’

  Tony, while reading through my research documents, had come across evidence that suggested there could have been fraud and misappropriation of Aboriginal workers’ wages and savings by former government officials. In addition, the Department of Native Affairs’ bookkeeping methods left much to be desired, with senior bureaucrats admitting their predecessors had either destroyed, or lost, key financial records. How bloody convenient!

  With estimates from researchers, such as Dr Rosalind Kidd, who put the total amount of Aboriginal wages and savings once ‘held in trust’ by white officials of the Queensland Government in the vicinity of $200 million, Tony and I could see there were questions of accountability that needed to be answered. We believed it was in the public interest for there to be an inquiry with all the details brought out in the open. Ultimately, I hoped such a public forum would bring about an acknowledgement by the government of the injustices.

  It was Tony’s idea to compile briefing kits to send to media outlets and to prominent leaders in the community. Between 1993 and 1996, Tammy and I wrote hundreds of personal letters to everybody we thought had any clout, from politicians to community leaders, even to Her Majesty the Queen. There wasn’t a single ‘bigwig’ in this world I was intimidated to write to, although I didn’t always get a reply.

  Momentum started to build as the radio and newspapers became interested. As the scale and amount of money involved became more widely known, other Aboriginals suddenly started showing interest in the campaign. There were Elders who wanted to share their painful stories, and younger Aboriginal people with their own tactics. There were also Aboriginal community organisations, which until now I had had little to do with, offering their support, like QAILSS – Queensland Aboriginal and Islander Legal Services Secretariat – and its national chapter, NAILSS.

  Everyone, it seemed, had their own agenda and ideas about how the spoils should be divvied up. Many were blinded by the ‘dollar signs’ in their eyes.

  Chapter 35

  Tammy

  In November 1996, amid the protest marches, rallies and campaign work with Mum, I finally graduated. It took me two years to finish my senior year at high school because of my international travels. The time had come for me to move on. With mixed emotions I knew it was the end of an era.

  My final week of school coincided with the twelfth anniversary of my father’s passing. My thoughts were not of the here and now, or of the things most students thought about when they were about to graduate. Instead, I replayed in my mind the final tender moments I shared with my dad when I was six years old. I thought of the orange vinyl kitchen chair he sat on, with me on his lap, as I read to him a book about helicopters for my grade-one homework. He helped me with the hard words and praised me for my good reading. Then we cuddled and kissed, and it was time for bed. It was to be the last bedtime reading with my dad, the last cuddle, the last time I’d see him alive. Since then he has been a two-dimensional image in a photograph that I can only look at, or a much-loved character who re-appears in family stories.

  My father, my one-time hero, the first man I had ever loved – disappeared that dreadful night in 1984 to become only a memory. If only I had known how short our time together would be, I’d surely have done things differently. I wouldn’t have been enthusiastic to finish reading my book; instead, I would have slowed down and savoured each word, capturing every detail of the contours of his face, the deep tone of his voice, his unique scent – his everything. Or maybe I would have asked him to come into my room for one last hug, and we would have both fallen asleep and there he’d be in the morning, alive and well. But that didn’t happen, although I wish with all my heart it had.

  As each year passes, it is a cold and lonely reminder that life has continued to exist without him. Fast-forward twelve painful anniversaries, and his little girl, once six and in her first year of school, is now a young woman of eighteen – about to follow in the footsteps of his older children. Our lives sadly moved on without him.

  While most of my friends celebrated their graduation by attending the infamous Schoolies Week on the coast, Mum and I, along with my brother Rodney, had been invited to Michael Jackson’s Brisbane HIStory concert as his guests. Whatever the public’s perception of Michael Jackson might be, in light of the allegations against him, I nonetheless remain indebted to both him and his foundation for the opportunities they gave to me and my family. I used the occasion, backstage at his Brisbane concert, to personally thank Michael again for that support. For two years I’d been in receipt of goodwill from so many people. It was now my turn to swap places and become the person who did the giving.

  I often wonder how differently our lives would’ve turned out had we not had the good fortune of meeting Michael and being involved with his foundation. Would I have moved through my teenage years without further incident, and pursued my dream of becoming a lawyer? Would Mum have found the confidence to speak with high-ranking officials and continue with her Justice for Aboriginal Workers’ campaign, had we not gone to ‘Neverland’ and Geneva?

  My transition from high school to university in Brisbane was also marked by the realisation that my pink-trimmed bedroom in Gympie would no longer be my permanent abode. I would now only be an occasional weekend visitor. I realised that moving out of home represented much more than the end of my childhood. It signified the end of my role as Mum’s live-in campaign assistant, occasional strategist and protestor – a guaranteed ‘face in the crowd’ or ‘bum on a seat’ to help boost the numbers at sparsely attended rallies or protest marches. Though I would continue to support her from afar, j
ust as my brothers had done when they left home, it was now my turn to forge my way in the world, albeit in far different circumstances from those Mum had faced as a young woman.

  Lesley

  Tammy and her brother Rodney, who was already studying at university in Brisbane, reluctantly agreed to move in together. I know it wasn’t an ideal situation for a young man in the prime of his bachelor years to live with his teenage sister, but both Rodney and I agreed it was the best option for everyone concerned. Even if they weren’t one another’s first pick for a flat-mate, with eighteen years experience living under the same roof, there were no annoying habits the other wasn’t already aware of. Plus, it was a good way to bring the family back together, at least temporarily, by providing a place for Dan and me to stay whenever we visited.

  With the help of my ever-dependable sister-in-law, Lyn, to help drive Rodney to inspections, they found a lovely little apartment in Clayfield, which coincidentally was not far from where I had once lived with Andrée and her family.

  I remember the first time I returned home after helping Tammy and Rodney settle into their new place in Brisbane. I was sad and felt incredibly lonely to see their childhood bedrooms back home in Gympie lifeless and empty. That night, I worried of course, about their safety – but I knew in my heart they’d be okay. They were, after all, living in Clayfield, the only place I’d ever felt safe working as a domestic servant – despite the obvious differences between me and the locals. The kids would be fine, I reasoned. It was time to let them go.

  Tammy

  To help fund my law studies at Queensland University of Technology, I applied for and won – with the help of a character reference from Michael Jackson’s Heal the World Foundation – a coveted position as a cadet with the Commonwealth Director of Public Prosecutions (CDPP). This meant I could earn an income while studying, and also gain invaluable on-the-job experience working as a paralegal. Initially it was a modest income – scarcely enough to cover my living expenses, let alone the astronomical cost of law textbooks each semester – but at least I could pay my own way, even if it was tough.

  On the occasions when I did find it difficult to make ends meet, I felt guilty for even thinking it was a struggle. For goodness sake, I was an eighteen-year-old single woman with no dependents, and I was earning more money than my mother used to have in her purse to raise three children. It didn’t seem right.

  These emotions, I’m sure, are common for most young people from low-income and working-class backgrounds – irrespective of whether they are white or black – when they move out of home and receive a modest pay cheque for the first time. It’s an abrupt awakening to the real cost of living, and gives you pause to appreciate how your parents have managed to make do.

  When my older brother, Dan, left university and started working in Canberra, he used to send Mum money to help out with the living costs for Rodney and me. I was determined to find a way to support myself when I left home and my cadetship with the CDPP allowed me to do that. Even today, our immediate family continue to help one another out whenever the need arises. This is a lesson we learned from a young age, and has stayed with us: the need to look out for each other.

  Oddly enough, working at the illustrious CDPP became a safe haven for me when I moved out of home. This was because of the strong friendships I formed with my work colleagues, in particular, with two sensitive younger barristers, Kerri Mellifont and Melanie Ho, along with Mum’s barrister-friend Jean Dalton, who worked in the building next door to mine. (All three have since gone on to hold senior positions within the legal fraternity.) They understood the financial and social pressures on me at the time. Although they couldn’t personally relate to the challenges I experienced as an Aboriginal person, they nonetheless did whatever they could to support me and this made my life just that little bit easier.

  It wasn’t until I moved to the city to study law that I discovered racism wasn’t predictable in the way I’d come to believe – white-against-black or black-against-white. I soon came to realise there were complex and spiteful battles raging within Indigenous communities and family groups, in which different factions could alienate and discriminate against one another, based on their own interpretation of ‘Aboriginality’.

  During the late 1990s, it wasn’t uncommon to be accused of ‘trying to act white’ within the Aboriginal community. Although successes of Indigenous people on the football field or athletic track were lauded, such support wasn’t always extended to those whose success was achieved inside boardrooms. Accomplished, educated and well-dressed Indigenous people working in the public service or the private sector were more likely to be labelled as a ‘coconut’ – someone who had black skin but was white on the inside, and therefore ‘not one of us’.

  This not only reinforced the stereotype that black people could be brilliant on the sporting field but not in the classroom or office; it also sent a mixed message to our young people – that sport was the arena in which to succeed, and to not even try for intellectual roles. While there was a clear political push to move our people off welfare – to stay in school and get a job – those who did just that risked criticism and alienation from their own kind. It was as if Aboriginal identity somehow equated to struggle, poverty and hardship. Doing anything different somehow made you less Aboriginal and no longer part of the mob. Little wonder then, that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people of my generation continue to question what their identity means.

  During this period I copped it from both sides. I’d be criticised by my mob for being an ‘uptown black’ – for wearing stylish dresses, suits and make-up in court. And then, when I went into a department store to buy nice clothes, security guards would suspect I was going to shoplift them. I didn’t fit neatly into either the black or white community’s stereotype, and I wasn’t the only one who felt in limbo between two worlds – in the grey area between black and white.

  At the university, the Oodgeroo Unit – a student support service – was a hub for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander students and a place where I could seek refuge with others in the same position as me. Between classes we helped each other with our studies and talked about our issues. We also laughed and mocked one another. It was an environment where we could be ourselves, and a place where we felt we belonged socially.

  Even after admission as a barrister to the Supreme Court of Queensland, and High Court of Australia, I copped criticism from some of the mob. On one occasion, a group of middle-aged Aboriginal men associated with a now defunct national Aboriginal organisation, chastised me for accepting a job as a Commonwealth prosecutor. They argued that I was partially responsible for ‘putting our people in gaol’ because I was on the ‘other side’ of the legal divide.

  The comment revealed their expectation: if you were a black lawyer, you should always be working as a defence lawyer, preferably fighting for native title land claims or even in the human rights jurisdiction. Certainly not specialising in corporate, taxation or constitutional law, and definitely not (God forbid!) a prosecutor.

  But with time and experience comes maturity. I have learned, since my days as an impressionable young law student, to be secure and confident in my identity as an Aboriginal woman, even though my occupation and professional achievements might be at odds with how people view me.

  One day, when I was still working as a prosecutor, I happened to arrive a little early for court. I pulled up a chair in the waiting area and caught up on some daytime television, as I sometimes did, and waited. Depending on the time of day and the court schedule, I might catch the tail end of Oprah or an episode of The Bold and the Beautiful – the repetitive love-triangle plot of the central characters, along with the outrageous antics of their families, had a calming effect on my courtroom demeanour.

  ‘Hey, sis?’ I heard someone say and looked around. I saw a young Aboriginal man sitting nearby, looking nervous and fidgety.

  ‘Wh
at’ve you been charged with?’ he mouthed, so others couldn’t hear our conversation. ‘The police – those dogs – they’ve done me for stealing,’ he added, moving to a closer chair.

  ‘Oh, no, I haven’t been charged with anything. Umm, I’m a, umm, lawyer.’

  It was strange to refer to myself as a lawyer or barrister; it still hadn’t sunk in. The times when I was required to wear a wig and black robes in court I felt like a little girl playing dress-ups.

  ‘Trrrruuuue?’ he said, dragging out the word with amazement. ‘I haven’t seen you at Aboriginal Legal Aid. Are you new?’

  ‘No, I’m a prosecutor.’

  ‘Hey?’

  The shock jolted him back into his seat. He looked down and saw my black leather court bag and cast a suspicious eye over my suit. His face then changed to one of concern, as he remembered the degrading comment he’d earlier made about the police.

  ‘Umm, you’re not …’

  ‘No, I’m not the prosecutor in your matter. I’m here for some-thing else.’

  ‘Ah,’ he sighed with relief and settled back into his chair, pondering. ‘Being a lawyer, you must drive a pretty flash car then, hey?’

  I knew where this conversation was heading – the being-a-lawyer-means-you-are-rich myth. I was feeling mischievous and wanted to teach him a lesson about not stereotyping people.

  ‘Well, actually,’ I said, carefully choosing my words, ‘every day I come to work in a big, shiny, silver …’ I could see his eyes anticipating: Mercedes or BMW. ‘… Train,’ I laughed. ‘Brother, I don’t own a car – I can’t even drive.’

  ‘What, a smart woman like you can’t drive? Even I’ve got my licence, but gunnung no car,’ he shrugged.