Not Just Black and White

by Lesley Williams

  I, the Honourable Judy Spence, MLA, Minister for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Policy on behalf of the Queensland Government do, without any admission of legal liability, sincerely regret any distress, hurt or humiliation suffered by Mrs Williams as a result of the allegedly oppressive schemes under the various Aboriginals Preservation and Protection Acts under which she lived and worked at Cherbourg and Taroom.

  This apology is made by the Government and accepted by Mrs Williams in the spirit of Reconciliation and in the hope of a new partnership between Indigenous Queenslanders and the State Government.

  I could now begin another journey, towards healing and closure – a journey where I could confidently step out alone into the world.

  Coda

  Lesley

  Since people have learned of my life story, the question I’m asked most is ‘How did you do it?’ They want to know how it was that the racism in my early years didn’t crush my aspirations. How I overcame the poverty and lack of education in my childhood, and then the tragic death of my husband, to go on and raise three children by myself, so that we all ended up with productive lives and good careers. How was it that we achieved lives so different from the many who have had a similar start?

  I’m not sure, exactly. I’ve never really sat down and given serious thought to these questions until I had to reflect deeply during the writing of this book. If I hadn’t spent the past twenty-odd years with Tammy jotting our memories onto paper or recording it on tapes, I probably wouldn’t be able to give you an answer.

  It’s fascinating how writing and then, later, reading your own life story can reveal so much more to you than just recounting life’s twists and turns. Patterns and themes I’d previously missed or underestimated in importance have emerged to give me insight. My life no longer feels like a series of random, if amazing, events. I can see that it has had direction, purpose and meaning.

  I’d have to say luck has played a role. I can see how lucky my siblings and I were to be born into a good, hardworking family, with a strong matriarch as its leader: Granny. No matter how hard and sometimes cruel life was for blackfullas ‘living under the Act’, our family always had a stable home in the Camp – it was that one place we could retreat to and feel safe.

  I consider myself very lucky to have married someone like Willie and to be welcomed into his family with similar attributes to my own. From Willie’s parents and siblings, including their partners and in-laws, through to distant relatives of the Williams/Crawford family tree, the children and I have always been accepted into the family. Without their support, especially during the desperate years after Willie died, the odds of the kids and I succeeding would’ve been much slimmer.

  I cannot forget how fortunate I was to find myself working, even if as a domestic servant, in the home of Andrée Roberts, a woman who judged me on my character and not by society’s stereotype of my race. I was lucky not only to work for someone as compassionate as she was, but to have gained her as a friend.

  But luck in having such family and friends, goes only part of the way to explaining ‘how I did it’. There were many times in life when it seemed that luck was not on my side.

  I’m reminded of the speech Tammy delivered to the National Reconciliation Convention in May 1997. At the time, I was still reeling from the devastating public drubbing I’d received from some members of the Aboriginal community. Incidentally, a couple of years later one of the sisters who had accosted me at that meeting apologised for her actions on that day. Without hesitation I accepted her apology, so we could all move forward and try to achieve a just outcome from the government before any more of our people passed away.

  The words from my daughter’s speech, which struck me deeply then and still ring true, were about the question put to Helen Keller: ‘What could be worse than to be born blind?’ Her reply was, ‘To be born with sight and to have no vision’. Tammy had said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I firmly believe you must have a vision – some focus in your life – a vision to help you to achieve your dreams and ambitions.’

  I too had had my own kind of vision. First, I had an idea of the kind of children I wanted mine to be, and just as clear an idea of how I did not want them to turn out. Later, I wanted recognition and justice for Aboriginal workers. It was commitment and dedication to achieving these goals that kept me going and made me resilient, despite the setbacks encountered on the way.

  When you set your mind on something and then go after it with grim determination, some might see it as ‘stubborn’ and ‘strong willed’, yet others, like Tammy – more eloquent and articulate than me – call it ‘vision’ or ‘having direction and purpose in one’s life’. Whatever it’s called, the point is, I had goals. And I never gave up.

  In hindsight, and with the benefit of having set down my story, I can see that this has been a recurring theme in my life. Whether it was plotting with the school principal in 1984 to create a job for myself at the local school, or my relentless Justice for Aboriginal Workers’ campaign of the 1990s, I’ve always had a goal – something to strive towards, perhaps even to live for.

  Even back at Cherbourg, when the Protection Act didn’t allow blackfullas many opportunities, I still had aspirations. My dreams might not have been like those of the white children of my era – of ‘what I want to be when I grow up’ – but beneath all my self-doubt and nervousness there had always been the niggling desire ‘to want better’ than what life had served up. I don’t mean that I’ve spent my whole life wanting to be better than anyone else – by trying to outdo or compete against others – rather, that my mission in life has always been to find ways to better myself. I’ve never wanted to simply accept, or be content with, the circumstances dealt to me in life.

  Ever since my childhood days in the Camp, I didn’t want to be condemned to the life dished out by the white officials. I wanted better. I wanted to have opportunities and experiences like those I saw the white officials’ children had. Two decades later, during the 1980s recession, it was this same aspiration that propelled me into action: I wanted better than the meagre existence Willie and I called ‘life’. I wasn’t prepared to sit back and accept our cash-strapped fate, to do nothing, while my husband spiralled into the darkness of depression.

  Sure, there wasn’t a lot I could do to improve our home finances, when I had no formal training or skills to rely on, but I wasn’t going to let this stop me. I was so focused on my vision of ‘wanting better in life’, that I did all I could to work for it – from the weary days at the shearing station, to working on the bean farm, to creating roles as an Aboriginal liaison officer and teacher’s aide at the kids’ school. Through desperation, dogged determination and bloody hard work, I worked towards ‘something better’ for my family.

  It’s a bit like how Tammy, after winning the writing competition and attending the World Children’s Congress, said we were going to ‘create our own luck from here on’. She wasn’t prepared to rely on good fortune for the duration of her stay, only to return home unchanged and pick up a typically rocky teenage lifestyle. Tammy created her own luck, turning a week-long trip to meet a pop star into a series of life-changing events for the both of us.

  Through it all, luck and good fortune have only played a small role. It was vision and then hard work that made the difference.

  Tammy

  The influence Mum has had on my life cannot be underestimated. I asked my brothers during the writing of this book whether they felt this too. Dan told me:

  Mum always encouraged us to pursue interests that were fun, kept us active and furthered our personal development. She supported us to the best of her financial ability.

  Although most Aboriginal kids I knew back then played rugby league, Mum encouraged us to broaden our horizons. I played cricket and rugby league at school and did karate for a few years, but spent most of my time in Scouts and playing hockey.

  I h
ave great memories of my days in Scouts, especially going camping. I had loved going camping with my father, so after his passing when I was eleven, Queens Park Scout Group (as well as my uncles) helped to fill that void in my life.

  My most memorable experience in Scouts was as a twelve year old, attending the 14th Australian Scout Jamboree in Sydney from late December 1985 until the first week of January 1986. It was my first New Year’s Eve away from family. Mum and Dad had paid a non-refundable deposit sometime in 1984, so after Dad’s passing Mum had no option but to scrimp and save the remaining funds for me to attend. I will never forget the sacrifices that Mum, Rod and Tam made for me to attend as well as the hard work of others. We couldn’t afford to order the fancy woven name-tags for clothing, so Grandma Williams handmade the cloth tags for all of my personal items.

  Mum knew that the Jamboree was a great adventure for me just after the passing of my father. That and the subsequent years in Scouts provided me with many life skills.

  Rodney wrote:

  Expo ’88 was one experience of my childhood that impacted me in a strong and positive way, opening my eyes to the world, and it also demonstrates my mum’s foresight, commitment and courage.

  She had a vision of us visiting Expo ’88 as a family and planned and saved well ahead to make this a reality. There were no other Aboriginal families and very few non-Aboriginal families that I knew in the community and within our school that had season passes to attend Expo ’88. It was certainly not what everyone was doing. The season passes enabled us to visit and explore the exhibits in depth, to absorb the diverse cultural experiences, to learn about others and to reflect on ourselves.

  I had my first of many experiences at Expo, such as eating sushi at the Japanese pavilion and seeing snow in the Swiss pavilion, and I know the benefits of the exploration and learning at Expo ’88 are still with me today. The experience triggered the desire in me to explore the world, to appreciate and learn about other cultures and to think about the big picture.

  Beyond the discipline of saving to purchase the season passes, Mum’s commitment to her vision meant taking action that was not often popular and was criticised by many people in the Aboriginal community. Many of them did not visit Expo in protest, as they believed that we should not be celebrating two hundred years of white settlement in Australia. Despite the negative feelings within the Aboriginal community, Mum could see the benefits that a culturally diverse experience could have on our lives. I remember that sometimes we would attend rallies with the Aboriginal community and our extended family in Musgrave Park behind the Expo ’88 site and then later that day Mum would take us across the road to attend the Expo. Mum was very good at maintaining our connection to our culture, the Aboriginal community and providing positive life-changing experiences for her children.

  Like many Indigenous Australians of our generation, my brothers and I share an immense pride and a strong sense of purpose. We draw strength from our mother and other Elders’ stories: of their survival and resilience, in overcoming what must have seemed like insurmountable, or impossible, odds. We are grateful for their attempts to preserve and pass on as much of our culture as possible, and their best efforts to keep our mob safe from harm. They have provided, through their life’s work, a solid foundation upon which we, and our individual families, can build. This is a legacy we have already inherited that is beyond any monetary value.

  Yet this priceless inheritance comes with great responsibility … it is a duty we each take seriously. We are conscious of the need to cultivate and grow the seeds of opportunity that our father, and especially our mother, planted in our childhood. They taught us to continually look for ways to ‘better ourselves’ through lifelong learning and experience; to have the courage to explore the ‘outside world’ with an inquisitive mind, and in wonder.

  We also have the responsibility not only to record and share the remarkable stories of our ‘Old People’ – but to some day add our own voices, so that our children, and theirs, can learn from our successes and understand the challenges we face living as Aboriginal persons in the modern era. It is only then that the journey started by our ancestors, long ago in the ‘Dreaming’, can be assured – where our culture will continue to be among one of the world’s oldest, to be shared and appreciated by all.

  Lesley

  I’d like to think Tammy and her brothers, Dan and Rodney, have learned from me the ability to see and create opportunities. To believe in the possibilities of lifting yourself out of poverty – by working hard and educating yourself. I’m proud to say that all three of my children have graduated from university, secured good jobs and grown into decent, hardworking members of the community. Each has broken the poverty cycle that once kept our family down. Each has learned to follow their vision.

  My eldest son Dan obtained a bachelor’s degree in management and for many years has been working within the Department of Defence in various roles. He and his wife, Sharon, live ‘down south’ in Canberra, the nation’s capital, with their four beautiful children: Abigail, Ethan, Hamish and Eloise. Dan is not one to let distance interfere with family bonds, bringing his family home to Queensland as often as he can. Like most parents and grandparents, I’m at my happiest when surrounded by family.

  My second eldest, Rodney, lives in Sydney with his wife, Tara. After winning the prestigious BHP Billiton Scholarship to study his Masters of Business Administration (MBA) at Melbourne University, Rodney worked for a number of years in the banking and financial services industry. He has since gone on to use his professional skills and knowledge in the not-for-profit sector, helping to create employment opportunities for Aboriginal people and has now set up his own company.

  As for Tammy, she and her husband, Jason, live in Brisbane with their children: Kgiaum and Nalji. She is also the proud stepmother of an adult daughter, Shannaiya, who lives and works in Cairns. After obtaining her law degree, Tammy was admitted as a barrister and has gone on to have a rich and varied career, which was recognised by the Queensland Women Lawyers Association when it named her the 2003 ‘Emergent Lawyer of the Year’.

  While still a law student in her early twenties, and following my settlement with the Queensland Government, Tammy helped establish, with a number of prominent Australians, a not-for-profit organisation to assist Indigenous enterprise: the Indigenous Enterprise Partnerships, now known as Jawun. It has delivered millions of dollars worth of in-kind corporate resources and expertise to Aboriginal communities across the country.

  Tammy’s career has included working as a Commonwealth prosecutor, an appointment to the National Human Rights Consultation Committee by the federal attorney-general to review Australia’s human rights framework, and an appointment in recent years as a member of the Queensland Civil and Administrative Tribunal. Tammy has since put her career on hold to help me finish writing this book, and to spend time with her family.

  As for me, I haven’t done too badly, either. I have, for the past seven years, worked as a cultural consultant for the Department of Communities (Child Safety) and received a few awards along the way, including a Centenary Medal, a NAIDOC award from the South East Queensland Committee and recognition from the Department of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Policy for my service to the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander community. But perhaps the greatest honour I’ve received didn’t come in the form of a trophy or plaque.

  Following my settlement, the Queensland Government invited me to work with them, ‘in the spirit of reconciliation’ as a special project officer on their Indigenous workers reparation project. They said they valued the knowledge I’d acquired from my years of research, and believed I could make a valuable contribution. After consulting with members of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander community, the government made an offer, in May 2002, of $55.4 million to all Indigenous workers who had had their wages and savings controlled under the state’s various ‘Protection Acts’. Although
it was not the total amount owed, at least it was something, given that the class action never eventuated. My individual action may not have directly helped all parties involved, but it did nonetheless pave the way for the government to make this offer to the people in a gesture of reconciliation.

  Once payments had been made to eligible individual claimants, I received a card from an Elder, Aunty Eva Collins, thanking me for my efforts in helping to bring about closure on the issue. I was touched by her thoughtfulness. After all, it had been the memory and legacy of the old people, like her, that had spurred me on to fight for justice and recognition of Aboriginal workers in the first place. Aunty Eva’s gesture reminded me that the battle was worth it.

  To celebrate our role in the government’s concession, my sister Alex took me out to lunch and gave me a bouquet of flowers. I was touched by her thoughtfulness. As sisters, we’d been through a lot together since that day beneath the bunya tree, when, as a nervous ten year old, I’d hidden behind her, seeking protection from those creamy strangers in their grey tourist coach. I’ll always be especially grateful for her unwavering support throughout the nine years of my campaign. As my protective big sister, Alex remained by my side right until the very end.

  Nowadays I divide my time between my little house in Gympie – the home in which I’d raised the kids after Willie died and have since bought – and living in Brisbane with Tammy and her family. It’s strange to think of myself as now fulfilling the same role as Granny did: matriarch of my own family. Merely age and the fact that I have grandchildren have elevated me to this position. I wonder if I am deserving of her mantle – if I’ll ever have the same great wisdom and knowledge she had. Will my descendants think of me, respect me, as our generation did her? I can only hope so.

  Although it’s been over forty years since Granny died, many in our family still feel sorrow at her passing, and saddened by those who disrespected her cherished possessions when she died. For someone who gave so much of herself to others in life, she deserved so much better from her family in death.