Becoming Kirrali Lewis

by Jane Harrison

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s okay. It’s been hard all round. I’ve been angry at my mother too. Anyway, he left you this.’ She handed me an envelope. It was thick, like a wedding invitation and the words on the front were written in a beautiful calligraphy style.

  ‘He asked if you could read it, you know, after … And there’s more. Charley asked me to give you these. To help you understand him.’

  Cherie reached into her bag and pulled out half a dozen dog-eared notebooks.

  ‘His diaries. Maybe you could think about turning them into a book. You know, some time when this is over.’

  She got up to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Maybe we could work on the book together?’

  I stepped towards her and gave her a hug. I could feel her trembling.

  ‘I’m sorry, Cherie.’

  ‘I know. Me too. Get some rest.’

  But I spent the evening reading Charley’s diaries. The story of my father’s life. And through his stories, I finally began to understand my mother’s love for him.

  Thirty-one

  I woke up feeling good, even though I had only had a few hours sleep. This was going to be one of the most important days of my life. It wasn’t about me. It was a day to honour him, a person who was a stranger a few weeks before and who now occupied a place in my soul, kind of like when a song takes over your brain. You can’t escape from it or unforget it. It’s just there. That’s how I felt about Charley. His essence would always be there in me, unchangeable, inescapable.

  I chose my clothes with care — red skirt, black tights and a grey shirt with dots of yellow through it. I didn’t want to look like the Aboriginal flag but I did want to look colourful. I wanted to look joyful. Kirk arrived wearing a bright red shirt and hugged me without saying a word. I thanked my lucky stars I had met him and that he was so patient with me.

  Cherie had offered to pick us up. We were going to be okay. We had our differences but they were insignificant compared to what we had in common — our love and respect for Charley.

  The Koori Advancement Centre was filled with the scent of eucalyptus leaves — big bundles of them were at each entrance and everyone was encouraged to take a branch. Just weeks before, I had come here to catch a glimpse of my biological mother. Now I was back, attending my father’s funeral service. It was overwhelming. So was the crowd. Cherie whispered to me that she’d never seen so many people packed in. Almost everyone wore a piece of red clothing — there were lots of footy scarves. It seemed more like a giant reunion — families, Elders, people hugging each other, clustering in groups. Kirk pointed out a few politicians from both sides of the fence. Kids ran around playing. Charley would have loved that.

  There were so many people that I knew. Everyone I had met so far in my year of ‘big education’, not at uni but in my life. I caught a glimpse of Rosie and Doreen from Koori Family Connect and even the lawyer from the Koori Legal Resource and the politician dude. Charley’s sister, Noreen, bustled over with the two boys sheepishly in tow.

  ‘Kirrali, daught …’ She pulled me into her warmth and floral perfume.

  The boys were next. ‘Sorry, cuz.’ Small words but they meant a lot. I had never been called ‘cuz’ before.

  I caught a glimpse of Martina’s flaming hair on the other side of the room. She was with Robbie and Aunty Jenny. There were other football players too, not that I knew who they were but Kirk did.

  I could see my family arriving up the steps and I waved them over. Rochelle, Tray and Tarquin never got the chance to meet Charley but I know they would have loved him. Bea ran up and gave me a big hug. As my family made their way through the crowd, Cherie said she was nervous about meeting my mother but I reassured her that it would be fine. When I introduced the two of them, it was a surreal feeling. Mum opened her arms and Cherie fell into them as if they were old friends. Without even thinking, I put my arms around the two of them and we group hugged. Wow. I had two incredible mothers and two magnificent fathers.

  Then Erin appeared in front of me, a look of anguish on her face. ‘Kirrali, will you ever forgive me?’

  ‘Erin. It’s okay. There was no good way to find out.’

  Her relief was palpable. As she held me, her hair cascaded like a breaking wave around both of us. It smelt like apple.

  ‘Your beautiful hair.’

  ‘I was going to chop it all off. As my punishment.’

  ‘What? No, never. And Erin?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Stay my friend. I need you now, more than ever. Remember, that day when you said I could make up my own mind? Well, I have.’

  Erin’s smile was like the sun coming out after a spring storm.

  A recording of Bob Marley’s Get up, stand up began to play and we took our places up the front — Kirk on one side, Cherie on the other, my parents next to Cherie.

  To begin the ceremony, an Elder did a moving Welcome to Country. Then Aunty Noreen got up to say a few words. At first she was overcome but once she composed herself she spoke of how proud she was of Charley, her only brother. Next came the CEO of the Centre. He talked of Charley’s political work over almost thirty years while a slideshow played as a backdrop. Charley was at all the milestone moments — the rallies, the protests, standing on the steps of parliament, state and federal. As each slide appeared, there were excited murmurings as people recognised the occasion or themselves. Everyone busted out laughing at Charley’s huge 1970s afro and flared cords. The slideshow was a beautiful tribute to his public life. I was in awe. Then I was called up.

  A hush fell over the crowd, a stillness. My heart was beating so loud it sounded like a metronome. All eyes turned in my direction. Even the children seemed to stop wriggling. It was the dead eye of the storm. I took a deep breath …

  ‘A lot of you are wondering who the hell I am to read the eulogy of a man who played such an important role in the Koori community. Well, I’m proud to say, I’m Charley Jackson’s daughter.’

  A murmur passed over the crowd.

  ‘Yes, it’s natural to be surprised. I think Charley was too when he found out about me just a few weeks ago.’

  Another murmur, followed by a chuckle.

  ‘You know, I’d often heard that real life is stranger than fiction yet I’d never experienced anything so strange as discovering my biological parents for the first time. It has made me very proud to meet them both and to get to know them. However, I could never have imagined that within just a few weeks I would be standing here honouring the life of Charley.’

  My voice wavered but I was determined not to slip up.

  ‘I would also never have presumed to deliver this eulogy, especially as I knew my father for such a short time. But he asked me to do it and how could I refuse him? Has anyone ever refused Charley?’

  The crowd responded, ‘No.’

  ‘So why did he ask me? He said anyone else would, as he put it, “Bullshit on about bullshit”.’

  The audience laughed at this, hearing Charley in the words.

  ‘Charley told me that all that stuff about reconciliation and land rights was bullshit too. He said what was important was family. Of course, Charley didn’t even know he had a daughter until recently. Unless there are other Charley surprises out there. I understand he was a bit of a devil.’

  Again the audience laughed — thank God. Charley had made me promise I wouldn’t be too sombre.

  ‘What I don’t know about Charley would fill a book, or six. Luckily my, um, mother … just gave me his diaries. Six of them.’

  ‘But, Charley, if you are listening, I have to disagree with you. It’s not bullshit. You devoted your life to those causes. You have made a difference in so many Aboriginal people’s lives. And caused a bit of grief for the gubbas along the way, I gather. But even they love you — the brave ones, the ones who care to listen, the ones whose heart’s burn with a desire for equality. If it wasn’t for you, our country wouldn’t be the way it is today. So Dad
, Charley, I’m going to take up where you left off. Like the Bob Marley song — Get Up, Stand Up — I’m going to do all I can to be ...’

  Once again, my voice faltered. I fixed a picture of my father, serene and at peace, in my mind. He was okay with this so I had to be too.

  ‘I’m going to do all I can to be … a card-carrying Koori. Like Charley, my father.’

  I stepped away from the podium before remembering something.

  ‘Oh, by the way, Charley asked that you all join him in a prayer ... for Essendon to win the Grand Final on Saturday.’

  The crowd broke up laughing, some of them through tears. That’s just the way Charley would have liked it.

  After the funeral, back in my room after Kirk had left — I needed some space and was exhausted — I slipped into bed clutching the letter from Charley. On the back of the envelope was a PS: Don’t forget to collect that $50 Frank owes me for Essendon finishing in the top four. I laughed. Charley!

  I tore open the envelope. First, there was a faded Polaroid photo of a young pretty blonde with a blanket draped over her shoulders, looking radiant with love. I peered closely. Cherie. Wow. He had kept the photo all that time. Next, a beautiful mottled grey feather, which I took to be a brolga feather. Lastly, the letter.

  Yaama Kirrali

  Maybe you are hoping for some words of wisdom from your old man. Sorry, I’m going to disappoint you on that one. At the funeral they will probably make out I’m some kind of hero. I’m not, far from it. Ask Cherie. Ask anyone. Also, I am not much of a writer (despite the books and the diaries) as I prefer to hear the sound of my own voice or so it’s been said. You — you can’t believe how much joy you have brought to my life in these last few weeks, knowing you even exist. You are on a journey to discover who you are and where you belong but becoming yourself is not a destination. It never ends. I would have loved to see what you might achieve and perhaps to see you become a mother too. But it’s not about anyone else’s expectations — even mine. Your achievements need to be about being true to you and having good relationships with the people you care about. You be you. That’s as wise I can be.

  I’m not a sentimental person but you are truly a miracle and have made these last weeks the most important of my life.

  Thank you.

  With eternal love

  Charley, your dad

  Cherie’s postscript

  It’s about ten months since we lost Charley … Kirrali moved in with me a little while back. I joke that she’s still receiving subsidised housing. She doesn’t find that amusing as she’s saving to go to an Aboriginal community in the Northern Territory as a volunteer. Her end-of-year marks weren’t great — in fact she nearly failed — but being the stubborn girl she is (I tell her she gets that from her father but she disagrees) she refused to ask for special consideration. This year she’s back hard at the books and is doing brilliantly. It appears she doesn’t want to do international law any more. No one was more surprised than her.

  Between the books and the cinema, where she’s been promoted to weekend supervisor, she doesn’t have much time and she spends a bit of that sleeping as uni students do ... oh, and helping out at the university Koori Club. She’s quite the political animal now.

  What else? Kirrali doesn’t see much of Kirk but it’s not by choice. He’s fun and we both adore him — so does my mother, strangely enough. It’s because he’s landed himself a permanent role in a TV series. The downside is that it takes him out of town. My phone bill is huge as a result.

  Erin is still struggling a bit so she’s moved home to be with her family. We both hope she’ll come back and finish her studies. Kirrali’s other friend, Martina, now has twin baby girls. They are so cute. Her hubby is doing really well, although he’s had a few injuries. He’s mentoring some of the Aboriginal boys who come down to the city to play VFL. I think he is doing okay as far as the gambling goes. But Kirrali doesn’t talk about it much.

  I have taken up volunteering on a greening project. We plant indigenous plants on remnant land. Kirrali declares that I am still fixated on the ‘natives’. Plants are easier than people.

  I visit her mum and dad regularly (Kirrali calls me Cherie and I’m fine with that). They show me photos and tell me stories. I bought Kirrali a new dog but he lives with them. It’s a small black mutt, built like a brick, with a big head, bouncy, a bit slobbery. Kirrali called him Chazza because he’s very obedient and never barks ... she’s got an ironic streak (which I tell her she gets from me, but she disagrees). We’re getting on fine.

  PS Margaret has a regular spot as a stand-up comedian at a gay bar. We sometimes go there. She sends the audience up something chronic — and they think she’s hilarious.

  Kirrali’s post-postscript

  Reader — please ignore all of Mum Cherie’s ramblings (she doesn’t know I call her that), especially the ones to do with any genetic claims she might have over my better traits … I mean, c’mon, you couldn’t find two people who are less alike than me and her.

  The only other thing to mention is that we both miss Charley terribly. Hey, at least we have that in common.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to the team at black&write!, especially Sue Abbey and Ellen van Neerven, for believing in ‘Kirrali’. For being deadly editors, thank you Ellen van Neerven and Rachael Christensen (Magabala Books). Thanks to Nova and Dom for your useful suggestions, and to Cate Kennedy for your sage advice. To all my dear friends and colleagues (too many to name) thanks for your support and encouragement. And special thanks to my mum, Shirley, for raising me with a love of books and reading.

  Jane Harrison is a descendant of the Muruwari people of NSW. She is an award-winning playwright (Stolen, Rainbow’s End). Jane lives in Melbourne and has two daughters. Becoming Kirrali Lewis is her first novel.