by Joe Williams
I’ve spoken to many aunties and uncles in our communities who were part of the stolen generation. The stories from a group of aunties who were stolen and taken to the Cootamundra Girls’ Home particularly affected me. The aunties were often reduced to tears as they told me how the men who worked in or around the girls’ home would sneak into bedrooms at night and violently assault
While 26 January is for many Australians a day to celebrate living in a free country filled with prosperity and opportunity, for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people, this day marks the beginning of the invasion of our country by Europeans.
and rape them. There were countless times when the young ladies fell pregnant as a result of rape and sexual assault. There are stories of how, after giving birth to what was then called a ‘half-caste’, the baby would be killed and thrown down a well on the grounds of the home. My dream is to dig into that well to free the spirits of those many tiny corpses.
There’s also an infamous story about how white male settlers played a ‘game’ that involved burying Aboriginal babies up to their neck, with only their heads above the surface. The men would then climb on horseback and have a contest to see how many babies’ heads they could decapitate.
After reading just a couple of the many, many stories about the crimes that were committed against Indigenous people local to my area of New South Wales, you can surely understand why we First Nations people don’t feel like celebrating the arrival of Captain Arthur Phillip and the First Fleet.
Many argue that we can’t change the past, but we still live in a society where, despite making up only 3 per cent of the country’s population, First Nations Australian men die some fifteen years earlier than non-Indigenous Australian men. I’m also a member of the race whose people have the highest suicide rate in the world, with our people eight times more likely to die by suicide than non-Indigenous Australians.
So you can see how and why it was extremely tough for me to accept that nomination and even turn up to the award ceremony. But, in the end, I came to the conclusion that I’d been nominated for the work I do with suicide prevention all year round, not just on the day of the awards.
Wagga Wagga citizen of the year.
On the day, I put on a black suit and a white T-shirt with a dreamtime message on the front. I’d cut the sleeves on the T-shirt and covered my bare arms in white ochre — a mixture of finely crushed rock and water that is used for body paint in traditional ceremony and dance. I put the rest of the ochre in a small container, and took it with me.
During the night a number of awards were announced, including one for a singing the national anthem competition. A small group of children was asked to sing the national anthem to the packed civic theatre, and the entire audience was asked to stand. While the children sang like angels, everyone in the hall stood. Everyone except for my family and me.
When it came to announcing who’d won the award for citizen of the year, my name was read out. The crowd was a few hundred strong, and they cheered loudly. I stood up and took off my suit blazer to reveal my First Nations warrior-like painted arms. It was time to paint my face. By now the audience in the auditorium was on their feet, still making loud cheers and whistles.
When I reached the podium, I could almost hear the whispers around the room, because I’d donned my traditional paint to accept my award. The mayor, Rod Kendall, congratulated me, then I took to the microphone for my acceptance speech. Even though I hadn’t known I’d be receiving the award, I’d thought that, if I did, it would be a once-in-a-lifetime chance to try to educate the crowd of mostly non-Indigenous people.
I started my speech by acknowledging the traditional elders and ancestors on whose country we were gathered. I acknowledged not only the owners and custodians but also my ancestors who, some 228 years earlier, were lying down to sleep with their families, not knowing what the future days would hold. That evening, some 228 years earlier, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island people were about to embark on a brutal war that would last until today. They would see many loved ones lost in what some call the frontier wars but what many of our people see as acts of terrorism.
I went on to talk about how many people speak of this as being in ‘the past’, but my dad and his brothers often had to run and hide down by the river and in creek beds when government cars approached, so they wouldn’t be stolen away.
I went on to speak about how I believe the country is moving forward with regards to racism and discrimination, and how non-Indigenous Australians can learn so much from the traditional First Nations people’s culture, which has lasted for over 65,000 years.
I was then reduced to tears, thanking my family — in particular, Courtney and my kids — as I believe that without them, I wouldn’t have a reason to live.
The crew before our latest, Franki, arrived: Rome, Brodi, me, Phoenix, Courtney and Ari.
In the final paragraph of my Wagga Citizen of the Year acceptance speech, I said: ‘I believe the Europeans weren’t sent here to kill, wipe out, torture, conquer and divide First Nations Australia. I believe they were sent here to learn from us; it has just taken us all a little longer to realise.’
I invited our community to walk together in reconciliation, and received a standing ovation.
The usual first commitment for the Australia Day Citizen of the Year is to attend a breakfast and community Australia Day Celebrations at the local Wagga Beach (which is on the Murrumbidgee
I’ve spoken to many aunties and uncles in our communities who were part of the stolen generation.
River) on the morning after the awards. The mayor excused me from attending — he’s always been a great supporter of my community work and First Nations heritage. Instead, I drove to Sydney to spend the day of 26 January — or Invasion Day, as many of our people call it — with Brodi and Phoenix at a large First Nations festival called Yabun.
On the way to Sydney, I received a call from a local journalist in Wagga, who began by congratulating me on winning my award but quickly jumped to the point that he’d received numerous phone calls from the public, angered that I’d shown disrespect to the country by not standing for the national anthem. He asked me if this was true and, if so, what were my reasons.
I didn’t shy away in my response and let him know that yes, it was true that I hadn’t stood for the national anthem, and I hadn’t done so for some ten years, as I don’t believe our national anthem is a representation of me as a First Nations Aboriginal man living on Wiradjuri country.
I went on to tell him my reasoning was that Advance Australia Fair was a song written by a Scotsman about an English colony during the time of the White Australia Policy. When he asked me why I thought this, I told him to read all five verses of the song — there’s a lot in there about Britain and ‘rule Britannia’. I also stated how the line of the song ‘For we are young and free’ is disrespectful to our culture, because the country’s first people have been here for more than 65,000 years.
Many people would not agree with my stance, but for me the big picture was about educating those who were open to learning why the national anthem is, for many of our people, a disrespectful song with no significance to us.
That day in Sydney, I had a fantastic time with family and many relatives from across New South Wales, celebrating our culture with traditional dance, food and song. I took part in a corroboree when I and my cultural brothers stomped our feet on Mother Earth, in respect, so she could feel our footsteps. We celebrated and honoured our old people, and the thousands who lost their innocent lives in the days, weeks, months and years after colonisation. I was fuelled with the power and energy of our old people.
The next morning, the local paper quoted Councillor Paul Funnell, who demanded that I hand the award back, claiming that I’d been disrespectful toward the city’s top honour and the Australian public, that my behaviour was divisive and was a political stunt that was harmful for reconciliation.
My first corrobboree. The connection, th
e positive energy created when we dance for Mother Earth is indescribable.
As well, I received hundreds of messages of support from First Nations people, family and otherwise, as well as from non-Indigenous Australians, saying that they had admired me for educating them on issues that are not often talked about in the mainstream media.
Over the following days, the media circus continued in both Wagga and parts of the rest of Australia, as Councillor Funnell and I traded views on the subject. We were invited to speak about the topic on the national television show The Project. Thankfully, the panel — and many viewers — agreed with me. Unfortunately, the entire country was not in my corner, and a number of family and friends contacted me, concerned about the possible impact on my wellbeing. My answer to those who called me was: ‘It can’t affect me if I don’t pay any attention to it. I’ve learned over the years to build a wall of resilience to things that may have a negative impact on my wellbeing.’
The disappointing thing about the incident, though, was how it highlighted that Australia still has a long way to go if both First Nations and non-Indigenous people are to learn to walk together. I received vicious online hate mail aimed at my children (all aged under ten at the time), as well as vile racial abuse towards my parents and other family members.
But I also received huge support not only from my community but also from many people across
I believe the country is moving forward with regards to racism and discrimination.
the country, including countless aunties and uncles who stopped me in the street, at the park and at the corner shop, all thanking me for being a proud voice for our people. Through all of the drama that played out over those few weeks, the one thing I was most proud of was the message I attempted to deliver after receiving the award. It was a message of hope and reconciliation and about uniting both cultures for the future of our generations to come.
18
SPREADING MY WINGS
As a kid, I only dreamed of travelling to America, but in 2016 my dream became a reality. My first trip to the States was to NatCon, the National Council for Behavioral Health conference, in Las Vegas, Nevada. I felt extremely daunted by the thought of attending the conference, but I ended up meeting some amazing people with common views about people living well. The one thing that brought everyone together was that we were all either in recovery from a suicide attempt, bereaved by suicide, or recovering from our own mental health struggles, and the conference was filled with love, care and compassion.
We Australians had a booth, and loads of people lined up to chat with us — I am not sure if it was the accent or the fact that everyone could hear our laughter, but we were by far the most popular booth there! That week of networking led me to make more trips to the States.
My next trip over helped shape the working relationship I now have with 17th and Montgomery Productions, which is the mental health media and motivational speaking company set up by Kevin Hines and his wife, Margaret.
Kevin and Margaret invited Lauren Breen and me over for a speaking tour. Lauren is a very powerful speaker who talks from the perspective of a person who lost a member of her family to suicide, and she, Kevin and I spent ten days touring the United States. We covered eight states in ten days, delivering wellness and suicide-prevention programs to over 10,000 young people. I always get a huge rush speaking about my journey, knowing the positive impact it has on those hearing it in the audience.
It was after we got to know each other well that Kevin told me he was Native American, coming from the Arawak tribe in central America and the Caribbean. Having been adopted at a young age, Kevin didn’t have much of a spiritual connection to his Native American heritage. But I feel that he and I are connected on a much deeper spiritual level, due to our shared First Nations background. I feel like a big brother to Kevin when it comes to sharing spiritual culture.
Travelling across the States, I felt a sense of growth within myself. Each time I shared my story, I opened up and showed a vulnerability and learned a different perspective of myself. And though I still experienced negative chat in my head (and I still do today), by helping others I felt a greater sense of freedom and was learning to go easy on myself from day to day.
Kevin and I not only got to share the stage but we also supported each other whenever we felt low. When we talked through our problems, the best thing was that there was no judgement because we’re both filled with compassion. We both knew how crippling this illness can be. I learned so much from Kevin about how to share my experiences as a story and how the power of storytelling can impact on an individual’s life.
Kevin tends to call bipolar disorder a disease, because you can recover from illnesses, but bipolar disorder is chronic. We have both accepted we will have bipolar disorder for the rest of our lives, and instead of trying to beat it — as many people try to do — we just have to manage it.
In November 2016, I found myself at a Native American powwow in Atlanta, Georgia. A powwow is similar to what Indigenous Australians call a corroboree, which is a cultural gathering celebrating and giving thanks through song and dance.
As I wandered around the powwow, I couldn’t help but feel a connection. Resting my hands against the warmth of our Mother Earth, I felt the rhythmic beats of the native drums, vibrating and shaking the dry soil loose like a human heartbeat, that human being our Mother.
As the songs grew louder, the heartbeat began to penetrate my heart, and deep within my soul I felt as if I was at home sitting among my ancestors in Wiradjuri Country.
First Nations people across the globe have a connection like no other. It’s hard to explain verbally — it is the getting of a hug from a stranger, someone you have never met or even laid eyes on in your entire life, yet it is a feeling of love and warmth, from someone who is family.
While I was there in the States, I decided to go to the Standing Rock Reservation camp, which straddles North and South Dakota. I wanted to show solidarity between First Nation Australians and Native Americans, who were protesting the construction of a gas pipeline that would run directly through sacred native lands, putting local tribes’ drinking water at risk.
The unusual thing about my plan was that I didn’t have one. I felt no need to plan due to my firm belief
I found myself at a Native American pow wow in Atlanta, Georgia.
that my ancestors would look after me while I was on a journey so powerful and spiritual. It’s hard to explain unless you have that connection. All I needed to do was organise the flight to North Dakota. I knew I wouldn’t need travel from the airport to the reserve or accommodation. I just knew I’d be looked after. And I was right.
First Nations people have a connection with each other, no matter where we come from. Maybe it’s due to our common experiences, the bloodshed and torture that colonisation brought us, but there is a love and connection that is unbreakable.
I haven’t always felt that connection so strongly. There was a time when I wasn’t as culturally strong as I am now. But, like anything, the more you
I felt as if I was at home sitting among my ancestors in Wiradjuri Country.
practise, the stronger you get. So that’s what I’ve done, because I know it’s such an important part of who I am and it’s so important to my mental health.
Over the past few years, I’ve received a massive boost by connecting with my Aboriginal heritage and the increased closeness I feel to the spiritual side of my culture. I always knew I was Aboriginal, but being in the multicultural society we live in, I found it a little hard to connect to the roots of my culture. Now I am proud to be from a culture that has been around for 65,000 years, making it the longest continuous culture on earth.
It all started for me back when I was living in Dubbo. I was having a few spiritual moments where spirits, or some might say ghosts, would visit me during the night and pull the blankets off me and tickle my feet and ears.
This went on for about a week, so I called a couple of guys who
I knew were culturally strong and would understand what it was I was going through. Everyone has their own beliefs, but in our world, these spirits are sent to, or visit you, for a particular reason, good or bad, to give you a message. I had to find out what that message was.
I invited the men up to my house to cleanse the spiritual energy. As they walked through the house, one of the men, Uncle John Schipp, turned to me and said: ‘It’s about time you come bush.’ What he meant was, all these years I had been searching for this
First Nations people have a connection with each other, no matter where we come from.
identity. And this was the answer — the identity had found me. These spirits were bugging me through the night to go bush and connect to the old ways.
That week, I went out into the middle of the bush. It was pitch black, no lights, as we hadn’t lit a fire. Another uncle said to me (culturally, as a measure of respect, we call men who are older and more senior, uncle; or, for women, aunty): ‘Are you scared of the dark or of ghosts?’
Competing in Dance Rites 2017, Australia’s national Indigenous dance competition.
I was — growing up, we always heard stories about being out after dark.
‘You come out here,’ Uncle Steve said, ‘to connect to the old people, the old ways. They will look after you, and you’ll never have to be scared of the dark.’
Many years after that conversation, I realised he was right: I can connect. So long as I continue to connect and give respect to the old people, I’ll always be safe and protected.
Once, during the final round of one of my title fights, Dad said to me: ‘Let’s bring this belt home for all our old people who have died before us.’ I went into the final round and fought with everything I had, knowing that our ancestors had fought for us.