It was 4 o’clock in the afternoon and the heat was unbearable, so still and sweltering. The Fremantle Doctor was late coming in as usual. I had planned to sleep through it, but my three boisterous grandsons decided otherwise. There was only one place left where I could relax and reflect on events and incidents of the past year, and that was the bathroom.
So for the next twenty minutes I soaked in a tepid bath undisturbed.
Three years ago the chances of furthering my education were so remote that even doing a course at a TAFE college seemed highly unlikely. Yet here I am on this hot November afternoon preparing for a very special evening—the graduation ceremony of the Aboriginal Bridging Course students 1981 at the Western Australian Institute of Technology. There are eighteen graduates, sixteen women and only two men; the females outnumber the males once again. This is a statement in itself and one that should dispel the myth that has persisted throughout the decades that women are merely “breeders, feeders and follow the leaders”. We see ourselves as strivers and survivors. Our contribution not only to Aboriginal society but to the wider community is well documented. Women hold prominent positions and are attaining increasingly important roles in administration at all levels in welfare, education, business and the arts.
There are a few students like myself still suffering low self-esteem and the effects of traumatic experiences. A couple of students who have had little or no contact with Aboriginal people were going through an identity crisis. Thankfully, all these problems have been overcome and adjustments made by the end of the course. I readily adjusted to city life but found it extremely difficult being a fulltime mature-aged student on a tertiary campus. But persistence and determination paid off in the long run. All the study and hard work had come to fruition, and I want to look my best this evening.
Later as I sat at my dresser the reflection in the mirror showed a fairly attractive woman with careworn lines around the eyes and greying around the temples. A grandmother of forty-one years, this woman with dark neatly trimmed hair brushed up into a flattering style. It was normally straight, thick and lacked lustre. But today it was glossy and seemed to make my dark eyes look brighter. Later when my daughter Vicki completed the facial makeup, she stood back and surveyed her handiwork. She nodded, satisfied with the results, “Mum you look different, beautiful in fact. A little bit of makeup, a bit of colour here and there, especially mauves and blues really suits you, you should wear it often.”
I was flattered. I have never worn makeup before. My Christian principles disallowed and discouraged with adages such as “A little bit of powder, a little bit of paint, makes a lady what she aint.”
When David Larsen, my companion and escort, called to pick me up, I could see that he approved of my new image—my glamorous, flattering appearance
“Gee, Kate you look lovely,” he said.
I am glad I chose to wear the mauve and white suit with matching white shoes. I felt all bubbly and beautiful as we drove to the campus at Bentley.
The day that I strived for these past three years had finally arrived. And as I took my place in the second row with my fellow graduates, the class of ’81, I became acutely aware of the ambience—an atmosphere filled with nervous anticipation and excitement that seemed to permeate the entire length and breadth of the Hollis Theatre.
However, my nervousness and anxiety quickly disappeared as I stepped on to the podium to receive a handshake and a certificate from the dean of the faculty of education.
This ceremony may have been regarded by a few as just another graduation ceremony: a presentation of rhetorics and concluding with the usual congratulatory speeches, followed by a vote of thanks and an invitation to share refreshments at the main cafeteria. But to me the ceremony signified something special. It meant that I had reached yet another goal in my life—a personal achievement worth sharing with an audience—one that I had doubted I would ever attain. Seated amongst the audience, sharing this special moment with me were my four very proud children, their spouses and my five grandchildren.
Firstly there was my eldest child Kevin James, 21, a plant operator with Carnarvon Shire Council, and his attractive wife Helen and their two sons Richard, 3, and Paul, 1.
Next to them were my daughter Vicki, 19, clerk/typist with the Department of Social Security, Cannington, her husband Marty Harris, trainee welfare assistant at a juvenile centre, and their sons Peter, 5, and Shane, 4.
Marise my youngest daughter came down from Port Hedland with her handsome husband Johnny Morgan and my only and beautiful granddaughter Jasmine, 3. At 17 Marise still looked too young to be a mother—just a baby herself.
Kent, the baby of the family, a sixteen-year-old apprenticed motor mechanic, intended joining his father and uncles on the Main Roads Board (Murchinson Area) when he qualified.
With the formalities over, the refreshments devoured and enjoyed, everything was going perfectly. There were more congratulatory hugs and kisses from fellow students, family and friends. But my highest accolade came from my eldest son Kevin James who waved and yelled before disappearing around the corner, “Well done Mother duck, we’re all proud of you.” I was proud of me too, the only grandmother in the class.
That evening was still mine, as my friend David cheerfully reminded me. Next on the agenda was a celebration party at Dulcie Miller’s home in Como. Dulcie was a second year social work student—the same year as my friend David—and she was the most helpful and popular person on campus. Many of us benefited from her support and informative discussions.
David and I didn’t go directly to Como but drove to South Perth to the foreshore and sat on the edge of the river’s cool grassy banks.
“I brought a bottle of champagne but forgot to bring two glasses,” he said apologetically. “But I hope you don’t mind using this.” He handed me a small plastic bottle of orange juice.
Mind, I didn’t mind at all—unromantic though it may seem. Starting off with an orange juice, followed by an orange and champagne cocktail and ending with champagne. It sounded perfectly wonderful to me.
Some time later David took the empties and deposited them into the nearest rubbish bin. I walked and stood on the edge of the foreshore and gazed wistfully across the river to the brightly lit city with its scores of twinkling lights and colourful neon signs that seem to enhance the beauty and the brilliance of our night-time capital city. I listened to the humming and the throbbing of the city itself, and watched the twin head lights of the moving traffic; going to and fro; in and out; full of purpose, either going home or going out.
This beautiful view was reflected in the river’s edge on the opposite side. Though now the twinkling lights seemed to be multiplied many times to become streaks of brilliance and colour. The transformation was magical. The normally murky brown Swan River seemed to be momentarily transformed into a huge mirror. In the darkness the ripples and the low swell lapped against the shoreline, breaking and rejoining in an endless movement, never stopping, never still.
A cool breeze came wafting across the waters, giving me a pleasant feeling that was purely euphoric.
This entire evening’s proceedings were a little hazy—except for three words that kept echoing in my brain, “Passed with distinction”. And at that moment I realised the full impact of those words. I actually made it. You hear that, Kent Williamson, “Passed with distinction”. It felt so good I wrapped my arms around myself, as pride and self-satisfaction began to swell within my breast. A most gratifying feeling indeed.
I was so engrossed in my own thoughts that I didn’t hear David approaching until he put his arms around me and kissed my cheek. “Beautiful, eh,” he said. I nodded in agreement and turned towards him and embraced and kissed him. But this time, however, it was different. I felt an old familiar emotion stirring within me; a sensation I thought was dead, gone forever, when all this time it was just lying dormant waiting for the right moment.
Well that special moment has come. Winter is over. Spring is here. My spirits soar higher. I am alive! I am vibrant! I am Caprice, a Stockman’s Daughter.