Chapter 36

Lesley

By the time 1997 rolled around, I had more to contend with than the misinformed comments made by supporters of Pauline Hanson’s One Nation party. I was battling to get support from my own people for the Justice for Aboriginal Workers campaign. I had been working on this cause, which was to benefit us all, for nearly five years. Now the campaign was breaking up into groups with their own interests. Up to this point, we had all worked together on a shared mission: recognition and wage justice.

Part of the reason for the tension was that there were personal and community politics at play. It seemed everyone had their eye on the dollar signs rather than the issues. Even the lawyer from the Aboriginal Legal Service, who had earlier dismissed me for being ‘thirty years too late’, was now suddenly offering his services to me.

My confidence grew with each meeting, as audience numbers swelled. But over time there was a steady decline in the attendance of Elders – those who had gone out west to work and never received their wages. Scores had died; many more stayed at home, as their bodies struggled with the ills of ageing. Very few of these old folks survived healthily into old age, given the food and healthcare dished out to them in their early years. In their place younger people – with an education and political smarts – took up the fight.

Alongside them were seated those in my age group who had also been sent out to work under the government’s regime. Until recently, their presence in the campaign had been next to invisible. They were the ones Mervyn Reilly had warned me about, way back in 1993, when only a few dozen had bothered turning up to our first rally at the Roma Street Forum. ‘When the government agrees to pay back our money … all them Johnny-come-latelys will be here,’ he had said to me. I’d sensed, back then, that he was right, but I didn’t want him to be. Hadn’t our Elders raised us to not act selfishly? Weren’t we supposed to be a communal mob – who shared and cared for one another?

I was about to start another meeting. The Gympie-to-Brisbane train had arrived late at Roma Street Station, barely giving me enough time to catch a taxi to South Brisbane and set up the hall before the meeting started. There was a good turnout of people, perhaps eighty in all, but one reassuring face was missing: my sister, Alex. She had had another appointment in the city and was unable to attend, so this time I was operating solo.

The kiss-on-the-cheek greetings and other niceties went on until I opened the meeting. Not long after, a middle-aged Aboriginal woman interrupted me. ‘How long we gotta keep coming to these meetings?’ she sneered, striding down the centre aisle to the front of the room towards me. She stood next to me, while I remained seated, towering over me with her height and confidence. Gossipy whispers flitted throughout the room. ‘When are we going to get our money?’ she demanded. Did she think I had a cool million sitting in my handbag waiting to be handed out?

‘Yeah!’ someone else heckled. ‘I want my money back.’

‘Look, I want my bloody money back, too,’ I snapped in return. ‘But just like the rest of you, I don’t even know when, or even if, the government will give it back to us. That’s why I’ve called this meeting – so we can work out the next steps of the campaign together.’

I understood why people were frustrated and angry. They wanted their money – we all did. But at the time I didn’t know why the hell they were yelling at me and not at the government representatives who’d come to sit in on the meeting. The departmental officer was scribbling notes on a page as the audience exploded – hurling accusations and demands in a wild free-for-all. I cringed at the political consequences of such public squabbling. It wasn’t a good look, especially with the state election looming. I knew the current conservative government would only hold a public inquiry into the matter if there were some votes in it. But if we were seen to be fighting amongst ourselves, then no government, Labor or Coalition, would want to hold an inquiry. The excuse for their inaction would simply be, ‘blackfullas can’t even agree among themselves’.

The sister of the original troublemaker had now joined her on centre stage. Members of the audience egged them both on as though they were ringside at an outback pub fight. The meeting had quickly descended into a shambles. The sisters muttered to each other. But against the noise I couldn’t understand what they were saying.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t hear. What is it you’d like to say?’

‘You!’ the younger sister boomed, with her finger pointed at me. ‘You’re just doing this all for show.’ She cast her arms up and out towards the audience, insinuating to them that I wasn’t really interested in justice for Indigenous workers, and was holding this community meeting just so I could get the attention.

‘Look, there’s no need for friggin’ insults! Can we get back to the meeting?’ I was pleading with them to stop. But my accusers didn’t listen.

‘Look at you … you think you’re better than us,’ one of the sisters hissed. ‘You and your daughter … tripping around overseas, big-noting yourselves, like proper uptown blacks.’

‘Yeah, you wanna clean up your own backyard first, before going overseas,’ the other sister chimed in.

‘W-w-what are you talking about?’ It’d been a while since I had last stuttered. It’d been even longer since I had felt so intimidated. Not since the days of Miss Elder and her domestic-science classes – when she smacked me in front of the class for being a ‘naughty girl’ – had I been so publicly reprimanded. This time, however, my dressing-down wasn’t at the hands of a bitter government white official, but from one of my very own.

‘M-m-my daughter Tammy, she won the trip …’ I tried to explain, ‘I-I-It’s got nothing to do with the campaign.’ But it was useless trying to defend or explain myself to people who wouldn’t listen. I wished Tammy were with me. But then again, I’m glad she wasn’t there to see me humiliated in this way.

I’m not sure how long the verballing continued, or what else was said. I just remember sitting at the front of the room, staring into space. I no longer had the confidence of the woman who’d recently spoken to the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights. Nor did I have the fight left in me like that once-gutsy widow who’d successfully raised three children against the odds. Instead, I was just a middle-aged version of the meek and intimidated girl who’d lived in the Cherbourg Camp, wishing her big sister Alex was there to hide behind.

I looked around the room for signs of support. There was none. Although most of the insults came from the sibling troublemakers, not a single soul in the room came to my defence – that is what hurt the most. The vast majority sat in silence, watching the spectacle unfold. Perhaps they felt intimidated by those with the loudest voices. A few in the audience smirked as if they were enjoying the entertainment. Others had been persuaded by the verbal attacks, enthusiastically nodding their heads. Whenever I looked at them, they’d quickly look away, to avoid making even the briefest connection. Was it because they felt embarrassed for me? Or were they embarrassed for themselves, ashamed they hadn’t stood up and told the sisters to stop?

Who knows? In the end, it made no difference. It didn’t change the fact that in a room filled with my own mob I felt so alone. No one had the courage to stand and defend me.

‘D-d-does anyone else … umm … h-h-have anything else to say?’ my voice quivered. There was a deafening silence. No one else came forward. Enough had been said. I wasn’t going to fight back with verbal insults of my own, and turn the battle – originally against the Queensland Government for the return of our wages – into a war among ourselves.

‘Well, you all seem to have made up your minds. It seems you don’t want to work with me for all of us.’

Tammy

Mum’s attempts to hide her pain at this shambolic meeting couldn’t deceive her sharp and observant solicitor. Tony Woodyatt from Caxton Community Legal Centre called me from his office after witnessing the brutality of Mum’s community meeting-come-lynching. He knew she was on a train, en route to the flat I shared with Rodney.

‘Today, at the meeting, your mother was given a hard time. She’s going to need someone to talk to … with someone she can trust. Tammy, I know she will open up to you and your brother.’

‘Thanks, Tony, for the heads up. I’ll tell Rod and we’ll be ready for her when she arrives home. But I think it’s best not to tell her about your call. Instead, we’ll let her tell us about the meeting when she feels comfortable to talk.’

‘Okay, if you think that’s best.’ Tony paused before saying, ‘Tammy, you already know how special your mother is. Both Jean Dalton and I think the world of her. She didn’t deserve to be treated in that manner. Take good care of her tonight.’

Almost as soon as I hung up, I could hear the sound of metal on railway tracks. Soon she would walk the short distance from the train station to our apartment, and be buzzing on the intercom downstairs. She had barely entered the lounge room before her eyes welled with tears. Finally, she was safe to release her emotions – safe from the glaring eyes of those who accused her. Here, with only her son and daughter present, she no longer needed to mask her feelings. Rodney and I tried our best to soothe her, and make her feel strong again. But her pain was still too raw, and she had lost so much faith in her own strength.