Riding the Black Cockatoo (10 page)

Rob had no idea that I’d written a couple of children’s picture books. I’d long entertained the idea of writing something more grown-up, but the idea of writing about Mary seemed almost perverse.

‘Your life is going to change after all this is over, and your family’s too, you just wait and see.’

I felt a wave of embarrassment rise up my chest and I explained that I was blessed already, life was good. ‘Anyway, it’s all about Mary, not me.’

Rob waved my protests away and fixed me with eyes as clear as rockpools. ‘Just you wait, good things are going to come.’

I’ve never been good with praise, so I changed the subject and launched into my family’s geographic history. I explained that my family all came from Texas, a little border town four hours drive south-west of Brisbane. ‘We’ve been in the city a long time now, though. Before that we came from all over: Greece, Germany, Scotland.’

I was trying to be polite, that is, in Aboriginal terms. I had read somewhere that when Aboriginal strangers meet they tell each other which country they belong to and then spend a lot of time figuring out who their common acquaintances are. This process of establishing where you are from and who your people are is terribly important and a nice way of getting comfortable with a person; it certainly seems a lot more civilised than that annoying question we in the white world ask: ‘So, what do you do?’ Why do we place so much importance on what we
do
rather than who we
are
?

‘So, Rob,’ I asked, gaining confidence in my first steps in Aboriginal etiquette, ‘what’s your country?’

Rob broke eye contact and looked away.

I sat frozen as Rob’s story wrapped itself around me like a dark vine. This time I couldn’t turn the page or switch the channel.

‘I was taken from my mother when I was a baby. I’ve been piecing together my past for a long time now. But on the mission where my clan was sent to, not many records were kept, maybe they didn’t want us to remember. I’ve found most of my relatives now, even in unmarked graves. I also found my mother in 1994; her name is Alma Toomath. We are from Bibbulman country near the sea. Rob’s my adopted name, my birth name is Jo Cuttabut. Right now I’m in the process of changing it back to the name my mother gave me.’

Everyone in Australia knows at least a little about the Stolen Generation, about the Aboriginal babies and children who were removed from their mothers, family and culture and placed in government and church-run institutions or with white families. We’ll never know the exact numbers of the children whose lives were affected by the removals, which started as far back as 1814 but reached levels of ruthless efficiency from the 1920s until the 1960s. It is estimated that between 10 and 30 per cent of the entire population of Indigenous children were affected by the removal policies. In New South Wales the figure is believed to be up to 10 000 children. In Western Australia, where Rob was born, the figure was even higher. But we’ll never know for sure, as records were poor and often destroyed. Comparisons with Nazi Germany are always fraught with danger, but it’s worth pointing out that the Nazis kept records in far greater detail of the millions they ‘processed’ though their death camps during World War II. In fact, a relative or descendant of one of the four million Jews or political prisoners that Hitler exterminated in his death camps stands a better chance of learning the fate of his relatives than an Aboriginal person trying to piece together his or her family history. There is no doubt that some of the motives for the forced removal of children were honourable, but when you read the many stories of the way culture and language were crushed in the institutions, hostels and missions, it is not hard to conclude that the policy was first and foremost an orchestrated program of cultural and spiritual genocide.

It is easy to get disorientated by the many arguments that attempt to justify the government-sanctioned policy of removal; quibbles over percentage points tend to squeeze out the human element of this national tragedy. If you really want to understand, find – and I promise you it won’t be difficult – an Indigenous person who has been forcibly removed from the arms of their mother. Sit down in front of him or her and listen to their story. And then make up your own mind.

{ 4 OCTOBER 2005 }

‘Hey, I’m comin’ up to Brisbane next Wednesday,’ Gary announced enthusiastically. ‘I’m bringing up a songman too. We’d like to do a proper handover ceremony at your parents’ place, nothing big, just a smoking ceremony to clear away any bad spirits and to say thanks.’

‘What’s a songman?’ I asked.

‘A cultural man,’ said Gary, ‘a keeper of our dances and songs.’

A charge of excitement ran through me; all my boyhood Skippy fantasies were about to come true. I smiled like an idiot, picturing two painted-up Aborigines with didgeridoos dancing through smoke on my parents’ neatly mown lawn. Then reality shouldered its way back in and I thought of my father; a corroboree in the front yard, it was too weird to contemplate!

‘Gary, my dad is a lovely bloke, but I just think that would be too much for him.’

Gary went quiet. I could feel his disappointment and wondered if he was offended.

‘Hey, why don’t we talk to people at the University,’ I suggested. ‘That's where it all started.’

Gary liked the idea and suggested that we get some people from the local Indigenous community involved. After the call I buzzed about like a happy fool; then panic set in – I didn’t really know anyone in the local Aboriginal community! Mary was about to push me into the unknown, again.

I searched through the University website for Craig's boss, the general manager of the Oodgeroo Unit. It was ten o’clock, but I knew I had to ride the momentum of Gary’s call. I punched in the number I’d found and it was answered on the third ring. I was relieved that I hadn’t woken Victor up, but he sounded very tired. He explained that he was on Mornington Island as part of a delegation trying to nut out ways to overcome some of the social problems that were tearing up local communities in the region. He patiently and silently listened to my story, just once exclaiming, ‘Jee-zus,’ when I told him that Mary had spent the last 40 years on my parents’ mantelpiece. I told him that two Wamba Wamba men were heading up to Brisbane the following week and were keen to hold a proper handover ceremony at the University. Victor muttered a little and there were lots of deep breaths. And then he thanked me and my family for what we were doing and explained that it was a lot to take in at such a late hour.

‘There’s a lot of organising to do,’ he said. ‘These Wamba fellas can’t just waltz into town and hold a ceremony without invitation. Our people need to be involved, there are protocols to be observed.’

He explained that he’d had a couple of hard days and promised to get back to me just as soon as he’d digested what I’d told him.

I put down the phone, feeling glad that I’d managed to get the ball rolling, but at the same time feeling as though I’d just assaulted someone. I emailed Gary, again apologising for my father’s refusal to meet with him; I wanted Gary to know that Dad was a good man. And then suddenly I thought of football. I’m not sure why, maybe because Gary lived in Victoria, the home of Australian Rules football. My father is a fanatical Essendon supporter – he receives a birthday card from the team each year and has a concrete garden gnome in a red-and-black jumper that he keeps
in
the house because it’s so special. At the end of my email I added a little joke, saying, ‘Don’t hold it against Dad, he’s an Essendon supporter, and we know what grumps they can be.’

{ 5 OCTOBER 2005 }

I spread the Horton tribal map of Australia out on the table before my classmates and showed them Mary’s country. I was worried that this whole affair was distracting the class, but my lecturer was encouraging and everyone seemed imbued with the ‘Let’s get Mary home’ spirit. After class, I arrived home to find an email from Gary. At the end of his message there was a PS which read, ‘By the way, tell your old man that my son plays for the Bombers, number 42. See, we’ve got something in common after all.’ I stared at the email; the only thing missing was the theme music from
The
Twilight Zone
.

I phoned Dad and mentioned that there was going to be a handover ceremony at the University and that he and Mum would be most welcome to attend. Dad abruptly declined, saying he had an appointment in town that day. But now I had an ace up my sleeve. As casually as I could, I mentioned Gary’s son – number 42. Dad immediately knew who I was talking about.

‘That’s that young black rookie, Nathan, what’s his name—’

‘Lovett-Murray,’ I added.

‘That’s it!’ Dad always gets excited talking footy. ‘He’s fast too.’

‘Well, Gary is his father, he’s the bloke coming up from Victoria to collect Mary. He really wants to meet you, to say thanks.’

There was silence on the phone.

‘Anyway, I’ll see you soon, Dad.’

Dad just grunted, ‘Uhhh,’ not in an angry way, but rather as if his mind was elsewhere, as if he had become disoriented.

{ 6 OCTOBER 2005 }

Pete and I have been friends for a long time; he earned the nickname Captain Cranky because he’s never afraid to challenge a point of view or to speak his mind. It’s an honest friendship! Pete is a mountain-bike race promoter and works from a rustic little shack in his back yard not far from my place. I’d called by to return some tools and had soon settled in for a chat. Pete asked me what I’d been up to, and for the next ten minutes listened – without saying a word – as I told him of Mary’s journey back to country. Pete barely batted an eyelid throughout the story, then when I finished he nonchalantly pointed to a rusted old sword hanging above a bookshelf.

‘Maybe that’s the weapon that did the deed,’ he said dryly.

‘Pete!’ I said, totally appalled. ‘Anyway, as if that dodgy old thing was ever drawn in anger. Where’d you get it, a fancy-dress shop?’

‘It’s a trooper’s sword,’ he said.

‘So what? It was probably just for ceremonial use.’

‘What do you think they used them for, cutting onions for the barbecue?’ Pete went on to tell the story behind the sword and how it was given to his father – at the time a fertiliser salesman – by an old farmer.

‘The farmer used it as wedge to keep the barn door open. When Dad asked about it the farmer said that it had been there ever since he could remember, but he’d been told it had lopped off a few heads when the land was being cleared.’

Cleared
; for some reason I’d always associated the term with trees and scrub. I knew there’d been a few massacres, but I’d imagined that most of the original inhabitants had just drifted away, beyond the ever-expanding line of development. My vivid imagination went into overdrive as I stared at the blunt relic.

‘Of course he might have been pulling the old man’s leg, you know what farmers are like. He gave it to Dad when he was transferred out of the district.’

‘Well, Mary died of syphilis,’ I said, for no particular reason; death by the sword or venereal disease, both were equally horrific ways for body and spirit to part ways.

After my chat with Pete, I thought a lot about white family histories and wondered how many had similar stories, concealed by only a generation or two of dust?

That night Dad phoned. After some smalltalk he asked me about the ceremony; where it was taking place, what time it was to start, how he and Mum could get there. He was playing it cool, and even though I could have leapt down the phone line and planted a kiss on his whiskery cheek, I kept my emotions in check too. He said it was the strangest thing, but in the latest Essendon supporters’ magazine there was a three-page article on Nathan Lovett-Murray (Gary’s son), and about the Indigenous development program the club runs.

‘Gary will be so pleased to meet you and Mum,’ I said.

‘I look forward to meeting him too,’ Dad replied.

The power of football!