I don’t care…

 Beachgoer poses at Cottesloe Beach in Perth

… too much – one way or the other – how you choose to mark your Australia Day. It’s many things to many people and if there’s one thing I’d hope for all of us – it’d be that we continue to allow people to celebrate their Australianism’s in as many positive ways as they can. Unfortunately we have too many ‘muppets’ out there, spoiling this for everybody: they want to tell us just WHO is an Australian and who’s NOT! 

The Australia Day before my son was born – I ventured out around the Swan River with a good friend who had also spent a number of years in the Defence Force of this country. I tripped around a young bloke full of what seemed to be good cheer and fun times, clipping him gently in the shoulder as he stumbled past me, recovering from a friendly tackle from one of his mates playing footy at the time. I turned to apologise and give him a friendly smile – only to cop this look of absolute venom as he spat at me:

“F@#$ing watch out you f@#$ing black c@$%! Why don’t you f$%^ off to where you came from?”

I was stunned for a moment – only a moment mind – because I was in that lad’s face before I could stop myself and before I realised – what was actually going on: ”Where IS it you think I came from mate?”

I had caught the lad by surprise (me as well). His mates too. The didn’t move – so I pushed the point home:

“WHERE exactly mate?”

The lad hadn’t expected my voice to have the same accent as his at ALL. He hadn’t expected me to step in and challenge him (nor had I if I was to be honest) and he hadn’t expected that for that single moment – he’d be awfully alone.  Like it or not, it had turned nasty in the blink of an eye and both of us were smack dab in the middle of it.

His mate’s began to rally themselves and my mate – unusually good at defusing moments such as these – stopped them in their tracks:

“Any of you lads served in the Military?” he asked quite disarmingly.

When no-one answered in the positive, he asked them another question. “Did any of your folks put a uniform on?” – no answer again, “Well – how about your grandparents eh – did they?”

At this stage he got a nod or two and followed up:

“So you’re grandparents probably served under that flag you’re flying there,” pointing to the esky pile that’s had become this little group’s ‘high ground’, ” and they probably saw some ugly things as a result of it yeah?”

The mood changed on that note – you could feel it toning down. My mate – a white lad I grew up with as a kid – simply pushed the point home.

“Don’t make an ugly moment happen for the wrong reason fellas. You know nothing about us and we know nothing about you. But we’ve also worn the uniform of this Country’s Defence Force’s and so have so many people of more races then you could possible name. You might want to think about that a bit yeah?!”

With that he pulled me away from the – rather sheepish young man now – and we both buggered off, before anyone else knew what was going on. I was shaking and apologising for acting badly and thinking how close we’d come to a really ugly scene with a dozen young men and their girlfriends.

As a result of that day and many similar smaller incidents (all local and around Perth in various places) I now don’t go out on Australia Day. I take my boys for the fireworks in places where small crowds are full of ‘grown-ups’ and I try to avoid drunk and angry young men trying to win back their Country, with venomous vitriol and drunken ludicrousness.

These young (and not so young) men and women are out there making our Australia Day something else entirely and they’re doing it in our name. Most reading this now will probably be those who aren’t in the same camp at this young man. But nearly all of us know someone like him. We all know people who share these views and most of us sit by and avoid challenging these people and allow this bulldust to grow.

If you’ve taken a stance against this type of behaviour – my hat off to you! I don’t expect it to be the kind I very stupidly partook in – I really don’t think that type of stance is necessary – but if you’ve simply stood up and questioned someone you know on their belief and comments – you’ve made more of a stance then most.

If you’r not this sort of person – please believe me when I say to you – I understand. It’s not an easy thing to do – challenging a person about the things they might believe in. But if you can do so – in the smallest possible way – sometimes it might surprise you and you might make a big, big change in how they then go on to see the world – in a good way.

If you can do this; question that one person you know and have them shift some, I’ll tell you now – you will have my gratitude and that of my sons, until our dying days. And somehow – I don’t think I’d be alone in that either.

We need you – we ALL need you!

Belongum – Out!

 

Thus our kitchen cabinet door…

…recieves it’s very first ‘makeover’!

For the record, our kitchen’s been in need of a makeover for over 20 years! Don’t even get us started on the rest of the house – sheesh! Let’s just say that in 1997; when we first moved in, the loungeroom itself demonstrated - perfectly – the decorator’s taste, in 60′s/70′s retro.

If; upon entering the house, you found yourself falling into a deep hypnotic sleep -brought about by the mind-messingly fine lines of the concentric square patterns – pulsing at you from the loungeroom walls – you wouldn’t have hurt yourself falling down! The lawn-green shagpile carpet – or at least what was left of it – would have cushioned the fall!

We kept the look for a time. It provided so much entertainment for out guests that we felt it should stay. I have to admit though, that the novelty wore off REAL quick! The first thing acted upon in our house, was that rather dismal shagpile carpet and it’s accompanying smell!

Anyways… the brown in the piccie above should back up what I’m trying to say. Frankly – anything – anything at all – is an improvement on any of the trimmings we’ve got, left over in this house.

Lastly – let me share the conversation that occurred when this fine piece of art was installed on this soon-to-be-demolished kitchen cabinet door yesterday:

“It’s nice to see original art son,” I say.

“It does have lines and dots in it Daddy,” states my 5 year old son knowingly!

“Not AB-original son,” says his mum – whilst I try to work just what in hell my boy might mean by this comment. ”Original – as in …”

…and then Kylie bursts out laughing.

Sigh  :-)

Belongum – Out!

Last Friday…

…our Norwest family said our ‘Goodbye’s’ to my Grandmother. Gran was 91 years of age; no mean feat for a lady born in 1919, in a remote Aboriginal community in the far north west of Western Australia.

It was a full-on family affair and it was intensely Catholic. It was a mixture of beliefs. It always is. I struggle every day with the way that both ’worlds’  can co-exist inside of people much like my Gran; how she walked the even (if somewhat difficult at times) keel that she did is a mystery to me – but hey, that’s a story for another time – one that is mostly about me.

This one is about my Gran. Her church service was presided over by none other than the Bishop himself. He wouldn’t have had it an other way. Many years ago he returned to Broome town re-invented as a Catholic priest. My Grandmother – already a well-established part of Broome’s Catholic community – considered it her responsibility to connect this new priest to the wider Aboriginal community.

So much so he said, that when his parents came to visit and then eventually prepared to leave, my Gran stepped up to his mother and told her not to worry about her son: “I’ll be his Mum here,” she said. And so it was. The Bishop had called Gran ‘Mum’ ever since. Such is the way in which people are adopted into and given place in Aboriginal families.

The Bishop wanted us to remember the sort of person my Gran was in his life, so he shared with us 2 stories. He couldn’t have chosen better, because one made us laugh out loud and the other made us cry, so I’ll share these with you now:

One Sunday – in the middle of morning Mass – the Bishop paused in his sermon and suggested to my Gran that the dog ‘accompanying her’ might actually be better off outside as it was a little cooler out there.

Privately, the Bishop didn’t like having dog’s in his church, but Gran had steadfastly refused to take up any hints he’d deemed to share with her on this matter; that dog went everywhere with my Gran, it was as much a part of her as the limbs upon her body. Why wouldn’t it go to church with her?

Upon receiving this suggestion from the good Bishop, my Gran’s reply simply stopped all further discussion on the matter: “What for?” She said in that typically Kimberly manner of hers: “He can’t hear you out there!”

When we all finished having a good laugh; imagining the look on her face and the tone she wold have employed, the Bishop prepared us for his other story.

A fair while ago, he said – a well known Broome ‘Gadiya’ (white) woman made quite a scene in the local media – with some rather disparaging comments about Aboriginal people in the town. Apparently; deeply caught up in her frustration and hurt, she pulled no punches and offended many with her spray!

When the next day dawned it was obvious to many that the woman involved actually regretted the things she said. However, as the words were already out there and already doing their damage she was at a loss as to what she could do to ‘take back’ the things she’d said.

My Gran sought this woman out, the Bishop said. Gran went right up to that woman and stood in front of her, looking her in the eye. Then my Gran did the thing least expected by anyone looking on at the time: she gathered that lady up in a big hug and forgave her. Both women then cried in each others arms – such was the pain they were feeling and the tension they were letting go.

When I realised the Bishop had finished, I looked up and a tear dropped into my lap. I reached up and felt the wetness under my eyes. I’d been silently crying; sitting there and hearing this Bishop tell us of this amazing woman who was (and still remains) my Grannie, his Kimberley mother and, his dear friend.

I don’t know if you can imagine the kind of life my grandmother survived to reach her age. Born in 1919 as an Aboriginal woman in a remote North West Australian frontier, meant that my Gran had no rights whatsoever for well over half of her lifetime. In 1967 certain things changed – but the basis upon which my Gran still managed to eke out an existence hadn’t – she struggled on until she grew up her own 7 kids and she did the best she could to make them and her other son’s and daughters around her strong.

This is why my mother’s so strong, because Gran never let her fall off the wayside and become completely abandoned when she was taken. My mother was encouraged to stand tall and be proud of who she is. Mum survived her hard times in life because she had our Gran watching her back. Gran did this for as many of her sons and daughters (you might say her nephews and nieces – but it wouldn’t be the same) as she possibly could. If you knew my greater family up that way – you’d know exactly what I’m talking about. We wouldn’t be half of who we are – if it wasn’t for people like my Gran.

May you rest in peace Gran. I wish I’d have been a better grandson – but I can’t for the life of me recall a time that I (or any one of the other multitude of grandchildren you have) have ever disappointed you. You had an amazing ability to make the same size space in your heart for all of your loved ones – no matter who they were, where they were or how they chose to lead their lives.

You loved us all – without favor – and we loved (and still love) you!  Be well where you go Gran… we have been incredibly blessed!

Belongum – Out!