Caprice (7 page)

Special friendships were formed there. In our case there was me, Kate Muldune 17 years, Melanie Jones 16 years, Kathy Williams 16 years, and Aileen Miles 14 years. We were a champion tennis squad, and were always on the same side in team sports such as netball and hockey. We worked, played, and moved as a team. Then one day without any explanation we were all separated. I was sent to Dorrington in the central wheat belt to work as a domestic help to Bill and Betty Hammond. Melanie and Kathy went south to Donnybrook and Busselton and the youngest member of the foursome, Aileen, remained to attend the Bunbury Senior High School.

At the time I couldn't understand the reason for our separation. It became obvious in later years but I could only guess at this stage. In those days our special friendship was viewed in a different light. Our relationship (their interpretation) was perhaps leaning towards lesbianism. But how could we have known about homosexuality when we were ignorant of the facts of life anyway. That assumption was absolutely ridiculous. The only reference to actual sexual relationship was made in the bible—describing the action as “he/she lay with her/him”. Laying or lying meant to us the act of reclining. How, where or why didn't interest or concern us at all.

Even girls who planned a career in nursing were ignorant and naive as well. The reproductive system wasn't included in the Health, Hygiene and Physiology course studied by them. So it wasn't surprising that Beth Keeley, a first year student nurse at the Royal Perth Hospital, became alarmed when a male patient indicated that he was sexually aroused. The sister-in-charge of that particular ward was astonished as she looked at this attractive nineteen year old nurse with disbelief. After revealing her sheltered background, the sister understood and arranged for her to attend a lecture and film on reproduction. At least she was enlightened without having to learn from practical experience—by trial and error from boyfriends or husbands.

It wasn't until several years later that the negative effects of my Christian fundamentalist education, values and attitudes became apparent. Both incidents were most traumatic and devastating.

The first incident occurred when I met my father Danny Atkinson, my stepmother Winnie, sisters Janey and Lizzy and baby brother Robert for the first time. The meeting took place on Mt Ross Station, two hundred miles northeast of Kingsley. My surrogate mother Josie Mayler (nee Leach) accompanied me and my four children to the station to explain the customs and instruct me on traditional and social behaviour.

“All the people who have settled at the Jigalong Mission have either been given anglo names or have had their Aboriginal names anglicised for identification purposes. Your Dad's surname is Atkinson now,” Josie explained.

“They seemed to have used all the letters in the alphabet except X, Y and Z,” she added.

Throughout my life all reference to Aboriginal tribal, traditional culture had been negative and adverse. So it was with fear, trepidation and curiosity that I allowed myself to be led to my father's camp. That thick impregnable wall erected by the colonists and Christianity had crumbled
and I was actually coming face to face with people who were once described to me as “devil worshippers”.

Before the meeting I was like the hundreds of other European-oriented Aborigines, those without a tradition or a past, those who had undergone (successfully I might add) conditioning to lose our memories of our families and heritage. Those negative beliefs have been firmly ingrained and imbedded forever. That invisible barrier—the gulf between the fullblooded Aborigine and the half-caste created by the colonials and widened by the Christians was a permanent fixture.

The confusion and conflict arose not from the actual contact with my family, but from confronting the negative and adverse aspects of Aboriginal culture. “Devil worshippers” and “primitive savages”. These descriptions of the traditionally-oriented Aborigines kept bouncing around in my head. I couldn't could get rid of them, even when our visits to the station became annual or later bi-annual events and the children learnt to recognise all the local “bush tucker” and became more interested and involved in their traditional heritage. My children were not only learning to recognise bush foods but used the traditional names in Mardu Wangka, such as minyara (wild onions), kulyu (wild sweet potato), quomalla (wild tomato) and murrundu (goanna).

I refused to even attempt to repeat any Mardu words, that would surely indicate that I was allowing myself to be influenced and controlled by a people and a system of beliefs that was destructive and dangerous. I and or rather my mind rejected anything traditionally Aboriginal—except the food—and that included the language, the culture and especially its ceremonies, rites and rituals.

What a pathetic, misguided, misinformed woman I was then. Here I was unjustly condemning a culture that had survived and practised for over 40,000 years. It took almost
ten years to undo the damage caused by foreign indoctrination and shake off the shroud of fear and superstition.

How could I despise my own flesh and blood, and how could I not love this warm, caring man who calls me “my gel” and who proudly introduces me to his friends and acquaintances as “my daughter”. All my life I have always had substitute or surrogate mothers—but I have never called any other man “dad”. There were many uncles but only one dad. I realise now that I have a past, a history that I have become extremely proud of. I even have a genuine skin name. I am a Milangga, the same skin section as my grandmother Lucy Muldune. This is my birthright and no one can take this away from me.

I am pleased to say that attitudes towards Aborigines have changed. Their culture, and especially their art and dances, are accepted and enjoyed all over the world. Aboriginal people everywhere are making sojourns to their traditional land, searching for their roots, their history and their heritage.

One thing I find most interesting is that with the resurgence of the popularity and the spreading of Aboriginal culture, many well-known Aboriginal identities have gone to the extent of adopting traditional Aboriginal names, proudly announcing to the world that they have a heritage, a history, and are proud to be recognised as an Australian Aborigine.

There were quite a few children like myself who never forgot some special words. Those in authority were successful in changing our attitudes towards Aboriginal culture. Yet they couldn't remove the words. The words stayed with us. Words remained in our sub-conscious mind despite the intensive conditioning by those in authority. Mardu words such as marmu (devil) and marlba, meaning
malevolent spirits, and mabarn, a term used to describe the Mardu doctor or medicine man. Or it can be any objects that have magical powers to heal, recover lost property and avenge those who have harmed you.

The word mabarn was recalled instantly when my stepmother Winnie mentioned in whispered tones that my father had to visit the Mabarn man. I understood exactly what she meant. Memories of a cold, blustery, windy day at the camps at the Moore River Settlement came flooding back. My friend Shirley Riley and I (both seven or eight at the time) were taken out to dinner by Shirl's married sister Nora Walton. Two chooks were killed and cleaned for the occasion, and we were given a giblet each. We were absolutely delighted when we saw the unusual geometrical design on them. We rushed to the nearest shrubs where we dug holes and buried them. “This gunna be our mubarns eh Kady,” Shirley said seriously. I nodded in agreement as we returned to the camp. The aroma of curried chicken floated towards us.

“Where are those giblets you girls? Bring them here, I want to clean and cook them for yous now,” Nora told us.

“...Clean...”, “...cook....” We looked at each other across the open fire. Shirley was pouting in disappointment, mirroring my feelings exactly, for in that moment all our hopes of obtaining magical powers vanished immediately.

I am pleased that those years of fear and uncertainty are behind me now and my knowledge of my traditional culture is constantly expanding. Although I don't participate in the religious activities, I am well aware of their significance and also of the roles the participants play in them. As a family member I can choose whether to become involved or to remain a casual observer. I now converse and communicate in Mardu Wangka and listen more
intently as the Dreamtime stories are told so that I can share them with my children and grand-children. This is my heritage, this is theirs too.

It wasn't until after my marriage to Kent Williamson, the handsome, charming, garrulous man with wavy auburn coloured hair and the mischievous green eyes, that I began to question the relevance of my Christian values and how to apply them in a negative situation such as a marriage breakdown. Ideally we weren't supposed to fall out of love, under any circumstances.

I fell in love with him when I saw him lying on his side chewing on a stalk of a yellow sour grass plant. It was there I perceived and desired the man of my dreams. There could be no one else. On that day on Bill and Betty Hammond's farm east of Dorrington, youth and spring had all the ingredients to nurture and develop into a full blown romance.

I still have visions (though they are vague) of the vivacious self-confident young woman full of gaiety and expectation of love, sitting on a large grey rocky granite—my special place—sharing this lovely view with this handsome young man at my side.

Beauty and colour were everywhere, in every direction as far as the eyes could see. The farm in the springtime was beauteous, bountiful and blessed and Dorrington was unforgettable. Spread out all around us was a gigantic patchwork quilt of nature: the verdant green fields of wheat, barley and oats, paddocks of golden dandelions, the pale lemon-coloured sour grass plants, the pink, white and yellow everlastings covering every available space under the wattle thickets along the fences.

How many times had I stood on top of this rock and felt an uncontrollable urge to sing a certain hymn
appropriate for the mood and sight. It was a favourite song of everyone.

The little ones who didn't know the words of the verse would join in the chorus with gusto and enthusiasm.

I felt like a mountain goat, surefooted, full of life and expectations. The world was at my feet.

Dressed in dark blue serge trousers and a red, black and white checked shirt, Kent Williamson tried desperately to convince me that sexual intercourse was a ritual, an act of love performed anywhere, at any time by a couple in love.

I reminded him that I grew up with rigid Victorian values and codes of behaviour reinforced by the bible. Warnings against human follies were strongly supported by adages, proverbs, texts and quotes from the bible. I never realised before that I had certainly lived a sheltered life.

“Go no further than kissing,” warned Mrs Hammond. “Tell him that you'll accept nothing less than a wedding ring.”

I heeded her advice and I never weakened.

Our marriage took place at the Dorrington Church of Christ, performed by the Rev. John Crowley. My matron-of-honour was my best friend Jane Walters, and my junior bridesmaid was Annette Hammond. Both wore ballerina length dresses of leschenault-blue organza with puffed sleeves, carrying bouquets of pink roses, and pink
everlastings, and coronets of pink roses in their hair. I wore a traditional-length gown of white satin, and carried a bouquet of white roses, frangipani and white honeysuckle, and borrowed Mrs Hammond's long lace veil.

The groom, his best man and groomsman (his brothers Paul and Garry) wore pale grey suits, white shirts and blue ties. It was the happiest day of my life. I was given away by Mr Hammond, my boss and friend. The reception was held at the church hall and was attended by all of the Hammonds and all of the members of the Young Peoples Christian Endeavour Union. “A dry wedding,” sniffed Sara Jane, Kent's mother, because no alcohol was served.

My heart was full of happiness as I accompanied my new husband back to settle in his hometown of Geraldton, a beautiful coastal town north of Perth. To me marriage was a goal achieved, a fulltime career and more importantly a sacred institution.

It was my fundamentalist Christian ideals that created so much confusion; its conflicting views and contradictions that caused my breakdown.

We have romantic role models for falling in love, those who have set the behavioural patterns for lovers, but there are no role models for getting out of love, are there?

You see, I couldn't understand, and I bewailed the fickleness of a man's love. For years I had to endure the selfishness of a charming husband who was unfaithful and disloyal at every opportunity.

What a trusting and naive wife I was then. Even when he didn't return home at the weekends. There was nothing mysterious with his absences, there was no need to be alarmed or concerned. His explanations and excuses were nearly always plausible. And besides he was always
considerate and caring. I never doubted his word and accepted his denial of everything. Why shouldn't I, our marriage vows were sacred weren't they? Or so I thought.