AustLit
I always knew I was adopted. It would’ve been a hard fact to hide considering my adoptive parents are white and I’m black. I also have two brothers and one sister who are fair skinned, so I guess my skin colour stood out.
Growing up, I have vivid memories of family conversations about me, going on around me. From the age of nine, my sister and I would make up games—usually involving singing—while we did the washing up. As I stood, I often rested one foot flat against the inside of my other knee, and my parents would comment that the way I was standing was very much an Aboriginal stance. This wasn’t said in a negative way; it simply reinforced my awareness of being Aboriginal. Another conversation I overheard when I was young occurred when I was playing in the yard of my parents’ friend who said, matter-of-factly, that the way I moved and walked was very distinctive—just like an Aboriginal person.
Although I was born in Brisbane, I grew up an hour north-west in the small country town of Woodford. One day, before I’d reached school age, we went to a park in the centre of town for the opening of a new playground––a very exciting occasion for the people of a small town. As I was playing, a journalist took a photograph of me which later appeared on the front page of the local newspaper. The photo attracted some attention from the people in town and one boy commented to my siblings that I was a ‘blacky’, like Michael Jackson. My siblings tried to shield me from this, refusing to tell me what he’d said. I can remember though, how outraged my oldest brother was. Even though he was no more than twelve years old, he jumped on his pushbike, angrily peddled (kilometres) to the boy’s house, marched up the front stairs and banged on the door. When the boy’s mother came to the door, my brother assertively told her of his outrage. She was shocked by my brother’s outrage but remorseful for her son’s actions. My brother then jumped straight back on his bike and peddled home. My parents were a little bit taken aback when my brother told them what he had done, but soon proudly relayed this story to our family and friends.
My mother also shared her experience of adopting a black child. She told me of one time when I was a toddler. She was holding my hand in the line at a local store in Woodford and a woman who had been served walked past my mother and I and visibly screwed her face up in distaste, while looking directly at me, swerving away from me as she walked. As if I, a toddler, could have hurt her! This is still upsetting to my mum to this day.
During my primary school years, two other Aboriginal families started at our small school. There was an Aboriginal boy and an Aboriginal girl in my grade: they both had lots of brothers and sisters, and they were both as dark skinned as me. I wonder what they thought of my family—of me being black and the rest of my family being white. I can’t remember having much contact with the other Aboriginal kids, or the white kids at school, because I moved schools in Grade one. I ended up leaving and going to a smaller, newer school. My primary school years were happy years. I wasn’t made aware of differences between my friends and me.
The neighbouring town of Kilcoy is known for its dark history. Among other things, local graziers carried out massacres of Aboriginal people by poisoning their rations with arsenic—an inclination that continues today in some of the people of Kilcoy. Whenever I travelled there as a young person, I never felt welcome, and I still feel the same to this day. In Kilcoy, I’m always aware that Aboriginal people like me were murdered there. I also grew up understanding that Kilcoy people don’t like Woodford people. I’m not sure now how true this is, but I do know that Woodford people never made me feel unwelcome, or gave me the same feeling that Kilcoy people did.
My older brother and sister were sent to Kilcoy High School, while my other brother and I were sent to Caboolture High School. I suspect that part of the reason I wasn’t sent to Kilcoy was because the rednecks were rampant there. One girl I knew—a very fair-skinned Aboriginal girl who didn’t hide her Aboriginality—was sent to Kilcoy High. She excelled at athletics and blitzed the competition at Sports Days, but after one Sports Day she told me how she’d been taunted and called ‘saggy tits gin’ by her male classmates. I knew how much these taunts upset my friend; she hated going to that high school. I was more than happy I didn’t have to go there.
My time at Caboolture High School went mostly well, although very few Aboriginal students went there. One student in one of my classes must have seen me as a bit of a target and would refer to me as ‘coon’ and ‘boong’, which upset me immensely. The slurs played on my mind, even when I was away from school, but I can’t remember ever telling anyone about them. I also didn’t say anything back to this boy—who was actually smaller than me in size. One day in class, I was wishing intensely that he would leave me alone, but instead he sat behind me and when the teacher was distracted said, “Hey boong.” I immediately spun around and said angrily, “What? What do you want? C’mon—you called out to me. What do you want?” I remember seeing him take a step backwards and open his eyes wide. He just looked at me. After that day he never called me names again; that was a relief.
One high school experience that I remember fondly was a camp for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander kids. I was in grade seven or eight and went to Lake Currimundi Recreational Centre with many other kids. We participated in many sporting activities, and also put our own concert on at the end of the camp. I can still remember standing up and singing, ‘Lean on Me’ [by Bill Withers] with my group, and loving the bond and friendship we made.
After I left school, I started a Bachelor of Justice Studies at QUT in Brisbane. I didn’t realise that leaving my small hometown would cause me to feel distress, but I was really upset about it. I moved to the Jodaro Hostel in Brisbane—a student hostel for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander students. Girls lived on the first floor, boys lived on the second floor, and it cost something like sixty dollars a week for accommodation and meals. We had wonderful Aunties, like Aunty Val, who prepared our food each day, but also took on (for many of us) the role of Mum. The manager, Aunty Mary-Rose, was firm but very fair, and I admired her intelligence and the way she ran the hostel.
It didn’t take long to adjust to student life and living with other blackfullas from all over Queensland and the Torres Straits. On many occasions, the biggest mob of us from Jodaro would go to a party, nightclub, or the local pub on a Sunday afternoon. There was always someone to hang out with, sing with, or just be with. We all lived in close proximity to each other. It wasn’t uncommon to hear the thump, thump, thump of the boys dancing their traditional dance on the upstairs floor. This was definitely a time that us young mob bonded, and some of us made lifelong friendships. When I returned home for the holidays, I really missed the friends I’d made. Living at Jodaro and living with my mob was a time of great personal growth for me.
About six months after I moved to Jodaro, I was able to gain access to my personal records. As soon as I turned 18 (the legal age allowing me to access my records), I wrote away to Births, Deaths and Marriages, Queensland, and within weeks received a response that included details of my mother’s name, age and address at the time of my birth. It was information I savoured alone initially, but before long I was busting to tell someone. I couldn’t help but share this information. Although my mother was living in South East Queensland when I was born, I chose to tell two sisters from Cairns who were living at the hostel, and told them my mother’s name. Less than two weeks later one of the sisters knocked on my door and gave me a small piece of paper with my mother’s phone number on it. The sisters had told me of the ‘black grapevine’: how quickly information moves from mob to mob, and here it was in action! I’m so grateful for my time living at Jodaro amongst mob, and for making the significant connections that I did. Being able to contact my mother was a major milestone in my life and the beginning of a wonderful journey.
Reuniting with my family has been wonderful. Although I was away for 18 years, I have been able to maintain relationships with my family. It is important also for my children to be connected with their Aboriginality and be part of both sides of my family.
Kristine Ellis is a writer who has connections to the Wakka Wakka people and also to Kiriri (Torres Strait). Her poem, 'Missing Home', was highly recommended in the Oodgeroo Noonuccal Prize 2016. Kristine was recently one of the workshop facilitators who worked with the Indigenous Literacy Foundation and the Deadly Mob from Concordia Lutheran College write the fictional story - Two Ways Strong: Jaz's Story. Kristine has had poetry published in the Australian Poetry Journal and Rabbit (Journal).
This story is a part of the Growing Up Indigenous in Australia collection, published by AustLit in 2018.