AustLit
“Hello, Blackout. Michelle White speaking.”
“Say again?”
“Michelle White speaking.”
“Is this Blackout?”
“Yes, Michelle…”
I’m cut off. I can’t even finish the sentence because the old fella on the other end of the phone line is pissing himself laughing.
“Michelle White….. bahahaha… and you work at Blackout bahahahahahahaha!”
In my head, I’m saying “Good one mate, like you’re the first one to crack this joke.”
Seriously, if I had an effing dollar.
I laugh politely at his wittiness and ask him what he’s calling about.
But funny-fella’s not finished yet, seems this is the best phone call he’s had in a long time.
“You know what would be even funnier, if you was a blackfulla, called White, working for Blackout… bahaahahhaa…”
Ouch. Tetchy nerve - well and truly triggered.
It’s fair to say I have a few issues around identity. You can’t be a six foot tall, blonde haired, blue eyed, Yamatji yorga with the last name White and not have a few things to say about this topic.
I’m a mix of Aboriginal and European heritage. I grew up with the former, but look like the latter. And then, just for fun, throw in the surname White, to complete the identity cluster-fuck.
It’s because of my whiteness that I grew up being constantly told by my family that I should never forget where I came from and that if I ever tried to ‘pass myself off’, I would cop a hiding.
To be honest, I didn’t really know what all the fuss was about back then. I just knew that it was really important to my family that I owned my Aboriginality and didn’t claim to be white, even though, by skin colour, I was white and I had a white dad and a mixed-race mum. Oh, and that glorious last name. White.
Looking back now, it’s pretty obvious why my mum and all the oldies were so determined to make sure we all knew who we were and where we belonged. We were a motley bunch. We pretty much covered every shade between black and white.
I suppose what they were instilling in me, in all of us, was a deep appreciation that our belonging wasn’t dependent on where we fell on the colour spectrum. It was about our family and our connection to our culture that mattered.
It was only later in life that I began to feel constantly stung and challenged by people when I proudly identified as Aboriginal. No way! How much? What percentage? You’re really more white than Aboriginal, aren’t you?
Yep. I’ve heard it all. I tell someone I’m Aboriginal and the reaction ranges from disbelief, confusion, to straight up disappointment or an insult. Heartbreakingly, I’ve even copped it from other blackfullas. Living in Sydney was the worst. A fair-skinned Yamatji away from family and country. Who’s your mob? Never heard of them? Where you from again? I know people from there, but I don’t know you… It’s taken me a long time to work out how I can explain where I fit, without having to whip out a power point presentation of my family history.
One thing I’ve definitely learned over time is to not say that I’m part Aboriginal. Boy, have I been chipped for saying that! But it’s true. There is no part - you either are or you aren’t.
These days, thanks to social media and popular memes, if the issue of identity comes up, all I need to do is compare myself to a cup of tea – you know the one - ‘Just because you put milk in a cup of tea, doesn’t mean it’s not a cup of tea.’
It’s pithy, but it works because it makes a point without making them, or me, feel bad. It also reminds me that if someone can’t get it, it’s their problem, not mine. I know who I am and where I’m from. I have a lifetime of incredibly rich experiences and stories that have shaped this identity that I am so proud and grateful for.
I loved growing up Black, with a house full of relations, some more functional than others. There was always a big pot of something meaty and delicious simmering on the stove. The sound of bottles and cans clinking and so much laughter. The air would be so thick with cigarette smoke I’d need a snorkel and goggle to sit in the lounge. You’d be scared to put a glass or cool drink can down anywhere in case someone dumped their butt in it. Even to this day I have a habit of putting my hand over the top of my can. I didn’t even need to take up the evil weed, I reckon I was side-streaming a pack a day for most of my childhood.
My Dad was a hard-working man. Weekdays were always quiet at our place, but come Friday night, all hell broke loose. Pay day. Everyone getting blue! The record player would get dragged out to the back yard and mum and dad’s record collection would get hurt. Literally. Elvis ‘the pelvis’, Roy Orbison or Charley Pride blaring full rip. Kids these days don’t know how lucky they are that their oldies can click and shuffle to the next song. When I was a kid those poor records would get scratched to shit every time a drunk uncle ripped the needle across the vinyl trying to find his favourite track with a can in one hand and one eye shut trying to focus!
We were doing karaoke before the Japanese even made it a thing.
Every family charge, or drinking session, came with a full throttle singalong. Oh man, I loved those singalongs! Backyard karaoke with choreography courtesy of Emu Export.
We had an outdoor dunny and a pink and grey galah in a cage sitting right next to it. That bird learnt to mimic nearly every bowel movement it heard.
Dad’s party trick was to let the bird out of the cage, because he knew it would chase mum. He would release cocky and then yell ‘Put the woman back in the house!” and mum would have to make a run for it before the misogynist bird took a chunk out of her foot.
From an early age I would write stories and leave them in the outdoor dunny for visitors to read. My Aunty Monica was probably my first editor. She loved my stories, even if they did all start with ‘It was a dark and stormy night…’ She encouraged me to write. She said someone had to tell our family story. Mum would agree and say it would read like an Aboriginal version of Alex Haley’s Roots.
Many years later, after my Aunty was diagnosed with cancer, I started to receive school exercise books full of her handwritten memories in the mail. Just out of the blue, these books started arriving. It was the start of our family book. I still feel humbled that she trusted me with her life story, something that makes me feel overwhelmed with love, but also burdened by the responsibility. Seeing her triumphs, her observations, even her disappointments laid out in a mix of beautiful cursive script and a scramble of printed thoughts and interjections, still makes me weak with sadness.
My mum was diagnosed with emphysema around the same time. She too wanted to write her story and she too, bought some lined exercise books. But, for mum, being a wicked yarn spinner, didn’t mean she could commit them to paper. When she passed away, we found one of the exercise books in her box of keepsakes. There was only one line of writing on the top of page 1. “This is the story of Yvonne Mary White nee Driscoll…”
I’m proud that some of the precious stories these strong women shared with me have had creative incarnations. A short film, ‘Miss Coolbaroo’, about Aunty Monica being crowned an Aboriginal beauty queen screened on the ABC television. A play, ‘Black As Michael Jackson’, featuring stories about my mum’s heart-breaking stolen generation experiences had a short theatrical run in Perth. And now, through TV series called Every Family Has A Secret, I’ve been given access to a mountain of research about my family history that has opened up a Pandora’s Box.
So many stories, so many secrets, so many questions still to be answered. But I’ve been given an incredible head start and a renewed passion to weave all this information into something accessible for every person in my family. Can I do it?
Who knows, our version of Alex Haley’s Roots, the family history book my matriarchs always wanted to write, might just happen. Finally. Immortalised in black and white.
Born and raised on Whadjuk country in Perth, Michelle is a proud Yamatij. She is passionate about sharing the stories of her family and they have formed the basis of many of her creative projects, including short films and plays. Her desire to learn more about her Mother’s stolen generation experiences of removal as a child, led to her taking part in the 2019 series Every Family Has A Secret.
Michelle currently works at Community Arts Network (CAN) where she sees first-hand, the transformative power of arts and creativity.
An award winning former ABC journalist with more than thirty years’ experience, Michelle has employed those skills to help produce several publications and exhibitions sharing the untold stories of Noongar families.