At that time I lived in Glebe and was in some ways at a rather low ebb, in hiatus from teaching but still editing Neos. I lived for a while in a boarding house in Boyce Street with assorted students, crims and schizos and one or two ordinary folk. It was an education. Among my neighbours was a schizophrenic Aboriginal woman whom I call “Marie”. As I listened to Marie, who was also kind of concierge to the house, I found a story emerging amid the apparent randomness and even craziness. I tried to capture that in a poem at the time. Every word in the poem she actually said, though not all at once, and I have structured it so that her story emerges, as it did for me over a much longer time. An artist who lived upstairs read it and said I had captured her exactly.
The house in Boyce Street. At the time I occupied the front room. “Marie” was on the second floor at the landing. The artist had the balcony room.
It is clearly no longer a boarding house.
Marie: Glebe 1983
(for the “stolen generation”)
my mama was black
dadda a scotsmanin the home there was a flower
it woke us upsee here it is
and here’s one i’m saving for matron
(i loved you matron)
i’ll write a book for matronshe’s gone now
they say she diedsometimes
i think i will come back to hershe said “you’re in trouble, marie”
she said “have the baby”
(i was nineteen or twenty)i know all about cocks
men can be cheeky
but the girls are worse
two backyard jobsmatron’s gone now
see her flower?
i’ve pressed it for heri’m forty-two years old i am nothing
a woman not married in this society
is nothingmy dream is to get married
i said to matron
“i will have babies for you”tomorrow
i’ll give up smoking
i must control the grog
but when my head’s upset i need a beerthe pub is good
nobody looks down on you therei hope my joseph is happy
he chose his family
and thomas
where is thomas?there have been too many men
i’ll go picking again
on the riverinathis is not my place
this is a dead end street this is a dead man’s house
but there is a lanethey call me
abo
schizowords are very powerful
you must be careful how you use themdo the children still read?
the television
i got mine at the hock shop forty bucks
it freaks me outsometimes
i see myself and matron and joseph and thomas
i learn a lot
it freaks me outsometimes
this is not my place
my head hurts hereall that fucking going on
over my headi’ve never hurt no-one
let them kill me it’s good
it doesn’t matter
i’ve never hurt no-one
but i’ve been hurtdo you know my dream?
this is my dream
i’ll have a coffee shop
and there will be little huts
and no-one will be turned awaywe did that once
had pillows all over the housei learned
dressmaking
and elocutioni’ll get up early and get a job
it’s good i reckon
tomorrow
will be good
after christmas
next year
i’ll leave this placebut it’s good
i reckonsee this flower?
i’m saving it for matron
and here is the one
that woke us in the home
my dadda was a scotsman
my mama was black****
Each photo is linked to its story. See A guide to Australia’s Stolen Generations and 100 Year Commemoration of the Cootamundra Aboriginal Girls Training Home.
See also Punishment and death at Cootamundra for a contrarian view from Keith Windschuttle. BTW, if you happen upon that chapter directly via a search you could be forgiven for thinking it had some kind of official status. I find that a bit deceptive, but then I guess it is up to me (caveat emptor) to check the home and about links.
Archie Roach at Cootamundra Girl’s 100 years playing ‘Mum’s Song’ by Kutcha Edwards.
Full of hatred and full of anger
Which I needed to release
But with love and understanding
I’ve moved on and I’m now at peace
Late at night I still remember
I would cry myself to sleep
The scars they hurt no longer
But the memories are deep
As we come up to Australia Day tomorrow it is time to reflect soberly and honestly on the full picture of our country’s history.
Very poignant.