Altitude moves to UNSW
Posted by Emily Potter on July 4, 2008
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Volume 8: Popular Music: Practices, Formations and Change – Australian Perspectives (2008)
Posted by Clifton Evers on July 3, 2008
Editorial by Sarah Baker, Altitude, Volume 8, 2008.
The papers collected here in this special edition of Altitude offer a brief snapshot of popular music research broadly connected with Australia. The essays demonstrate the variety of theoretical and methodological approaches used by researchers in the fields of popular music studies and cultural studies to explore themes of popular music practice, formation and change in an Australian context. The opening essay by Johnson reconceptualises music as ‘noise’ and introduces the reader to the violence of music in modernity. Huber’s essay then takes issue with the notion of the ‘mainstream’ and considers the term’s usefulness in cultural analysis. In a look at Australian fiction, Doyle provides an overview of music’s literary presence in regards to incidental, ethnographic and synaesthesic dispositions or registers. Cohen and Baker’s essay looks at young people’s music-making; specifically the inroads made by two Australian and two British youths as they work towards becoming DJs. Mitchell’s discussion centres on the pedagogical and experiential dimensions of Australian hip hop with a case study of Melbourne-based hip hop artist Reason. Finally, the essay by Duffy, Waitt and Gibson investigates music’s role in rural place-making through a comparison of street parades in a rural town.
Articles:
Bruce Johnson, From John Farnham to Lordi: The Noise of Music: PDF
Alison Huber, University of Melbourne, What’s in a Mainstream?: Critical Possibilities: PDF
Peter Doyle, Macquarie University, Writing Sound: Popular Music in Australian Fiction: PDF
Bruce MZ Cohen, Humboldt University, Germany and Sarah Baker, The Open University, UK, DJ Pathways: Becoming a DJ in Adelaide and London: PDF
Tony Mitchell, University of Technology, Sydney, The Reography of Reason: Australian Hip Hop as Experimental History and Pedagogy: PDF
Michelle Duffy, University of Melbourne, Gordon Waitt, University of Wollongong and Chris Gibson, University of Wollongong, Get into the Groove: the Role of Sound in Generating a Sense of Belonging at Street Parades: PDF
Posted in Volume 8: Popular Music: Australian Perspectives (2007) | Tagged: Australia, Popular Music | Leave a Comment »
Volume 7: Culture and Climate Change (2006)
Posted by Clifton Evers on July 3, 2008
Editorial by Emily Potter and Paul Starr, Altitude, Volume 7, 2006.
In a recent edition of The Monthly, one of the country’s savvier magazines of Australian politics, society and culture, Robert Manne chose the topic of climate change for the regular ‘Comment’ column.[1] His focus was Australia’s dismal record amongst the international community in addressing this environmental disaster. He pointed out the political alliances that drive our nation’s position, and, coming out of the warmest year ever to be recorded in Australia, scathingly labelled the Bush-Howard stance on climate change as ‘an anti-Kyoto Axis, a kind of Coalition of the Unwilling, which is placing the very future of the Earth at risk’ (15). While Manne’s point of view is always worth a read, what is particularly noteworthy about his column is that, in the context of this publication, and from the pen of a public intellectual associated so strongly with humanistic journalism, politics and the contemporary culture, climate change is the focus.
Altitude 7 explores the relationship between culture and climate change at a time when the humanities, and those who study them, are commonly criticised for work that is abstracted from the ‘real world’. Environmental debate, as one significant ‘real world’ field of concern, is more often than not considered the purview of scientists and social scientists. Yet, as Manne’s small intervention indicates, there are voices beyond these disciplinary fields that are vital to the debate and that are active within it. Culture is not just a source of environmental ills that science can remedy: it provides a framework for their understanding, and carries the seeds of effective responses. As ecocritical theorist Greg Garrard states, environmental problems are an inevitable melange of ‘ecological knowledge and its cultural inflection’, and thus require analysis in cultural, as well as scientific, terms.[2] As a cultural issue, climate change informs cultural practices, products, networks and values, while culture itself operates as mechanism for climate change to be represented, debated and contested.
The last few years have seen an increased world-wide engagement of cultural producers and critics with climate change issues. The novelists Ian McEwan and Michael Crichton have both participated in public debates on these issues, from very different perspectives. Nonfiction writers such as Bill McKibben are writing on the topic for popular media, and online magazines such as Grist frequently dedicate space to discussion and news of climate issues. A UN-supported global photojournalism project on the impact of climate change is currently touring the world, while in our own country, the most recent edition of the journal of political and cultural writing, the Griffith Review, joins Altitude in turning its attention to our climate future, and its currency in the present. In a different register, Time magazine has come out in support of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s statements that the science debate is over, and, at a different end of the political spectrum, environmental campaigners have also cottoned on to the value of celebrity-based activism. It is clear that climate change has broken into mainstream cultural texts and media: what can be said about these, and other, recent interventions?
This collection offers a taste of the contributions that cultural analysis can make to our understanding of climate change causes, vulnerabilities, adaptions and solutions. What might climate change do to the cultures we live in, study and care for? How can the media and communications strategies promote cultural answers to climate change? And, in the mix of culture and climate change, now and in the past, where can we find cultural studies? The following pieces, in a range of critical modes, highlight the significance of cultural research for environmental questions, as well as, in the case of our interview with Clive Hamilton and Richard Eckersley, interrogating its limits. Tim Sherratt reveals the environmental damage embedded in Australian cultural history, and Jay Arthur’s reflection on her experiences of environmental communication, as exhibition curator, raises some central issues concerning the cultural contingency of our responses to the environment. Her insights extend beyond the limits of her exhibition to demonstrate the importance of keeping environmental problems, and our attentions to them, interconnected rather than compartmentalised. In our book reviews, Kate Rigby discusses Greg Garrard�s Ecocriticism, Paul Starr reviews Tim Flannery’s The Weather Makers, while Moya Costello takes a look at Sherratt, Griffith and Robin�s A Change in the Weather. A select annotated bibliography by Candice Oster and Paul Starr provides a useful insight into the offerings and, once again, the limitations, of writing [ scholarly and otherwise ] that address the overlaps and interplays between culture and climate change.
Notes
1 Manne, Robert. ‘The Nation Reviewed: Comment.’ The Monthly. Feb (2006): 12-15.
2 Garrard, Greg. Ecocriticism. London and New York: Routledge, 2004: 14
Articles:
Tim Sherratt, Civilisation versus the Giant, Winged Lizards: Changing Climates, Changing Minds: PDF
Interviews:
Paul Starr and Emily Potter, Clive Hamilton and Richard Eckersley interview: PDF
Exhibition:
Jay Arthur, Tracking Water Through the National Archives of Australia:PDF
Reviews:
Kate Rigby, Greg Garrard. Ecocriticism. London and New York: Routledge, 2004: PDF
Paul Starr, Tim Flannery, The Weather Makers: The History and Future Impact of Climate Change. Melbourne: Text Publishing, 2005: PDF
Moya Costello, Tim Sherratt, Tom Griffiths and Libby Robin, eds. A Change in the Weather: Climate and Culture in Australia Canberra: National Museum of Australia Press: 2005: PDF
Bibliography:
Candice Oster and Paul Starr, Annotated Bibliography – Culture and Climate Change: PDF
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Volume 6: Reading Australian Indigenous Texts 2 (2005)
Posted by Clifton Evers on July 3, 2008
Editorial by Anne Brewster, Altitude, Volume 6, 2005.
This issue completes the collection of essays on Indigenous cultural production introduced in the previous issue. It features a number of discussions of storytelling focussing, in the case of Somerville and Perkins, on the collaborative practice of storytelling exchange in a massacre story. Van den Berg looks at the functions of story-telling in indigenous communities and Ravell looks at the Moore River experience in life stories by van den Berg and Pilkington. Fielder examines Kim Scott’s fiction and collaborative life story work and Miller reads Unaipon’s life and literary work in the context of mimicry and whiteness. Webb and Mackinlay read the performance of song in urban and rural environments.
Articles:
John Fielder, Country and Connections: An Overview of the Writing of Kim Scott: PDF
Rosemary van den Berg, Aboriginal Storytelling and Writing: PDF
Ben Miller, Confusing Epistemologies: Whiteness, Mimicry and Assimilation in David Unaipon’s ‘Confusion of Tongue’: PDF
Elizabeth Mackinlay, ‘For our mother’s song we sing’: Yanyuwa Aboriginal women’s narratives of experience, memory and emotion: PDF
Julia Ravell, A Place in the Past: Pilkington and van den Berg on the Moore River Settlement: PDF
Hugh Webb, Say Goodbye to the Colonial Bogeyman: Aboriginal Strategies of Resistance: PDF
Margaret Somerville, (Re)membering in the Contact Zone: Telling, and Listening to, a Massacre Story: PDF
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Volume 5: Reading Indigenous Australian Texts (2005) Part 1
Posted by Clifton Evers on July 3, 2008
Editorial by Anne Brewster, Altitude, Volume 5, Editorial, 2005.
Indigenous people continue to make a very visible contribution to the production of the arts in Australia. Indigenous texts, which convene a non-indigenous audience (in addition to indigenous audiences), perform crucial work in brokering new configurations of intersubjectivity. These essays, which span two editions of Altitude, mount close readings of indigenous literature and song, ranging over the genres of life story, poetry, the novel, drama, country and western and traditional song. They extend our understanding of the significance and transformation of these genres and their impact on a range of difference audiences.
Articles:
Jacqueline Lo, Tropes of Ambivalence in Bran Nue Dae
Jennifer Jones, As Long as She Got Her Voice: How Cross-Cultural Collaboration Shapes Aboriginal Textuality: Article
Angeline O’Neill, Navigating through time in Bulmurn, a Swan River Nyoongar: Article
Penny van Toorn, Re-historicising ‘Racism’: Language, History and Healing in Wayne King’s ‘Black Hours’: Article
Anne Brewster, Fractured conversations: indigenous literature and white readers. A reading of the poetry of Lisa Bellear: Article
Posted in Volume 5: Reading Indigenous Australian Texts 1 (2005) | Leave a Comment »
As Long as She Got Her Voice: How cross-cultural collaboration shapes Abroiginal textuality
Posted by Clifton Evers on July 3, 2008
by Jennifer Jones, Altitude, Volume 5, Article 2, 2005.
Aunty Marge spoke on platforms, going back years ago, in Melbourne in the city here, when we wouldn’t have had a voice at all. I can go as far as saying �black was a dirty word�, you know, and you had to be really very careful. But Aunty Marge spoke on platforms, she joined the Communists, because they were the only ones that listened to Aboriginal people in those days, you know. So Aunty Marge jumped on the wagon there too, as long as she got her voice.
Walda Blow, Interview with Author
By the time Aunty Marge (Margaret) Tucker started to write her life story, If Everyone Cared in the early 1970s she was a seasoned campaigner for Aboriginal rights. Margaret Tucker knew how to use cross-cultural affiliations to the advantage of her cause. In order to gain her literary voice she undertook the familiar process of negotiation and compromise entailed in any cross-cultural political alliance. By this time she had moved away from the Communist Party (Jones, ‘The Black Communist’) and drew instead upon friends and fellow travellers from the religious movement Moral Re-Armament (MRA).1 In this era, an absence of supportive discourses in literature and politics (Whitlock) (social contexts that valued Indigenous perspectives and their public expression) limited audience access and made it difficult for Aboriginal women writers to attract the interest of mainstream publishing houses. In order to achieve publication Aboriginal women like Margaret Tucker harnessed available pockets of interest within white society, particularly drawing upon the resources of communities of ideological commitment. ‘Jump[ing] on the wagon’ of an interested and well-resourced community of commitment enabled Aboriginal women to gain a literary voice, but such alliances also influenced the style that Aboriginal writers could adopt. This paper examines how cross-cultural collaboration both enabled and curtailed Margaret Tucker’s textual expression.
Margaret Tucker was a very capable and determined woman. She was a vital member of numerous Aboriginal community and advancement groups. Yet, when fellow members of the Aborigines Welfare Board suggested that she seek funding to write her autobiography (from the newly formed Aboriginal Arts board of the Australia Council), Margaret Tucker doubted her capacity to undertake the task alone.
Margaret Tucker was a founding member and Vice-President of the Victorian Aborigines Advancement League (VAAL) and had ‘been active since 1935 in advocating the cause of Aborigines in left-wing circles’ (Markus). In 1938 she participated in the ‘Day of Mourning’. This protest action drew attention to the plight of Indigenous survivors of colonisation during the white communities’ celebration of the 150th anniversary of the arrival of the first fleet (Goodall). Margaret Tucker’s organisational and networking skills, and her fine singing voice, became indispensable in arranging concert parties for financial and political support of the Cumeragunja strikers (Bostock and Morgan).2 In later years Margaret Tucker was to become the first Aboriginal woman to sit on the Victorian Aborigines Welfare Board, maintaining this position from 1964-1972.
Despite these achievements, Margaret Tucker keenly felt the inadequacy of her formal education when she commenced her autobiographical project. It was fifty five years since her meagre mission education had been abruptly severed by her forced removal to Cootamundra Domestic Training Home for Aboriginal Girls (Tucker). Although she was an accomplished performer and public speaker, Margaret Tucker lacked confidence in her written expression. She believed that she was ‘not brainy’ (Tucker 192) and sought the help of her white MRA friends to help her write the autobiography. One of the privileges that whiteness availed these women was a quality education. Margaret Tucker was denied such an education, as were the majority of Aboriginal people reared during the segregation and protection era (Goodall). One of these MRA friends recalled the resolve required of Margaret Tucker and her white collaborator, Jean Hughes as they undertook the writing project:
To write a story is quite an undertaking for someone who left school when they were 13 and hadn’t been back. She would need help. Some of her friends felt that. Jean Hughes, who had become a long-standing friend, she felt too that she would need help. She was equipped to help her. She offered, she said, ‘Well, look Marge if you’d like to accept this offer, I will stand by and help you’. (Good and Ross)
One of the other pressing difficulties Margaret Tucker faced was the lack of a quiet space in which to compose her thoughts and write. Her home with her extended family in Melbourne’s outer western suburb Broadmeadows, and later her flat in Abbotsford, were always brimming with people and activity. Margaret Tucker’s granddaughter recalls, ‘With all the fundraising and all the organisations, groups and stuff that she was in, the committees she was on, she was inundated with people all the time. So she would never have been able to write her book if she was in her flat, never’. (Barr)
Margaret Tucker’s MRA friends, particularly her editor, Jean Hughes and her friend Anne Ross, supported Margaret Tucker throughout the writing process. They provided a quiet space for writing in the Camberwell flat they shared and transported Margaret Tucker to and from her family home. Over a four-year period Margaret Tucker produced a hand written manuscript that was then edited by Jean Hughes. The editorial preparation of If Everyone Cared involved a unique consultative process that drew upon the spiritual tradition of their shared MRA beliefs.
For the MRA affiliate, the practice of daily ‘guidance’ forms the spiritual foundation of daily life and long-term planning. Adherents sit quietly in a meditative attitude and write down thoughts that come from God. These thoughts, weighed against Scripture and morality, then guide their actions. The habit of daily guidance became the basis of Margaret Tucker’s writing practise, and her editorial collaboration. Anne Ross recalled the daily routine:
I remember, we were able to give [Margaret Tucker] a room to herself . . . I would often go into her room first thing with a breakfast tray. She would be sitting up in bed with pencil and notebook writing away. I would say to her, ‘Marge, you’re at it early’. She would say, �I like writing early in the morning. My mind is clear then. I’ve been writing for the past hour�. That is when she would best remember things from the past. (Good and Ross)
The practice of guidance also shaped the editorial process. Margaret Tucker and Jean Hughes would revise the morning’s writing together, checking that the rough draft matched what they discerned to be God’s desire for the finished piece. Anne Ross describes this interaction:
She would join Jean and together they would go over what Marge had been writing. The thing that struck me about that was that Jean was determined that it should be what Marge really wanted to say in her own words – that was the important thing. She would often say when something would come up, some issue, �Now Marge, is that really what you want to say?� and Marg being an honest person, would say, �Well no, no� and they would work at it to see what it was that she had here [gestures] in her heart. Then they would try again until they got it right. And that would be what went into the book. (Good and Ross)
This raises the issue of power in the cross-cultural collaborative relationship. Particularities of class, gender, age and educational background converge with race, necessarily resulting in differential access to power between the white editor and the Aboriginal author. When Jean Hughes asks Margaret Tucker, ‘Is this really what you want to say?’ she wielded some influence over her friend. Jean Hughes’ superior education, experience as business professional (Jones, Aboriginal Women’s Autobiographical Narrratives) and role as trusted friend and confidant availed her considerable authority.
This is not to say that Margaret Tucker expressed any misgivings about the editorial collaboration herself. Each section of Through My Eyes was edited in this consultative fashion, apparently to Margaret Tucker’s satisfaction. Margaret Tucker’s commitment to MRA values was complete and unwavering. As she attests in the autobiography, her conversion marked a significant point in her life (Tucker), as it brought healing to wounds inflicted by her experience of indentured servitude as a young girl.
Prominent Aboriginal figures and MRA affiliates, Bill Onus and Harold Blair, had introduced Margaret Tucker to MRA at a social gathering in 1956.3 Bill Onus frequently invited celebrities and friends to his studio to see Aboriginal art and on this occasion to listen to the Aboriginal women’s choir led by Margaret Tucker. After a time of singing and chatting an upper class white woman made an unexpected public apology for suffering inflicted upon Aboriginal people. Jean Roberts stood up and declared, ‘from the bottom of my heart how sorry I am for my superiority as a white Australian, and for our treatment, as whites, of the Australian Aboriginal race. Would you please forgive?’ (Tucker 172). Margaret Tucker records this event as, ‘the first time I had heard such words said to us Aborigines. It touched my heart’ (173). This startling address had a great impact upon Margaret Tucker, who acknowledged harbouring a deep suspicion of white people up until this time (181). Years of service in middle and upper class homes and her experience entertaining at ‘Society’ concerts and parties made her keenly aware of class distinctions and the assumption of racial superiority. Friends recall the impact of this public apology upon Margaret Tucker,
Marge was very, very perceptive, and I think she knew that Jean came of the class that Marge had most cause to hate. So the apology wasn’t just that it was a white person, but that it was a white person of privilege and background, part of The Establishment. (Coulter and Coulter)
MRA affiliation equipped Margaret Tucker to forgive the white people who had persecuted her because of her Aboriginality. She felt that forgiveness bought her release from the self-destructive effects of bitterness (Tucker 173). Margaret Tucker celebrated this release for the rest of her life and sought to share her experience with others. As her granddaughter remarks,
What she was trying to get across was that bitterness won’t get you anywhere. Bitterness only brings more bitterness and more hatred. [�] That’s where I think Nan was coming from when she wrote that book. Not to tell of the hard life she had, more so to [say], ‘put it behind ya, it’s not going to do you any good, it’s only going to make you a horrible person’. (Barr)
If writing her autobiography presented an opportunity for Margaret Tucker to share her MRA experience, it was also a major test of her commitment to MRA belief in forgiveness and reconciliation. This is particularly evident as she revisited difficult periods in her life in the writing process. For example, in chapter nine of If Everyone Cared Margaret Tucker recalls the abuse she suffered at the hands of her first mistress in the leafy suburbs of Sydney. Margaret Tucker had to outsmart her mistress, who censored her letters, in order to convey her suffering to her mother. She resorted to drawing stick figures on the back of the envelope as she walked to the post office. Margaret Tucker’s mother interpreted these messages as calls for help, defied the authorities and found her daughter in Sydney. As she wrote her autobiography over half a century later, Margaret Tucker recalled the incident with the immediacy and clarity of the moment:
I stared at the person at the gate and my dullness cleared as I realised it was my mother. Oh the joy, I can feel it as I write. I experienced it. I kept thinking how? How did she find me? How did she manage it? All this in the space of a second. As I think of it now I cry, I cannot help it. I think of my wonderful Aboriginal mother finding her way from the bush. She had read my drawings – a figure chasing a smaller figure, hitting the small one on the head with a saucepan. (Tucker 121-122)
In this moving scene the mistress attempts to prevent Theresa Clements from seeing her daughter. However, the mistress soon found that she was ‘no match for a distraught mother who had had her children taken from her’ (Tucker 122). In the hand-written manuscript, titled The Day Mother Came, Margaret Tucker’s typically open and flowing script becomes unusually tight and scrawling as her text embodies her pain (Tucker).
Writing her autobiography was an enormous undertaking for Margaret Tucker and as the draft progressed it became evident that she needed regular breaks from her community responsibilities and constant interruptions to the writing process. With her MRA friends, Auntie Marge took several important pilgrimages back to her Murray River country to gain inspiration and refreshment. MRA contacts also enabled a writing retreat at Gough’s Bay, on the Eildon Weir in the central Victorian Alps. Anne Ross recalled the importance of these journeys, ‘it fed her spirits, because they were both engaged in a difficult job [�] She wanted to go back, she had to for her book’s sake. That was where her heart was’ (Good and Ross). As noted previously, Margaret Tucker’s MRA friends were very concerned that her book expressed ‘what was in her heart’ (Good and Ross). I want to suggest that the editorial approach to If Everyone Cared encapsulates the struggle for ownership of Margaret Tucker’s heart.
First, however, credit must be given where it is due. As a non-indigenous collaborator, Jean Hughes undertook a genuine process of consultation and demonstrated cross-cultural sensitivity now advocated in protocols for the ethical handling of Indigenous knowledge, decades before they were established.4 The trips and retreats that Margaret Tucker and her friends embarked upon were important interventions5 that disrupted the accepted routines of the collaborative relationship. Moving outside the accustomed collaborative space of Jean Hughes’ Camberwell flat and the familiarity of Melbourne took the editor out of her comfort zone. Up on the Murray River, Margaret Tucker acted as facilitator, expert and guide in her own country, thus redistributing the balance of power in the collaborative relationship. The Eildon Weir retreat also fostered a neutral space within which the final stages of the editorial preparation were completed. The completion of the edited manuscript marked twenty years of friendship between the author and her editor. During these years of friendship Jean Hughes and Anne Ross found themselves inserted into Margaret Tucker’s Indigenous community:
We used to go out there [to Broad Meadows] when I was free from practise [Anne Ross was a medical practitioner]… all that happened out there (laughs)! We got to know Marge and her big family, and that threw a lot of light on her. Jean hadn’t got a car, or all that, so I was the driver out there. It was a fairly interesting experience, going out to this place. Getting to know her family, getting to know her next-door neighbours, who were extended family, getting to know all the people who called in and out- and the dog! Being part of that! He had to be, he was a very important part of the family. He had to have a chair of his own, and no one must take his chair. If anyone was on his chair you had to get up and allow him to sit on his own chair. A lot of that kind of thing went on. The people who called; it threw a lot of light on her life. Marge got into our hearts- everybody who came; no one was ever refused anything. People would come and ask for help. She would listen to them and find out the whole story. She had a great heart, and that struck us very much. (Good and Ross)
As Anne Ross reflects, the privilege of sharing Margaret Tucker’s life also entailed entering into a responsive relationship with her Indigenous community. With this relationship came a sense of ongoing accountability6 that necessarily informed the white MRA member’s approach to Indigenous issues. Founding the editorial collaboration upon an active mutual friendship thus suggests that some degree of cross-cultural understanding pre-existed the editorial preparation of If Everyone Cared. The pertinent question here is to what extent, if any, this sympathy, knowledge and involvement actually dislodged the normative domination of whiteness.7 I argue that Jean Hughes’ cross-cultural ‘journey of learning’ (McDonell 86) did not prepare her to adequately recognise the distinct Indigenous priorities expressed by Margaret Tucker in her hand written manuscript. Nor did the knowledge she garnered empower her to defend this mode of textual expression when challenged by the publishing house editor, with whom she liased.8 Combining the roles of editor and friend did not prevent the prioritisation of a Euro centric world-view in the editorial choices.
An editor occupies the role of broker. S/he negotiates a textual outcome that satisfies the (sometimes divergent) interests and agendas of the author and the publisher. The decisions of a professional editor will be informed by professional ethics and the commercial considerations of the employing publisher (McDonell 86). The decisions of an amateur editor such as Jean Hughes, who undertakes the task to assist a friend, are influenced by other important factors in addition to the author’s and the publisher’s agenda. The interests of the sponsoring community of commitment, in this case MRA, also influence their approach. When the professional or amateur editor is non-indigenous, their treatment of an Indigenous text will also inevitably be influenced by ‘western ideas and concepts’ (Heiss). Margaret Tucker’s earlier public testimonies reveal that she was not only adept at working within the white world, but also somewhat reconciled to the costs that these relationships exacted.9 Evidence of Margaret Tucker’s willingness to compromise can be found in a comparison of the manuscript and the published versions of If Everyone Cared.
Conducting a close textual comparison of the manuscript and the published versions of If Everyone Cared identified many differences between the two texts. A total of 830 alterations to the original hand-written manuscript were identified. The majority of the alterations represented the correction of accidentals such as spelling, punctuation and grammar. However, 117 changes diminish, delete, or qualify issues of importance to Margaret Tucker. These issues fall within three broad, overlapping categories, all markers of Indigenous textual expression: relationality, spirituality and resistance (Moreton-Robinson). The following examination explores the impact of the minimisation or erasure of these signs of cultural difference, which were available in the hand-written manuscript but were altered before publication.
Relationality
Significant Aboriginal cultural markers, such as references to traditional land and lore and the lengthy extrapolation of kinship networks were reduced and sometimes removed from the published version of If Everyone Cared (Jones, Aboriginal Women’s Autobiographical Narratives). In the manuscript Margaret Tucker repeatedly discusses Aboriginal heritage in terms of genealogy, thus textualising the oral tradition of personal identification via kinship networks.
In one example Margaret Tucker carefully lists the genealogy of many families at Moonaculla and Cumeragunja Mission. She notes details of marriage, children, areas of settlement and career successes. Margaret Tucker discusses the descendants and relations of her cousins, including Jack Patten. Below I trace the editorial treatment of this important narration of Indigenous knowledge as it moves from manuscript to typescript to published text,
Many descendants of the Patten family is here, there and everywhere but only one member direct from the senior Patten family is living. Uncle Jack Patten whom I believe was born in Healsville, Victoria and married to George Middleton’s, our grandfather’s youngest daughter Christina, all English names given by white people those days! [�] Aunt Minnie as all our people know her, is very gifted in education and can go far if helped the right way. She is the only first cousin I have on my mother’s side. I have a few on my father’s side His brother Ernie Clements, somewhere living in the Dubbo district and my father’s youngest sister May’s family whom I have longed to see but have never met. My father’s sister Ada who married Pat Freeman a very fine couple. Uncle Pat’s people lived in Yass N S Wales. His and Aunt Ada’s, my father’s sister’s grandaughter is married to a fine young upright Aborigine who was born a fifth generation of Granny Truggannini (I don’t know the spelling) late of Tasmanian race. Jim and Margaret has three fine children�
In the manuscript version this comprehensive listing of kin closes with the reflection that the stories of all these old people, such as Truganini, will act to guide the ensuing generations of listeners on issues regarding race relations.
In the initial editorial phase Jean Hughes retained, but paraphrased, the kin relationships described by Margaret Tucker. The typescript groups Margaret Tucker cousins in a continuous list rather than in separate descriptions. The typescript does, however, edit out the final section that deals with the purpose of the kinship stories and their application to race relations, MRA standards and Christian salvation. The typescript concludes as follows, ‘Jim’s mother’s mother is Granny Mary Clarke, a third generation from Granny Truggannini whose story has been handed down to them and many other relatives’ (Tucker, ts). Although paraphrased, the significant names and relationships are retained in the typescript. However, when the professional editor at Ure Smith publishing house refined the edited typescript all of these kinship details were removed.
The original manuscript also lists the kinship ties of other significant Aboriginal figures, including Pastor Doug Nicholas and Lionel Rose. Margaret Tucker’s knowledge of kinship networks in Victoria was an extensive resource that was effectively denied to the ensuing generations of Aboriginal people and her broader readership by the editorial exclusion of kinship details. The inclusion of exhaustive lists of kin relationships suggests their relative importance in Margaret Tucker’s Aboriginal world-view.
The editorial treatment of kinship knowledge in If Everyone Cared illustrates the subjugation of Indigenous priorities to the interests of a western readership. Indigenous editor Sandra Phillips suggests that Non-indigenous readers may find it difficult to manage the volume of people moving through Aboriginal lives. This difficulty has led to the criticism that Indigenous writing often has too many characters,
Even though a work may be reviewed as being too peopled, perhaps in the editorial development of the work some of the people have already been removed! (laughter) So what are they to know that there weren’t twice as many or three times as many characters to start with. (Phillips)
The editorial preparation of any text involves negotiation and compromise. The reduction and eventual deletion of kinship lists in Margaret Tucker’s life story illustrates how these accepted processes become politicised, particularly when the perceived needs of the targeted white readership are prioritised above other important authorial aims and agendas.10
Spirituality
Margaret Tucker used If Everyone Cared as a forum to meld her Aboriginal world-view with her MRA beliefs. Extended passages discuss the compatibility of the MRA platform and the morality of traditional law and the strict codes of her elders. Margaret Tucker took every opportunity to demonstrate how Indigenous culture can serve as an educative and unifying resource for future generations, as evident in the concluding paragraph of the kinship list. She believed that the marriage of Indigenous traditions and MRA values held the potential to heal rifts and divisions within the Aboriginal community and beyond. Margaret Tucker’s enthusiasm for moral judgement, however, often exceeded even the MRA focus on moral renewal. Below I illustrate the impact of editorial intervention upon the original manuscript: under the hand of Jean Hughes and later the publishing house editor. The original manuscript version is full of moral judgements,
I have never ceased to be thankful for meeting such people [�] who not only spoke of change in their lives but showed that it could be lived from the heart and given all over the world, not only by whites but by all races especially Aboriginals. It is a challenge, its hard, but it has given me a clearer vision of what we are doing to our world today – pornography, hate, greed, selfish ambition, destroying each other. Have we the courage to fight against such evils? There is a right way and a wrong way – a self-righteous way is phoney. (Tucker ms)
The typescript (below) paraphrases Margaret Tucker’s original text only slightly,
I have never ceased to be thankful for meeting such people [�] They not only spoke about change in their lives, but showed that it could be lived in any home and elsewhere by all races all over the world, especially Aboriginals! It is a challenge, it is hard, but trying to live straight has given me a clearer vision of what we are doing to our world today, greed, hate, ambition destroying one another. Have we the courage to fight such evils? There is a right way and the wrong, self righteous phoney way. (Tucker ts)
In this first round of editorial intervention Jean Hughes hones Margaret Tucker’s description of the MRA movement, coining the phrase ‘to live straight’, in order to sum up the MRA lifestyle. The reference to pornography is also deleted. The professional editor at Ure Smith, however, made major changes to this section of text. The published version reads,
I have never ceased to be thankful for meeting such people… They not only spoke about change in their own lives, but showed that it could be lived in any home anywhere by all races across the world, including Aborigines! Their lives were a challenge – a hard one – but they showed me how to live straight, not in the self-righteous phoney way I had been living. (Tucker)
Margaret Tucker’s words are transformed, as the hand-written manuscript becomes typescript, which then becomes printed text. The life style change that MRA advocates is now phrased as ‘including Aborigines!’ rather than being ‘especially’ applicable. Examples of the world’s evils are removed altogether from the published text. Only the key phrase ‘to live straight’, which was not Margaret Tucker’s, is retained. Finally, Margaret Tucker’s distinction between the right way to live and the wrong, ’self-righteous phoney way’, is removed. This phrase, which had been mobilised by Margaret Tucker to describe the evils of the world today, is now applied to her own past life.
The phases of editorial intervention exemplified above demonstrate how Margaret Tucker’s preoccupation with moral standards were minimised, reducing the risk of alienating a secular audience. The text still adequately reflects MRA values, but without Margaret Tucker’s special address to her Indigenous audience.
Resistance
If Everyone Cared was also sanitised to minimise the chance of offending or alienating the white reader. Primarily this involved deleting material that de-centred a western world-view or threatened to unsettle the projected white audience.
Margaret Tucker’s suffering as a stolen child and her experience of racist abuse as an indentured servant is re-contextualised as a past event that is isolated from the present. In the manuscript, Margaret Tucker relates the extent of the maltreatment to her mother, ‘I told her everything, showed her scars on my body’ (Tucker ms). This evidence suggests that Margaret Tucker will continue to carry the effects of the abuse on her body throughout her life. This evidence is removed from the published text. Here, Margaret Tucker tells of the abuse, but does not show her scars. The denial of physical and psychological scars remains as one of the major issues confronting the Stolen Generation (Haebich and Mellor).
Many other references to whiteness or white people have been replaced with the racially unmarked, universal term ‘people’ (Jones, Aboriginal Women’s Autobiographical Narratives 129). As indicated previously, Margaret Tucker’s experiences of racial abuse left a deep suspicion and mistrust of white people. This legacy is clearly communicated in the manuscript, but down played in the published text. For example, the description of ‘white people’ (Tucker ms) who laughed at the inclusion of rabbiting dogs in a beloved old uncle’s funeral procession is de-racialised. In the published text, the negative reference to white people is erased,
People laughed at his pack of rabbit dogs as they followed the buggies to the cemetery. That was about fifty years ago. (Tucker)
The universalised descriptor ‘people’ presumes a white majority and a racially marked Other (Spivak). The removal of references to whiteness thus prevents the ‘othering’ of white people, and helps maintain the racial hierarchy.
Jean Hughes, Margaret Tucker’s longstanding friend and MRA fellow traveller, edited If Everyone Cared before it passed into the hands of the professional editor at Ure Smith publishers. Oral history suggests that Jean Hughes adopted an open, consultative approach in order to aid the production of the life story text. These strategies did not protect Margaret Tucker’s Indigenous textual priorities from being subordinated to the interests of the publisher’s projected white reader. Issues of importance to Margaret Tucker and her Indigenous community, including the expression of Indigenous relationality, spirituality and resistance were diluted or removed before publication. Significant material that was available in the manuscript was excised either as the typescript was prepared, or when If Everyone Cared passed into the hands of the professional editor. This examination of the outcomes of cross-cultural collaboration illustrates two important points. First, the determination of Indigenous authors such as Margaret Tucker to gain her literary voice despite the considerable obstacles that stood in her way. Second, it warns of the resilience of a normative Euro centric world-view, prevailing despite attempts to de-centre whiteness and to write Other-wise. Margaret Tucker’s alliance with a community of commitment enabled her to gain a literary voice, but this alliance could not ensure that important elements of her Indigenous textual expression survived the editorial process and actually reached publication.
Works Cited
Barr, Maxine. Interview with Jennifer Jones. 1999.
Blow, Walda. Interview with Jennifer Jones. 1999.
Coulter, Rita and Jim Coulter. Interview with Jennifer Jones. 1999.
Frankenberg. Ruth. White Women, Race Matter: The Social Construction of Whiteness. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993.
Goodall, Heather. Invasion to Embassy. St Leonards: Allen and Unwin, 1996.
Hage, Ghassan. White Nation: Fantasies of White Supremacy in a Multicultural Society. Annandale: Pluto Press, 1998.
Heiss, Anita. ‘Writing About Indigenous Australia: Some Issues and Protocols to Follow’. Southerly 62:2 (2002): 197-205.
��. Dhuuluu-Yala (to Talk Straight): Publishing Indigenous Literature. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press, 2003.
Huggins, Jackie. Sister Girl. St Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 1998.
Lennon, Jessie. Compiled by Michelle Madigan. I’m the One that Know This Country!: The Story of Jessie Lennon and Coober Pedy. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press, 2000.
Jones, Jennifer. ‘The Black Communist: The Contested Memory of Margaret Tucker’. Hecate. 26:2 (2000): 135-143.
��. Aboriginal Women’s Autobiographical Narratives and the Politics of Collaboration. PhD Thesis. University of Adelaide, 2001.
Kartinyeri, Doris. Kick the Tin. North Melbourne: Spinifex Press, 2000.
Lean, Garth. Frank Buchman: A Life. London: Constable and Company, 1985.
Markus, Andrew. Blood from a Stone: William Cooper and the Australian Aborigines’ League. Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 1988.
McDonell, Margaret. ‘Protocols, Political Correctness and Discomfort Zones: Indigenous Life Writing and Non-Indigenous Editing’. Hecate. 30:1 (2004): 83-95.
Mellor, Doreen and Anna Haebich. Many Voices: Reflections on Experiences of Indigenous Child Separation. Canberra: National Library of Australia, 2002.
Moreton-Robinson, Aileen. Talkin’ Up the White Woman. St Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 2000.
Morgan, Alec and Gerald Bostock. ‘Lousy Little Sixpence’. Media Information. Sydney: Sixpence Productions, 1983.
Phillips, Sandra. ‘Editing Indigenous Texts’. Interview with Ramona Koval. Books and Writing. Australia, Radio National, 1997.
Ross, Anne and Catherine Good. Interview with Jennifer Jones. 1999.
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. A Critique of Postcolonial Reason. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1999.
Tucker, Margaret. If Everyone Cared. ts. MS 8704. National Library of Australia, Manucript Collection. nd.
��. If Everyone Cared. Sydney: Ure Smith, 1977.
��. If Everyone Cared. ms. MS 8704. National Library of Australia, Manuscript Collection, nd.
Whitlock, Gillian. The Intimate Empire. London: Cassell, 2000.
Notes
1 MRA is a worldwide spiritual/social renewal movement. Affiliates are guided by the tenets of their faith, (e.g Indigenous spirituality, Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism or Islam) and four moral principle principles: absolute honesty, absolute love, absolute purity, and absolute unselfishness.
2 Two hundred people, many Margaret Tucker’s kin, walked off the Cumeragunja mission in protest over treatment and conditions. They camped on the Victorian side of the Murray River for over nine months. See Goodall.
3 The same year that MRA founder Frank Buchman made his first Australian tour. See Garth Lean, Frank Buchman: A Life. London: Constable and Co., 1985.
4 See for example Jackie Huggins, Sister Girl. St Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 1998, and Anita Heiss, ‘Writing About Indigenous Australia: Some Issues and Protocols to Follow’ Southerly 62.2 (2002).
5 Suggested by non-indigenous editor Margaret McDonell in ‘Protocols, Political Correctness and Discomfort Zones: Indigenous Life Writing and Non-Indigenous Editing’ Hecate 30.1 (2004).
6 Even today, eight years after Margaret Tucker’s death, surviving MRA friends treasure and actively promote her memory. See Jennifer Jones, ‘The Black Communist: The Contested Memory of Margaret Tucker’ Hecate 26.2 (2000).
7 Theorists including Ruth Frankenberg and Ghassan Hage have demonstrated that normativity and structured invisibility are among the effects of race privilege. 8 The hand-written manuscript was edited by Margaret Tucker’s friend, Jean Hughes, while alterations to the typescript where made by the professional editor at the Ure Smith publishing house. Only 31 pages of edited typescript have been preserved, whilst the hand-written manuscript has been retained almost in its entirety. Because the typescript is substantially missing it is difficult to determine who made the bulk of the alterations. However, from the section available for comparison, 4 changes were made per page to the hand-written manuscript compared with 1.7 changes per page in the typescript. If this ratio was consistent throughout it suggests that Jean Hughes made the numerical majority of editorial changes, but not necessarily the changes most significant to an emerging Indigenous textual expression.
9 These include a newsreel film screened in 1935 and an unpublished testimony written in the 1950’s. See Jennifer Jones, Aboriginal Women’s Autobiographical Narratives and the Politics of Collaboration, PhD thesis, University of Adelaide 2001, 102-103 for a discussion of the costs of cross-racial collaboration in this period of Margaret Tucker’s life. See also Jones, ‘The Black Communist’.
10 Indigenous life stories published by mainstream presses obviously address a wide non-indigenous readership. Many Indigenous writers, however, view their books primarily as a record for their families and communities. For example Doris Kartinyeri, Kick the Tin, North Melbourne: Spinifex Press, 2000 and Michelle Madigan and Jessie Lennon, I’m the One that Know This Country!: The Story of Jessie Lennon and Cooper Pedy, Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press, 2000).
Jennifer Jones is a Post Doctoral Fellow in the Australian Centre, The University of Melbourne. Jennifer gained her PhD in Aboriginal women’s literary history at the University of Adelaide in 2002. Jennifer’s current research focus is upon Aboriginal author Ella Simon’s involvement with the Country Women’s Association.
Jennifer Jones is a Post Doctoral Fellow in the Australian Centre, The University of Melbourne. Jennifer gained her PhD in Aboriginal women’s literary history at the University of Adelaide in 2002. Jennifer’s current research focus is upon Aboriginal author Ella Simon’s involvement with the Country Women’s Association.
Posted in Volume 5: Reading Indigenous Australian Texts 1 (2005) | Tagged: Jennifer Jones | 1 Comment »
Navigating Through Time in Bulmum, A Swan River Nyoongar
Posted by Clifton Evers on July 3, 2008
by Angeline O’Neill, Altitude, Volume 5, Article 3, 2005.
It’s the Dreamtime that’s calling in the wind,
in the trees; it’s calling our people to listen.
For our ancestors’ sake we must do what it takes,
to keep all our children together and free.
Walter G. Eatts, ‘Ancestors in the Wind’
Richard Wilkes’ multifaceted novel, Bulmurn, a Swan River Nyoongar, is an intriguing treatment of Nyoongar myths and Law, spanning thousands of years as it traces the creation of cultures (even worlds) in continuing conflict. Set in the early 1800s, it depicts a significant period in the life of Bulmurn, a traditional spiritual healer of the Darbalyung Nyoongar people, following his movements across an area stretching from Murin Morda to Walyalup and Wadjemup (Watson 214-224).[1] The novel works to transpose Nyoongar oral traditions into the written word in English, making them more accessible to contemporary Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal readers, and giving hope for race relations in a future born, at least partly, of the darkness and desperation of the past. One of Wilkes’ major aims is to reinforce the contemporary value of Nyoongar traditions and the Law, while yet acknowledging that change is inevitable and the sort of cultural purity fiercely defended by Bulmurn is no longer possible. Against a background of miscegenation and racial objectification, Wilkes invokes a wealth of traditional songs, stories and corroborees. In so doing he directly addresses the sort of colonial misrepresentation of Aboriginal myths and oral tradition perpetuated, for example, in the work of early twentieth-century novelist and so-called anthropologist EL Grant Watson, whose short story ‘Out There’ will be discussed later in this paper. Wilkes does this by establishing an opposition between the history and law of the invaders, or the wadjbullas, and the myths and Law of his own people. This opposition brings into sharp relief the enduring power of the Dreamtime [2] and ancestral spirits in maintaining a sense of self and place among the Darbalyung Nyoongars, transcending the restrictions of space and time � as elucidated by Paul Carter – and the restrictions of the written word so earnestly propagated by the wadjbulla community. Ronald Wright suggests that myths are ‘an arrangement of the past, whether real or imagined, in patterns that resonate with a culture’s deepest values and aspirations� Myths are so fraught with meaning that we live and die by them. They are the maps by which cultures navigate through time’ (Wright qtd in Wilson 4). If this is so, then myth is at the centre of this text.
The novel is concerned with the way history and myth, and law and Law, operate in different cultural contexts. Wilkes, who is a Nyoongar elder himself, takes as his starting point what Paul Carter describes as the ’self-reinforcing illusions’ (9) constituting imperial history and contrasts them with his own people’s response to invasion and colonisation, as passed down to him by other Nyoongar elders. In this way, the text functions as resistance literature. Such literature, as Barbara Harlow has suggested, ‘calls attention to itself� as a political and politicised activity’ (Harlow qtd in Helms 8). In the opening chapters Wilkes accredits the wadjbullas with the limiting notion of history as a chronological record or simplified narrative of past events, and he evokes the myth of terra nullius as an example of what Carter describes as ‘Nature’s painted curtain… drawn aside to reveal heroic [Englishmen] at [their] epic labour on the stage of history’(9). It rests uneasily beside the two Nyoongar versions of initial contact with the wadjbullas as recounted by Wilkes. In the first, the curious Mooro people are justified in their suspicion that the pale beings are ‘bad spirits of jenark, jimbar and bulyut all rolled up in one’ when they suffer the ‘magic’ of the wadjbullas’ guns (Wilkes, Bulmurn 25). In the second version, they are frightened away when the strangers shoot at a flock of black swans, each of which is believed to carry one of the Mooro spirits from the spirit world of their Dreamtime people. The violence wreaked upon the land and its original inhabitants by the wadjbullas is the subtext in both of these stories, and it is mirrored throughout the novel in the awkward names with which the strangers attempt to possess the land. The same language used to document with supposed historical accuracy the events of invasion and colonisation is forced upon a land it simply cannot accommodate. In the opening pages this linguistic battle leads Bulmurn momentarily to despair that ‘Now no more do my people, the black people, own the river area. The wadjbulla, he got it all’ (28). One effective way that this statement is subsequently challenged involves Wilkes’ use of Nyoongar words; for example, the Swan River will always be the Derbal Yerigan, Perth is Goomap, and Mount Eliza or King’s Park is in fact Kartigarrup. He seeks to combat despair and provide contemporary Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal readers with a sense of the dignity and perseverance of his people. To this end, the writer convincingly represents the temporal and spatial battles between the wadjbullas and various Aboriginal groups on which the novel is based. Bulmurn is central to this process and the narrative traces his progression from mobarn man (magic man) to legend.
The invaders, unlike the Nyoongars, exist within the strict confines of a specific historical epoch. Temporally and spatially they are as isolated from their own ancestors and prospective descendants as from their British contemporaries. They call themselves, as Bulmurn observes, pioneers and explorers, although they are ‘discovering’ land already inhabited for tens of thousands of years. At the risk of stereotyping them, they are represented by a farmer and his workers, who commit rape and murder during a drunken spree and also by Senior Constable George Clamp and his troopers, whose task it is later in the novel to capture Bulmurn for avenging the rape and murder of his sister and brother-in-law. The Nyoongars, however, are surrounded (and protected, as the novel’s conclusion shows) by living myths, which enable them to interpret and articulate truths passed from generation to generation. The Bulmurn figure functions in this way. As Richard Wilkes has said:
Stories like Bulmurn’s are the kind of stories, Dreamtime stories, that are told about Aboriginal people in the early days… We had characters that were in amongst the ranks of the Nyoongar people and had these mystical powers and were able to use them in the way I describe in Bulmurn. So, Bulmurn is a real person… those characters were real, even in my time. (Those Who Remain 183)
Yet Wilkes is careful not to make this assertion in the novel itself, which initially functions according to the economy of wadjbulla history. Rather he lets his protagonist slowly reveal himself to the sceptical reader, whether Aboriginal or non-Aboriginal. Prior to this revelation reference is repeatedly made to what the Nyoongars in the novel think he can do and the powers that Bulmurn is said to possess; we are told that ’such was Bulmurn’s power, he was fast becoming a living legend amongst his people. They feared him and were in awe at what they thought he could do’ (Bulmurn 16). He is said to be able to change form: into wardang, the crow; minga, the black ant; and balga, a grass tree found in the Swan River area. Interestingly, early in the novel a simple explanation is offered for the first of these: that in fact Bulmurn has trained a black crow to warn him of an enemy’s approach – a piece of information which adds the strength of surprise to his powers as revealed during the hunt for him and ultimately, at the novel’s end. He is known, even to the tragi-comic black trackers, as a man who inspires ‘caution and respect’, one who is ‘a healer… an elder and a teacher of all ages… a very strong leader, a decision-maker in matters of culture, lifestyle and… tribal law’ (130-31). Bulmurn, the Mobarn Boylla Gudjuk, is the possessor of medical knowledge and magical powers. As a figure spanning his people’s past, present and future, he is perhaps also Wilkes’ response to what has been called the ‘uncontrollable, chaotic, unattainable, and ultimately evil’ world (JanMohamed 83); the colonised world peopled with demonic dark figures, as seen in colonial poet Charles Harpur’s ‘The Creek of the Four Graves’. As the narrative proceeds, Bulmurn, who could at times be seen in this way, becomes more real, while also increasing his status as a mythical figure. This seemingly paradoxical process highlights the complexities of the relationship between Western discourse, ‘reality’ and myth in this novel.
Wilkes describes pre-colonial Nyoongar life in evidently idyllic terms. Clearly he seeks to educate a general (Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal) readership, taking knowledge usually passed orally between generations, and adapting it to the medium of the written word, while simultaneously seeking to manipulate Western literary conventions in accordance with the demands of an oral literature. This is an ambitious project. Contrary to the expectations of many of his readers, for example, his protagonist describes and explains in considerable detail various aspects of traditional tribal life: the correct intermarriage between skin groupings, various ailments among the tribe and Bulmurn’s treatment of them, details of attire, weaponry and hunting procedures, to name but a few.[3] This approach, which reflects the utilitarian nature of much oral literature, challenges the expectations of the reader educated into a written tradition, causing the pace and rhythm of the narrative to appear to falter. Then we are given to understand its significance, as it is in an attempt to defend and champion this lifestyle that Bulmurn, in his capacity as medicine man, deliberately mistreats an increasing number of fair-skinned children ‘to keep our bloodlines the same as before, with our kinship intact, so that we can safeguard our traditions’ (Wilkes, Bulmurn 41). Through such questionably noble actions he promotes a pre-colonial cultural purity that he realises in the course of the narrative cannot fully be recovered. However, the opinions, prejudices and actions of his protagonist enable Wilkes to investigate in greater detail the survival and preservation of Nyoongar traditions. This will, he believes, give as much hope to his own community in the present as Bulmurn’s escape gives to the prisoners on Wadjemup (Rottnest Island) in the novel. As Bulmurn remarks to Weejup, another tribal elder: ‘I’m a great believer in our young people learning everything they can about our ways to pass onto their children so our Law is passed down. Learning makes our people strong…’ (14). This is precisely the role adopted by Wilkes as novelist.
In contrast with English law, Nyoongar Law transcends time and place. It is intricately bound up with tribal myths and is the axis about which the novel rotates, deployed by Wilkes as a means of measuring the distance between the wadjbullas and the Nyoongars. For instance, Bulmurn’s trial by the Council of Elders is also a trial by the spirits of the Dreamtime, the profound significance of which is reinforced by the fact that he is effectively found not guilty by these spirits, although he is deemed guilty under British law even before his trial. As he undergoes the trial of spears Bulmurn is seen to be a noble warrior opposed by ten of the tribe’s other warriors, in a trial which allows the offender to retain honour and dignity. He faces each spear ‘coming at him just like a snake, writhing its head from side to side. The barbs of the spear [seem] like the fangs of a snake, sticking out the front, trying to bite into [his] body, trying to put its poison into him to destroy him’ (45). Bulmurn, however, survives. So too he survives the ‘poison’ of the wadjbulla trial, which reveals more about colonial law and ignorance than about any of the warrior prisoners dispensed by it to the gaol of Wadjemup. Here is a law based on contempt for both human life and cultural difference, a law which sanctions torture and murder. Of many instances one of the most graphic witnessed by Bulmurn is the hanging of Wandabidar, a warrior, for upholding his Law:
[He] stood calm, tall and dignified. He presented himself to his executioners, a magnificent picture of primitive and uncultured manhood. Each Aborigine recognised his bravery: to them he wasn’t primitive nor did he come from an uncultured race. To them he was a very noble and cultured leader. (194)
Significantly, Wandabidar and Bulmurn’s eyes meet and Bulmurn responds ‘not with sympathy or curiosity but with respect for the man, for what he stood for’ (193). Here, as elsewhere in the novel, the contrast between English law and Nyoongar Law, English vision and Nyoongar vision, is a means of mapping and exposing the fundamental assumptions of the dominant discourse, shifting the narrative viewpoint from a Eurocentric one to one which is Nyoongar-centred.
Among his captors and their community Bulmurn is variously ‘the Aboriginal witch doctor’, ’scum, nothing but a murderous savage’ (176), or alternatively ‘almost human’ (177) when he is dressed in English clothing for the trial. It is perhaps this last tag which provides the greatest insight into Wilkes’ representation of race relations. Here the representation of Aboriginal prisoners is based on what Leonard Cassuto calls ‘the unique and specific tension of the grotesque’, where the grotesque signifies an image which is ambivalent and possesses a ‘peculiar disruptive power… that intrudes upon the desired order of the world.’ (Cassuto 8). In the eyes of the wadjbullas in the novel, this is precisely what Bulmurn is. In the reader’s eyes, however, he is much more than the victim of racial objectification. His captors’ treatment of him strengthens the widely held opinion among the Nyoongar elders that ‘the white man’s law is no law’ (Wilkes, Bulmurn 209). Essentially, then, he is doubly disruptive, as Wilkes uses him to redirect the reader’s gaze so that the coloniser rather than Bulmurn is seen to intrude upon the desired order of the world.
The novel traces events arising from Bulmurn’s positioning at the junction between Nyoongar Law and British law, as a consequence of which he is regarded by the invaders as neither human nor thing, but somewhere in between. He is both a Law man, ensuring that those who break his Law are punished, as well as an ‘almost human’ fugitive from wadjbulla justice. At the trial he is decried as a ‘nigger, killer, black bastard, murderer’ (181), while yet appearing ‘a forlorn figure of a man’, badly injured and in chains. From the reader’s vantage point this ambivalence is heightened, as Bulmurn is also seen to be a tender husband, fearless warrior and respected physician, who appears to have broken his own Law in order to uphold precious personal convictions. Wilkes carefully positions the reader such that his description of Bulmurn’s capture, trial and incarceration under wadjbulla law becomes a powerful statement on the nature of Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal relations both then and now. In other words, Bulmurn’s greatest power as a protagonist is his ability to disrupt the order of the settlers’ new world by refusing its categories. This power is startlingly well illustrated when one contrasts the trial and courtroom scene to Bulmurn’s corroboree with the Dreamtime spirits in the sacred cave. The latter takes place early in the novel, as he prepares to avenge the deaths of his brother-in-law and sister, Binyung and Munyee. Through ritual he achieves solidarity with the spirits, increases his magical powers and more clearly defines his masculine identity. Somewhat similar to the Jesus figure of Christian mythology, in communion with the spirits he prepares and strengthens himself for the coming ordeal.
Bulmurn’s ‘discovery’ of the cave some years earlier while hunting bikuta, the red rock kangaroo, is now seen as an important event in the emerging pattern of his life. Crawling and then walking through the cave, he was on that occasion led by a light into a large chamber, a sanctuary containing ‘ancient paintings… drawn by the �old ones� many, many seasons ago in the Dreamtime… very old and very much of Bulmurn’s tradition’ (58). In this cave, he discovered the graves of many mobarn men, who had also been led to the sacred site by bikuta. On that occasion he was ‘compelled’ towards a painted figure which suddenly emitted a beam of light ‘blinding him… engulf[ing] him, covering his body’ (59). At that moment he realised that he was chosen by the old ones, who were now giving him their special powers, and the scene is set for his lone corroboree later. Bulmurn is determined to give his people ‘a new life energy’, an aim clearly shared by Wilkes himself in the writing of the novel.
Although it is positioned early in the narrative, Bulmurn’s corroboree in the cave is arguably its pivotal point. Subsequently, the author emphasises the significant role of dance and movement in his protagonist’s access to and participation in the all-important realm of myth. From the moment he enters the sacred cave after being informed of the murders, Bulmurn is embraced by the Dreamtime spirits and drawn into a state of heightened awareness. Physical and spiritual dimensions merge and he is transfigured. As he paints his body with red, white and yellow ochre, it assumes ‘mystical qualities… tak[ing] on longer and longer proportions’ and creating ‘illusions of several bodies united into the one human frame, �Bulmurn�’ (77). He is in harmony with the Dreamtime spirits and his environment. So when mar, the wind, ‘rush[es] across his body… with the chill of death’ and causes the trees to ‘quiver and shake’ and ‘howl’, he is not afraid, as he knows that the spirits of his Dreamtime people [have] come to speak with him, to watch and encourage him as he prepare[s] to right the Law and take revenge for his people upon the evil white men…’ (77).
The lone corroboree begins slowly, with Bulmurn dancing ‘like a brolga bird’ and chanting. Gradually, he becomes aware of the rhythm of dancing sticks, the clapping together of boomerangs and a low-pitched singing, although he is physically alone in the cave. It is as if the invisible voice and instruments are ’summoning up an intensity of energy from within his very soul’ (78). Suddenly, the rhythm of the narrative increases to match that of Bulmurn’s experience. He sees ‘the spiritual face’ of mar, the wind, and his dancing becomes frenzied, in keeping with the louder, faster music and singing:
Mar the wind screamed around [him] in the dim, flickering fire, creating an effect like a halo which engulfed his shimmering, sweating ebony body, outlining his body painting which grew fluorescent lines of power right through his body… Bulmurn shouted, then he jumped high into the air throwing his arms outwards. His painted body seemed to spread in all directions in the flickering firelight (79-80).
Finally, he collapses into a trance. He is inspired and strengthened by the knowledge that the spirits support his mission, as babbangwin the lightning and mulga the thunder and mar the wind ‘[deliver] the approval of the Dreamtime spirits for Bulmurn to act, to right the Law for their people…’(80).
We learn that shortly after this event a violent storm occurs; a fitting precursor to the violence wreaked upon the farmer and his workers by Bulmurn, then upon Bulmurn by Clamp and his troopers and other English authorities. A pattern begins to emerge whereby human violence and the violence of nature are seen to be closely related to each other and encompassed by the realm of myth. With the help of the Dreamtime spirits Bulmurn, as a mobarn man, merges with nature, confounding the wadjbullas as he refuses to be categorised yet again. The threat of difference remains, and he appears to the wadjbullas as one of the demonic figures of their literature. Bulmurn shrewdly cultivates this fear.
His corroboree for the Dreamtime spirits, in accordance with Nyoongar Law, may be seen as a response to the plethora of imperial accounts in which Aboriginal dance has been encoded as ‘the expression of savage or exotic �otherness� within a discourse which represents blacks as objects to be looked at, rather than as self-constituting subjects’ (Cassuto 17).4 To the unsuspecting reader, Bulmurn’s corroboree is unnerving. Empowered by the Dreamtime spirits, he is in control and will not be objectified or relegated to the savage or exotic other. We observe him in a moment of transfiguration, which effectively determines not only his own fate but that of a number of wadjbullas and Aboriginal people in the novel. This point deserves some elucidation, which is perhaps best achieved by briefly contrasting Wilkes’ representation of the corroboree, Nyoongar myth and Law, with representations of Aboriginal culture by English novelist and self-proclaimed anthropologist E.L. Grant Watson. Watson’s numerous quasi-scientific representations of Aboriginal culture and traditions were influenced by Alfred Radcliffe-Brown and Daisy Bates, with whom he travelled through Aboriginal Australia. They may be regarded as typical of nineteenth and early twentieth century literary and anthropological approaches – the sort that Wilkes is reacting so strongly against in Bulmurn.
In his fiction and non-fiction Watson frequently describes corroborees performed by demonic rather than human dancers. Possibly as a consequence of his fascination, he removes corroborees to ‘the realm of the fantastic, the fictional, the infernal’ and ‘[reserves] the notion of �real� dance for the dominant culture by marginalising its variants’ (Gilbert 136). The short story, ‘Out There’ (1913), for example, tells of an anglo-Australian male, Jefferies, alone in the Kimberley region, who is tempted by the ‘bestial… but attractive’ Aboriginal women to ‘go native.’ (Watson 214). Watson reveals his fascination for indigenous Australian myth and Law, but always returns to the comfort of the known in the form of English history and culture. Even when finally Jefferies renounces civilisation, adopting the ways and beliefs of his Aboriginal companions, the narrator suggests paradoxically that it is because he is Western and therefore superior that he is able to do so. This is exemplified by Jefferies’ response to a corroboree, as his consciousness remains in control as he sits among ’slender spears’, listening to the ‘long-drawn nasal chants’ (217). He sees the dancers, ‘each with tufts of emu feathers on hips and shoulders, their red and white head-dresses swaying to and fro in the glare of the forked flame’, as ’spirits of the earth, sprung from it and worked on wires…’, placing them in his own system of value in an attempt to control them (217).
These are obviously figures of European literary fantasy in the tradition of Blake, Coleridge and Yeats, indicative of Watson’s romantic and imperial nostalgia for the ‘primitive’ and his unconscious need to objectify the savage or exotic ‘other’ under his own gaze – the gaze of the coloniser. So, as ‘a silent spectator’, Jefferies is seized by
… a feeling… that all this [had] happened before… that he [had] lived many lives, and in each life at such supreme moments [had] lost all individual desires and fears and [had] reached towards some supreme God who [lived] in the bush and in the heart of these friendly savages (217).
Like Watson himself in his later autobiographical writing, he thinks this is ‘the most real experience’ that he has ever had.5 Empathising with the ’savages’, he believes he understands something of the sacred significance of the ’supreme moment’ and of the dancers’ God. However, while he acknowledges the moment as a sort of initiation, through which, like the dancers, he is able to assume his mode of being in its entirety, he remains secure in his sense of imperial superiority. As we have already seen, this sort of anglocentric arrogance is vehemently opposed by Wilkes in his treatment of Bulmurn’s corroboree.
In ‘Out There’ it is implicit that, once Jefferies has been admitted as a full tribal member, he has achieved a sort of understanding of the Aborigines or mastery over them. The mystery of the landscape is redefined such that he ‘understands’ and is empowered by it. The bush is no longer foreign; psychically as well as physically he is at its centre. If we accept Said’s view of Orientalism as a created body of theory and practice, which is ‘never far from… the idea of Europe… [and] of European identity as a superior one in comparison with all the non-European peoples and cultures’ (Orientalism 7), this story can be seen as the work of an Orientalist, and Watson’s representation of Aboriginal culture can be seen as articulating an attitude of racial superiority. As an Englishman, he believed that he was capable of identifying with all aspects of Aboriginal culture. Wilkes, however, challenges this belief, which was widely held at the time his novel is set. His concern with land and its cultural significance is not, then, surprising, as he attempts to refute the notion of history which ‘reduces space to a stage [and] that pays attention to events unfolding in time alone.’ (Carter 11). As seen from Bulmurn’s corroboree in the sacred cave, as well as his shape-changing in the final stages of his pursuit by the trackers and troopers, he has an intimate relationship with (and knowledge of) his environment. He is, after all, both legend and man, empowered by the sacred secrets of ‘the old ones’ and the Dreamtime spirits, secrets incomprehensible to individuals raised outside the circle of such knowledge.
Richard Wilkes’ Bulmurn is an important attempt by a Nyoongar elder to regain the right to represent Nyoongar traditions and culture. It is an attempt to bring to the written word a powerful oral tradition of songs, stories and dance, making them more accessible for contemporary Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal readers alike. The protagonist, Bulmurn, hungers after a cultural purity that those around him realise is vanishing, slowly disintegrating under the weight of English discourses of history and superiority exemplified by the writing of E.L. Grant Watson. Bulmurn is the means by which Wilkes forcefully exposes colonialist ignorance and an imperial vision of history, contrasting them with the esoteric timelessness of his ancestors’ existence. In the novel he exists at the point of intersection between Western discourses and the omnipresent Nyoongar myths and Law. Although the writer runs the risk of stereotyping his wadjbulla characters and idealising pre-colonial Nyoongar life, he attempts to address such problems as racial objectification and the ramifications of the growing number of ‘half-caste’ children, and intertwines contemporary concerns with the old ways and knowledges. Consequently, Nyoongar society and culture is seen to be strengthened, and Wilkes arouses in his readership a sense of hope and confidence, as well as an awareness of the continuing significance of Indigenous traditions, myths and Law. Walter Eatts, another Nyoongar elder, also imagines a productive future issuing from the turmoil of the past and the present:
Then the wind in the trees can peacefully subside,
and become quiet and calm across the sky.
When the wind finally drops to a gentle
breeze, we know that our ancestors are at peace
with the land, and the safety of our children
is won. (85)
Works Cited
Carter, Paul. The Road to Botany Bay: An Essay in Spatial History. London: Faber, 1987.
Cassuto, Leonard. The Inhuman Race; the Racial Grotesque in American Literature and Culture . New York: Columbia University Press, 1997.
Eatts, Walter G. ‘Ancestors in the Wind’. Those Who Remain Will Always Remember: An Anthology of Aboriginal Writing, eds. Anne Brewster, Angeline O’Neill, Rosemary Van den Berg. Fremantle: Fremantle Arts Centre Press, 2000.
Gilbert, Helen. ‘The Dance as Text in Contemporary Australian Drama: Movement and Resistance Politics’. Ariel 23:1 (1992): 133-147.
Harlow, Barbara in Gabriele Helms, Challenging Canada; Dialogism and Narrative Techniques in Canadian Novels. Montreal: McGill-Queens University Press, 2003.
JanMohamed, Abdul. ‘The Economy of Manichean Allegory: The Function of Racial Difference in Colonialist Literature’. ‘Race’, Writing and Difference, ed. Henry Louis Gates Jr. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1994: 78-106.
Said, Edward. Orientalism: Western Conceptions of the Orient. Ringwood: Penguin, 1991.
Watson, E.L. Grant. ‘Out There’. Descent of Spirit; Writings of E.L. Grant Watson, ed. Dorothy Green. Sydney: Primavera Press, 1990: 211-229.
Wilkes, Richard. Bulmurn: A Swan River Nyoongar. Nedlands: University of Western Australia Press, 1995.
Wright, Ronald in James Wilson, The Earth Shall Weep; a History of Native America. New York: Grove Press, 1998.
Notes
1 The colonisers’ names are the Darling Ranges, Fremantle and Rottnest Island respectively.
2 ‘Dreamtime’ is Wilkes’ preferred terminology. It should be noted, however, that ‘Dreaming’ is now more commonly used, as this suggests an on-going significance and relevance.
3 Another striking example of this is found in Doris Nugi Garimara’s Follow the Rabbit-Proof Fence.
4 Cassuto distinguishes what he calls the ‘mutation’ of the other from Homi Bhabha’s concept of ‘hybridity’. Unlike Bhabha, he argues that the objectified human being is neither human nor thing. In other words, ‘it’ is inbetween.
5 Elsewhere in his work Watson described his own experience of a corroboree in the same terms that he used to evoke Jefferies’ experience in ‘Out There’ and that of several other protagonists in later novels.
Dr Angeline O’Neill has published in the areas of Australian literature, Indigenous literature and Comparative literature and has co-edited an anthology of Australian Aboriginal writing, Those Who Remain Will Always Remember. She teaches courses in Comparative Indigenous Literature, Australian Literature and World Literatures at The University of Notre Dame, Australia.
Posted in Volume 5: Reading Indigenous Australian Texts 1 (2005) | Leave a Comment »
Re-historicising ‘Racism’: Language, History and Healing in Wayne King’s ‘Black Hours’
Posted by Clifton Evers on July 3, 2008
by Penny van Toorn, Altitude, Volume 5, Article 4, 2005.
During times of political crisis, certain verbal signs become a focus of intense social struggle. Rival groups try to capture each other’s biggest word-guns and turn them against their former owners. Debates erupt over what these powerful words ‘really’ mean, how they might legitimately be used, by whom, and for what purposes. As different groups fight for control of these strategically crucial signs, the latter become manifestly multivoiced and semantically volatile.[1]
Recently in Australia, the words ‘racist’ and ‘racism’ have become a subject of contention. These terms were once monopolised by supporters of Aboriginal and migrants’ rights, who used them – sometimes glibly in a shorthand manner that emptied the words of their meaning – to castigate those who practised discrimination, prejudice, or intolerance towards non-Anglo-Celtic peoples. Today, in the late 1990s, this monopoly has come to an end. A new, right-wing, nationalist rhetoric has emerged which identifies the ‘real racists’ as those who want special rights and benefits for Aboriginal people. In her 1996 election statement, Pauline Hanson claimed that the Government was ‘looking after the Aborigines too much… I simply think everyone should be treated equally. If Aborigines get paid to send their kids to school or get this or that benefit, I should be able to get the same’ (qtd in Kingston 29). John Howard has implicitly endorsed Hanson’s re-definition of ‘racism’ by stating that the Liberal Party has ‘clung tenaciously to the principle that no one group in the Australian community should have rights that are not enjoyed by another group’ (29). Similarly, the anti-Native Title lobby (in a semantic switch that denies a two-hundred-year history of racial oppression) vilifies its opponents as ‘racists’ in an effort to win the high moral ground and hence the land itself. In each case, Aborigines and ‘ordinary Australians’ are envisaged as two mutually exclusive groups, yet the charge of being racist is deflected by redefining ‘racism’ as discrimination against non-Aborigines. In 1990s Australia, racism thus disavows itself; it wears an egalitarian, anti-racist mask (Lattas).
In the context of this war over words, Wayne King’s autobiography, Black Hours, works to reassert what ‘racism’ means to most Aboriginal people. King’s narrative allows us to see that racism’s current disavowals and disguises are nothing new, but are merely the most recent manifestations of a continuing practice of national denial. Black Hours counteracts both the semantic emptying of ‘racism’, and the current right-wing misappropriations of the word. King wrote his life story as part of his own healing process, and to help white Australia understand Aboriginal Australia’s hidden history. ‘White Australia needs Aborigines to teach them what constitutes racism’, he argues, ‘because we’ve suffered it. Racism crushes the soul’.[3] King’s life-story unpacks the word ‘racism’ to disclose in concrete terms how and by whom it is perpetrated, and how deeply it damages people, even when, like King, they have been able to achieve relatively high levels of affluence and success in their careers.
Although Wayne King identifies as an Aboriginal human being first, and although his primary target is the racism that pervades Australian culture, his narrative dramatises very clearly the ways in which differences of gender, sexuality, class, place, and nationality can complicate the binary black/white politics of racial prejudice and discrimination. At high school in the early 1960s, for example, King had to choose one of three elective programs: ‘academic’ which centred on maths and science, ‘industrial’ (carpentry and technical drawing), or ‘commercial’ which involved shorthand, typing, and bookkeeping. He chose the commercial program, even though it ‘was considered to be a ‘girls’ course’ and the boys doing it (five including me) were considered to be sissies’ (42). Although education rarely fulfilled its promise to open doors for Aboriginal people, the ’sissies’ course’ allowed King to earn good money, remain in steady employment, and avoid what he calls the ‘manual labour mentality that pervaded the Aboriginal community’ (44). His office skills also proved to be his ‘passport out of Ipswich’ (43).
King was born in Ipswich in 1948, and grew up in the suburb of Dinmore with his parents and thirteen brothers and sisters. His early years in the family home were unhappy and he yearned to leave as soon as he could. ‘I would stand on the back veranda of our home’, he reflects, ‘and watch the planes flying high overhead… I wanted to be on one of those planes. Never looking back. Never coming back’ (1, 3). He applied successfully for office jobs in Canberra and Sydney – where he came to understand he was gay – and in 1971, left Australia to take up a position in the United Nations’ New York headquarters. He loved living in New York because, for the first time, ‘the racism wasn’t directed against me. Being an Aborigine wasn’t an issue…’ (98). As a UN staff member, King worked in New York, Bangladesh, Bangkok, Cairo, and Damascus. He liked the adventure of living abroad, made some good friends along the way, and enjoyed success and fulfilment in his work. Without doubt, the ‘girls’ course’ took King along life-paths rarely travelled by Aboriginal men. Yet ironically, had he been a woman, some of these paths would have been off limits. Being a man, King could accept United Nations jobs in parts of the world which, as war zones, were closed to female staff: ‘If women weren’t allowed to go, it meant that I could’ (101).
King has found himself in a number of complicated political situations. As an Australian in the UN Headquarters in New York, he earned around half the pay of Irish and Scottish women doing the same job as him: ‘In Australia I had been discriminated against for being Aboriginal; now, thousands of miles away, I was being discriminated against for being Australian!’ (99). Yet as a staff member of a powerful Western institution like the UN, he was able to enjoy levels of wealth and privilege rarely attained by the local people on the non-Western countries in which he was stationed. In Bangladesh, he watched ‘as embassy staff – people who, in their own countries, had been nobodies – looked down their noses at the local people� Whilst I felt for the Bengalis, I didn’t say anything. I would just do my job and hold my peace’ (110). Feeling somewhat junior and insecure about his own position in the professional hierarchy, King was reluctant to criticize his ’superiors’. Furthermore, when confronted daily with the poverty-damaged faces and bodies of people in the streets, he experienced compassion-fatigue and realised ‘how easy it is to become hardened to the sufferings of one’s fellow man’ (105).
Expatriate professional communities are often insulated from the social tensions of both home and the country in which they are stationed. As a gay Aboriginal, however, in racist, homophobic Australia, King was doubly marginalised on the basis of both race and sexuality. He experienced racial prejudice from the gay community, and homophobia amongst sections of the Aboriginal community. He recalls being picked up by a gay man in a car, and thrown out again as soon as the man learned he was Aboriginal. Even more hurtful was his discovery of the depth of racial prejudice amongst his gay friends:
Rejected and spurned by society for being homosexual, they had spoken angrily of the discrimination they had to face. Yet they saw nothing wrong in their attitude towards me; saw nothing to condemn in themselves… Those white boys in that room thought that a racist was some yobbo in a blue Chesty Bond singlet, shorts and thongs with a beer can in one hand, the other scratching his balls. The subtlety of racism had escaped them. If you had an education, you couldn’t be racist. Terry’s racist comment [that the right place for Aborigines was in the bottom of an ash-tray] had tipped the scales for me. Gays may have been outsiders, but as a gay Aborigine, I might as well have been from Mars. (75)
King explores the workings of racism in contexts where social relations and identity politics are shifting and ambivalent. Yet one point remains clear: racism never lets up. The book’s title, Black Hours, comes from a sonnet written in 1885 by English Jesuit poet Gerard Manley Hopkins. King uses part of the poem for his epigraph:
I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what black hours we have spent
This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet longer light’s delay.
With witness I speak this. But where I say
Hours I mean years, mean life.
Hopkins was wrestling with his Christian God; King, with racism and alcoholism. For people who have never been victims of racism, it is an issue that comes and goes. The media pick it up and drop it; between times, Anglo-Australians can forget it and get on with their lives. Yet King shows racism to be a practice that impinges daily on the lives of its victims. For them it is no passing issue, no night of torment that ends with morning light. Their struggle goes on for hours, years, for an entire life – and from one generation to the next.
No matter how much time and distance King put between himself and his past, he found that his sense of identity was tied inescapably to home and family history. Some years after leaving Australia, while working in Bangladesh, he suffered a brief episode of suicidal thoughts and horrifying nightmares, which descended on him for no apparent reason at an otherwise happy time. A few years later in New York a ‘nameless discontent’ descended on him (118-9). He tried returning to Australia but found the racism too oppressive, so he left again in 1976, vowing to wander like a gypsy for the rest of his life rather than return home. In Egypt, however, King’s nightmares returned and this time they stayed. He began drinking heavily. This was the first time he had ever been dependent on alcohol:
I didn’t want to end up a drunk like Dad and the rest of them. I promised myself that I would never turn into a drunk. No white person was ever going to look at me with that sanctimonious, self-righteous sneer and say, ‘typical’. (57)
But in Egypt he felt very alone and afraid; he drank to numb himself into sleep and to avoid coming to terms with the problem identified by both his closest friend and his psychiatrist – his lack of self-esteem.
Outwardly King had made a success of his life; inwardly he could not escape ‘the psychological pain of rejection [of Aboriginal people] as individuals as human beings. A pain that crushed and impoverished the spirit’ (58). Time and distance hadn’t obliterated the past after all: ‘I thought I had run far away from Dinmore, but it seemed I hadn’t’ (143). Realising that ‘the fastest way forward is to go back’ (166), King returned home to Australia in 1980. King’s life story is structured as a circular journey away from and back to his home.3 In many settler society autobiographies (as well as in the popular imagination), the subject must travel to England or Europe – to the cultural and historical motherland – to complete their education and attain self-understanding and maturity. King turns this narrative tradition on its head in Black Hours: for him, international travel was a diversion, a way of postponing rather than accelerating self-understanding.
For King the key to self-understanding proved to be his family’s history. Returning to Australia in 1980 he realised he knew virtually nothing of the past prior to the events he himself had experienced as a child:
There were no sepia-coloured photographs of the older members of my family in their youth. There were no stories of happy childhoods, stories that give a child a sense of who they are, where they’ve come from. Not from anybody. There had only been oblique references to childhood: �You kids don’t know how well off you are�. (224)
This truncation of history occurred because King’s mother, Mary Dalton King, and her siblings (Wayne’s Uncle Doug and Auntie Nell) were members of the Stolen Generations, and had been raised on Purga Mission near Ipswich. Like Daisy Corunna in Sally Morgan’s My Place (1987), they had always kept silent about the past. Their own pain-induced silence, in effect, worked alongside white guilt and shame to keep the black side of Australian history in obscurity. As Wayne’s mother, Mary, explains:
You know they say that children bounce back. It’s not true. A little piece dies as you realise that you’re all alone in an unsafe world. You carry a bruise, a dark stain on your heart. That’s why God made dark and light, I think. You can hide things in the dark. To survive, you bury the hurt and pain in the deepest, darkest recesses of your heart. So deep that they won’t come back again. So dark so that you will forget them. You have to, otherwise how do you get through? (193)
After some months of persuading, Mary finally agrees to tell her story to Wayne, with the help of her brother and sister, but ‘only because I was writing this book… and it was important for them [whitefullas] to know what had happened’ (167-8). Mary Dalton King’s story – an autobiography within an autobiography – is the longest chapter in the book. In its own right, it joins the growing body of stolen generations stories coming out into the public domain. For Wayne, Mary’s story provides a major clue to his own break-down. ‘If I felt worthless’, he writes,
was it any wonder? Who had been there to teach me? My parents? They had taught us exactly what the Christian missionaries had taught them – that as an Aborigine you are worthless. To teach self-worth was beyond my parents. You can’t teach what you don’t know. (221)
Previously, whenever Wayne or his siblings had asked their mother about her early life, she had always deflected them with three standard anecdotes: ‘They were funny, and every time she told us we laughed and left it at that’ (167). King is sensitive to the many varieties and uses of humour. As well as diverting attention from issues that are too sensitive to speak of, humour can be used as a weapon, deliberately or inadvertently. Many Anglo-Australians pride themselves on their sense of humour, as though humour were a virtue in itself, irrespective of its effects. But King shows clearly how hurtful racist jokes can be, especially if they are used as a sly, cowardly way of giving insult, or if they are used by ‘friends’ who remain persistently oblivious to the wounds they inflict. One of King’s white friends tells him a racist joke and can’t understand why he is not amused: she says, ‘we had to be able to laugh at ourselves’ (159). Her universalising use of ‘we’ blurs over the crucial fact that the joke is about his people, not hers. To share the joke with her, King would have had to align himself with her and laugh derisively at Aboriginal people’s economic disadvantage.
This is not to say that King can’t laugh at himself or at members of his family; the effect of jokes depends on who is telling them and in what context. Black Hours is full of wit that is often verbal, and a gentle, self-deprecating irony that emerges as King re-reads his experiences with the wisdom of hindsight. Sometimes King laughs at his childish reasoning: for example, when his mother is winning a particularly violent fight with his father, he reflects, ‘She was so angry I was frightened. Maybe she would kill him and go to jail? Then we’d be left with only Dad to take care of us’ (12). As the story unfolds, the gap between the narrating consciousness and the self about whom he is writing steadily diminishes, and we can see King evolving into the person he now is.
As King’s self-understanding grows, so too does his understanding of others. During his childhood, Wayne felt rejected, fearful, and bitterly angry towards his father, and he resented his mother for failing to protect him from his father’s abuse. Not until he was a mature adult did he begin to understand his parents as human beings struggling to cope with problems that, as a child, he could not fully understand. Wayne’s father, Aubrey King, was violent, abusive, angry, and often drunk, and Wayne grew up feeling afraid of and unloved by his dad. Yet his account of his father’s life dismantles the racist stereotype of the drunken Aborigine by explaining Aubrey’s behaviour as an outcome of financial problems and gender anxieties rooted in his early life on the Purga Mission.
When Aubrey was a young boy, his mother had abandoned him and his siblings to marry a new man. The children ended up being sent to the mission. The only ‘fathers’ Aubrey would have known were those on the mission. Furthermore, Aubrey’s masculinity took shape inside a life-long physical rivalry with his twin brother, Bill. Wayne remembers his father as ‘a big man’ (5), a sportsman who ‘had played all those sports that men are supposed to play’ (5). He was a man’s man who had never forgiven his mother, and who nursed a grudge against women in general (204). Aubrey provided for his family by working with the Queensland Railways. His job involved checking the brake systems, a task which required him to climb underneath the trains. At the age of thirty-five, however, Aubrey’s life changed dramatically when a train rolled over his left leg, severing it above the knee. After losing his leg, he was relegated to a clerical position. He began drinking heavily; money became scarce. As an adult struggling with alcohol himself, King comes to understand that his father’s behaviour towards his family was an expression of ‘his fury at the hand life had dealt him’ (12).
In the process of recounting his own life story and that of his mother and father, King provides many brief but telling cross-references to incidents in twentieth century Australian history. He refers to stories told by old people about white men who buried Aboriginal babies in the sand, and then kicked off their heads for sport (83). He also alludes to stories told by his Uncle Jack (his grandmother’s brother) and other men of his grandparents’ generation who were removed as children to work as unpaid drovers (25-6). In addition, King writes of contemporary events that took place during his own lifetime – Charles Perkins’ 1965 freedom rides through rural New South Wales; the Gurindji strike at Wave Hill station in 1966; the razing of the Wikmuken settlement of Mapoon to make way for the Comalco bauxite mine; the 1967 referendum; and the 1970 bicentennial celebrations of Cook’s ‘discovery’ of Australia.
King’s historical references reach right up into the present. He compares the shocked outcry over the jail beating of (white) Jamie Partlic with the public apathy and official inaction over the findings of the Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody. He compares the fulsome official apology and automatic monetary compensation for the non-fatal police shooting of (white) Darren Brennan, with the callous official response to the fatal police shooting of David Gundy. By retelling the history of the present, and emphasising its continuity with the past, King counters the common misapprehension that the bad old days of racism are now behind us.
King demonstrates clearly that racism in Australia is a more complex phenomenon than discrimination based on skin colour or cultural difference. He points out that during the Vietnam War when Americans soldiers came to Sydney on leave, black American servicemen could enter bars and nightclubs freely while Aboriginal men and women were physically stopped at the door. In the 1970s the Australian public embraced black American singer Marcia Hines, yet Aboriginal fans were refused entry to her concerts in certain towns in outback New South Wales (123). And while governments adopted multicultural policies and passed anti-discrimination laws, Aboriginal people continued to feel the effects of racial hatred and institutionalised discrimination.
King suggests that the arrival in Australia of African-American servicemen and entertainers, and of migrants from non-Western cultures, did not result in a break-down of the Anglo majority’s racist attitudes towards Aborigines. On the contrary, King argues, these accommodations of the foreign fuelled anti-Aboriginal sentiment while at the same time affording new opportunities for denying prejudice:
When I told the [ABC] reporter of the way racism locked Aborigines out, she was offended at the suggestion. She said that blacks could make it in Australia, I only had to look at Marcia Hines… Blacks were acceptable but Aborigines weren’t. I told the reporter this. She then launched into a tirade about what Aborigines were – lazy, dirty, dishonest. I’d heard it all before. (123)
King’s analysis suggests that racism in Australia is born out of history and guilt, that it is perhaps an expression of displaced anxiety experienced by members of the group which perpetrated and/or benefited by the wrongs committed against Aboriginal people since 1788. Blaming the victims, crushing them down, locking them away out of sight, pretending oppressive practices either don’t exist or are justified, natural, and, inevitable – these are some of the ways racism works in Australia. Racism thus grows out of, and reproduces, both a series of shameful actions and a series of silences in the dominant historiography. ‘History! Don’t worry about history’, King’s mother exclaims: ‘That’s only whitefullas telling you their side of the story. Aborigines can tell you stories about the way they were treated that would make your hair curl’ (216).
Speaking about the relation between history and identity, King dares to do something no other Aboriginal writer has done quite so explicitly before: he speaks of his own predicament as analogous to that of the Australian nation as a whole. In times gone by, writers personified the spirit of Australia in the figure of the bushman, the digger, the battler – white, male, and (sometimes neurotically) heterosexual. King personifies Australia in the figure of his former self: a gay Aboriginal alcoholic in a state of denial about his problems in the present, and a state of ignorance about the roots of those problems in the past:
Like an alcoholic in denial over his drinking, Anglo-Australia was in denial over its racism, and over what it had cost those Aborigines who had borne the brunt of that racism. There were rumblings in Australia about becoming a republic in an effort to establish its own identity. What was not acknowledged was that the past is part of that identity. Indeed, individually and collectively, we are only composites of our past. How would Australia ever mature without looking clearly and honestly at its treatment of Aborigines? Part of my own recovery from alcoholism had been to make amends to those I had hurt… (237)
Although King’s plans to write his autobiography were born many years ago, he wrote Black Hours while participating in the Alcoholics Anonymous program. Initially, he had been fearful of joining AA; it meant facing up to a lot of hard truths. Yet for both the individual and the nation, telling the truth is the first step towards recovering self-respect, because ‘you can’t treat a problem until you admit you have one’ (229). Black Hours is about truth-telling, identity, and healing, among other things. Truth-telling is an essential first step in any healing and reconciliation process, both for the victims of racial oppression, and for those who, unwittingly or not, perpetrated and/or benefited from it. ‘Racism’ is a hard and ugly word to face up to because, as white Australians are now learning, it alludes to innumerable hard and ugly historical truths.
Words carry social memory down from one generation to another. They are one of the most important repositories of historical knowledge. It’s well known that when a people lose their language, they lose access to vast portions of their past in the process. Similarly, when traditional meanings of individual words within a living language are superseded, aspects of the past are no longer easily accessible. Under such circumstances, the erosion of historical knowledge is insidious; the language resembles a moth-eaten cloth, cleverly patched so that its surface appears intact. When today’s right-wing anti-Aboriginal polemicists use ‘racism’ to mean ’special benefits for Aboriginal people’, they make a hole in the known, but patch it over so we don’t see what is lost. They are using language in a manner that re-consigns Australia’s black history to oblivion. King’s counter-analysis of ‘racism’ exposes the oppression of Aboriginal people, and resists the suppression of Aboriginal historical knowledge. Black Hours fills the word ‘racism’ with the meanings it has accrued over time in the minds of those who have suffered its effects.
Works Cited
King, Wayne. Black Hours. Sydney: Angus and Robertson, 1998.
Kingston, Margo. ‘Racing Towards an Election’. Sydney Morning Herald 11 April (1998): 29.
Lattas, Andrew. ‘Anger, Aborigines and Guilt: Disembodying Racism in Contemporary Australia’. Paper delivered at the Between Us and the Other: Race, Writing and Research Symposium, University of Technology, Sydney, 24-25 Feb. (1998).
Notes
1 For a theoretical elaboration of this phenonemon, see V.N.Volosinov, Marxism and the Philosophy of Language [1929], trans. Ladislav Matejka and I.R.Titunik, New York: Seminar Press, 1973.
2 Author’s interview with Wayne King, 16 June 1998.
3 King has recently decided to complete the circle, by moving from Sydney back to Queensland to be closer to his family. Author’s personal communication with Wayne King, 5 August 1998.
Penny van Toorn is a Senior Lecturer in the School of English, Art History, Film & Media at the University of Sydney. She has published extensively on writing by and about Indigenous peoples of Australia and Canada, and is presently completing a book to be published by Aboriginal Studies Press on pre-20th century Indigenous Australian cultures of writing and reading. She has also participated in various collaborative projects with Indigenous Australian authors and academics.
Posted in Volume 5: Reading Indigenous Australian Texts 1 (2005) | Tagged: Penny van Toorn | Leave a Comment »
Fractured Conversations: Indigenous literature and white readers
Posted by Clifton Evers on July 3, 2008
by Anne Brewster, Altitude, Volume 5, Article 5, 2005.
Like Douwe Edberts
Freeze dry coffee
I stand motionless
But full of feelings
Gin, native, abo, coon
An inquisitive academic
Then asks ‘are you Aboriginal?’Do I punch
Do I scream
Do I raise my arms
To ward off
The venomous hatred
Which institutionalized
Racism leaves unchallenged
As they collect their evidence
To reinforce their ’superiority’,
And our ‘inferiority’Am I Aboriginal
Am I Torres Strait Islander
Am I South Sea IslanderI laugh inside, at her ignorance
I shake my head,
But how can I pity
A person who is identified
As the expert exponent on
Indigenous AustraliansEh Professor, big shot,
Big cheese, or whoever
You claim to be
You’ve really no ideaLove to chat sister,
But there’s faxes to send
And protest letters to writeI turn and walk away
Preserving my dignity
Without humiliating hers.‘Feelings’, Lisa Bellear
In this article [1] I take the poem ‘Feelings’ by Lisa Bellear and a discussion of students’ reactions to this poem in the classroom as a starting point for an exercise in what Michelle Fine calls ‘witnessing whiteness’ (57-65) – that is, making whiteness visible to white people. The poem does this through a process of denaturalising or defamilarising whiteness; making it strange. Alterity, as Michael Taussig reminds us, is a relationship, not a thing (130), and a recognition of the relational imbrication of whiteness in its others makes apparent the hierarchical structure which endows white people with ‘unearned privilege and conferred dominance (McIntosh qtd in Dyer 9). In foregrounding whiteness and making it visible for the white reader, the poem points to the ongoing colonial relation between white and indigenous constituencies. It reminds us yet again of how the postcolonial nation has been contracted through the figure of race[2] and of the objectification of the indigene. The poem, I argue, makes the white reader stand apart from and ‘witness’ the embeddedness of whiteness within the zone of racialised intersubjectivity. A recognition by white people of the racial location of whiteness within the intimate social relations of the everyday in turn allows for the possibility of the democratisation of racial identity and a ‘rearticulation of cultural, social and political citizenship’ (Giroux 130).
We can read the academic figured in the poem as indexical of whiteness. Although she is not identified literally as such, her unmarked racial identification and her institutional status place her, at the very least, in a position homologous to that of a white person. That her racial identity is not named can, in fact, be seen as symptomatic of the invisibility (to white people) of whiteness – its significance as the category against which (racial) difference is measured. As Richard Dyer observes, ‘white power secures its dominance by seeming not to be anything in particular’ (qtd in Lipsitz 369). Or, as other commentators have put it, ‘people [are] not favoured socially because they are white; rather they [are] defined as �white� because they are favoured’ (Ignatiev and Garvey). Whiteness derives its meaning from its relationality; it is precisely the racialisation of minoritarian groups that enables the consolidation of an imagined community of whiteness, that is, the bringing together, in a collective, of ‘white’ Australians of diverse and otherwise often antagonistic class, regional, generational, ethnic and religious backgrounds (Lipsitz 370).
Turning to the poem, my central argument in this article is that the rhetorical questioning of the poem opens up a space of potential dialogue and puts the reader in a position where they can both reflect upon their whiteness and also upon the process of racialising the other. I argue that this space is, above all, a space of potentiality and incipience. It can be seen as a field of relationality in which affective and bodily reactions produce qualitative intersubjective change. [3] This relationality – our coming-together or being-together as racially differentiated others – is logically and ontologically prior to our separate(d) racialised identities. As Brian Massumi would argue, those identities are ‘inseparable from the immediacy of [their] relation’ (Massumi, ‘Too-Blue’ 197). When we do become consciously aware of the relationality, our awareness is always of ‘an ongoing participation in an unfolding relation’ (196).
The project of whiteness studies is precisely to make conscious this ‘unfolding relation’ between whiteness and its racialised others. One might anticipate that an awareness of this relation might constitute a basis upon which dialogue might be founded. I suggest that Bellear’s poem, in making visible or defamiliarising whiteness, opens up the potential for such a dialogue. However, what in fact eventuates within the encounter dramatized in the poem, is the evacuation of dialogue. The academic, and the institution of which she is representative, are characterised as being too focused on the ‘collection’ of ‘evidence’ on ‘Indigenous Australians’ to listen when the indigenous ‘evidence’ assumes a subject position and speaks. The poem investigates this space of encounter, its fractured temporalities and reinscription of white entitlement. In its many-layered textuality it figures a space of reading and listening which, while never divested of white power, does produce an affective response (in non-indigenous audiences) and hence the potential for movement and change.
The space of encounter within the zone of racialised intersubjectivity is opened up through the direct address of the poem where the reader occupies the same position as the internal addressee, the academic.[4] The academic has initiated the exchange by asking the poet to identify herself as an Aboriginal. This process of naming is foregrounded by Bellear for its will to power and is seen as part of a continuum of colonial violence in which the other is named, categorised and classified according to race descriptors for the purposes of colonial management and domestication.[5] The paradigm of contemporary descriptors – Aboriginal, Torres Strait Islander and South Sea Islander – invokes earlier taxonomies, such as the genetic classifications ‘half-caste’, ‘quadroon’ and ‘octoroon’, which comprised the social darwinist base of the eugenics-driven programs of the ‘Protection’ era. Bellear also lists the slang namings of indigenous people, the racist terms ‘gin’ ‘native’ ‘abo’ and ‘coon’ which, in the vernacular context, perform the same function as other specialised lexicons in placing indigenous people at the bottom of a hierarchy of races.
The poet invites the reader to occupy the academic’s position and to name the indigenous person: ‘Am I Aboriginal/ Am I Torres Strait Islander/Am I South Sea Islander’. These rhetorical questions are stripped of their question marks and take on the force of statements. Colonising ‘inquisitiveness’ is not as innocent or unmotivated as it might appear; behind it is a genocidal history of race management. The fact that no answer is supplied by the poet foregrounds the act of asking – the will to know, to define, to objectify.
It is the dialogic, interactive space that is opened up in the posing of these questions by the indigenous addresser, in her redirection (through internal monologue) of these questions to the reader, that will be the focus of my discussion in this article. Through the use of rhetorical questions and the vocative case the academic (and the reader) find themselves drawn into the intersubjective space which constitutes the site of the racialisation of the indigenous other. Whiteness, historically resistant to questioning, is asked to account for the names through which it racialises the indigene. The process of racialised naming, thus exposed, reveals the supplementary logic of race. The process of making visible the constitutive dependence of whiteness on a race hierarchy challenges whiteness’ claims to origin, coherence, stability, purity, unity etc. Whiteness meets its supplemental displacement; the epistemologically unsustainable status of race as a category is exposed. Whiteness is foregrounded as a category of power-differentiation; the academic is an ‘expert’ because she is white and her whiteness is established precisely through claims to expertise and knowledge, that is, the elaboration of the categories of ’superiority’ and ‘inferiority’.
Once whiteness and race have thus been made analytically opaque, we can further unpack the social relations of this racialising moment, specifically as they involve gender. The indigenous addresser enacts this shift for us, when, challenging the academic’s expertise and authority, she addresses her as ’sister’. The shift into a gendered relationality troubles the racialised intersubjectivity further. The use of the word ’sister’ here is palpably ambiguous for the white reader; it can be read as either a warning off or a summons. It is ironic. On the one hand, it deconstructs the supposed understanding of the two parties as to the academic’s authority and opens up a distance between the two women.[6] On the other hand, the term ’sister’ convokes the two women as interlocutors – drawing the academic into the intimacy of a recognition of her investment in racialised intercorporeality. The indigenous addresser’s convocation, I would argue, enacts a call to the academic to account for herself. In foregrounding the racialised and gendered continguity of the two women, the addresser also confirms their difference and renegotiates, in her own terms, their relationality on the grounds of mutual respect; her actions are directed towards ‘preserving [her own] dignity / Without humiliating [the academic's]‘.
How can we theorise this space of relationality further? I want to make a short detour at this point, taking the work of three communitarian philosophers, Jean-Luc Nancy, Maurice Blanchot and Georges Bataille, as a starting point for investigating the possibility of an ‘anti-communitarian communitarianism’ (Ghandi 12-22). These three philosophers’ discussion of community would seem initially to offer an inviting way of thinking about contemporary Australian society, particularly if we emphasise their work’s deconstructive theme. Bernasconi, for example, suggests that Nancy conceptualises a community which ‘begins with the acknowledgement that community aims at an impossible immanence’ (Bernasconi 4). A deconstructive theorisation of community resists this desire for presence. Borrowing from Bataille, such a theorisation foregrounds insufficiency, incompletion and incompletedness. It introduces the possibility of (momentary and/or provisional) sharing and commonality but also insists upon maintaining an (impossible) openness of community (which is, by definition, bounded) to the other; it maintains an acknowledgment of irreducible difference and radical alterity.
The possibility of such a community is thus caught up in its own impossibility. A deconstructive conceptualisation of community imagines, after Blanchot, that ‘the community, no matter if it has existed or not � in the end always posit[s] the absence of community’ (Blanchot 3). Blanchot, like Nancy, points to the difficulty of rethinking the concept of community whose tendency to totalitarianism has resulted in a history of ‘grandiose miscalculations’ and a ‘background of disaster that goes much further than ruin’ (1). He develops the idea of the absence of community by drawing on Georges Bataille’s formulation of ‘the negative community: the community of those who have no community’ (Blanchot 24). The phrase ‘negative community’ might be considered more apposite than the term ‘community’ in figuring the intersubjectivity of indigenous and non-indigenous Australians.
I would like to suggest, however, that it is important to foreground our investments, as white scholars, in our call for the convening of indigenous and non-indigenous peoples under the sign of community. Nancy and Blanchot were theorizing the possibility of community against the backdrop of the devastating consequences of mid-twentieth-century fascism, especially that of the Third Reich (which can be seen to exemplify Blanchot’s horror of history’s ruinous ‘grandiose miscalculations’ [1]). The mobilisation of these theorists by contemporary white Australian scholars working in the area of cross-racial and critical race projects, foregrounds historical parallels between the two groups. Just as European fascism prompted in large part the work of the French philosophers, Australia’s colonial history of terror can be seen to have given rise to a similar melancholy and nostalgia among white Australian intellectuals and their drive to resurrect and reformulate the possibility of community in contemporary Australia. We can locate the white imperative for a re-examination of the idea of community in late twentieth century white anxiety. Moreover, given that the concept of community is easily mobilised in the service of an assimilationist agenda, I feel reluctant to invoke it in a discussion of the zone of indigenous and non-indigenous intersubjectivity. The question then arises as to what kinds of anti-racist exchange might be possible in this zone, and whether the trope of a conversation or dialogue might be more useful than that of community.
To return to Bellear’s poem, I’d like to suggest that the indigenous narrator’s address to the academic precisely problematises the notion of a ‘community’ of indigenous and non-indigenous women. I’d argue that the concept of ‘community’ is put under erasure through the indigenous writer’s defamiliarisation of the reader’s whiteness. Although not completely dispensed with it is problematised and rendered ambiguous through the convoking of the academic as ’sister’. This term of address is the inverse of the traditional notion of ’sisterhood’ familiar to us as the basis of the foundationalist feminism of the 1960s and 1970s.[7] The tonal ambiguity of Bellear’s use of the word ’sister’ as a term of address militates against it being read as a utopian evocation of a racially-neutral, unified collectivity. In fact this is precisely what the term in the addresser’s speech act challenges.
Having destabilised the authority of the white academic, the indigenous addresser does not completely foreclose on a space of renegotiation between the two women. The space that she evokes deconstructs the race hierarchy in which white women’s experience is the normative base of the being-in-common of all women. In critiquing the authority of the academic the indigenous addresser reconfigures this space and it is she who defines this space of alternative relationality, one which is not based on the power of the white woman to name and define the ‘other’. In the simple act of claiming the right to speak, to name the white woman (’sister’, in this case), and to refuse or deflect the will to colonise, Bellear redraws the boundaries of that discourse of the being-in-common of women known as feminism. The radical rupture that the poet enacts in refusing to answer to the terms that the academic makes available to her, and her assumption of agency in naming – not only in the context of self-definition but also of the relationality of the two women – affirms and preserves her radical heterogeneity.
Thus she is not simply recasting traditional feminism into what Robyn Wiegman calls ‘feminisms-in-the-plural’ in which formulation minoritarian women are positioned as ‘late arrivals’ and racial difference is understood as a ’second-order concern’ (Wiegman, ‘Feminism’s Apocalyptic Future’ 812). The feminisms-in-the-plural model domesticates difference, eliding its incommensurability. By refusing to conflate difference with subjectivity, the relationality that Bellear’s addresser calls into being resists any simple formulation of identity politics; it invokes instead a racially polyvalent, non-normative imaginary. It accommodates rather than disavows the white anxiety and fear that attend upon difference and the memory of a history of colonial terror. Rather than allowing for the repression of white anxiety, in the dramatic space of relationality and response-ability opened up in this poem, Bellear shapes a zone of co-habitation in which the reader can inhabit the anxiety of whiteness without either capitulating to or disciplining it.
This anxiety is very real, as I am constantly reminded when I use this poem in a teaching situation. I’m always taken aback at the level of (non-indigenous) student anger in reaction to it. Students experience the indigenous addresser’s (what I consider polite but firm) refusal of the academic’s demand that she be named, as disturbing and confronting. The poem drives directly into the dense affect which saturates the troubled zone of encounter. If this zone is characterised by white anger and anxiety, it is also a zone of intense ‘feeling’ for the indigenous poet, as the title of the poem suggests.
Literature has long been recognised as an effective means of textualising the embodied performance of everyday life. Everyday life comprises the concrete practices which embody and perform difference. The body is the site where power stops being abstract and becomes material; where it is acceded to or struggled against. Within the public sphere of the nation the ‘citizen’ is an abstraction, a generic ‘person’ who is non-corporeal. This non-gendered, abstract bodiless ‘person’ masks, of course, the persistence of white male privilege. However, the indigenous woman who has never had the privilege of suppressing the body and becoming naturalised as a citizen, is hyperembodied, hypervisible. The minoritarian poet ‘experiences’ the epistemological violence of naming as a physical violence; it objectifies the indigenous subject, rendering her momentarily mute and frozen. As Massumi suggests, relationality registers bodily before it registers consciously (Massumi, ‘Too-Blue’ 196). She ’stands motionless’, next wondering how to re-act: ‘Do I punch / Do I scream / Do I raise my arms to ward off / The venomous hatred’. Once again, the question marks are dispensed with. These are purely rhetorical verbal gestures, miming the physical effects of power. The poet dwells in the pain of the colonised body. This is a moment of the failure of dialogue. The indigenous addresser ‘turn[s] and walk[s] away’. However, this turning away, this silence on the indigenous addresser’s part, is also a moment of cross-racial civility, brokered by the indigenous addresser. In refusing to take part in a coercive dialogue the indigenous woman acts to ‘preserve’ her own ‘dignity’ without ‘humiliating’ the white woman.
In spite of my reservations about the application of the concept of community to the zone of co-habitation of indigenous and non-indigenous constituencies in Australia, Jean-Luc Nancy’s discussion of ‘literary communism’ offers a way of figuring the relationality of indigenous literary texts and white readers. Nancy’s theorisation of literary communitarianism takes as its starting point a discussion of the singularity of being. Nancy describes individuals as singular beings who are present to themselves only to the extent that they are offered or ‘exposed’ to one another (Nancy 58). Our sense of self is coterminous or co-originary with our being ‘exposed’ to contact with another self outside us. He breaks down the word ‘exposed’ to suggest that individuals are ‘posed’ in exteriority. This concept of exteriority suggests an outside coming into consciousness through the intimacy of an inside (xxxvii). Nancy argues that we come into being as selves in the presence of another; singular beings are always constituted in the act of sharing (25). To reiterate, Nancy is proposing a non-immanent definition of sharing: ’sharing is always incomplete or it is beyond completion and incompletion’ (35).
Turning to the subject of literature he argues that literary texts expose the singularity of being and that singular beings are always communicated to other beings in the singular. Further, we are ‘convoked’ as singular beings by literature which enacts, in his words, ‘a contact � a touching, the transmission of a trembling at the edge of being’ (61). He contrasts literature’s exposure of singular beings to myth’s totalitarian will to power. Myth, he argues, endows community with closure and individuals with destiny. Literature on the other hand interrupts myths of origin and destiny: ‘it is upon the exposure of singular beings that myth is interrupted’ (62).
In interrupting the scene of myth and exposing the singularity of being literature can recover the voice of minorities suppressed by the colonising mythic discourse of nationalism. I want vigorously to resist the idea that the other is thereby assimilated to a national community. Rather, I am interested in how the communitarian address of literature productively foregrounds a zone of relationality.[8] In this zone the dynamics of intersubjectivity are complex and polyvalent. On the one hand we can read, in the literary address of indigenous literature, the strategic counter-hegemonic self-representation of indigenous writers. We can also, I would argue, read in it the finitude and interruption of mythic whiteness.
Paraphrasing Nancy, I would suggest that the cross-racial encounter in Bellear’s poem dramatizes the scene of singular beings exposed to each other. The poem reminds us that race and whiteness are performed through the micropolitics of everyday social relations. It prompts the white reader to wonder whether whiteness can be renegotiated in order to move beyond it as a trope of domination. In the poem Bellear reconfigures what has variously been called the ‘contact zone’ (Pratt), the intersubjectivity of indigenous and non-indigenous Australia (Langton) or more recently the zone of national reconciliation. In her figuring of the exchange between academic and indigenous poet, Bellear develops an ethics of relationality. In the Australian context we can use the terms ‘co-existence’ and ‘co-habitation’ in order to gesture to the co-presence of multiple and heterogeneous histories, memories and futures. Before turning away to the tasks awaiting her as an indigenous activist, the indigenous addresser reaches out to the white academic and folds her back into an ethics of relationality. This is, I would argue, an example of indigenous renegotiating of the politics of cross-racial exchange, an act subtended by the (indigenous) brokering of new modalities of whiteness. In the speech act of the poem we witness the performance of a set of intersubjective negotiations. The poem repositions whiteness within a space of co-existence and co-presence which affirms difference politically, culturally and socially. This repositioning constitutes, in effect, the renegotiation of the racialised social contract of the postcolonial nation.
This space of co-existence is not entirely comfortable, coherent or predictable for the white reader, as the ambiguity of the term of address, ’sister’, demonstrates. Bellear’s ethics of relationality derive centrally from the recognition that race and whiteness comprise a set of (inter)affective identifications. It emphasises the need for white people to inhabit our uncertainty and anxiety productively, without disablement or disavowal. It means accommodating new modalities of otherness which move beyond the binary of friend/foe. The fact that my students find this poem so confronting underlines the necessity of a pedagogy that accommodates what Spivak refers to as ‘moments of bafflement’ (qtd in Giroux 308) and encourages students to entertain the idea that it is possible to expand our performative repertoire of whiteness to witness but not be paralysed by our various affective dispositions of anxiety, grief, shame, fear, defensiveness and anger. The sense of confrontation that the poem evokes in the classroom points to the intense interaffectivity of indigenous and non-indigenous peoples and the fact that the effects of white affective imbrication in the racialising process of indigenous people are, despite the best efforts of white intellectuals, ungovernable, conflictual and exorbitant. Even if we can stand outside our whiteness intellectually, white anxiety is something we cannot easily, if ever, divest ourselves of.
Can dialogue or conversation, then, productively accommodate both white affect and indigenous agendas? If so, what kind of conversations? Perhaps those which allow for (white) silence/listening; for gaps, disjunctures, belatedness, non-alignment; for conversations each side of which are fractured into different temporalities. It is interesting to note that the ‘dialogue’ enacted in the poem is not a conventional verbal conversation taking place in real time. In fact there does not seem to have been any ‘dialogue’ (between the internal addresser and addressee) in this sense at all in the poem. The white academic’s inability to listen and her aggressive ‘inquisitiveness’ leave the indigenous addresser no other option but to ‘walk away’. Ironically, the moment of the indigenous addresser’s ‘turning away’ from the dramatized encounter within the poem, however, reconvenes that failed dialogue through the poem’s opening out into another audience, that of the poem’s external addressee, the reader.
Indeed the academic’s question and the indigenous persona’s response appear to take place in parallel temporal/psychic zones (they are talking ‘past’ one another) and are brought together in the poem only as a virtual dialogue. The academic’s question apparently meets with silence; the indigenous poet’s response is formulated as interior monologue. It may be that conflicted cross-racial dialogues in real time are also often marked by this kind of belatedness. The double scene of whiteness – of defamiliarisation and recognition; of repetition and reversal – means that white ‘responses’ are always at one remove from the event; they are always already too late. The cross-racial interlocutors are weighed down by history; there is simultaneously too much or too little to say. Virtual conversations (figured in memory or literary texts) can be seen as one instance of the instability (yet persistence) of the concept of cross-racial ‘community’ for indigenous and non-indigenous women. They remind us of Nancy’s characterisation of community as ‘unworking’,[9] as a site of fragmentation and suspension (Nancy 31).
The relationality between indigenous and non-indigenous people figured in ‘Feelings’ is overdetermined by many intersecting identifications – race, class, gender etc. While we may want to confine indigenous people to a (white-mobilised) category of race, the space of encounter which the poet figures is also characterised by gendered and also classed intercorporeality. The levelling effect of the term ’sister’, for example, can be seen as being staged within the arena of class. The poet defines her indigeneity in terms of political activism and an embodied ethical professionalism. In claiming this kind of subjectivity, it might be argued, she challenges the claim of whiteness to be the exclusive index of social status and undermines ‘the feeling that ‘middle-classness’ in Australia is the sole reserve of White people’ (Hage 92).
The poem thus demonstrates the imbrication of race within a range of multiple identifications. Indigeneity, in the rubric of this poem, is understood in terms of political activism. In this the poem could be said to articulate a political imaginary of indigeneity. This relational political imaginary figures the spatial and temporal co-presence of indigenous and non-indigenous peoples who have previously been separated by the chronological hierarchy of social darwinism. This new political imaginary (so astutely and powerfully articulated by Mick Dodson in his Corroboree 2000 speech where he located himself and PM Howard within the same generation of Australians, for example), positions indigenous and non-indigenous people in a space of co-existence and co-habitation, where hierarchy is replaced with a sense of the coevalness of contemporary indigenous and non-indigenous modernisms. It is concerned (to borrow again from Nancy) less with the issue of defining who we are (although this project is indispensable in some contexts) than of imagining how we can live together in order to realise a broader vision of socioeconomic redistribution and the expansion of egalitarian social relations and practices.
The rearticulation of whiteness is central to this project. I do not here anticipate the triumphalist emergence of a seemingly benign and newly innocent whiteness or a post-racist society which has moved beyond racial division (Wiegman, ‘Whiteness Studies’). Rather the new whiteness would be constantly attentive to the persistant and ongoing reconfiguration of white power. Indeed, perhaps a necessary and inescapable condition of the new whiteness is that of dubiety and of inhabiting the difficult question as to whether an anti-racist white subject is in fact possible. We would be well advised to be mindful of George Lipsitz’s reservation about ‘the critical difficulty of that subject whose self-production can only reconfirm a universal narcissistic white logic’ (qtd in Wiegman, ‘Whiteness Studies’ 123).
Works Cited
Bellear, Lisa. Dreaming in Urban Areas. St Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 1996.
��. Beyond Reconciliation. MA Thesis, University of Queensland, 2000.
Bernasconi, Robert. ‘On Deconstructing Nostalgia for Community within the West: The Debate between Nancy and Blanchot’. Research in Phenomenology, 23 (1993): 3-21.
Blanchot, Maurice. The Unavowable Community. Trans. Pierre Joris, Barrytown: Station Hill Press, 1988.
Dyer, Richard. White. London: Routledge, 1997.
Fine, Michelle. ‘Witnessing Whiteness’. Off White: Readings on Race, Power and Society. eds. Michelle Fine et al, NY: Routledge, 1997: 57-65.
Gandhi, Leela. ‘Friendship and Postmodern Utopianism’. Cultural Studies Review, 9 May 2003: 12-22.
Giroux, Henry A. ‘Racial Politics and the Pedagogy of Whiteness’. in Whiteness: a Critical Reader, ed Mike Hill, NY: NY University Press, 1997: 294-315.
Hage, Ghassan. ‘�Asia�, Hansonism and the Discourse of White Decline’. Inter-Asia Cultural Studies, 1.1, 2000: 85-96.
Hirst, John. The Sentimental Nation: the Making of the Australian Commonwealth. South Melbourne: OUP, 2000: 285.
Ignatiev, Noel and John Garvey, ‘Introduction’ to Race Traitor ed. Noel Ignatiev and John Garvey, London: Routledge, 1996: 1-5.
Langton, Marcia. Well I heard it on the radio and I saw in on the television � Wooloomooloo: Australian Film Commission, 1993.
Lipsitz, George. ‘The Possessive Investment in Whiteness: Racialized Social Democracy and the ‘White’ Problem in American Studies’. American Quarterly, 47:3 September (1995): 369-87.
Massumi, Brian. ‘Too-Blue: Colour-Patch for an Expanded Empiricism’. Cultural Studies, 14:2 (2000):177-226.
Nancy, Jean-Luc. The Inoperative Community. Trans. Connor et al, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991.
Pratt, Marie Louise. Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. London: Routledge, 1992.
Taussig, Michael. Mimesis and Alterity. London: Routledge, 1993.
Wiegman, Robyn. ‘Whiteness Studies and the Paradox of Particularity’, Boundary 2, 26:3 Fall (1999): 115-50.
��. ‘Feminism’s Apocalyptic Futures’. New Literary History, 31 (2000): 805-25.
Notes
1 An earlier version of this paper was delivered at the ‘Critical Contexts and Conversations’ conference, Coolangatta, April 2002. 2 The first substantial piece of legislation passed by the parliament of the newly established Commonwealth in 1901 was the Immigration Restriction Act which inaugurated what has come to be known as the White Australia policy (Hirst: 285).
3 My argument here draws on Brian Massumi, Parables for the Virtual. London: Duke University Press, 2002.
4 This is not to imply that I’m reading this poem as an autobiographical statement which invokes the category of unmediated personal experience. I am suggesting rather than the speech act of the poem enacts a performative self in relation to a set of various addressees (ie the internal addressee to whom the vocative voice is directed; the reader; and possibly � but, to me, least significant � the ‘real’ addressee in the ‘real’ encounter which the poem presumably describes and references). While this performative self is not necessarily fixed or originary, there is an inevitable slippage between the addressee and addresser of the internal speech act of the poem on the one hand and the reader and the poet on the other.
5 In my own naming/identification of the indigenous poet I draw on Bellear’s identification of herself as ‘an indigenous urban feminist’ (Bellear, Beyond Reconciliation 102)
6 Bellear comments that ‘I deliberately chose the term �sister� as opposed to �tidda� which usually refers to indigenous women or white women who are genuine [in their anti-racism]‘ (personal correspondence with the author, 16/9/04). 7 Bellear comments that ‘I deliberately made the academic a woman to make the point that non-Aboriginal women can be just as insensitive as men’ (personal correspondence with the author, 16/9/04). My thanks to Lisa Bellear for her incisive comments on this article in draft form.
8 I would, once again, want to resist the notion of a coherent or essentialised literary community. The audiences or publics that indigenous literature convene are many and various, often reading or contextualizing the texts in very different ways. The main audience that I am focusing on in this article is a white audience reading indigenous texts.
9 This term (d�soeuvr�e) which he borrows from Blanchot, has also been translated as ‘inoperative’, as in the title of the University of Minnesota Press edition of The Inoperative Community.
Anne Brewster teaches in the School of English at UNSW. Her books include Literary Formations (1995), Reading Aboriginal Women’s Autobiographical Narratives (1996), and Those Who Remain Will Always Remember: an Anthology of Aboriginal Writing (co-edited with Angeline O’Neill and Rosemary van den Berg) (2001). A recent article on indigenous life story appeared in the e-journal Working Papers on the Web and another, on indigenous life writing and whiteness, in Australian Humanities Review.
Posted in Volume 5: Reading Indigenous Australian Texts 1 (2005) | Tagged: Anne Brewster | Leave a Comment »
Volume 4: Justice and the Global (2004)
Posted by Clifton Evers on July 2, 2008
Editorial by Robyn Tucker and Emily Potter, Altitude, Volume 4, Editorial, 2004.
This edition of Altitude seeks, in a small way, to explore new and circulating ideas of justice and the global. The terms ‘justice’ and the ‘global’ are themselves variable in meaning, and so we consider the work presented here as opening up complex questions: the machinations of neo-liberal politics and the collectivisation of ‘global’ experience as a fall-out of September 11; the unpredictable and potentially political nature of the global commodity, that slips between corporate and more humanitarian discourses; and the implications of ‘global’ discourses of genocide, particularly in relation to the question of ethics. From the relation between justice and globalisation, to the purchase of human rights in light of the ‘war on terror’ and dominant discourses of reconciliation and cultural genocide in Australia today, this brief is expansive and, as the articles in this edition suggest, inconclusive – a reason to keep on thinking and questioning.
Articles:
Christine Nicholls, Postmodernity and September 11 2001 – Life Imitating Art? Art pre-empting Life? An Australian Perspective: Article
Susie Khamis, Mambo Justice: An Unnatural Alliance?: Article
Patrick Allington, Playing devil’s advocate: reflecting on Samantha Power’s ‘A Problem From Hell’: America and the Age of Genocide: Article
Reviews:
Jim Ife, Review of Mahmood Monshipouri, Neil Engelhart, Andrew Nathan and Kavita Philip, Constructing Human Rights in the Age of Globalisation, M.E Sharpe, NY, 2003: Review
Barry Judd, Review of Bartholomew Dean and Jerome Levi (eds), At the Risk of Being Heard: Identity, Indigenous Rights and Postcolonial States, University of Michigan Press May, 2003: Review
Posted in Volume 4: Justice and the Global (2004) | Tagged: Altitude, Global, Justice, Volume 4 | Leave a Comment »

