KC HillCotton Fields and Cotton Wool
September 10th 2008 09:49
It was while I was working in the cotton fields of central Queensland that I realised I had lived my life wrapped in cotton wool. Sure, I had been through prison riots, fought bushfires, packed levees during major floods, been to some of Australia’s worst natural disasters, and even been clinically dead twice after a rather nasty car accident.
After all these, however, there was always a nice warm home to go to, or sometimes someone else’s home. Some times, the homes were a bit rough. More than once I had bunked down on a mattress on a relatives or friend’s floor. Sometimes it was for extended periods. The point is, there was always somewhere to go.
Before I went to jail, I was living alone in an eight-bedroom, double-story, 140-year-old bluestone house, located in grounds covering five blocks of land. It was the perfect bachelor pad, and the parties in the stables were always a lot of fun.
A mere four weeks in jail, and that life was gone. I found myself in central Queensland, knowing no one, and away from the comfort zone I knew back in my home town. I realised I had been banished from not just the town, but the whole state of New South Wales. That was the court order.
I was on bail, and had tried several colleges for work teaching. The answer was the same everywhere: “We can’t hire you while you’re on bail. It’s against the law.”
I soon found out that, if I pleaded guilty, I could get a job with any of the colleges straight away. The criminal record didn’t matter, because of the nature of the offence I was charged with, and the fact that I would be working with adults, and not children. That is apparently how the law is.
But being on bail is different. The law states on one hand that you are guilty until proven innocent. Except when it comes to employment, and many other things, the reality is that an unstated presumption of guilt exists.
One college head of studies made a few phone calls. He came back to me, and said he had spoken to the department of public prosecutions in Sydney, and they would not seek a jail sentence if I pleaded guilty. It could all be done that afternoon, without me having to return to New South Wales, and I could then start work at the college in Queensland in just a few days.
I thought about this for all of about seventeen seconds. I needed to work, but the only way I could do the work I was trained for was to plead guilty to a crime that I didn’t commit. That meant a criminal record for life, and a matter that I was absolutely abhorred by - assault.
Then it dawned on me. The prosecutor didn’t want jail time, he just wanted to get a conviction. She didn’t think she could win the case, so was prepared to go easy if I would lie, and admit they were right to charge me in the first place.
The college head spoke again. “If you fight it, they said they’ll keep you on bail for years. That means no work for all that time.”
That made my mind up. They were scared, and were trying to force my hand. I would fight it.
So I ended up working in the cotton field, as a cotton chipper. This involved crawling on hands and knees through the rows of cotton plants, and removing all the weeds and vines growing between and on the cotton plants. This had to be done before the automatic harvesters could go through and harvest the cotton.
It was back breaking work, starting at four in the morning, and working through forty degree heat, until it was physically impossible to work any longer. Some days, I would cramp up, soaked in sweat, and just couldn’t go on. All for below the average wage, and seven days a week..
I was living in a single room in a reasonably clean boarding house. One time, we had to camp out for a week. That was OK, and I looked at it as an adventure. Surprisingly, I was happy. I had stood my ground and not given in. I had not admitted to something I hadn’t done.
One evening, while we were camped out, I was sitting with an Aboriginal guy, drinking a well earned beer, and talking about life. Most of the people who worked this type of work had experienced the things I was experiencing as well. The difference was, they had endured it all their life, this was something that I thought was new to me.
It actually wasn’t. It had been happening all the time, and I just hadn’t realised it.
The Aboriginal guy, John, was absorbing. I listened to his every word, and recognised a depth of philosophy that amazed me. The guy was so switched on to life, and so understanding of just about everything. He listened, and made no judgement of me when I told him of my plight. He just nodded, and opened another beer for me.
The following day, his cousin turned up the camp site, and said John had called him, and they needed a teacher for adults on a nearby Aboriginal community. John’s cousin was an elder on that community. “Don’t worry about these stupid white man laws. If you don’t mind working for a black man, we don’t care about the lies they say about you.”
So I went, and stayed for a year. It was like moving to a third world country. There was poverty and disease, about 90% unemployment, and a whole society excluded from the mainstream. But the people were the most valuable treasure I had ever, or have since, met.
They taught me so much, and changed forever my outlook on my purpose in life. It was probably the greatest and most rewarding job I have ever had, and certainly made me aware of a world that existed outside the town boundaries of my old home town.
One thing always nagged at me, though. I asked John’s cousin, Roy, about it one day. How did John call him, when there was no land line phone on the camp site, and no mobile phone reception for over fifty miles?
Roy laughed and gently touched my shoulder. “Flamin’ white men. You don’t know nothin’. We been waitin’ for you long time.”
I was puzzled, and didn’t know what he meant. “But how did he call you. There’s no phone.”
Roy tapped his forefinger against his temple. “Who said he called me on the phone? We just knew, that’s all.” He was still laughing and shaking his head as he walked away.
I remember thinking that I didn’t know what he meant, and I felt a little scared. In hindsight, I guess I did understand, and this was where I had always been destined to be. The choice wasn’t mine…
More stories by this author after the following important information
After all these, however, there was always a nice warm home to go to, or sometimes someone else’s home. Some times, the homes were a bit rough. More than once I had bunked down on a mattress on a relatives or friend’s floor. Sometimes it was for extended periods. The point is, there was always somewhere to go.
Before I went to jail, I was living alone in an eight-bedroom, double-story, 140-year-old bluestone house, located in grounds covering five blocks of land. It was the perfect bachelor pad, and the parties in the stables were always a lot of fun.
A mere four weeks in jail, and that life was gone. I found myself in central Queensland, knowing no one, and away from the comfort zone I knew back in my home town. I realised I had been banished from not just the town, but the whole state of New South Wales. That was the court order.
I was on bail, and had tried several colleges for work teaching. The answer was the same everywhere: “We can’t hire you while you’re on bail. It’s against the law.”
I soon found out that, if I pleaded guilty, I could get a job with any of the colleges straight away. The criminal record didn’t matter, because of the nature of the offence I was charged with, and the fact that I would be working with adults, and not children. That is apparently how the law is.
But being on bail is different. The law states on one hand that you are guilty until proven innocent. Except when it comes to employment, and many other things, the reality is that an unstated presumption of guilt exists.
One college head of studies made a few phone calls. He came back to me, and said he had spoken to the department of public prosecutions in Sydney, and they would not seek a jail sentence if I pleaded guilty. It could all be done that afternoon, without me having to return to New South Wales, and I could then start work at the college in Queensland in just a few days.
I thought about this for all of about seventeen seconds. I needed to work, but the only way I could do the work I was trained for was to plead guilty to a crime that I didn’t commit. That meant a criminal record for life, and a matter that I was absolutely abhorred by - assault.
Then it dawned on me. The prosecutor didn’t want jail time, he just wanted to get a conviction. She didn’t think she could win the case, so was prepared to go easy if I would lie, and admit they were right to charge me in the first place.
The college head spoke again. “If you fight it, they said they’ll keep you on bail for years. That means no work for all that time.”
That made my mind up. They were scared, and were trying to force my hand. I would fight it.
So I ended up working in the cotton field, as a cotton chipper. This involved crawling on hands and knees through the rows of cotton plants, and removing all the weeds and vines growing between and on the cotton plants. This had to be done before the automatic harvesters could go through and harvest the cotton.
It was back breaking work, starting at four in the morning, and working through forty degree heat, until it was physically impossible to work any longer. Some days, I would cramp up, soaked in sweat, and just couldn’t go on. All for below the average wage, and seven days a week..
I was living in a single room in a reasonably clean boarding house. One time, we had to camp out for a week. That was OK, and I looked at it as an adventure. Surprisingly, I was happy. I had stood my ground and not given in. I had not admitted to something I hadn’t done.
One evening, while we were camped out, I was sitting with an Aboriginal guy, drinking a well earned beer, and talking about life. Most of the people who worked this type of work had experienced the things I was experiencing as well. The difference was, they had endured it all their life, this was something that I thought was new to me.
It actually wasn’t. It had been happening all the time, and I just hadn’t realised it.
The Aboriginal guy, John, was absorbing. I listened to his every word, and recognised a depth of philosophy that amazed me. The guy was so switched on to life, and so understanding of just about everything. He listened, and made no judgement of me when I told him of my plight. He just nodded, and opened another beer for me.
The following day, his cousin turned up the camp site, and said John had called him, and they needed a teacher for adults on a nearby Aboriginal community. John’s cousin was an elder on that community. “Don’t worry about these stupid white man laws. If you don’t mind working for a black man, we don’t care about the lies they say about you.”
So I went, and stayed for a year. It was like moving to a third world country. There was poverty and disease, about 90% unemployment, and a whole society excluded from the mainstream. But the people were the most valuable treasure I had ever, or have since, met.
They taught me so much, and changed forever my outlook on my purpose in life. It was probably the greatest and most rewarding job I have ever had, and certainly made me aware of a world that existed outside the town boundaries of my old home town.
One thing always nagged at me, though. I asked John’s cousin, Roy, about it one day. How did John call him, when there was no land line phone on the camp site, and no mobile phone reception for over fifty miles?
Roy laughed and gently touched my shoulder. “Flamin’ white men. You don’t know nothin’. We been waitin’ for you long time.”
I was puzzled, and didn’t know what he meant. “But how did he call you. There’s no phone.”
Roy tapped his forefinger against his temple. “Who said he called me on the phone? We just knew, that’s all.” He was still laughing and shaking his head as he walked away.
I remember thinking that I didn’t know what he meant, and I felt a little scared. In hindsight, I guess I did understand, and this was where I had always been destined to be. The choice wasn’t mine…
More stories by this author after the following important information
| 69 |
| Vote |
Subscribe to this blog
Go to Craig Hill's home page by clicking here
Comment by Mister Smith
MRS SMITH
READ THIS
SISTERS IN CRIME
I just got the shivers reading this story
Comment by KC Hill
World Art
Gear Lover
Daily History
The HOT Report
World Travel
Street Beat
Hind Sight
I really need to make some time to write some more of these. It was a really fascinating year of my life.
Comment by Mister Smith
MRS SMITH
READ THIS
SISTERS IN CRIME
Comment by KC Hill
World Art
Gear Lover
Daily History
The HOT Report
World Travel
Street Beat
Hind Sight
And the history. Ancient trade routes, economies, agriculture techniques - a culture that was operating since 40,000 years ago, when the Ancient Egyptians still didn't know what a triangle was.
Hopefully I can get focussed soon. Stay tuned.