Read + Write + Report
Home | Start a blog | About Orble | FAQ | Blogs | Writers | Paid | My Orble | Login
 
Life on Aboriginal Communities

More





One of the first things I learnt at Woora Warra was that we were actually teaching English as a second language (ESL). The curriculum's aim was literacy and numeracy, but the mainstream education system's ideas just don't always work everywhere.

At Woora Warra, this became abundantly clear. the community is recognised as one of the more violent-prone communities in Australia, as well as one of the largest. The town had an official population of 1,200, though the true population is probably reflected in the fact that the doctor reported treating over 3,000 different people in the year before I arrived.

The literacy numeracy program had been attempted several times before, and was set up to cater for eight people over a period of one year. It was run as part of Queensland TAFE.

Australian Aboriginal School Classroom


In previous years, it had failed, due mainly to the inflexibility of the program coordinators, located over 300 miles away from the community, and desperately attempting to ensure that the outmoded "assimilation policy" is strictly adhered to. That is, the idea that Indigenous people must learn to think the same way as the mainstream, and adjust to the "white man's" way of living.

Even though such legislation has been rescinded, the mentality seems to persevere in many aspects of Australian society, including education. At university, we were taught that the first piece of legislation passed by the new Australian government in 1901 was the Constitution. The second was the so-called "White Australia Policy". It is also worth remembering that Aboriginal people weren't classified as citizens or counted in the census until 1967.

Discriminatory practices have been an unfortunate foundation stone of our society, and this has been reflected in our attempts to force our way of life on other cultures, including the original inhabitants of the continent.

Fortunately, the year I arrived in Woora Warra, the principal of the school was in his last year before retirement, and didn't really care if the state education administration got their nose out of joint about us not following their "strict guidelines". He wasn't an educational reformer or anything. He was just in it for the money, and had reaped a tidy fortune in his six years there. He didn't need to worry about money the following year, so he just sat back and couldn't care less if they threatened to cut the money off next year. He wouldn't be there anyway.

The state administration were constantly calling, but it soon became evident they were reluctant to actually come there, given the town's reputation. And they were actually becoming frustrated that the phone service was so bad they would be cut off while trying to chastise us for not following the strict guidelines they had imposed.

Instead, we worked with Batchelor College in Northern Territory to develop teaching methods relevant to the Aboriginal culture. Later, Booroongen Djugan, in Kempsey, New South Wales, would come to us for advice about setting up their Aboriginal Education Program. These two are recognised as the pioneers in Aboriginal education today.

We still managed to follow a lot of the requirements of the national curriculum, and to satisfy the national competencies. However, my own personal preference, which seemed to work, was less classroom time, and more outdoor classes. Shorter classes too, were also beneficial, as the attention span was shorter, given the laid back nature of communities such as these.

We ended up with a group of eight teachers, four teachers aides, twenty citizen volunteers, and a total enrolment of 87 students.

The teaching methods were divers. We used a football tipping competition to teach maths, including percentages and statistics. Trigonometry became important when it was shown how it could be used to calculate distances quickly for bush walking or fire fighting. Calculating the soil needed in a garden bed is an example of teaching spatial geometry. There are many such examples that I will cover in other recourses in this series, but I think the point has been made.

In effect, the teaching has to be relevant and of interest to the student. It has to have some practical purpose, and this is even more so with the Indigenous cultures. For forty thousand years, survival has depended on practical skills, not theory.

Such methods are not new, and are actually being used extensively in the mainstream. For some reason, however, teaching specific to Indigenous needs and culture seems to be covertly discouraged.

In hind sight, I suppose I was just as closed minded as the system itself when I first arrived. However, I think that actually living and learning in such an environment has allowed me to grow as a teacher, and a person. At least, I hope it has.
118
Vote
   


Deaf Aboriginal Woman Learns Piano

November 5th 2008 11:54
Many have barriers that they have to overcome to succeed in life, and overcoming any barrier is a testament to the inner strength of the individual. Anna was exceptional, in that she overcame three barriers, physical, cultural and gender, to achieve things many said were beyond her reach.

I met Anna in my first week on the Aboriginal community of Woora Warra. She was a teacher's aide at the school I was teaching at in outback Queensland. All the teacher's aides at the school, and two of the eight teachers, were Aboriginal, referred to as Murris in the north of Australia. Anna was also deaf, and was looked to as inspirational by most in the community.

Piano keyboard


By birth, Anna had achieved two barriers to overcome. Her Aboriginality had ensured difficulties with being accepted to the mainstream Australian community. Australia has a terrible track record on human rights abuses in the treatment of it's Aboriginal population. It is not much better with the lack of opportunities it presents for women to achieve in careers. Anna had scored a third hit, by being born totally deaf as well, giving her the prospect of incredible adversities in life.

My work in the years leading up to, and including, working on this community had involved addressing the issues of the marginalised, and helping find ways to overcome the barriers they faced. I had been inspired in this type of work by stories of famous people who had overcome the barriers life had thrown at them to make a mark in the world. One of my favourite such stories is that of "The Commoner and the Nobleman":

A commoner was out gathering wood when he came across a nobleman up to his neck in a bog. The commoner threw him a rope, and had his donkey pull the man out of the mud. “I will give you half of all my wealth,” said the relieved nobleman, “for without you, I would be dead.” The commoner replied that he was happy just to have saved the nobleman’s life.

Moved by the remark, the nobleman said, “I would like to send your son to the finest schools and give him the best education in all England.” The commoner accepted, knowing it would give his son a chance at a better life. Everybody was happy.

Many years later, the nobleman’s son became very ill. All the doctors told him that his son would soon die. The nobleman called for the commoner’s son, who by then had become a famous doctor, and asked if he could help. The doctor said he would try, and used a new medicine he had discovered. It worked, and the nobleman’s son went on to live a very long life.

The nobleman was Lord Randolph Churchill and his son was Winston Churchill. The commoner’s son was Alexander Fleming and the medicine was penicillin. A simple act of kindness changed the course of human history.

Or, so the story goes…


Part of teaching those with barriers is to find alternative teaching strategies. Much of the marginalisation and failure to hurdle the barriers lies with the failure of established teaching methods to satisfy the needs of the marginalised. The teaching needs to be relevant and desireable, and this can be achieved by making the learning interesting.

There is one universal language that transcends all barriers, and is understood by all, and that is music. At Woora Warra, I used a piano keyboard to help teach the high school students to read. Anna helped me prepare the learning materials, study notes and lesson plans.

The strategy was to put stickers with the letters A through G written on them, onto the notes of the keyboard. The letters A through G, written on the notes of the keyboard, corresponded to the same letters on a sheet of paper. These letters, written above each syllable of the words of the song, indicated which key on the piano to play. This provided an alternative way of communicating the musical language.

There is another fact with the piano that seemed particularly relevant for the community I was in. A piano player can play a good song by just using the white keys, and a good song just using the black keys. But the most beautiful music is when the black and white keys are played together.

Seeing the kids learning to play tunes on the keyboard, Anna decided she wanted to play too. The other teachers tried to dissuade her, thinking failure would be too upsetting, but Anna was determined. So was I. I agreed to help Anna.

Anna would place one hand on the keyboard’s in-built speaker and feel the vibrations as I played the first four bars of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’. Anna would then sit at the keyboard and play the same notes as I had just played, keeping one hand on the speaker to make sure the notes were right. It took almost a week, but she learnt the whole song, and could play it without assistance.

She invited her mother to come to the school for a surprise, and Anna started playing ‘Twinkle Twinkle’. Others in the room stopped and looked at her, many with open-mouthed astonishment. She played it note perfect, and everyone clapped.

Anna’s face wore the biggest smile I had ever seen. Tears of joy ran down her mother’s cheeks, and I have to admit, I was a little teary-eyed myself.

Anna’s achievements in the face of adversity serve as a constant inspiration to me, and her story is one I like to tell, with the immense pride I have for her incredible achievements. Her achievements wouldn’t change the world with such dramatic impact as Fleming’s, but it inspired her community, and changed her world forever.

In hindsight, the changes to an individual's world are equally important to the changes in the world at large.


More stories by this author after the following important information
101
Vote
   


Violence and Aboriginal Education

September 17th 2008 06:57
I have been in some very dangerous situations in my work with various emergency services, but nothing shook me up as much as having a 13 year old student put a knife to my throat during school hours. It was then I realised “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

I had been on the Aboriginal community of Woora Warra, working as Deputy Principal, for about a week, and had not been prepared for what I had seen. Violence borne of poverty was common. The poverty came from about 95% unemployment in the town, with few employment opportunities.

Aboriginal Art


The kids grew up with violence a part of their being. As such, they became the same themselves. And one day, I just happened to walk in on it.

Young Laurence was a nice enough lad, usually polite, but also withdrawn and depressed. I knew this was a sign of other problems, and everyone in the school knew what these kids had to put up with.

Like most of the kids, he hung around in a gang. It was pretty simple who you hung around with, because it depended where you lived. There were four recognised “corners” to the town, and each corner had it’s own “gang”. Most of the kids didn’t venture much out of their quarter, and most definitely not after dark. Unless they were looking to cause trouble.

Laurence was also very small, possibly as a result of malnutrition, another common problem on the communities. He was probably about 145 cm, slight build, though a reasonable athlete. Because of his size, he was an obvious target for other students. Not so much because they disliked him, it was just they were used to being bullied by bigger people, so they reasoned that was the way things are.

On this particular day, Laurence fought back. It is common for people on the communities to carry weapons. Not so much guns, that’s uncommon. Clubs, iron bars, solid wood, even golf clubs are usual, but knives are reasonably common, too. Hand held weapons that can be concealed but also rationalised as “legal”. It’s hard to rationalise a concealed gun as “harmless” if you need to explain it to a “bullyboy” (policeman).

So Laurence whipped the knife out when a group of older students started shoving him. He was with his own friends, and couldn’t stand to lose face. That would be “shame”.

He waved the knife to warn the older boys away. They stood their ground, and I guessed they had weapons of their own. I had been in this situation before, when I worked in the jails, and tried to calm things down.

“Hey Laurence, what you up to?” I asked, trying to get his attention away from the others and towards me. I expected him to turn, and lower the knife.

He spun with the grace of a ballerina, and thrust the knife upward towards my throat. With precision that would have made a Samurai proud, he stopped short of actually piercing skin. I could feel the tip of the knife pressing against my neck. I could feel my carotid artery pumping blood back against the sharp point of the blade. Blood that I was sure would soon be pumping out of my open throat, and onto the wooden boards of the school’s floor I was standing on.

“This not white man business, eh,” he said. My instinct was to use the unarmed combat training I had and disarm him, but I realised he had the upper hand. He had caught me by surprise, and I swore inwardly at myself for that. I had underestimated him, because he was a kid. Now he was a potential killer.

If I tried to take him while he was this tense, and with the knife where it was, I was going to be hurt. Badly hurt. I needed to talk him down, rather than be physical. I stood my ground, and looked him in the eye. Most Aboriginal people won’t look their elders in the eye, and will look away. I expected this to be the case in this situation.

He continued to stare into my eyes. That was twice in ten seconds I had misjudged the situation. I wasn’t doing too well, I thought to myself.

I could see fear and hate at the same time in his eyes, yet something told me the fear and hate wasn’t directed at me.

“I gonna cut your f***in’ throat,” he said before I could say anything. I recognised it was to look big in front of the others, and that he probably didn’t mean it. At least, I hoped he didn’t.

I could feel myself losing the situation, and wasn’t sure what to do. Then one of Laurence’s friends saved the day.

“Eh, Laurence, you want me to get a milk crate so you reach high enough to cut him throat?”

That was enough. Laurence knew things were wrong. He pulled the knife away from my neck, and I realised the worst part of the danger was over.

By this stage, most of the other staff from the school were arriving, and many of the students. One of the Murri teacher’s aides, respected by the students as a local football hero, walked up to Laurence, and took the knife from him. Laurence didn’t dare argue with the older Murri.

The situation diffused. The police sergeant turned up. Then Laurence’s father. Last I seen of them that day, the father was physically dragging Laurence home, and yelling abuse at him for threatening a school teacher. I didn’t lay charges.

The next day, the father came to see me. I was unsure of how that would go, but the man was genuinely distraught. He was crying and apologising, and kissing my hand. I found out later this is a sign of genuine remorse, and seeking forgiveness, in the local Aboriginal culture. We talked, and ended up on equal terms, which is the way I prefer things.

Laurence came to the school later, and apologised as well. I could see the signs of physical abuse on him, and guessed what had happened. He, too, was genuinely distraught, and told me he didn’t mean to hurt me, he just wanted to scare me. He asked me if I was OK after it had happened.

Before I could answer, John, the teacher’s aide who had taken the knife off him, said “The teacher, he OK. He go home and change his underwear, then he come back to school.”

Anyway, after that, I had very little trouble with the students at the school, and they often came to me to talk, or just to sit nearby, to be somewhere they knew was safe. But it wasn’t the last time we had to deal with knives and students.

In hindsight, I suppose that was the test from the students. The test as to whether they could get over me or not. I don’t think it was planned the way it happened, it just happened. The other staff told me it isn't uncommon, and they all had the same sort of stories of their own experiences. From the student’s point of view, and the staff, for that matter, they felt that I had been put in a bad situation, and it hadn’t scared me at all.

They were wrong. I was terrified.


More stories by this author after the following important information
99
Vote
   


Cotton 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.

Cotton Boll


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
133
Vote
   


On The Inside

September 9th 2008 11:35
There’s something surrealistic about being locked in the same jail you used to work in. I’d spent three years as a prison guard in the toughest maximum security jail in Australia, and now I was a prisoner in the very same jail.

As I was marched through the main gate into the jail, my wrists bound with the latest style in stainless steel handcuffs, I mused on how things had gone so wrong. I had known that I was in a rut, living out the same old thing day after day. I knew there was more to life than just teaching computer classes month after month, year after year.

Go To Jail


Then I decided to start an Aboriginal Reconciliation group in town. The very first meeting attracted over ninety people. As it turned out, that upset some of the misguided police in town, who still thought that all blacks needed to be kept in their place.

The next day, I was arrested for the first time, and kept overnight in a cell at the police station. The charge was stealing a text book from the college I had taught at for three years. I was found not guilty, after police admitted they had actually put the book in my house during their first illegal search, then “found” it later when they finally got a search warrant.

It was at that time a former colleague from the jail I had worked in asked me to do them a favour. To pretend to be a prisoner, to talk to an inmate about a case we had worked on years before. I told him no. Way too dangerous.

After another fourteen such arrests, I was finally found guilty and sentenced, for supposedly assaulting a woman I had met at a disco. At the subsequent appeal eighteen months later, I was found not guilty. After each arrest, my former colleague asked for the same favour. I knew I needed to be worried.

The appeal judge’s decision when finding me not guilty me was made easier by the fact that the lady in question had three other men in court on the same day as my appeal, on the exact same charges, but all separate incidents. She also had eight prior matters in the previous five years, with eight different men being sent to jail, for exactly the same thing. Her criminal compensation payments from the government meant she could afford a very comfortable lifestyle. She is now in jail herself for the repeated false complaints. When her police protector was retired unfit, so was she.

The sentencing was devastating. I remember quite clearly the judge stating “I sentence you to eighteen years imprisonment.”

“That’s not good,” I thought to myself, “that’s definitely not good. Not good at all.”

My lawyer stood up and cleared his throat. “With all due respect your honour, eighteen years seems rather excessive.”

The judge seemed confused, as though he wasn’t quite sure where he was. “Did I say eighteen years?” He gave a nervous laugh, and smiled a false smile. “I’m sorry, I meant eighteen MONTHS. There, I hope that’s better now.”

It wasn’t really. Eighteen months still seemed like a hell of a long time. And I knew I had been set up. I noticed my former colleague was one of the court officers that day.

So I was marched into the jail I knew so well from when I was a guard. There was Smithy at the main gate, who I had known for ten years. He gave an incredulous single laugh, and seemed not to know what to say. He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head slowly “So I guess you’re not coming fishing on the weekend?” he asked.

I laughed, recognising he was trying to make the best of an awkward situation. “Doesn’t look like it,” I replied, taking the cigarette he offered.

I was taken to the high security section of the jail, reserved for high-risk-of-escape prisoners. There was a guard there who was new to the job, and I didn’t know him. I was stripped naked, and put in a completely empty cell, no blankets, no mattress, just a cold concrete floor and an open window with bars on it. It was snowing outside, and the icy wind blew through the cell. I had never seen this done when I was a guard.

“You’re on suicide watch,” the guard told me, with a sneer that showed he enjoyed what he was doing. “We can’t risk giving you clothes or blankets that you might hang yourself with. First time prisoners always cop this.” He slammed the door, and I could hear the bolt slipping into the hasp on the other side, then the key turning in the lock.

“Enjoy your stay at the Hilton.” He called through the door, as he gave it a hard kick to remind me where I was. He couldn’t have possibly understood the irony of what he had said, but I certainly did. The Hilton was the reason I was there. Just as it would have bearing on my life for many years to come.

Two hours later, the guard was back, with the Governor of the jail. The Governor looked through the perspex walls at me, huddled in the corner, trying to keep warm. There was a genuine remorse in his eyes, mixed with just a hint of anger at the guard. He motioned to the guard, and the door opened. The guard looked scared.

“Get this man his clothes and some blankets, and move him to a cell with a window and heater,” the Governor said. “This cell is condemned.”

The guard started to protest, and the Governor stopped him with a slow and deliberate “Keep your mouth shut.”

Then we were joined by the former colleague, who revealed the true reason for my being there. The Governor was apologetic. “We’ve known each other for a long time. I had no idea they were going to do this. I’m not part of them; you know that. I want you to understand that.”

“I know,” I replied. “Unfortunately now you know that I am part of them. That makes the job harder.” He looked a little worried about that, and left.

“You should have agreed when we asked you last year,” my former colleague stated. “Jesus, mate, I hated doing this, but we needed you, because of what you know about Denning from before.”

“You tried to set me up for his escape back in 1988.”

“That was the idiot that Tees got in to help him. Like I told you before, we can deal with him later. But it’s difficult. You know why. You can help us make that easier.”

“What about this cop you’ve had chasing me for the last year? Does he know the whole story?”

“No. He’s another idiot. Couldn’t trust him with anything like that. We didn’t tell him to get the girl involved, either. That’s the trouble with cops. They try to be creative. She’s just a local police informer. I talked to her today, and told her she would be hurt if she didn’t leave town. She won’t be back, and you’ll get out on appeal. Not much we can do about the cop, though. He thought we wanted you because you helped Denning escape.” He smiled, and I had to too.

“Nice touch. I guess I don’t have much choice.”

After that, things were better. I had a lot of experiences in the short time in jail, and, surprisingly, most of them were positive. I got a new outlook on life, and learnt a lot about people in general. Most importantly, I had the time to learn about myself. I also realised that my situation was a lot more dangerous because of the job I had been forced into.

After four weeks, I was released on bail pending appeal, on the condition I not reside in or enter New South Wales for any reason except to attend court. Outside the court, my former colleague was waiting.

“The cop is causing a bit of trouble,” he told me. ” He can’t take a hint. We need time to deal with it.”

“Which means you have something else in mind for me.” I returned.

“No. You did the job, so it’s finished.”

“But I didn’t get enough information for what you need to do. I know you too well. It’s not finished. And I am still on bail, so you have the upper hand.”

“They don’t want you doing the Aboriginal stuff in their town. They can’t control you,” he said with a knowing smile. “But we have a job for you on an Aboriginal community in Central Queensland, where you can do the work you like, and no one will interfere. Does Deputy Principal of a High School sound OK to you? Just go up there for a year, and let things settle down here. The cop won’t be a problem when you come back.” I never went back.

Eighteen months later, the jail sentence was dismissed, and I was sentenced to a two year good behaviour bond, not to enter New South Wales in that two years, for any reason whatsoever. Talk about feeling like you’re not wanted! It wasn’t part of the deal, and I realised that, like it or not, I was back in the service for the long haul.

Anyway, a lot of positive things came out of that four weeks in jail, as well as the time as Deputy Principal on an Aboriginal community. In that job, my jail experience, from both sides of the bars, could help me relate to the people in the community. That later led to me working with Aboriginal street kids in Rockhampton, on more Aboriginal communities, and with street people in major cities in Australia and obverseas.

Later, I toured China for a year, lecturing at universities about Aboriginal education. I have now visited nine countries outside Australia. I wrote for major national media publications, and worked as a researcher for a federal senator, particularly on homelessness, marginalisation and Aboriginal affairs.

In hindsight, if I hadn’t spent that four weeks in jail, my life would never have changed. And in this case, I believe it changed for the positive. Life is what you make it.


More stories by this author after the following important information
122
Vote
   


Reflections

September 7th 2008 12:43
In life, we make many mistakes, and some of us wish we could change the things we have done. Personally, I wouldn’t change anything I have done, because all the experiences in my life have made me who I am.

Most people seem to live their lives hoping for something better. I have grown to live on a philosophy of “learn from the past, live in the present, and hope for the future.

Hindsight


It wasn’t always this way. I grew up in rural Australia, in a small city that resembled Groundhog Day. Actually, it still does.

I was away from the town for almost ten years, and returned to see the same old men sitting outside the mall. The same old faces were in the same old pubs. And the town elders were still arguing that the only way the town could survive was to convince the government to reopen the railway workshops.

Nothing had changed in the ten years I had been away, nor the ten years prior to my leaving, for that matter.

In my travels around Australia and the world, I have seen many communities embrace the incredible changes that are going on in the world. They progress with time, and evolve in step with the world.

Others set themselves above the mainstream, and become leaders in their own right. Armidale in New South Wales is synonymous with higher education. Bathurst is renowned for its car race each year. And Tamworth is world famous for its country music festival.

Yet my home town, like most rural areas in Australia, has failed to come to grips with the modern world. They want things to be the same as they were fifty years ago, and never change. They have spent the last fifty years watching industry and government services being taken out of the town.

Instead of finding alternatives to replace it, they simply spend the limited resources they have trying to force the return of the lost businesses and services.

I also find that most people tend to be at least some way like this. They don’t like change.

Looking back, I realise now that I was exactly the same when I lived in the town. Sure, I love being there, and meeting up with family and old friends.

But I have had the chance to reflect while I have travelled the world. While I was living in my home town, I realise now that, like most people there, I was cut off from the changes going on in the rest of the world.

Sure, we knew they were happening, but we convinced ourselves they didn’t affect us. We were happy just to try to isolate ourselves.

The poet John Donne wrote words that I now accept as a major force in guiding my life: “No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.

Yet too many people, and the communities they live in, try to isolate themselves from the rest of the world. To deny the changes that are going on.

With such denials, the individuals and communities fail to grow as people and part of a wider society.

I have come to terms with who I am, and have been able to accept the short comings I have, while still recognising the achievements I have made. By taking both of these into account, I am able to make solid plans for my future, but allow for flexibility due to unforeseen circumstances.

I have told my stories to many around the world. Some are stories about me, others are stories about the incredibly strong and brave people I have met who have overcome unbelievable hardship to make better lives for themselves and their communities.

Such stories are positive, others are negative. The one thing about all these stories is that each and every one of them is an experience that has helped form me as a person.

And be it good or bad, I wouldn’t change a thing that has ever happened to me, because I am quite happy with who I am.


More stories by this author after the following important information
113
Vote
   


Post End Text

January 1st 2008 12:05
71
Vote
   


More Posts
1 Posts
1 Posts
4 Posts
7 Posts dating from January 2008
Email Subscription
Receive e-mail notifications of new posts on this blog:

KC Hill's Blogs

11613 Vote(s)
105 Comment(s)
173 Post(s)
17570 Vote(s)
119 Comment(s)
230 Post(s)
260 Vote(s)
46 Comment(s)
26 Post(s)
19720 Vote(s)
666 Comment(s)
256 Post(s)
29190 Vote(s)
351 Comment(s)
389 Post(s)
2532 Vote(s)
14 Comment(s)
23 Post(s)
Moderated by KC Hill
Copyright © 2012 On Topic Media PTY LTD. All Rights Reserved. Design by Vimu.com.
On Topic Media ZPages: Sydney |  Melbourne |  Brisbane |  London |  Birmingham |  Leeds     [ Advertise ] [ Contact Us ] [ Privacy Policy ]