When Isla was born I used to spend a lot of time with my paternal Grandma. Isla was her first great grandchild. She always told me stories of Australia’s biggest shame – the White Australia policy. Grandma felt guilty, she believed the church and government were trying to do the right thing by stealing kids to give them an education. She said they were whisked away and no one knew where they went, as if they couldn’t be found if you wanted to look. A fear of authorities and
the church it seemed to me. I feel as though the cultural climate at the time was to put up and shut up. Follow social norms, ask no questions and tell no lies. Independent and critical thought seemed to only occur in peoples heads, but my Grandmas heart and soul could feel this was wrong yet she felt disempowered to take decisive actions.
This culture persists today, it’s the “Australian way.”
Grandma told me that she wished the Catholic Pope at the time hadn’t deemed contraception as a sin and was happy that I had that choice.
Grandma often phoned me right in my moment of isolation, acknowledging the emotional grit required of motherhood, especially living in towns away from family. I miss those visits with Grandma whipping up a tea cake, served hot with butter and cinnamon. She was proud of me too as was my Grandad for my blockading days.
Grandma had a scrap book of newspaper clippings and one featured me. My grandparents listened intently to my stories blockading, protecting our Old Growth Forests, sold to China for 9 cents a tonne to make toilet paper at the time. I told them I experienced a relationship in those deep gullies with a purity and truth that was undeniable. They listened with open hearts and made me feel brave and proud.
My maternal Nana used to share stories out in the back room. Day time telly with the volume on low, a basket of knitting, the photo albums out and always a “piece” which was bread and butter, savoys with salted tomatoes and strong cups of tea. She thought it was great that I could get divorced and women could choose who they marry. I was naive to the process of the family courts so early in my marriage and legal weaponising of children.
Nan’s stories in those moments with me were of bitterness and resentment towards the gendered power dynamics of her day. She also missed her brother and sister that died in their youth. Offered an opportunity in Ireland to cultivate her operatic voice, forced to turn it down. Getting her drivers licence only to be refused the car. Never enough. Experiencing what I assume were breakdowns and spells of major depression that were quietly called “turns.” Nan’s had another “turn.” Turn of what I thought? I would cuddle my Nan, head on her comfy boobs as a pillow. I leaned in to my Nan and could feel her heart had turned in….that’s what this “turn” might mean I thought.
These are my earliest memories with my Nan who made me feel safe. I loved motherhood and the early years. I had all the patience in the world to parent little Isla’s gentle soul.
One day with the winter sun on their backs, my Mum and Nan were strolling thought Olinda, browsing knick knacks, antiques and jewellery with 4 year old Isla hand in hand. Nan was in her 80s and slow….Isla rolled her eyes as she looked behind and quietly muttered, “hurry the fuck up!” Mum was mortified and hoped Nan didn’t hear, but Nan’s quiet smile said otherwise.
It wasn’t until Isla was older and I had goals of my own that I realised no one was there to support me.
I could do whatever I wanted along as I had zero expectations on anyone actively supporting me to reach my goals. Fortitude and stubbornness run deep and enabled me to keep going. Women and children surviving and being fed an illusive goal of thriving. GP’s and psychologists
gaslighting me and stretching out my MHCP sessions as they know they’re running out soon.
Going back to work deemed the golden ticket into thriving again and contributing to our economy.
-Justine
