My mother had sayings, names and
adages for every person and every occasion, her descriptions moving from peers
of the realm to the lower end of society. We were all on intimate terms with the
likes of Lord Haw Haw, Lady Dinah and Lady Muck and, to a lesser extent, King
Farouk, often taking their names as she bestowed them upon us. Our position in
life gave her plenty of opportunity to practice her repertoire and the one I
understood best was ‘blood’s thicker than water’. We were a watery old mob at
our place.
Mum was also the mistress of simile when it came to
describing other people: as old as Methuselah, as skinny as a drainpipe, as deaf
as a doorknob, a backside as wide as a barn, a face like the back of a tram
crash, a tub of lard, a yard of pump water, to name just a few. One of her
favourite words was common, to which she attached nouns and turned into simile
to illustrate her point.
My sister and I both left school at the end of 1960.
Marcia had completed her School’s Board examination and had a respectable job in
an office, while she waited to sit her nurse’s entrance exam, which would take
her into an even more respectable profession. I had a position in a factory.
There was a clear division between girls who worked in unskilled positions and
those who were employed in offices or the retail trade, a division that extended
into our home. My mother always said mill girls were as common as dish water, as
common as muck, so I guess that’s what I was.
I was a very common girl.
Chapter - My Magdalen Home
There were
about seventy female inmates, aged from thirteen to seventy, and an
indeterminate number of nuns who lived in the convent community. There was
another group of women who lived between these two worlds. They were called
Auxiliaries. Many of these women had been inmates at one stage and their lengthy
institutionalisation had been interpreted as having a vocation to devote their
life to God. They were unable to take full vows because of sins committed in
their pre-convent life. These women were penitents and very pious, living in a
constant state of atonement, and they were accorded much respect for their
humble and unselfish attitude. They were assigned to the internal religious
communities, to dormitories and work rooms, in a supervisory and proxy
authoritarian role. It was a role many of them had difficulty with due to their
extreme humility and all-consuming guilt for past wrongs.
The nuns each had the salutation of Mother in
front of their religious name. Mother Anselm. Mother Marguerite. Mother Juliana
and so on. It was ironic that I, who had wasted so much emotion on an unrequited
love for my birth mother, and an equal amount of time being rejected by my
adoptive mother, should find myself now surrounded by an abundance of mothers.
Mothers who were sartorially cloned yet schizophrenically divided by their
individual personalities. They lived in the nunnery, presided over by their
Mother Superior, in a separate wing of the convent.
The toothache
that had been with me since I arrived became such a debilitating pain it took
all of my energy to bear it. I requested permission to visit a dentist and
eventually an Auxiliary was appointed to accompany me to the dental hospital. I
don’t know when the seed of absconding was sown on this particular day. Perhaps
it was the experience of being outside the confines of the convent for the first
time in many weeks. It may even have emanated from my obsessive fear of
dentists. I only had to walk into a dentist’s waiting room for the pain of
toothache to disappear, and it would usually not return for weeks. This day was
no exception and I sat in the dentist’s waiting room in painless silence. There
was no conversation from the Auxiliary, lost in the secluded world of her own
thoughts, and it gave me time to think.
Too much time.
I asked her if I could use the toilet and she nodded
her assent, adding as an afterthought of responsibility.
‘Come straight back.’
I went to the toilet and I kept on going. I had no
destination in mind, no money, and no concept of where I was. I was not familiar
with the city of Hobart and I wandered the busy Friday afternoon streets in a
daze of hapless freedom. I thought if I could find my way out of the business
district, I’d be able to hitchhike to Launceston, but I didn’t know which road
to take. I asked for directions from a shopper, then lost my way at the first
corner. I thought I was headed north out of the city, only to find myself facing
the harbour to the south. The noise of the traffic and the general hubbub of
city life had a disorientating effect me after the seclusion in the convent and,
just when I thought I was doomed to an eternity of pedestrian drifting, I heard
my name called.
‘You there…Merlene…stop right there.’
I looked up to see two Auxiliaries pushing through the
crowd towards me; grey ghosts claiming a lost soul. My legs moved in an instinct
to run, but my path was blocked by another of their posse. The two women caught
up and grabbed one of my arms each, pincered fingers a reminder of my mother’s
favoured grip.
‘Help us somebody…we’ve got an escapee here…call the
police.’
The crowd passed on by, faces impassive and eyes and
ears closed to the drama unfolding. Some gave our small group a perfunctory
glance, a fleeting look of pity for the trapped animal, and then they were gone.
The women continued to beg for assistance, their desperation evident in their
tight grasp on my arms. I initially struggled against their hold, but just as
quickly abandoned any thought of flight in search of a return to dignity.
‘Just let me go…I won’t run.’
I tried to twist free.
‘You’re going nowhere girl…except back to the convent.’
A young police officer on his beat walked past and they
called to him.
‘Help us please…we’ve got an escapee here.’
He looked puzzled and went to keep on walking, but
their pleas grew louder. I was ashamed at being the centre of this spectacle. I
disappeared inside of myself to escape the humiliation and took on the role of
observer. The police officer came over and listened to the women’s garbled
account and, some half hour after my dramatic street arrest, I was put in a
police car and driven back to the convent. The Auxiliaries took me inside,
parading me in front of the nuns as a species of game they’d successfully
hunted.
I was their trophy.
My punishment was harsh and long lasting. As usual, it
taught me nothing. My effort to abscond had been viewed as a personal attack
against the Auxiliary who’d escorted me to the dentist. Her stress at losing me
had resulted in an asthma attack, for which I was held solely accountable. She
was in the infirmary while the whole convent prayed for her recovery.
Her martyrdom was complete.
Mother Anselm, as the nun charged with responsibility for the inmates, was
furious with me. I was taken into a room where my clothes were taken from me and
replaced with an ill fitting, shapeless tartan dress, known in convent jargon as
a ‘punishment dress’. I then had to hand over all of my other clothes and
belongings, as the punishment dress was all I’d be allowed to wear for the next
four weeks. Another nun came in with a large pair of shears and cut off my hair.
It had only just reached a length where I felt it looked reasonable and now it
had gone again. No effort was made to cut it evenly or in any style. It was just
hacked off in a straight line at ear length. I was returned to face the
hostility of the Euphrasian community, who did not need to be instructed not to
speak to me. In the convent, as in any other societal group, large or small, the
hierarchical pecking order determined the position and treatment for the
individual. The dress and newly shorn hair determined my status as unworthy of
inclusion within the decent society of convent inmates.
View the following video clip from Rachael Romero
http://www.youtube.com/user/rabyaashki
Why has this film not been shown in Australia
although it premiered in the British Museum at Yale, won prizes and is available
in University Libraries around the US?
In the early 1980s, I was employed
as a Youth Officer at Western Youth Welfare Service in Melbourne’s inner west.
This was in the days before de-institutionalisation and the young people we
engaged with were among those most psychologically and emotionally damaged, and
most frequently discarded, within the state welfare system. With no enforceable
rights, they were moved in and around the various institutions, leading to cross
fertilization of deviancy and extreme acting out behaviour. Within the youth
work sector a hierarchy had developed where a worker’s esteem was
self-determined by the level of difficulty exhibited by the young people they
worked with. This began to change in 1982 when a new group of young people were
targeted for attention within the youth welfare service, the eleven to
fourteen-year-olds, referred to collectively as Early Adolescents.
This move from away from the traditional target
group challenged many workers, who needed the continued stroking of their egos
provided by the adrenalin rush of working within the unpredictable culture of
the ‘too hard basket’. Most were reluctant to work with the younger age group,
fearing this would damage their professional reputation, so the call went out
for expressions of interest from the willing. Seeing this as an opportunity to
work proactively toward prevention and deflection from institutional care,
working in partnership with the young person, family and community, I put up my
hand.
Engaging with people at this level was both challenging and rewarding, requiring
a broad range of skills and innovative responses to maintain home and community
placements. Added to this was the segregation from our peers, and occasional
derision for working with what they perceived was the softer end of the market;
the ankle biters.
And so it was that Maurice, my wonderful colleague, and
I sat late one afternoon close to mental exhaustion after a day spent chasing
truants, dodging emotional fists, interpreting expletives, placating parents and
generally calming troubles waters, as we discussed strategies for the following
day. My enthusiasm was just slightly higher than Maurice’s and he responded to
my optimistic babble with;
‘Merlene, you’re like a noxious weed, you just can’t be
kept down.’
I thought back to the
pesticides used during my youth and their ineffectiveness that, instead of
destroying me, nurtured resilience and determination, and I gave thanks for this
most wonderful compliment.
Chapter Winbirra
The
handing over of me to the care and control of Winbirra was over in seconds.
I was now a trainee who lived in a section.
The police were ushered from the building and I was
steered unceremoniously down a long passage, to an open shower area, where a
bath had been prepared for me. The steam billowed and twirled in its effort to
escape from the overheated water. Two women in terylene shirt waist
over-dresses, keys hanging from narrow belts, took turns to bark out
instructions.
My mother wore terylene shirt waist dresses but her
keys had been in the fear she generated.
Both women had strong English accents.
‘Now coom along nar and get those cloothes off.'
‘All of thoom nar… and leave ‘oom in a pile.’
I stared at them.
What did they mean get my clothes off?
In front of them?
‘Whootsa matter…shy are yoo? Too bard miss…thars noo
pless far moodesty aroon ‘ere!’
‘We’ve seen it all before… you aren’t got nuthin
different.’
They were loosing patience with me.
‘Noo miss…ya doont woont too get orf to a bad start do
ya?’
‘Coom on nar, let’s be ‘avin you in the bath nar.’
I knew
there was no way out of it. I shucked off my clothes self consciously. I was
about to step in the bath, when I was told to stand still while they looked me
over for marks or other distinguishing features. I explained the origin of each
scar, as they drew corresponding descriptions on a card index page.
Once the inspection of my body had been completed I
stepped quickly into the bath. The heat of the water stung my legs and my
backside refused to sit. I stayed in a half squat position, arms folded across
my breasts, while my body adjusted to the heat.
‘Nar sit darn and don’ be silly, a’m losin’
patience with yoo.’
I plopped into sitting position and the water surged
into my body cavities. It pulsed through the soft tissue of my vagina and it
changed my skin colour to a violent blotched pink. I was told the dip my
head under the water and wet my hair and when this was done, disinfectant was
poured from a bottle over my head.
It
ran into my eyes.
The pungent smell of carbolic took my breath away and when I opened my mouth to take in air it ran down my throat.
I spluttered and gasped and the women laughed at their
sport.
‘Wash your hair and then wash yourself all over…make
sure you clean under your arms…and between your legs.'
A cracked
bar of yellow Velvet soap hit my elbow and sank to the bottom of the tub. I
chased it around and through my bent legs, before I succeeded in trapping it
against the heavy chain secured to the plug. Slivers of soap flaked off in my
hair as I tried in vain to get a lather and they snarled in the hard tangle of
my effort.
Once I’d been sufficiently cleaned and disinfected, I
was ordered to get out of the bath. One of the women handed me a rough towel.
White, with a red stripe on either end, and with the words Property of the
Victorian Government marked in large irregular letters along the edge. My
wet hair, cold now that I’d moved away from the blanket of steam, dripped
disconsolately down my back. I put on the clothes as they were handed to me.
A bra and pants, both well worn, with a single word
scrawled on the stretched bands of each - Winbirra. This labelling was
repeated on the remaining items of clothing; a shirt and skirt; white cotton
socks; and a pair of sandshoes. Before I was allowed to put the socks on,
mercurochrome was applied liberally between my toes with cotton wool twirled
around a match thin piece of wood.
I was handed a toothbrush.
A dob of toothpaste sat in the valley of the bristles,
which were blunted and pointed sideways from punishment at the hands of
previous users. This item had escaped the black indelible marking pen, but
ownership could still be identified by the section name that had been scratched
into the handle.
The
depersonalisation was still not complete though, as my hair was now attacked
with a fine tooth comb in a simian-like search for head lice. My head was jerked
sharply as the discoloured pink teeth pulled against the small pieces of soap
trapped in the snarls of my hair. Finally, either because she was exhausted by
her effort or convinced my head was free of vermin, the staff member released
me...
The jeep pulled
up outside the administration block of Winlaton and Mrs Somersett led us through
a series of doors, unlocking and relocking each as we passed into the next area.
The last door opened onto a concrete courtyard and beyond this I could see the
security lights of the oval around which the three residential sections of the
institution had been built. A halo of fog surrounded each spotlight and a low
mist swept the ground. The dogs had settled down now they were back in their
more familiar patrol zone and they padded ahead to the top section, sniffing
the air for trouble.
The path we followed led to a long low brick building,
with small paned windows set in square metal grills. Mrs Somersett selected an
over-sized key to unlock a metal gate, which opened inwards onto a porch, the
floor covered with square tiles the colour of damp earth. I was later to learn
this area was known as the mud room, so-called because it acted a
decontamination zone between the natural elements of the outside world, and the pristine
cleanliness of the section. She relocked the mud room gate before unlocking the
next door, which took us straight into the dimly lit lobby of the section.
This was Goonyah, the security section of Winlaton.
I’d first heard about this place when I was in Regent
House. Goonyah was the section where new arrivals went until they’d been through
the full intake and assessment process and while they acclimatised to life
behind a barbed wire fence. It was also the section where the worst behaved
girls were kept; the mad, the bad and the sad; the habitual absconders; and
those who retained an independent spirit. I had heard tales of bashing by staff
and gang rapes by inmates; of clandestine sexual encounters with the gate-men
for the price of a cigarette. I was terrified of what lay in wait for me behind
the locked doors.
Goonyah was quiet at this hour. The
inmates had been locked in their rooms for the night and the dimmed lights of
the long, brick walled passageway added to the gloomy atmosphere. The passage
had numerous doors placed at regular intervals on either side; each door had a
narrow oblong observation window set in the centre.
We were greeted by two women, wearing the same style of terylene
dress as the Winbirra staff had worn and the same large ring of keys hanging from
their belt. One woman took our transfer papers and the other one handed us a flannelette nightgown each
before we were locked in separate rooms to change our
clothes.
The key clicked in the lock as the metal lined door
closed behind me. Red brick walls, a single bed and bare wooden floorboards. A
metal grilled window looked out onto the oval of grass that I‘d passed on the
way in. Keeping one eye on the slot in the door, I changed my clothes quickly,
pulling the nightie over my head before I took off the Winbirra clothing I’d
been wearing. I felt vulnerable standing there, conscious of my nakedness
beneath the outsize nightdress, as the cold air crept under its loose folds and
clung to my body. Goosebumps of fear refused to be silenced by the touch of the
rough fabric against my skin.
I crossed to the window and looked out at the grounds
of my new home. Looking beyond the tall security lights, I could make out the
top of the fence, its barbed wire silhouetted against the night sky. A study in
black, white and grey.
‘Get away from that window!’
I jumped in fright and turned to see someone looking
at me through the slot in the door. It was opened by a staff, wanting to
retrieve the garments that I’d taken off. She told me again to stay away from
the window, to get into bed and the rules would be explained to me by the
section chief in the morning.
The sheets were stiff with cold
and starch. Slippery white cardboard that gave off the same smell of
disinfectant that I’d been showered in that first day in Winbirra. I pushed the
bedclothes away from my face, trying to escape from its suffocating fumes,
exposing the top half of my body the cold. The toxic blend surrounded me and
took my breath away but I knew there was no escape from it.
The room suddenly went dark and I realized the light
switch was outside the door. Like everything else in my life, it was outside of
my control. The lights on the oval shone through the uncurtained window and the
shadow of the grill was imprinted across the brick wall near my head, as a grim
reminder of where I was.
Tears of self pity pushed against the back of my eyes
and I let them run free. Suddenly the room flooded with light. I looked towards
the door and saw a face looking back at me. Well one eye anyway.
I was on show; a curiosity.
I stopped crying immediately. I didn’t want anyone to
see any weakness from me, or that I cared about anything. Emotional detachment
and a tough attitude were the tools to survival in this place...
Kyabram
was a small town twenty minutes by road from Shepparton and a generation in time
away from the rest of the world. The position we were to share was in a
farmhouse occupied by Hughie, who was sixty one, his young twenty one year old
wife, their three year old child and an infant daughter. The wife has
suppurating leg ulcers and needed hospital care. The other occupant of the house
was an aging Aboriginal who went by the name of Jacky Bond, an ex-rodeo rider
with a penchant for grappa, produced locally by Italian fruit growers. Jacky
Bond shared a room with an assortment of broken tools and other items gleaned
from the local tip; a bicycle frame that he intended to restore this year or the
next, and the overflow from the colony of mice that inhabited the abandoned
kitchen. He slept on the wooden floor with an assortment of old coats and other
rags for covering.
Jan
and I shared a double bed in the room next to Hughie’s, separated by a
dado-height pine wall with hessian covered with paper extending above this to
the high ceiling. Here and there were gaps in the paper where the hessian
showed through and, on many occasions, Hughie’s aging eye could also be seen
angled through the open weave.
Our
only duties were to tend to the children, sad pale-faced waifs who ate sparingly
of the meagre offerings. No meals were prepared in the kitchen, due to the
hundreds of mice that ran up and down the walls and over every surface and
through the unwashed dishes of meals past. It appeared that this room, and its
furniture and utensils, had been used in cohabitation with the rodents, until
the housewife had ceded defeat and simply shut the door on the whole filthy
mess. One day, early in our stay, in a moment of shared optimism, Jan and I
decided we might be able to re-take control of this room. We would then be able
to use the old wood stove to provide more nutritious meals for the children, and
we’d have pots and pans and crockery and utensils for everyday use. It was a
short lived ambition. The flurry of mice when we opened the door; their defiance
in the face of our intrusion; and the sheer enormity of the mess and junk in the
room to be sorted out made us both shudder in defeat. We left the room to the
victors and the door thereafter remained shut.
Goonyah was quiet at this hour. The
inmates had been locked in their rooms for the night and the dimmed lights of
the long, brick walled passageway added to the gloomy atmosphere. The passage
had numerous doors placed at regular intervals on either side; each door had a
narrow oblong observation window set in the centre. 