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Good Morning Mr Sarra

My Life Working for a Stronger, Smarter Future for Our Children

University of Queensland Press

Humble beginnings

I was born on 21 September 1967, the last in our family of ten children. My father's name was Pantaleone Sarra. He was born in 1924 and came from a little Italian village called Miglianico, which is in the Chieti province of the Abruzzo region, east of Rome and bordering the Adriatic Sea. The village church is called St Pantaleone, so I guess he was probably named in honour of that saint. Like a lot of Europeans who made that dramatic journey abroad after the Depression in search of work, a new beginning and a brighter future, his beautiful lyrical name was bastardised by those who could not pronounce it. He was called Peter.

Dad never spoke too much about his family in Italy. My Italian grandfather was killed by German soldiers trouncing through Abruzzo during the Second World War. At the time my father's brother, Zio (Uncle) Raffaele, was just ten years old. He ran over to help, only to be shot in the leg with a bullet that ensured he walked with a limp for the rest of his life.

In Italy Dad worked extremely hard, married Emma in his early twenties and together they had three children, Venere, Maria and Guilio. The times must have been tough as he made, what I am sure, the difficult decision to leave Europe in the early 1950s. Our Italian grandmother, from all accounts a strong matriarch, must have been broken-hearted when her son moved to Australia, never to be seen by her again. Dad left his wife and three children behind with a view to reconnecting with them when he got his money and circumstances sorted. As it turned out, they never came here and he would get back only for a short time in 1984.

On my mother's side my grandmother and great-grandparents were descendants of the Gooreng Gooreng – there are a few variations to this spelling – people in the north of Bundaberg. My grandfather and his people were of the Bunda people from in and around Bundaberg. Some people say Bunda, some say Tarebilang Bunda. History is circumspect in its discussion about my people, especially the massacre of our people on the Burnett River's Paddy's Island but both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal historians agree that many were slaughtered there in 1849.

In the June of that year some local Aborigines in the Gin Gin area killed two young shepherds who worked for Gregory Blaxland and William Forster, the white settlers who had taken land there. Retribution of this nature was common throughout Australia; Aboriginal people were, understandably, hostile about the arrival of the white people and their herds. A group of settlers consequently avenged the shepherds' deaths by shooting a large number of Aborigines at their camp near Bingera. Some months later, Blaxland was killed. Forster organised another punitive party and they were responsible for the Paddy's Island massacre.

It seems the land to which my people belonged was too rich and fertile, and too proximal to the southeast, to escape the rapacious clutches of the colonisers. In spite of this, for me there is an enduring richness and strength about knowing that you grew up in a place where your people walked for thousands of years. To some extent I am certain that this made us solid.

Mum's mother was Kate Williams. Kate's mother was Ellen Cameron and her father John Williams. As well as Kate, Ellen and John had Annie, Fannie, James, and Ivy. John Williams was a well-regarded, hardworking Aboriginal man around his area. He was held in such high regard he was offered a selection of land at Berajondo, near Baffle Creek just north of Bundaberg. This was quite unheard of at this time.

Mum's other grandfather was John Broom, a well-regarded horseman in the northern parts of Bundaberg. Grandfather Broom's partner was Emma. Together they had Alexander, Steven, Sarah, Tom, Bill, Cecelia and Kate. All are long gone now but I still remember Uncle Steve as a wonderful and gentle man who married Aunty Elsie, from Innisfail. He loved to paint and even today I keep at home an old shield upon which he painted Aboriginal men in traditional dance. I also remember very well Aunty Kate and Aunty Cecelia, who we knew better as Aunty Seal, who both lived long lives as devout Christian women held in high regard and with a sense of elegance, particularly in their best church dresses and with their long flowing silver hair.

Great-grandfather Johnny Broom outlived his wife by many years and would go on to live with Mum's father, Alexander, and sometimes with Great Uncle Steven at Avondale. Grandfather Broom worked as a labourer on Loeskow's Fairymead Station north of Bundaberg. Like my other great-grandfather, James Williams, he too was held in high regard for his extraordinarily solid work ethic. So much so, Mum recalls he was promised a parcel of land on the northern parts of the Burnett River as payment and acknowledgement of his efforts by Mr Loeskow. Shamefully, when they went to the courthouse to finalise the paperwork they were told it was not possible, as Aboriginal people were not entitled to own land. This was a source of great pain for such a proud Aboriginal man wanting to secure the well-being of his family, and Mum says it ultimately rendered him unwell, only to die of a broken heart.

Like me, Mum was youngest in her family. She was born Norma Broom in November 1929. She had two older brothers, Alex and Harold. Both were renowned Aboriginal boxers in their day. They were well-built and robust men commanding respect in local boxing circles, particularly in the Jim Sharman tents. Mum's older sisters were Molly and Mae. Aunty Molly would make it known that, as Mum was the youngest, she was by far the most spoilt, unlike me.

Aunty Molly would laugh as she recalled their 'get square' adventures, when they would take Mum for a walk in the bush and let her have it, only to discover, and rediscover, that Mum had a tendency to dob them in when they got back to the house. The usual result was a paddling for being nasty to poor little Norma, ensuring they would have to make up for it next time, and further ensuring perpetuation of the 'get Norma, get paddled' cycle.

In many ways I am exceedingly grateful that none of my immediate descendants were ever rounded up and imprisoned in missions like Cherbourg or Woorabinda, under the haze of the dreadful assimilation policy of that time. Notwithstanding, it was something that, like a grim reaper ushering in the death of one's sense of freedom, made its presence known. On occasions Mum would tell us that the old people lived with a constant sense of fear and mistrust of white people they didn't know well.

'Don't go near them white people,' she recalls them saying.

'Don't talk lingo!'

'Don't look them in the face!'

'Don't be cheeky to them!'

'They'll steal you. They'll kill you!'

I suspect the incredibly hard work ethic of our family played some part in ensuring they were allowed to live with some degree of freedom. It was clear, though, that this could never be something taken for granted. There were times when Grandfather Broom would have to write to the authorities of the day to plead with them to understand they were hardworking people with no desire to be separated or taken away to some mission.

Mum's childhood was spent living between Loeskow's paddock with her dad's people, and further north at Berajondo with her mum's kin. During her working years Mum spent some time in north Queensland, but most of her life was in and around Bundaberg, mostly working in domestic house roles for white people. She enjoyed going to the dance halls with her cousins and together they would check out the local talent. The influx of European men spiced the events up a bit, and there was one who was just too smooth and too charismatic to resist: one Pantaleone Sarra of Miglianico, Abruzzo, Italia.

By this stage Mum already had my eldest sister Amanda. She was born in 1952. It is difficult to know whether it was the 'Miglianico mojo' or the flash Fiat he had at the time, but something clicked. Romance blossomed, yet no doubt there were trials and tribulations. The result of the magic, though, was the children that would flow from this union. And flow they did. Cameron was born soon after, followed by Athena, more commonly referred to as Tina, Zac, Grant, Tracie, Dean, Lieba, Simon and finally me. We all carried our mum's surname until 1972, when it was decided we would change it to match our father's.

The Sarra family lived at 21 Whittred Street, on the east side of the town, just across the road from the Millaquin sugar mill and in the same street as the Bundaberg Rum distillery. I often say to others that my real claim to fame is that when you read the label of a Bundy bottle, no matter where you are in the world, it says, 'Whittred Street, Bundaberg'. So I get to puff up my chest with pride and say, 'That's my street!'

As a kid there was a lot to like about growing up in Bundaberg in the 1970s. Just down from us was the Burnett River, and a big paddock by our house kept us occupied with endless games of cricket in the summer, and Rugby League in the winter. We called it the 'SCG', 'Sarra's Cricket Ground', and it was the venue for many games, sometimes a few fights, but mostly lots of fun. One of the great things about being in a large family is we always had the numbers to make two teams for whatever game was on the program. We also managed to drag in plenty of the stray kids from around the neighbourhood as well, and for us this was just normal. Mum taught us to be nice to other kids and to stick up for those who could not stick up for themselves. Anyone who might have been a misfit had a place at the SCG.

Number 21 was a crowded house yet it didn't seem to bother us. We were three to a room: the big boys, Cameron, Zac and Grant in one; the girls Tina, Lieba and Tracie in another; and Simon, Dean and me in the third. We had to share beds; sometimes we had bunk beds and sometimes we slept top-to-toe. Mum and Dad had their own room. I can't remember living with Amanda, as she left home when I was still a toddler.

Growing up, there were a number of morning rituals in our home. First there was the sound of my father's footsteps from his bedroom to the kitchen. Then, almost on cue, I would hear that smoker's cough getting his body going for the hard work that would certainly follow. Close behind would be the sound of the radio with some dry voice from 4BU in Bundaberg, or the sound of the ABC trumpets kicking off the news at the top of the hour. My father would then make his way into our room.

'Chris!'

'Hmm,' I would respond sluggishly.

"Ere, reada my star!' he would say in his broken English. It was the usual astrological dribble but my father would always be attentive.

'Today you will face many challenges but do not trust the people around you. Look for the positives and good things will come your way,' or some other generic lines. If I was feeling a bit livelier I would throw in a few lines on the end.

'Be nice to your youngest son. Treat him kind and buy something good for him from the shop.'

His eyes would crinkle up momentarily, but then he would say, 'Ah don't talk a bull-a-shit!'

I would get out the cereal while my father sat and dipped his toast into the really strong coffee that he'd made. I could never work out why he would do this but I treasure those early morning memories of my father.

The kitchen was always a pretty lively place. Often the meat in our evening meals consisted of a hare our father had shot, or pigeons or chooks we had to kill and pluck, or a cow, pig or goat that had been knocked on the head. I always used to feel sorry for them as they met their fate. There were even times when our pet lamb, goat or hare was known to mysteriously disappear so cruelly, yet reappear so tenderly. So sad, yet so delicious!

Things were always oversized in our kitchen as I remember. Big thirty-kilogram bags of sugar, big sacks of potatoes, big bags of flour, and even a big bread bin. Appetites were always big, too. In their early teens the girls did the cooking and sometimes it was whatever they had brought home from their Home Ec. classes at high school. It was usually the type of meals that were useful in big families – a huge pot of stew and rice, often with dog bones from the butcher because they were cheap, or a huge pot of spaghetti. None of us would complain as we all loved spaghetti, and with a firm mother like ours it was not a good idea to complain about what was dished up.

Dinnertime was always much anticipated. We would wait eagerly for the call. We might be down playing on the SCG as the sun was setting or watching the black-and-white TV with half an ear on the kitchen. Even today I still jump and think about making a dash when I hear someone say, 'Dinner's ready!' We would race into the kitchen with just a split second to scan for the biggest plate, and then make our grab for it. We had to live with our decision as the rest of plates were soon taken. I must have had a good reaction time to 'the call' as somehow I ended up with the nickname 'Fats' and 'Tubby', despite my body resembling that of a finely tuned machine – at least that is what my good self-esteem enabled me to see in the mirror.

We had a huge table that would seat five on each side, sitting on a long bench, and Mum and Dad at each end. There were often times when we had to bring a table up from downstairs to put at the end of the main table in order to make room for extended family or other hangers-on. I loved sitting around that table. Not just because of the good food we ate, but because it was a time when we were all together and having a good yarn, each of us having a valid voice at the table. Mum encouraged us to have a say and ask whatever questions we liked. There was no such thing as a silly question. One night Mum was telling us all about how babies were made and it must have sent our cousin Kenny Roberts' mind racing. After she explained how the baby is inside an egg in the mother's belly Kenny piped up and asked what happens to the shell after the baby is born. I then had images of a newborn baby with its mother, and this huge eggshell lying broken on the ground.

Sometimes our older brothers would talk about dramas they were having with people at school calling them racist names. Mum would say to us things like, 'You're more of a man if you can walk away from a fight!' When we talked about racist taunts on the sports field she would say, 'They must be feeling inferior to you because that must be the only way they can put you down.'

'We are blackfullas, and that's just how it is! Don't let anyone ever try to put you down or make you feel ashamed of that!'

'Treat others how you want to be treated!'

These were pretty profound messages being drummed into us. We learned a lot about life at that table. It was an excellent place to put things into perspective. I believe it was this that enabled us to grow into strong identities, not enslaved by racism and the attitudes that came with it. There was a sense of a real humanity nurtured in all of us and I think that made us powerful in our own ways to cope with the challenges of life. So much so that we could withstand and tolerate the guy next door calling us 'fucking little black bastards', yet still be generous enough to pick him up and help him stumble home after he had fallen off his bike, which had miraculously carried him so far while blind drunk from the East End Hotel in the afternoon, or to mow his grass after he had his leg chopped off.

We would never dare ignore the humanity of others, particularly those within our own family. Even though our mum shielded us from some of the chaos, we were honest enough to recognise that some of our extended family really struggled with life and, like others succumbing to such challenges, resorted to alcohol, perhaps as a means to escape or, at the very least, to add some sense of purpose to get through the day.

'That's your family, and don't you ever look down on them. You don't ever turn your back on family,' Mum would say of our uncles or cousins, who could be spotted under the Burnett River bridge, 'getting on the charge' with their mates.

Mum also encouraged us to think about the future, even after Zac at an early age announced his grand plan. When he grew up he wanted to buy a big truck so he could pick up all the cockroaches in our house, load them up, and then take them to the dump. Today, as a Magistrate in Brisbane, Zac still thinks that is a good idea.

In our younger years Mum was more your stop-at-home mum. Later she would take up work as a social worker and played a key role, along with others, in setting up organisations such as the Aboriginal Housing Cooperative in Bundaberg. She was involved in many activities to do with land rights and women's rights. My father wasn't sure at first how to deal with these ventures, but he was told by Mum to just do so. I remember once a discussion at the table in which Aunty Mabel, who had grown up on the Cherbourg mission, chided Mum.

'Norma,' she said, 'what are you going on about all this rubbish for? You've just got to forget all this stuff.'

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Excerpted from Good Morning Mr Sarra by Chris Sarra. Copyright © 2012 Chris Sarra. Excerpted by permission of University of Queensland Press.
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