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So today marks 19 years since Dad died. I& #39;ve been thinking about him lately. Here with his sister, my aunts, all gone now.
I know it& #39;s getting older and knowing there& #39;s fewer days to come, but I do think more about the hereafter and Baiame and if we& #39;ll see each other again. https://twitter.com/sandyosullivan/status/1278310395246071809">https://twitter.com/sandyosul...
I know it& #39;s getting older and knowing there& #39;s fewer days to come, but I do think more about the hereafter and Baiame and if we& #39;ll see each other again. https://twitter.com/sandyosullivan/status/1278310395246071809">https://twitter.com/sandyosul...
I should have said & #39;sisters& #39;. In this photo he was a couple of years older than I am now. The grief in my family - which I don& #39;t necessarily want to dwell on - was often countered by stories, laughs, things shared, visits, Aunty food, and a fair bit of stoicism as well.
The expectations were always pretty low, and whatever we all achieved was enough. I& #39;ve tried to remember that during the recent harder times as that generation of Dad& #39;s side of our family have gone. I wish they could see how we fight now, and I don& #39;t mean that disrespectfully.
They fought differently to now. Dad was born in 1930 and I think about his life and his sisters& #39; lives and they survived, and so many of our family survived because of that. And in the end they were together. I hope they& #39;re together now and that they found peace.
I only have two pictures of me with Dad (I& #39;m the littlest one with my 2 sisters & 2 brothers). Both were taken on the same day in 1969. I really love the hold I have on him here. He had big hands, I would grab one and drape it around me, because he wasn& #39;t a hugger but I was.
This feels like important remembering. I write all the time about the power of us telling our complex stories and not being corralled (or subtweeted) into the story people expect - especially as Aboriginal people of a certain age - but I don& #39;t always take my own advice on it.
I want to remember the positives to get through some of the harder times. I don& #39;t think that this whitewashes (pun intended) the horror of what happened, but it also shows a complexity of our experiences. Even the joking about some of the bad stuff was a part of it at the time.
Until yesterday I hadn& #39;t realised I only had two photos of me with Dad (taken on the same day in 1969). I never realised I had no photo with Grandma or with aunties. But what happens, I think, when you have even one or two, is that you& #39;re so grateful for them, that it& #39;s enough.
And I think this is a metaphor for something I& #39;ve been struggling with a lot over the last six months. Any little connection and all the remembering feels like a gift. I& #39;m no longer mourning loss (or what was intentionally taken) because I& #39;m so grateful for these small things.
For me, that& #39;s not an & #39;all is forgiven& #39; reconciliation message. Our lives are complex and we can be grateful for things, angry about things, happy even, and still want to effect change. They don& #39;t have to be at odds with one another. And, I didn& #39;t get to that thinking by myself.
Over the last few months it was @BronwynCarlson, @leesawatego, @DrSRP1, @TessRyan1, @JCBourne7, @BronFredericks and @AnitaHeiss (& many others) who allowed for this complexity, shared their own, and lifted up the idea of what& #39;s possible. I& #39;m really grateful and hungry for more.
