I met Lionel Rose when I was 9 years and he was slightly younger. We met at the Lord Mayors Camp at Portsea. There were three aboriginal children at the camp and he was their leader.  I knew they were aboriginal because the first night we were there and assembled in the dining room the Camp Leader asked if there were any aboriginal children in the camp. These three put up their hands. Over the next fortnight the three aboriginals kept to themselves or perhaps no one else would mix with them. Whatever - they went around in a group. Not having met an aboriginal before I sought out their company.  I was probably being pompous and condescending but I was curious. Lionel was their leader and he already had it in mind what he was going to do with his life. He was going to become world boxing champion. I had some knowledge of boxing in so far as reading about it in the newspaper and going to the boxing tent at the annual agricultural show in Wangaratta. I  knew who the world champs were in some of the categories. This was enough for Lionel. He was willing to talk boxing and boxers. He was extremely well informed. He actually knew one of the boxers who had been to the Wangaratta show and I had seen. Lionel wasn't very impressed with someone who would stoop to boxing at country show tents. He was never going to demean himself by boxing in a traveling tent. What struck me about him was how ambitious he was. What struck me was how confident he was. What struck me was how ruthless he was prepared to be. He was not afraid to speak his mind. He spoke with complete authority. He did not appear to have any weaknesses. He gave absolutely no hint of shyness or being intimidated by any adult. He was going to be world champ. No one was going to stop him.

He never once included his being aboriginal as integral to his ambitions. As far as I recall he never mentioned the word aboriginal or referred to being aboriginal himself. He was an individual focused entirely on his one ambition.

Later on when he did indeed become world champion I was struck how he appeared to have lost his confidence. He was different to when he was young. He appeared to have lost all his ambitions. He was shy on TV. He had become inarticulate. He did not like talking. He appeared to be completely intimidated by most of the other personalities on TV. He exhibited a humbleness that he never showed when he was young. He did not even seem to be the same person. His appearance and body shape had even changed somewhat. He didn't look as sleek and as fit. Or as powerful. Or as dangerous. He didn't even seem to be as good a boxer as when he was young. When he was 9 he was so good he already could have been world champ.

I did have the chance to speak to him towards the end of his life - not that I knew he was going to die so young. I would see him sometimes at the football at Waverley. We were both VFL members and he would walk up and down the concourse stopping to talk to people he knew before the match started. I was always too shy to interrupt him when he was talking to someone. I thought that if he was alone for a minute or two I would approach him and remind him of the past. But I never got the opportunity. So I never spoke to him.

​
Neville Gibb
​September 2018

What follows is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
​
In the early 50’s an itinerant family moved to Meadow Creek. Father Mother Daughter and Son. Where they came from or what their background was I don’t know. Father was what was called a seasonal worker. This meant he found part time work on local farms depending on the time of year. They moved into a house not far from the school that had been deserted since the war. It had no electricity or running water. They had no car. Neither the father nor the mother drove.

The overwhelming impression their appearance gave was that the whole family were poor. They certainly looked it. Both parents had prominent teeth missing. The father was skinny and the mother was stout. She always wore socks instead of stockings. Their clothes were unfashionable and looked like hand me downs. They had that second hand look. The children’s clothes looked handmade if that. What they were made of was previously used or previously discarded. They were torn and tattered. Their shoes were always scuffed and falling apart.

The girl was in grade 3 and the boy was in grade 2. The boy was white skinned with red blotches and he had large freckles all over his face. He had frizzy red hair. The girl was grey skinned and also very freckled but her freckles were black. She had grey frizzy hair. Neither child was muscular. The girl was shy and introverted. Silent. The boy was more open. He always wanted to be friendly but no one wanted to be friendly with him.

Society at that time was structured in a strictly rigid form. Graziers were at the top of the ladder and seasonal labourers were at the bottom. Society was ruled by a strict class and caste system although no one admitted it. The children at my school followed this class hierarchy with great determination.

The two children came to the school in the middle of the term and on their first few days had to stand out the front because there were not spare desks or chairs for them. When the furniture came the teacher gave definite instructions as to how each should carry and take care of their chairs. This was a sore point with him. Chairs and desks were scarce. He had a thing about furniture being broken. It was a punishable offence. It meant the strap for anyone who broke anything.

These two children were never accepted and they were mercilessly treated by the rest of the school from the start. It was said that their parents were not married. It was also said that the father had a touch of the tar and both these rumours were often expressed by the older pupils as having great importance. Children obviously got these beliefs from their parents and elders. I didn’t really understand what they meant but I did not question it. The statements concerning the two children were made with such authority.  What was said seemed very important. It was not uncommon to see a group of girls half chasing the girl around and calling in unison tar baby because of her dark skin. The girl would be in tears but no one cared. This was fun. They knew they would never be stopped doing it because the girl was not liked and she was both unattractive and poor.

The result was the girl spent a lot of time by herself crying and sobbing. Her body would heave with sobs and this only made the mob happier. She was an outsider and was not liked. She was not an attractive girl. She could not defend herself. She had no dignity. It was as if she deserved it.

I cared but of course I said nothing. I did care. I felt sorry for her. My heart went out to this poor girl. I wanted to go and put my arm around her but I didn’t dare. I did not want to be seen as the odd man out. I did not want to be thought of as being sympathetic with this undesirable person. I did not want to be thought as being the same as her. I was frightened I would be treated the same way. No one would talk to me. I hated being teased. I always felt so humiliated when I was teased and was always struck dumb. I could never go against public opinion.

So I stood silent. I was frightened. I did not know what to do. I wanted to be part of the mob. I wanted to be accepted. I felt I could do nothing.

A few weeks after their arrival there was a reorganization at the school. Desks and chairs had to be moved around. Children had to pick up their chairs while the grade 6 boys moved the desks. All the young children were standing holding their chairs. One of the popular boys lifted his chair above his head and attempted to hold it like a circus performer would. He said look at me and tried to swivel it around. He quickly lost control of it.  It fell to the floor with great noise. A leg was broken off.  The whole class looked to see who it was. It was the son of a prominent farmer who was on the school committee so we all relaxed. He would not be punished. The teacher never punished some pupils and he was one of them. But for some reason the red haired boy spoke out – “look Mr S – he’s dropped his chair – are you going to give him the strap? Look at me.  I’m holding my chair properly”. The room of students found this funny and laughed out loud but the teacher found it infuriating and he ran at the boy shaking his fist as if to hit him. The laugh was caught in everyone’s throat. What would happen? The teacher did not hit the boy but went up to his face and screamed at him. Imbecile. Stupid. Idiot. Shut up. Get out of the room.  The boy wilted visibly and stepped backwards. He started to cry silently. The rest of the children started laughing again. His sister came to his aid to comfort him. She put her arm around him. Some pupils even jeered at her. The teacher turned around still fuming and strode away.

I did not laugh. I stayed silent. I knew a great injustice was occurring. I knew something terrible was happening but I was powerless to do anything. I could do nothing. I felt sorry for both of them. I wanted to go and stand with them. But of course I did not. I did not know what to do. I stayed in the background. I was one of the crowd. I did not want to be noticed. I did not want to be seen to be connected with their lower class. I did not want to be disliked. I did not want to be associated with these two undesirable children. I did not want to be thought of as being the same as them. I wanted to be liked. I wanted to be popular.  I did not want to be thought of as being different. I did not want to be the odd man out.

Has the world changed?

I once went on a government sponsored march. It was a symbolic gesture which ended with a ceremony to acknowledge the Kulin aboriginal people and their traditional ownership of the land. The walk started from outside the NGV and proceeded along St Kilda Road to an area past Government House to a spot in the Botanical gardens where there was to be a ceremony acknowledging the traditional ownership of the Kulin people. And speeches. It was held on a Sunday morning and St Kilda Road was closed to traffic. The weather was overcast and cool. The government sponsored the walk.

I heard about the walk because I had had to go out of the office on Friday morning and during the drive I heard on the radio Melbourne’s shock jock Neil Mitchell denigrating the event and as usual pouring contempt on the Labour government’s intention. I thought this made it important enough to go to. I wanted to try and make a statement even if I knew that by going I would not make any difference. I had long been concerned at society’s attitude to aborigines. I knew I had always lived in a racist society and I always felt uneasy about it. For all the talk about what aborigines had been given by the government I knew they were never given two things – power and acceptance. I despaired over whether aborigines would ever be accepted into the mainstream of society and wondered if they would ever be given power – real power – which had an effect on the behavior, status and wealth of Caucasian Australians.

I could not get anyone else from my family to accompany me. The event had received a fair amount of publicity and might give someone a reputation they might not want if it was known if they attended. I already had the reputation of a being a left wing ratbag in the extended family – and a mean one at that - so I had nothing to lose.  I drove alone. I was lucky enough to find a free parking spot and walked to where the march assembled.

I was not surprised by the number of people who turned out for the march. There was not an overly large crowd but there were a satisfactory number. I deliberately started in the middle of the marchers and determined I would push my way towards the front during the course of the march to get a feel of who were attending. I wanted to see if I recognized anyone. Maybe people I knew might be marching. Famous people maybe. I was not disappointed. There were surprises.

There were actually some celebrity matrons marching. At least two. For part of the way they walked together. These women actually often appeared in the society pages. Was this a fashionable society event? Maybe it could become one. I looked around to see if there were any celebrity photographer’s accompanying them but unfortunately not. I would not get my photo in the paper by lurking in the background.

Apart from Bracks and Brumby it seemed that all of the Cabinet were there. There were a number of things that struck me. They were all young and were all well-dressed. Suits and ties. Sunday best. They talked in small groups all the way along. Sometimes one or two would leave the group and join another group. The three of four groups were constantly changing. The talk never stopped. I noted there was not one joker among them. They were all serious people intent on the matter at hand. I did not attempt to get close enough to eaves drop on what they were talking about. Politics I assumed. Party problems. Cabinet matters maybe. The rest of the marchers left them to their discussions.

There was one odd man out. An Eminent Person. He was even officially designated as Eminent. Or more precisely one eminent couple. A man and wife. Mr Malcolm Fraser and Mrs Tammy Fraser were among the marchers. They both looked as if this protest march was the most natural thing in the world for them to do on a Sunday morning. They were showing where their sympathies lay. Both were happy to talk to people as they walked. I walked close to them for a fair length of time. I was interested to see who were drawn to converse with them. They were not mobbed by fans but nor were they ignored and left to walk alone. Most people who approached them were middle aged or over middle aged. I would say that the majority would have been Liberal Voters. They looked conservative. A lot were New Australians. Beneficiaries of multi-culturalism who wished to express their appreciation. There were some aboriginals. A lot of shaking of hands. There were no problems or unpleasantness. It was all very civilized and Mrs Fraser was particularly charming. People obviously enjoyed talking to them both and the Frasers liked talking back. I was so close to them at one point Mr Fraser looked me in the eye inviting me to come up and speak to him but I declined.

I could not bring myself to speak to him. I could not help pondering as to what his motives were in attending this march. Why was he doing all these odd things at this point in his life? He was in effect now acting as the conscience of the nation. What was he looking for? Was he looking for Atonement? Forgiveness? Absolution? I had not forgiven him for his actions in 1975 and how could I give him succor now?

So I went home and wrote him a letter. Which in turn led to some humour.

I wrote to him that while I congratulated him and his wife on participating in the march I could not bring myself to talk to him. I agreed that their attendance in the march gave it a status that it would not have had if they were not there but nevertheless I still had issues with him that were unresolved. I could not forgive him and take him to my heart as others did.

I pointed out in my letter that I thoroughly disapproved of his actions in 1975. I felt that more than anything his actions were immoral. Highly immoral and he could never get away from this. I pointed out that Democracy is an arrangement that is agreed to by the participants and that he had betrayed that arrangement. It is a matter of honour more than anything and public figures must act honourably. He had definitely not acted honourably.  It did not matter that he had a chance of seizing power and that anyone else would have done the same thing. In my mind this made it worse. I particularly pointed out the immorality of his actions in guaranteeing the Governor Generals pay and pension in 1975 values before he was appointed Prime Minister. And I felt his recent claim that he had always been against Australia’s participation in the Vietnam War was hard to swallow. And his claim that he always saw himself when he was Minister for The Army as being the champion of and the protector of Australian Soldiers against the dangers of excessive American Policy was extremely hard to comprehend.

I also said however I thoroughly approved of some of his recent utterances and congratulated him on his stance on many issues. Views that were now thought to be controversial and going against public opinion. Even appearing to be opposite to what he expressed when Prime Minister.

I finished up by asking him if indeed he was now seeking Atonement. Forgiveness? Absolution?
I said I did not wish him to reply and did not give my address.

A few weeks later at work I received a phone call. I was out in the factory checking on a production matter when a message came over the loudspeaker “phone call for Neville Gibb. Malcolm Fraser for Neville Gibb on the phone”. I picked up the nearest receiver and it was not Malcolm Fraser. But it was his secretary. How she tracked me down I do not know. This was before facebook. She had some questions. She said Mr Fraser had read my letter and he would like to reply to it. Could she have my address?

After some discussion I said I preferred to decline a reply and she accepted this. I was polite about it.

For the next few days I was often asked by bemused people if they had misunderstood the message on the loud speaker. Was it really Malcolm Fraser on the phone? How did I know him? What did he want?

Of course I did nothing to disabuse them of whatever was in their mind and emphasized our close friendship. Malcolm and I were like this – close collaborators - buddies. We often talked on the phone. I particularly led my boss on with tales of being Malcolm’s close collaborator. Same school etc. Same charity.  Friends with his daughter. Talked to him all the time at the Football. Etc. I think he half believed me but being rusted on anti labour he did not know whether to be jealous or contemptuous. How could someone like me know Malcolm Fraser?
 
The march ended with a quite formal and well organized smoking ceremony. I had never seen one before. A proper and somehow inspirational acknowledgement of Aboriginal Land was read out. Again I had never witnessed one. This was surprisingly serious stuff. Some short surprisingly relevant speeches were given. All by women. Change happens slowly. But maybe it can happen.
 
 
Neville Gibb
​August 2017