A black girl in a white world

I was born in a black and white world. If you were white, everything was okay. You could do what you liked. But if you were black, your life was controlled by the government. We weren't seen as humans. We were treated as part of the flora and fauna. We weren't recognised as citizens in our own country until the Referendum in 1967.

When I say they controlled our lives, I mean we had to live on the fringes of towns and on native missions and reserves. The missions were run either by the government or different churches. You couldn't marry who you fell in love with; you had to get permission from the government. You also had to get a permit to move from place to place. When you worked, they stole your wages. If you wanted to buy anything, you had to virtually beg for your money. You had to write a letter to the government to ask if you could buy a dress or shoes or stockings.

I was born in Carnarvon, Western Australia, on 17 August 1951. I am Yamatji on my mother's side and Nyungar (some say 'Noongar') and Nhanda-Yamatji on my father's side. I am the first-born child of Alice Ethel Spratt, married name Webb, and Ronald Mack Ugle. They gave me the name Rhonda June Spratt. My maternal grandfather was Clarry Spratt and my grandmother was Edna Ronan.

I didn't grow up with my family because me and my baby sister, Debbie Anne Spratt, were taken from our mother and put into Letter from Alice Spratt to Mrs Stitfold, with annotation to Mr Lewis, 1950.

Carnarvon Native Mission. I was only three at the time and Debbie was just seven months old. I always knew that we had a mother somewhere; I just didn't know where she was.

Unlike some other missions in Australia, at Carnarvon, no Aboriginal families lived together. It was just us kids and the white missionaries. Most mission people call their parents 'mother' and 'father'. We don't say 'mum' or 'dad' because we didn't know them.

The full name of our mission was Churches of Christ Carnarvon Native Mission. Me and Debbie grew up in dormitories — from the Kindergarten dormitory, to Junior Buds, to Junior Girls, to Senior Girls, to Teens Cottage, and finally to Home Girls. All this time, my sister and me were in different dormitories because we were different ages. We didn't get to play together. The only time we were in the same dormitory was my final year, when we were together in Teens Cottage.

* * *

On any day, we had to be up at 6 am and have our beds made with 'hospital corners'. As girls, we always had to wear aprons. I hate aprons today.

We all had different chores before breakfast. Some girls worked in the Kindergarten dormitory, others down at the big dining room kitchen. A huge table filled the centre of the dining room. Under it stood heavy trolleys of flour, sugar and salt, with lids to keep them from spoiling. We worked very hard. Working in the kitchen was the best because we stole a bit of food on the side — like some dried fruit from the pantry, which we hid in our aprons.

One of the jobs I hated was in the laundry, ironing. We couldn't go and play until we'd finished. We had to starch everything too. When I worked in the Junior Boys dormitory, it made me sad when the little boys wet their beds. They had to wash their sheets by hand as punishment, standing on a bucket at a big trough. They were too small and couldn't hang their sheets up, so I helped them.

The boys worked in the vegetable gardens, and rounded up the cows to milk too. In winter, they stood in the cow goon-na, to keep their feet warm. They chopped enough wood to fill a big truck. Even us girls had to go out and fill that truck up with wood. We all sat high on the wood going home. It was hard work, but we liked going out in the bush.

The dining room was used for both meals and church. We had to polish that huge wooden floor too. Those electric polishers were enormous; they chucked us around. When the missionaries weren't looking, we had fun giving each other rides.

We prepared breakfast for them missionaries. I loved standing by Lynda James, one of the big girls, keeping warm and watching as she fried the eggs on the big wood stove, spooning the fat over the yolks as the bacon sizzled. It felt comforting being next to her, smelling the bacon and hearing it crackle. We had a whole chookyard, but we were never allowed to eat the eggs. The white missionaries ate them and sold the rest to the hospital or the towns people.

The missionaries sat at the head of the table in nice comfy chairs. We sat on stools. The missionaries always started off breakfast with grapefruit, which we segmented, sprinkled with brown sugar, and topped with a red cherry. Next, they enjoyed hot porridge, bacon, eggs, tomato on toast and a cup of tea. We, by contrast, ate porridge and bread with butter, Vegemite, or molasses — you know, like they feed horses.

One day, at breakfast in the big dining room, a missionary said grace. Then Miss Barton, the young missionary nurse who always smelt of antiseptic, announced, 'Now we'll say our own special little grace for our table.'

Each child was to say something. So, we bowed our heads and prayed. It was the turn of the boy next to me. His name was Marshall Kelly, but we nicknamed him Diamond Face because his face was that shape. We were always saying prayers for the Kellys. Some of Marshall's brothers and sisters got sent to Perth because they were sick a lot of the time.

Diamond Face began, 'Thank you Jesus for my ham and eggs.'

I elbowed him. 'Why are you thanking Jesus for ham and eggs? We never ever have ham and eggs, they do!'

'Rhonda Spratt! Open your ears!' Diamond Face shouted. 'I didn't thank Jesus for ham and eggs, I thanked him for my arms and legs!'

I got a scolding and a slap on the arm from Miss Barton. We all laughed about it later though.

We had three meals a day, but I was still hungry. That's why today, when I have a chop, there's nothing left of it — the bone is left clean. We even broke the bone and sucked out the marrow. I ate dried banana and orange skins off the ground too. On the odd occasion when we got an orange, I peeled off each segment, and ate just one little juicy droplet at a time to make the fruit last longer. When making dinner, I even ate the raw potatoes. After we'd had enough to eat, we weren't allowed to say we were full; we had to say, 'I've had elegant sufficiency', which means full anyway. I didn't say that very often.

We were, however, force-fed religion. We had Devotion before breakfast, Christian Endeavour during the week, and on Sunday we had morning church, Sunday school in the afternoon, then evening church....