Black Fathers, be proud. Stay strong.

By Bruce Pascoe

Carrying a sleeping child is one of the great gifts offered to a human.

I remember being carried from an old motor car by my father on many occasions. Trust both ways.

The trust circumstance can be stolen from you but if you are one of the fortunates to retain trust, then you realise, later in life, that it has been a bedrock, the assumption of safety.

It is not the fate of all Aboriginal people to have their trust honoured, protected, but I was lucky, my father carried me sleeping from redundant cars to give me the chance to do the same for my own children from vehicles which one of my brothers described as a disgrace to the Aboriginal nation.

Thanks brother Brendan, but even after the cops eliminated those jalopies I still had my kids. Not all are as lucky.

And in the last six months I have seen my daughter, after a three year negotiation, raise the Koorie flag at Carlton North School. Three years you wonder, in an inner city Greens electorate?

Well that’s Australia, we are slow learners. Even the greenest can’t always see black unless it’s in their coffee.

Bruce Pascoe with daughter Marnie Pascoe.

Bruce Pascoe with daughter Marnie Pascoe.

And these days I sometimes learn news of my son from unlikely sources. Two days ago I learned that he is engaged in the protection of the bandicoot dreaming story. Warrion. We both played cricket there, within site of the hills whose name describes the low bound of the bandicoot, Tarndwourn coort.

I have many friends in that district, white men in cricket whites, and not one of them has talked to me of the bandicoot. I hope one day we can sit outside those clubrooms and talk about small insignificant mammals after which their town is named. That would be a rich and warm Australia. And my son is helping to give us that chance.

The joys of parenthood.

Bruce Pascoe with his son Jack.

Bruce Pascoe with his son Jack.

Making babies is an exhilaration, seeing them grow into people is like seeing planets solidify from gas, watching grandchildren show their character is the face of the first orchid of spring, an assurance that we are still here.

I write this today after walking at West Head with elders and friends and brought to my knees by the genius of the old people, their faith in a good, sharing society.

Like any artist they pondered their craft, their spirit, they tested their equipment, their ability, and then etched into stone the moment, after one of the sea level rises, when one group would have to give and one could only receive and they would do so by drawing lines in rock, no weapon raised.