Men of Colour in a White World 2: Wayne's Story

As told to Suzanna Freymark by Wayne Armytage

I have had the privilege of having two fathers — more than two fathers — but the major ones are my birth father John and my adopted father, Peter Costello. He claimed me. In traditional Wiradjuri law, if you have no grandparents on either side, and you haven't been through law, you can be claimed by someone.

When I first met Peter he said, 'I claim you, boy.' I didn't really know what he was talking about. A year later or so on another trip he claimed me. He said, 'I will be your father. I will be piepa.' With all the other elders there he made his statement. They all named their places where they were in my life. It was 1984; I knew what it meant.

Peter is impeccable to me as a father. I do what he says. In Aboriginal culture there is jilli binna . It means look and listen. There is no mouth in it, just be quiet and look and listen and learn by watching.

Talking straight up about it, my birth father was a violent man, angsty man. Ain't no shit about it. He made up for that before he passed away. In some way he had remorse and apologised as he got older. I got some understanding and we parted — he left this planet and then Peter Costello (Makrrnggal) claimed me. And I had this other father. In Aboriginal, this is my brother, they're not like my brothers, they are my brothers. This man is not like my father, he is my father — it's a big difference.

I am his son. This father of mine is such a gentle, kind man you know. His traditions, his Aboriginality, shines — his connections to the land. He'll sit out on the verandah and laugh his head off — 'Ha-ha the birds are having a funny talk.' I sat down and listened with him and we both started laughing, listening to the birds talk. That simple little thing, he got me listening, taking notice of the birds. It was so beautiful, sitting there with my dad listening and laughing with the birds, joining in their joy — so beautiful.

I had to apologise to my birth father after he died, because he said he was sorry just before he died. I didn't say sorry to him. I was violent to my father. You know how I was violent? When my father said I was a good father, you know what I said? 'Yeah I never hit him once.' I didn't say, 'Thanks, dad, I'm trying.' I'd have liked to have had the softness in my heart to have said, 'Thanks, dad, I am trying to come from love.' I was violent in a different form — I didn't allow him to love me like he wanted to. I wouldn't let him.

I saw him bash the shit out of my mother, my sister, my brother. I held him up against the wall and said, 'You punch them again, I'll kill ya! There's no doubt about it, I'll kill ya!' And he knew I meant it. That was the end of the violence. That's not such a good ending, there should be a better ending than that. This is a son being a father… he should do that. My family thought it was excellent, but it was devastating. I remember crying. I'm glad I did it.

I was 24 — it was very painful.

I have a family officially of about two thousand — somewhere around that — and I know most of them are Wiradjuri (inland NSW, the other side of Tamworth). People know where they come from. I defy to meet a gorri person who doesn't know where he comes from. I am Kukuthaypan, that's Peter's mob — people of the snake.

See the ground out there (gesturing)? That's my fire. We sit around the fire; we talk. I have a different paradigm, it's a very hard thing to explain: I am a blackfella; I have a black heart.

I saw both my sons birthed. It was such a miracle for me; I didn't know what to do. So I wrote my first son a letter to him imagining he was twelve years old. Any passion or any determination I had in me for a better world, it was now twenty-fold, thousand-fold, million-fold. I wanted the world to be a better place.

My youngest son, his question to me is, 'We're really Aboriginal, Dad, aren't we? Anthony Mundine, he's my uncle isn't he?' 'Yeah.' 'Peter, my grandfather, yeah.' He goes to a community school and he is the only goori kid there, you know. He is blonde haired and blue eyed and he identifies as an Australian. We have blackfellas visiting here, locals, and in some way it will hit home. He questions: how does this work? How is this different? We're not having fires in the house; what does it mean to be Aboriginal?

I am successful, that can be rare — there should be more of it. It is because of the inequalities. I left school at fourteen, I haven't had an education; I got it later on in life. My sons have the benefits that most mainstream whitefellas have, a nice house, doesn't have a father who drinks, you know, whatever it might be, the stereotypes, it's not just black — we have a very nice, functional, loving family.

I made the typical baby boom error and went out to save the world and left my son at home. I was very passionate about a lot of issues and I was one of those people who looked around at the end of the issues and my son was standing there needing me. So then my approach changed.

So fathers evolve, just like mothers do, just like people do. As you evolve I think it is important to express that evolution in some way. My sons and I are all very close. For me as a father letting go is still one of the greatest things you can do — especially making sure the person is ready to be let go.

And when they are ready to go — let them go with love.

Wayne Armytage, of the Wiradjuri clan, is a poet and philosopher and lives in Mullumbimby, Australia with his family. 

Published in byronchild/Kindred, issue 11, September 04