Debra A. Hocking - Speaking My Truth

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and my siblings. I remembered the names of the officers who had looked aftermy case. How could I forget them? Now it was time for payback.I went to the building that housed the welfare offices. It was just as Iremembered. The smell was the same, the carpet, the paint on the walls. Iwent forward to the enquiries desk and said I was seeking information on myfamily. I gave details and dates of my history. The enquiries clerk consultedhis superiors, then returned to say there was nothing they could do, what wascontained in my file was “privileged government information” and I had noright to access it.I was angry. How dare they bust up families and show no remorse, I thought,and no attempt to help reunite them. I was determined not to give in. Twocan play at that game, I decided. I went back to that office every working dayfor weeks and sat in the foyer, eyeballing the enquiries clerk and anyoneelse behind that counter. They became increasingly uncomfortable andeventually could not even bring themselves to look at me.After many weeks I was tired of doing this and was just about to give up whena man appeared and stood over me as if he was about to give me a lecture.He was a big man with scary big, thick, black glasses. He stood and looked atme with arms folded, tapping his foot, but when he spoke, his voice was sogentle. He asked me to follow him and we went into a big room that lookedlike a library. He asked me to sit down and placed a manila folder in front ofme. It was an inch and a half thick and written across the front was “DebraAnn Cooper – Welfare File.” Could this be true? What was this man up to? Heplaced a pad of paper and a pencil beside me. In his kind voice he said, “Youhave half an hour,” and walked out.I flipped through the pages like a madwoman. God only knows what I shouldlook for. Eventually my brain began to operate, and I tracked down my parents’names. There was a lot of welfare jargon, a language I found difficult tounderstand. I wrote down dates and names, which at the time meant nothing,but proved useful to me later. Thirty minutes went by so quickly and then theman was walking back through the door. He picked up my file and smiled atme. I asked him who he was, and he explained he was Mr. Bond, the Directorof the Welfare Department. I asked him why he had done this for me. He justsmiled and motioned me to the door. I thanked him and scurried away. Thatoffice did not see me again for another twenty-five years. What Mr. Bond haddone was entirely illegal, and he would have been instantly dismissed had hebeen caught. Somehow I knew this at the time and decided not to say a word.After sifting through the scanty information I had written, I began an extremelyfrustrating search. I looked through electoral rolls, telephone directories, and284 | Debra A. Hocking
much else. Finally I tracked down the address where my mother was then living.To my astonishment, she was just five minutes away from me.I then had to decide whether to take the next step. I knew I had to followit through. One day in October 1980, I arrived at the address feeling shakybut excited. All sorts of thoughts went through my mind. What if they hadforgotten about my existence? What if they had no desire to see me? I wouldsoon find out. I wandered up the pathway to the front door, my heart beatingso loud I felt everyone would hear it. I took a deep breath and knocked on thedoor, trembling. The door opened and there stood my Mum, no doubt aboutit. She was very short and thin and had a great head of strawberry blond hair.I stood there looking, I could not speak. She broke into a smile, and tearsstreamed down her face.We embraced for what seemed like a really long time, and she held me sotight I could hardly breathe. She motioned me inside. My two sisters andbrother were there too, also another brother and sister born after I had beenremoved. So many emotions ran through me. We all stood there looking atone another, no words were spoken for quite some time. My Mum looked sick.She was pale and very thin. Her movements were not that of a healthy woman.I did not know how old she was or anything else about her, but that did notmatter. We sat down and started talking about the silliest things. Nothingseemed to make sense. I suppose we were in shock. But one thing was forsure, they were damned happy to see me.Now that I had made contact, I thought, we would be able to get to know oneanother. I did not realize that my Mum was dying, and there was little timeleft. Two weeks later I was planning my next visit when one of my sistersphoned, asking me to come to the hospital. Our Mum might not have long tolive, she said.I was in agony. How could she die when I have only just met her? I rushedto the hospital and ran into my brothers and sisters making their way to thehospital chapel. But I wanted to see my Mum. When I reached the ward Isaw her, hooked up to several machines. It was evident the end was near. Igrabbed her hand and whispered, “It’s me Mum, please don’t go.” That wasthe first and only time I would call anyone “Mum.” That was very special tome. Within minutes she was gone, but she had such a peaceful expression onher face. A few minutes passed and the family stood in the doorway, realizingshe had gone.We did not grieve much together, we just did not know how. But from them Ilearnt of my Aboriginal heritage. Although I was suffering the loss of a motherI did not know, I had found a large part of my identity. All of a sudden thingsFrom Truth to Reconciliation | 285
Page 2 and 3: Debra Hocking is from Tasmania, an
Page 4 and 5: elationship as brothers and sisters
Page 6 and 7: About this time, my real family mov
Page 10 and 11: made sense to me. The racist commen
Page 12 and 13: was demeaning, and we needed to get
Page 15: Section 4Journey of the Spirit

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