Intergenerational Trauma

This is a story of what gets passed along to our future generations. It’s a story not written by me by by my second cousin Maiala Waters, her Mumma Rennae is my first cousin. Maiala’s matriarchial line is through her Mum Rennae, her Grandmother Janet McCabe (my Aunty), and her Great Grandmother, Alice James.

Every Aboriginal family are survivors of slavery. The country we see now, it’s infrastructure and this economy, and the prosperity and economic opportunity exists as a result of slavery and stolen wages. Slavery and colonisation also causes trauma, so the legacy of that will be passed on to future generations, also the very obvious and real financial disadvantage. So here we are, taking steps to heal and support eachother in our community. Some times we get lucky and we get to do it as our day job.

Below are some reflections from my cousin Maiala Waters.

Here is her voice..........

As some of you may know I have been working in Child Safety most of the year and recently made the switch to community, still in the same sector, but now I support families to lead the discussions about their lives and their children. I work in this sector not to point the finger at our mums and dads struggling with the challenges life brings or to remove our babies. I work in this sector to create space where we can have real and raw yarns about how we are in the position we’re in today. I wrote similar words today that I thought I would share. Not to big note how deadly a writer I am (cause I already know that derrrr) but to do what we have done for tens of 1000s of years, share one of my stories. One of the stories that make me who I am today.

I leave you with a raw reality of intergenerational trauma. The same reality shared by the families I work with every day. The reality of my Great Grandmother, Alice James, a proud Pitta Pitta woman who was a mother, a Nan, an Aunty and a respected Elder. Before my Grandmother became any of these things though she was nothing but a slave. Despite being the best Mum, Nan, Aunty and Elder she could be, those days of being a slave always stayed with her. And it stayed with my Nan and it stays with my mum and now me and my daughter. That is the reality of intergenerational trauma that we don’t see. That is the reality of intergeneration trauma thousands of Aboriginal peoples carry. This is why I do the work that I do. Because I know the worlds our families are in. Because I too am in that world. And I can hear the pain they don’t know how to voice. Because I too, carry that pain. I want to create spaces for our families to share their yarns. I want to create platforms to understand that trauma passed down from our old people and hopefully keep some of our babies out of the system. I carry my Great Grandmother’s strength in all I do. And I see that strength in my daughter and my son. I see that strength in all my people and I want to empower our families to know, they too, carry that strength. Here are some photos of my Old Nan and women who I love that share the same beautiful strong matriarch I do

 Maiala is Mumma to her two babies Birriwa* Miyaay*,

Sister to Marcus*, Ngiyaani*, and Dylan*.

Daughter to Woolombi Waters and Rennae Hopkins* (my cousin)

Granddaughter of Janet McCabe (my Aunty), and Harry Jard (my Uncle, my father’s brother),

Niece to Christine Jard*, Billie Larkin*, Lana Rosenblatt*, Troy* and Shane*.

Cousin to many Caitlin Louise*, and me (Rina) many many more.

(8) All pictured.

Maiala's Nan, (my Aunty Janet)

Maiala's Aunties and Uncles (my first cousins)

Maiala's Brothers and her babies (my second and third cousins)

Maiala's Muma Renae and her Nan Janet

Maiala's cousin Caitlin and her Aunties again.

Dear Pop Meeting the Jards (17 January 2021)

Dear Pop,

I love you.

This is a story I don’t know how to write, except these words are the easiest. Pop, I love you.

Today I met one of your grandsons, and his beautiful family. Ray’s boy Peter (my first cousin/ your grandson) brought his two sons, Robbie and Stevie, his beautiful Jill and Robbie’s Kandace.

Pop, you probably don’t know that after you died, we knew you had a son. The State Archives were missing so much of your story. But the archives were full of another little boys story, just like you he grew up without his biological family. The papers confirmed that infant son that was taken away from you, and his name was Ray. A little baby boy who future was decided by the Chief Protector of Aborigines, because at the time you had no rights as a father. A little baby boy who you were not allowed to hold, or love, or care for. A little boy who was put into State ‘care’. He grew up and had a family, he had a big one. He had your name too. The archives come with many letters and voices, none of them are yours. They also come heavily laden with racism, and you and I know how big it is to be Aboriginal. Sometimes they say that the experience of great pain, can enhance our ability to give and experience great love. Pop, I love you.

This is a story with a middle, and here are the facts.

Every year or so I type Jard into google and social media platforms and see if relatives show up. I found these Jards on Facebook, and they essentially found me back. The next part of the story is that they came around to meet. I shared everything I knew and I was nervous. As wonderful as it is to be Aboriginal, you and I know that the racism that comes with it is a burden, and there is unfinished business. We are left with a responsibility, and it can break some of us, and for others they turn their back. I want you to know that I was nervous because it’s a big thing to share. I want you to know that they have support. Not just from me, but Pop, there is an ecosystem of love that surrounds them, and for that I am grateful. I know you would be thankful too. Pop, I love you.

I wish you could see them, they are happy, proud of their work, proud of each other, proud to be Jards.

I wish you could see them, they are making plans, enjoying their passions (football just like you), and growing as a family.

I wish I had met you so I could tell them what you were like first hand. I guess that leaves another chapter and they will have to meet Dad so they can hear and see the love. The love you gave to my Dad, he has passed along to me. Pop, I love you.

I wished you could see Ray’s babies. There were stories of his pain in his life, and moments of searching for his mother, but there was also love. So much love despite it all. I want you to know that Ray was a loved Dad and a loved Grandfather. I want you to know that there seemed to be joy in his life, and that he was strong and determined, and an advocate, and he passed that on.

I wish I knew your bloodline, yours / our mob, so I could tell and share, that with them too.

I most deeply wish you could have had more moments with Ray. That one I wish for the most.

I can’t tell you that he found peace. I think that there were moments in his life that he searched for his mother.

I can’t tell you if he had support to understand his story, and work through his pain.

I can’t tell you what he thought of any of it, growing up without being surrounded by blood relatives.

I can’t tell you if he felt proud of his identity, if he had the words, or what he thought of his treatment due to the colour of his skin.

I can tell you that the questions that can be answered, raised more questions that can not be answered. I can tell you that I feel peace and acceptance. There are things I will never know.

I wonder how you managed the pain. I hold my babies, as they fall asleep in my arms. I hold my babies and think of the babies taken away. I think of the pain. The human rights that were taken away from you because of the colour of your skin will always bring me pain. As an Aboriginal parent it is a regular thought that haunts me often. It has ended for me and my family but it still continues in different forms for our people.

I wonder what you felt as a parent, as you held your other babies at night, remembering the ones that were no longer with you.

I wonder what you felt as a father who worked where they told you to work (still being under the Aboriginal ‘Protection’ Act), and took jobs you had to, to survive. I wonder how you felt and thought about missing out from tucking your kids in at night, or their missing their milestones and moments. Our babies grow so beautifully.

 I wonder about your thoughts you may have had back then, but also what you would have thought about the 26^th May, National Sorry Day recognising the Stolen Generations. I wonder if you would agree that it is still not enough. I wonder how you want to see the unfinished business addressed.

I wonder how else you experienced the pain, or if it changed your experience of joy, and love in your life. I can’t imagine. I will always wonder. I will always have unanswered questions. Pop, I love you.

I wonder about unfinished business. The ugliness is not ours, but the burden is left with us.  With all of that, we are in a generation where we have allies and I hope you would be thrilled with the progress we are making. For some, our progress will come too late, but for some our progress will save lives, and hopefully families like ours. Love tempers the heartbreak that still remains. There is unfinished business, but we are getting it done.

This is a story that has a beginning, and middle, but I don’t know the end. There are other chapters, and more stories outside this letter to you, so I promise to keep writing, and sharing our story.

Pop, I love you.

I will sign off by saying how grateful I am for you. Thank-you for the gift of life you gave to me. Thank-you for my Dad Barry, he is our Poppy, and we love him, just like he loved you.

Love Rina.

Some photos are enclosed.

A beautiful picture of you, Pop (William Willie Jard), with Nana (Lorna Jard).

A picture of brothers, Poppy (Barry Jard aged 49) and Ray (Jard aged 65).

A picture of me (Rina Abbott-Jard) with Peter and his boys Stevie and Robbie (all Jards too)!

We don’t have the name of Pop (Willie) Jard’s group, but he came from far North Queensland, around the area of Mission Beach.  He is thought to be a member of the Birra Nation.