My Dad
A Poem by Uncle Jim Berg
2020
Jim Berg is a Gunditjmara Elder from Framlingham Mission in the Western District of Victoria.
Through his strong belief in his responsibilities to his Ancestors who have walked this Country since time immemorial, he works fearlessly and continuously to improve access to health, legal rights, and to Cultural knowledge and Cultural materials. Little did people know until recently, that Uncle Jim is also a poet. His poems talk of loss by both Koorie people in general and his own. His poems connect to Country and Family spanning across the generations, sending his words through to his Ancestors and back again to future generations. This poem is one of the most heartfelt poems that incorporates loss of Family, loss of identity, loss of Culture, and the enduring love of a Son for his Father.
“Where are we going Mum?” As she led me by the hand, and started to walk down Napier St, Fitzroy. “We are going to see you Dad,” she replied. “Where is he?” asked the four year old. “He’s down in the cells of the Fitzroy Police Station.” “Why?” Says I. I was told that I talk too much, then was ignored. There he lay between the steel bars of the cell, on a cold concrete floor, covered with a blanket over his head, dead drunk was he. Not a word was said that I can recall, as we walked out of the Police Station doors. I never saw my Dad again. It was at Framlingham Aboriginal Mission, when I was ten, before I heard my Dad again.
It was a stormy, windy, thunder clapped night, the rain came down like a river in flood. Us kids lay between the blankets, curled up to keep warm, it was a six dog night. The thunder that rocked the house was replaced by another sound. It was a drunken voice outside the front door. “Let me in! Let me in!” And then the fists and the boot, hammering and kicking the door. “Let me in! Let me in!” My Mum yelled out, “Go away, and leave us alone! Go away, and leave us alone!” The hammering and kicking of the door continued. The drunken voice got louder and was yelling out, “Let me in! Let me in!” Us kids shivered under the blankets, not from the cold, but from fear. Fear of the unknown drunken voice behind the front door. Mum called out for us kids to “Hurry and get out of bed. We have to go!”
We all left with nothing but what we wore. No time even to put on our shoes. The last thing we heard as we fled through the back door were the fists and boot, hammering on the front door. And the Drunken voice yelling out “Let me in! Let me in!” We fled down the rain swept muddy road, to Aunty’s place a couple of k’s away down the road. Mum told our Aunty and Uncles that our Dad is drunk and trying to break down the front door. Our two Uncles left to sort him out. I learnt years later that the Uncles found him, my Dad, staggering across and down the road. He had both of his wrists held out in front of him, they saw blood running down from his two slashed wrists, to his finger tips, onto the muddy rain flooded road. He had broken the windows in his attempt to break in. And some broken window glass was embedded in both wrists.
He disappeared after this night, we never knew where to. During my early years I was known as a Clarke, my Mum's maiden name. As a teeneager it didnt feel right and I felt guilty that I denied my fathers name, which was Berg. Over the years I often wondered about my Dad, and his family , none I had ever known or seen. I was told that he was taken away from his Mum, and became part of the stolen generation. He was like thousands of other Koorie kids, who became part of the stolen generation, they lost their identity, dignity, pride and spirituality. They fill the prisons of today. Who should we blame for what they turned out to be? My sister saw her Dad before he passed away. Rest in peace Jib Berg Senior, I’m very proud to bear your name.
My Dad - A Poem by Uncle Jim Berg
