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Dr Ernie Blackmore

Graduate Testimonial

PhD (2007) dissertation: “An Examination of Finding an "Urban" Indigenous ‘Voice’ Through Contemporary Australian Theatre”

As I reached the top of the stairs and stepped out onto the stage at the recent University of Wollongong graduation ceremonies I became aware of how excited and nervous I had become that day. All morning I had examined my emotions without being aware that I was feeling anything untoward or different than any other day, thinking that somehow I had become an 'Ironman', inured to feelings or at least from those that ought to mark this day. Then as we had become seated in the auditorium, my seat was 1A, — I'd don't think I can remember at any time in my life being 1A or A1 for anything — I became aware that Professor Kathie Clapham and Professor Paul Chandler, who had been part of the Academic procession, were now seated on stage and representative of that group of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders who had reached a level in education that belied the notion of many Australians who believed that Blackfellas never made this level on their own, not really. Then seated next to me was a young woman who, too, identified as being part of Australia's oldest culture. And so that morning at approximately 10.00AM as the graduation ceremony began in an auditorium where graduands and graduates representing the top 1% of the countries population had gathered to celebrate intellectual excellence and personal perseverance there were at least 4 very proud and capable Aboriginal participants. And I was one of them. How did this happen?

My thoughts went back just a little over 12 year to June 10, 1995. I was in a hospital bed in a fair amount of pain but resisting the urge to use too much pain killing medication. I was two days post radical surgery to remove cancer from my body and a friend — he'd actually been my 'therapist' some time earlier — was seated next to me and asked, “What's next? What are you going to do now."

I'd been a 'transportologist' for most of my working life, at least those years that encompassed my sobriety, and it seemed obvious that from the state that I was in, with the prognosis that this type of cancer has a nasty habit of recurring within 5-7 years, that there'd be no early return to either driving trucks or even taxis, an occupation that had become my default position in the proceeding months.

I said that I didn't know to which he replied, “Why not write that book you're always talking about?"

This put the cat among the canaries; I was backed into a corner — excuse the mixed metaphors — for the truth was I knew I didn't have the ability to write a comprehensive shopping list let alone a book. You see I didn't want to admit that because of my lack of education as a child I had found it necessary to attend night school after getting sober in 1966. My employer at the time had run out of patience with me and insisted I do something about the need to have someone else do all my paperwork. So all of 1967 and half of 1968 I attended Evening College and Chatswood Primary School.

I'll always be grateful to a teacher named Mr Colin Ferguson who assisted me in completing my registration — well actually he wrote it, all I did was provide the answers. But Mr Ferguson, who taught functional English to mainly recently arrived migrant women, was understanding and extremely patient and became my mentor as well as my teacher and although I quit the 'studies' before graduating his input into my life has never been forgotten. His patience and the time he invested in mentoring me continues to resonate through my life. He introduced me to books, and although it took weeks to read a Peter Carter Brown detective story, the first of his introductions. He also encouraged me to buy a dictionary, then a thesaurus — I now own at least twenty such books — and a note pad to write down every word or phrase I didn't understand and counselled me to use my reference 'library' of two books to learn and make sense of that which at the time I didn't understand.

Then there were the migrant women, most Italian and Greek but there were a few women and one man from a place I still have trouble spelling, Yugoslavia. Right from the start a couple of these women 'adopted' me. I was a redheaded and cheeky young man but they took a liking to me but harboured concerns as to my well being, concerns that often had them bringing food, some times sandwiches to eat before classes started and sometimes complete meals in little aluminium boilers that I would take home to heat up and eat before going to bed. We had a real competition going for a while as the more women brought more and more food and we had a 'conveyer' like supply of aluminium boilers being exchanged every night at school. Although school nights were each Tuesday and Thursday, during school terms, I managed to eat very well for almost one whole year and a half.

But the amount of English I was now able to command sufficed and I had no more troubles completing my paperwork. One problem it did bring was that now that I could read and write I had to complete my Drivers' Log Book.

I dragged myself back to the present and began telling my friend the story. He said he knew that my writing skills were far from good as he'd read some of my scrawling notes I made during our therapy sessions a few years earlier and said that although they were challenging to read he thought there was every chance that with a bit of help I'd be more than capable of getting my story out on paper. “It might take a bit of deciphering," he said. “But it'd be worth the effort." We spent the rest of the morning discussing options until we came to the conclusion that it's be a good idea for me to seek entrance into a creative writing class or group. So with his encouragement I tried writing my own form of detective stories as well as some life writing.

By the time I left hospital almost two weeks later I had accumulated several pieces of work. Pretty rough examples really consisting of several 2 and 3 hundred word sentences liberally sprinkled with commas. I had absolutely no idea of syntax, thinking at the time it was something to do with the government if you were caught doing something naughty with your tax.

My friend took charge of these desperate epistles and said he'd do copies of them and send them off to a few places, one of which turned out to be the Faculty of Creative Arts at the University of Wollongong.

Imaging then my surprise a few days later when I received a letter from Ron Pretty, head of the writing thread at the University, inviting me down for an interview. The bottom line was that just six weeks after major surgery I found myself enrolled in a university. I was going to learn to write, or die trying. The dying option looked like it might be the winner. There were a few physical problems. I was terribly sore as a result of the surgery on my lower abdominal area and I couldn't sit for very long. Driving to Wollongong from Sydney was out of the question, but I could stand up and for the next ten weeks or so I travelled from home to uni on my feet for the most part. First the bus from Dulwich Hill to Sydenham, a local train to Hurstville, the inter-urban train to North Wollongong and finally the walk to uni. And the reverse each afternoon or evening. Coping with classes and lectures was another issue but my lecturer/tutor at my very first writing class who in thinking that I looked a 'bit off' enquired as to my health. After explaining about the cancer and surgery etc she said that she had had breast cancer with similar treatment some time earlier and fully understood the dilemma I faced. She made it possible for me to enter or leave class as my condition suited, which was in the main was not needed however the freedom from anxiety knowing there was someone close by to whom I could discuss any problems was incredibly freeing. She also assisted me in getting registered as a disability student which made the dissemination of information as to my condition as simple and stress free as possible and I am immeasurably grateful for her assistance and understanding.

Did I say I needed to gain a C grade for my first semester of work in creative writing to be permitted to continue with my studies? When asked if I understood this condition I had no idea of what they were talking about. I didn't know the difference between a C and the sea but said okay.

On my very first day at uni I made my way over to the Aboriginal Education Centre. It was situated in an old house towards the rear of the University grounds. Surrounded as it was with trees it didn't look much but it was like finding a treasure chest of good people and a family atmosphere that to Aboriginal people is so important. They didn't care that I was not from their mob and if fact found that many different mobs were represented by staff and students. One of the treasures there, apart from the staff, was the support that came in the form of ATAS (now ITAS) tutors, one of whom was a young woman of incredible talent and patience. After looking at my first writings this young woman made the startling statement that I didn't know grammar from s**t but that she'd help me sort it out. The next week she turned up with a 4th form Reader in English which she urged me to make my friend and although I received only 2 out of 10 for my first assignment she promised that we'd be getting 6s by the end of the semester. No one was more surprised than me when I received a C, a D and a HD for my three subjects that first semester.

I graduated with my first degree in Creative Writing in December 1998 and immediately wanted to do something more. And as I had found my voice as a playwright I felt that a Master of Creative Art in writing for theatre might be the logical way to go. It was here that I had my first negative experience and it was suggested that I would be better served to go and find work with my degree and then come back at some point in the future if I felt I wanted to continue with study. As a 58 year old person I found the urging to go and start building a new career somewhat unsettling but it fired up my resolve to do take on further study. I was then told that the course would be too challenging for me which only deepened my resolve. I persevered and eventually was able to enrol. It was a two year course that I completed in one and included spending a month in the US with my play Buckley's Hope, which became the creative centre piece for my Masters and I graduated with a Master of Creative Arts in Creative Writing in July 2000.

It was early in 2000 that the cancer recurred right on schedule. This time the treatment was radiation which I agreed to and commenced 7 weeks of treatments that although halting the direction the cancer seemed to be taking created its own set of immediate and long-term problems. And I figured that as my undergraduate degree had given me the lease on life and the positivity I needed to beat the cancer initially perhaps further higher degree study would do the same then. I immediately sought to do a DCA. I also applied to do a PhD in English. Imagine my surprise when the Faculty of Creative Arts rejected me after several meetings but the Arts Faculty issued an invitation for me to enrol in a Doctor of Philosophy in English Literatures.

When I was first diagnosed with cancer and because of the then known relatively short period of survival I though that I was going to die within a five to seven year time frame and so, although not rashly, I spent what meagre superannuation money I had accumulated. There was a month long trip to the USA and other useful excursions as well as the odd dinner out etc., gradually reducing the nest egg. Imagine the 'disappointment' in not dying and then finding new and exciting goals to pursue.

Now I was again a student with a mission. Through full time and part time enrolment, through periods of no work, then times of casual tutoring in English, Creative Arts and Aboriginal Studies made it possible to continue and over a period of almost six years the PhD monster clawed its way into becoming a reality and last November 8 at 4.30PM I finally submitted a thesis that was much to do with my research as it was to do with my struggle through life. The examiners liked it and commended it for publication but to go there might require a great deal more resolve that I currently possess.

And back at the graduation. Members of my family came to celebrate with me, my colleagues as always provided tremendous support, my student peers were there as too were many members of the Faculty staff who made ti their business to offer their congratulations. I was and am a very proud Aboriginal man and trust that my example serves as a reservoir of hope for other Indigenous Australians who seek their fortunes through education.