All posts by Naomi Parry

Historian, heritage consultant, museums person. contact@naomiparry.net

Some things never change

State Records NSW Government Printing Office glass plate negatives, NRS4481_MS2856
In State Records NSW Government Printing Office glass plate negatives, NRS4481_MS2856

In 1914, when medical professionals and public servants were consumed with questions about the fitness of youth to fight on future battlefields, this photograph was taken. It is intended to illustrate the debilitating effects of schooling and (especially) reading on the growing body. Quite clearly such activities were inimical to the development of a manly posture.

I enjoy showing this picture to teenage boys, who often sit exactly like this, but with devices on their laps instead of books. My middle-aged neck and shoulders tell me that posture really does matter, but this 100 year old photograph shows that kids never have listened, and are never likely to. I’m grateful, however, that no teen boys I know will be going overseas to fight any time soon, unlike these ones, whose posture no doubt improved in time for them to join the AIF.

A new Dictionary of Sydney piece: Parramatta Girls’ Home

I wrote a pDoS logoiece on Parramatta Girls Home in my last weeks as project editor at the Dictionary of Sydney, and it’s been published here.

Parramatta Girls’ Home is only one of the institutions that has occupied the Parramatta Female Factory Precinct, but it was an incredibly important part of the landscape of child welfare and women’s history in New South Wales. One of the great pleasures of my time working on the Find & Connect web resource was getting to know Bonney Djuric, the mainstay of Parragirls, and learning about the Parramatta Female Factory Precinct Memory Project. This work is becoming ever more important as the site is a target for redevelopment.

Who Do You Think You Are, Series 7, Episode 4

So here’s a link to the WDYTA episode on David Wenham that aired last night, during which I make my tele-visual debut.

It was so much fun working on this, and I had no idea that the episode would feature so many former and current colleagues. At times like these you realise that Sydney, an ‘international city’, is really very small indeed.

Who Do You Think You Are?

This week coming, on Tuesday 25 August at 7.30pm, I am going to be in Episode 4 of the SBS series ‘Who Do You Think You Are?’

This was my first involvement in a TV production, and it was a lot of fun. The research behind these shows is something to behold, and it was lovely to work with the production team. And yes, I did get to spend two days with Mr David Wenham and he is nothing like the characters he plays in ‘The Boys’ or ‘Top of The Lake’.

I was invited onto the programme because I was the NSW historian for the Find & Connect web resource. In 2013 I’d been involved with reviewing a small portion of the script for the episode on Jacqui Weaver, so got to know the team behind the shows. Being filmed was quite different, because it feels like there’s more at stake! This is especially the case when you aren’t usually inclined to wear makeup and know you have bad habits like flapping your hands about and closing your eyes when you talk.

Here’s hoping they’ve captured my good side in the tiny bits that go to air, and I can’t wait to find out the rest of the Wenham family’s story.

Video from the NAA Forced Adoptions forum in March

Screen Shot 2015-08-20 at 7.29.24 pm
In March I was honoured to be part of the opening of the National Archives of Australia’s exhibition about forced adoptions, ‘Without Consent’. I sat on an expert panel on forced adoptions and apologies, along with Sue Boyce, Cate O’Neill, Mick Dodson, Trevor Jordon and Nahum Mushin. It was a superb day, and we touched on many issues around adoptions both past and present, stolen generations, restorative justice, restitution, archival practice and, of course, apologies. The panel was filmed and is now available for view. (I start participating about 48 minutes in.)

https://vimeo.com/screencraftmedia/review/123049132/38798feba6

Screen Shot 2015-08-20 at 7.23.23 pm

New Dictionary of Sydney articles on government children’s homes

DoS logoI’ve got three new pieces at the Dictionary of Sydney, on the children’s homes Bidura, Royleston, and Yarra Bay House.

These were supported by the NSW Department of Environment and Heritage’s Aboriginal Heritage projects, for which I am very grateful.

War’s long shadow

One hundred years since Anzac, and the men and women who fought the Great War are no longer with us. The last Anzac was Alec Campbell, who died aged 103 in 2002, and the last Australian World War One soldier was John Campbell Ross, who died in 2009 aged 110. Wikipedia has a list of the longest-lived veterans of the First World War from all countries, but after the 2012 death of Florence Green, who had served in the Royal Women’s Air Force as an officer’s mess steward and lived to the age of 111, no person who saw active service in World War I remains alive.

Yet the Great War still has a first-generation effect, because there are 115 living widows of World War One veterans surviving in Australia. I don’t know how old the oldest of these widows might be, but it seems clear that most of the survivors hadn’t even been born at the time of the Great War — they married returned soldiers who were much older than themselves, many years after the war. The Department of Veterans Affairs knows their names, because most of them will still be receiving war widows’ pensions, revealing how long the costs of war linger.

Ten of these WWI widows will travel to Gallipoli this year, representing those too frail to fly, and creating a link with the men who fought and fell there. I feel a little unsettled when I read that most of the widows say their husbands never spoke about the war, as they’d moved on with their lives and chose not to remember. Thinking of the widows’ presence on Gallipoli gives me a feeling of bones being rattled, of something new and not quite right entering these old marriages, but then if anyone has a right to rattle those bones it’s the women who took the old soldiers and sailors on and loved them while they lived out the rest of their lives. I guess the cameras will pan over their tear-stained faces when they broadcast the Dawn Service there, and I might end up shedding a few myself.

Vale Alan Seymour

What incredible timing. Just a month short of the centenary of the Anzac landing, playwright Alan Seymour, who gave us ‘The One Day of the Year’, has died.

Of all the plays I studied in high school, that one, which I read aged 14, was the most memorable. My grandfather, a World War II naval serviceman, never missed an Anzac Day service, but I remember having to attend them, as a Girl Guide, and wondering what they were all about. When I was 14, Anzac Day services were venues for protests, attended by peace activists, Women Against Rape in War and the tragic figures of Vietnam vets, excluded from marching by the RSL on the basis they had been conscripts, not volunteers. I could understand the anger and bitterness in Seymour’s play, but I knew how much it all meant to my grandfather, so felt the pain such protests caused, even as I sympathised with the protestors. It was a confusing time, of wondering what on earth we were commemorating on that particular day.

These days, Anzac Day is, as it has always been, a time of sombre reflection. The protests seem to have fallen away, as new generations rise to march alongside, or in place of, increasingly ageing relatives. Anzac Day marches are multicultural too, and include all forms of service. They really have changed from the all-white, all-male, Australian and British services of Seymour’s time, and things are tipping a little too close to celebration for me. Seymour’s play, which I believe is touring again this year, is a good reminder of how much Anzac Days have changed, and that we still need to question the story of Anzac, and the meaning and cost of military service.

The meaning of an apology

On Saturday I am going to be part of a panel discussion at the National Archives of Australia, in Canberra, about the meaning of an apology.

The forum will be chaired by Professor Nahum Mushin, who will lead former Senator Sue Boyce, Professor Mick Dodson, my Find & Connect colleague Dr Cate O’Neill, Dr Trevor Jordon and myself in a discussion about the notion of an apology, and how and why people respond in different ways. I’ll be talking about the Find & Connect web resource, about my PhD studies, which were conducted before the 2008 apology to the stolen generations or the 2009 apology to Forgotten Australians and former Child Migrants. I wrote about the 2009 apology, for New Matilda, long before I knew I would end up working as a state-based historian on the Find & Connect web resource, and long before the final part of the trilogy, Julia Gillard’s apology to those affected by Forced Adoptions. I’ll also have something to say about the responses of people, and those directly affected.

The event is associated with a new exhibition, Without Consent: Australia’s past adoption practices, which opens on Friday 20 March at the Archives. The event is at 2pm, but seems to be booked out. Apparently there’ll be podcasts of it on the website, which is somehow even more nerve-wracking. Still, I’m looking forward to it, and especially to catching up with my mate Cate. It’s like getting the band back together! Except we are digital history and data nerds, not musos …

Barack Obama and the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma

Nick O’Malley reports in The Sydney Morning Herald today that Barack Obama has visited Selma. I recommend the article, which neatly outlines the contemporary context of racial oppression and violence in America, and points to the power of the symbolism of a presidential cavalcade crossing the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama.

I’m extremely keen to see the movie Selma, because the stories of the horrors that were perpetrated there have been stuck in my mind, for a long time. It’s a place of incredible stories of suffering and courage – fire bombs and lynchings, preaching and marches, Klansmen and civil rights activists. In 1999, on a road trip through the Deep South, my then boyfriend and I went to Selma. He’d picked the route – I knew almost nothing of this story – but I learned a lot on that particular leg of the journey.

Selma was a pretty, low-rise river town, in that empty way of so many southern towns. My clearest memory, aside from memorials to the violence of the 1950s and 1960s civil rights struggles, was of signs for bail bondsmen/bounty hunters. We crossed the Edmund Pettus Bridge, thinking of the murders and beatings, and entered the Freedom Trail, heading to Montgomery. The road is lined with signs of bravery and protest but it’s edged with fear. At a service station on the Trail an old African-American woman on a walking frame left her place at the counter as I walked in, and refused to be served before me. I was upset, but could see from the faces of everyone in the shop (all black) that this was what was expected in this part of Alabama – whites were served first, no matter what, even on the Freedom Trail. I apologised, sounding as broadly Australian as I could, and fled.

When we arrived in Montgomery, the sterile state seat, with its Confederate White House standing proud next to the official government house, we looked in vain for the Southern Poverty Law Centre’s Martin Luther King Memorial. Caught cooling our feet in a hotel fountain, we asked the white security guard who came to move us on where the memorial was. He said “I haven’t seen it, but if you go down that aways, there’s the Hank Williams memorial and that’s real purty.” Later that night, getting fuel and beer, the African-American service station attendant told us, from behind his shot up security screen, that we had better not hang around there. We believed him.

The next day, after my first ever bowl of grits, we went to the tourist centre and found out the Martin Luther King Memorial had been 20 metres from the hotel fountain. When we got there we ran our hands through the cool water that flows over the black marble tablet of the memorial, and thought about how brave the people of Selma and Montgomery were, and how audacious Martin Luther King was. I could not have imagined then that we might see a black president’s cavalcade on that road, but I know he must drive gently, though with determination, in a part of the country that still smells of strange fruit.