Jumping off the Bridge

Jumping off the Bridge

He was glorious; this young man, black and glistening with sweat in the hot Australian sun. He lived on the riverbank in a ‘humpy’, a small hut built from branches and Hessian sacking with his grandmother, a woman who seemed ancient to me then, but who was, in all probability, in her early ‘40’s.

My mother had taken me down to the riverbank to visit the Aboriginal families who lived there. In her white, benevolent mind, she was doing good, showing me “how the other half lived”. I felt embarrassed, as this young man and I shared a classroom in the local school, and he would, no doubt, resent my intrusion into his private world. I didn’t meet his eyes; how could I? I felt like I was visiting a zoo to view the animals, and I’m sure he would read this in my eyes if they happened to meet.

There I was dressed in my Sunday best dress, white socks and black shoes, looking all the world like the master race, who had conquered these people and driven them from their life, their culture and their rightful place in the world. He was magnificent; built to run and hunt, and swim in the black shadows of the nearby river like a fish. I knew his prowess on the athletic field; I had observed him idly at track and field competitions, and at football games, but I had never thought of him. He was an aboriginal, after all, and was to be ignored and turned away from as we all did in 1950’s Australia. We did not sit next to them in class, but rather among our own. They, too, did not move to sit near us. Some of us were friendly with them. We played games with them at recess. But we did not invite them to our homes; they did not attend our birthday parties or our churches. We seldom saw them outside the schoolyard.

My mother and I left the riverbank that day, and I was a changed person. I suddenly saw myself as I was. I had thought I was superior to these people, and I believe they felt superior to me.

A few days later, I was sitting in the schoolyard under a tree reading a book. I was somewhat a loner, and although I had friends, I was happiest spending time reading a book, and sitting alone. John, the young boy, approached me.

“I saw you at our place,” he said, sitting next to me. “Why were you there?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “My mother made me go with her. She was visiting your grandmother with some warm clothes for her.”

“Well, isn’t she the lady bountiful?” he sneered.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” I looked down at my feet. “I was very embarrassed, and I apologize for intruding; it won’t happen again.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said at last. “I just hate the way you see us. You know alcoholic, dirty, smelly…”

“I don’t see you that way,” I replied, quickly and untruthfully.

“You don’t see us at all,” he said, getting to his feet.

I looked up at him.

“I will from now on,” I promised, and watched him walk away.

The next few weeks, I was very conscious of him. I watched him in class and on the football field. I attended the football practices and watched him play. I watched him as he wandered the school ground with his friends, exchanging quips with them and the aboriginal girls, who obviously thought he was something special. I hung out with the white girls who went to the football practices to watch the boys. I had never done that before, but I listened to their chatter, their giggling over this boy or that, and I noticed that of all the boys on the team, John was the handsomest, the swiftest, and by far the best player.

One day, he walked past with his friends, and saw me sitting there. I felt he had known I was there all the time, but this time, he stopped and smiled and said “Hello.”

I smiled and responded.

“Why did you speak to him?” one of the girls sitting next to me asked. “He’s just an abo; you don’t want to get too friendly.”

“He’s the best player on the field,” I replied, “and he’s interesting.”

“Interesting!” she scoffed. “He lives on the river bank; his parents ran off and left him with his grandmother. He’s just nothing!”

“I think he’s probably better than you.” I retorted, and stood up and walked away.

Of course, that opened a can of worms. By the next day, it was all over the school that I ‘liked’ John Anderson. I was teased unmercifully by my classmates as was he. I didn’t respond, and he didn’t either. I said nothing to anyone. I just hid my burning face in my school books and tried to ignore the jibes. He ignored me, and I stopped going to the football practices, and reverted to my usual place under the tree, reading my book. He came by with a group of his friends one day, and smiled again and said “Hello.” I smiled back and then went back to my reading. A few days later he came over again, alone, and sat with me.

“People are talking about us,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come to watch you play football. Everyone assumes I did it because I liked you.”

“And didn’t you?”

I looked at him.

“I do,” I replied. “You’re different. And I don’t just mean in the way you look. It’s your attitude, everything.”

“I like you too,” he said. “I liked that you were embarrassed about visiting my place. I like that you apologized to me.”

We smiled at each other.

“I’d like to walk you home, but I guess that’s out!” he laughed.

“Yes it is,” I smiled, “but I could meet you somewhere private and we could talk.”
“Tell me where and when,” he said.

“How about Saturday, at the river bank. Downstream from where you live there is a little bridge. No one ever goes there. We could meet there.”

“All right. I will see you there. When?”

“In the afternoon. My mother has a meeting, and won’t be home. I can ride my bike down.”

And so it was.

Whenever we could, we met. Saturday afternoons were the best, as my mother assumed I was with friends, and my friends assumed I was with someone else. We walked and talked, and sat on the river bank. He told me about his life, and how one day he planned to move away and find a life somewhere else where no one knew him and he knew no one. I told him my dreams too; how I wanted to become a writer and move to one of the big cities; how I wanted to travel and see the world.

In school, we ignored each other. Occasionally when no one was about, our eyes would meet and we would smile. Other than that, our togetherness only happened in those stolen meetings on the riverbank. He asked me for a photograph of myself and I found a rather flattering one taken by my parents on my birthday. I gave it to him, and he promised to keep it always.

We didn’t touch; there was no kissing or holding hands like so many of my friends did with their boyfriends. We smiled and talked, and walked, and to this day, I think it is one of the closest and warmest relationships I have ever had. I told him my deepest secrets, and he did the same to me. Neither of us discussed the future, or what might happen if anyone ever found out about our meetings. We just were.

We had complete trust in each other. I didn’t think he would ever betray me and I know I would never betray him. He was my best friend, and I thought he would be there always, if I thought about the future at all.

Sometimes I wore my bathing suit under my shorts, and we would swim in the river. He taught me how to drive to the deepest, darkest bottom of the river and how to float on my back and gaze up through the sweet-smelling gum trees to the bluest sky I have ever seen. We laughed, and told each other funny stories about our family and friends, and we would part happily at the end of the day, knowing that we would see each other again soon.

Unfortunately, as with everything, we were eventually found out. One of his friends followed him to the river one day and observed us swimming and laughing together. He reported it to John’s grandmother, and she in turn told my mother.

“We’re not doing anything wrong!” I protested, when she confronted me. “We like each other as friends, that's all.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Mum asked. “If it was all so innocent, you should have told me.”

“I knew you would react like this,” I retorted. “Even though you pretend to believe that everyone is equal, that’s not true at all.”

Mum was baffled about how to handle it, and so, she left us alone. She told me not to meet him by myself, and so I began taking my friend, Alison, with me. Alison was quite shocked when I told her, but she agreed to come, more from curiosity than because she wanted to be involved. Alison’s boyfriend, Carl, came with us, and the four of us got along quite well, although I think John always felt a bit on the outside. I did my best to prevent him feeling this way, but something had changed with the intrusion of the outside world.

After a while, we stopped meeting. It was a tacit understanding between John and me. There was no actual decision made, we just looked at each other, and decided it was time to stop. We started saying “Hello” in the school yard again, and would smile at each other across the schoolroom, but the meetings were no longer possible if we were expected to bring along Alison and Carl.

A couple of months after this, I received an envelope from one of his friends containing my photo torn to little pieces.
“This is what John thinks of you!” he said.
As this happened in the school yard, when I was surrounded by my friends, I shrugged, and turned away, saying nothing.
The next day, as I was walking home from school alone, John came by on his bike.
“It wasn’t me,” he said, “I didn’t tear up your picture.”
“I know you didn’t”, I replied. “I suppose we can’t be friends anymore
“I don’t suppose we can.” He agreed.
He reached out and touched my hand for the first and only time.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said.
“All right,” I agreed.

We walked down the main street of that little town holding hands. People stopped and stared, but we didn’t stop or acknowledge them. To this day, it is one of the hardest things I have ever done.
He left me at the gate of my house.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I am too,” I replied.

He rode off without a backward glance. We never met again. He was transferred to another aboriginal settlement with his grandmother immediately afterwards, and my parents and I moved to another town a year later. I hope he has had a good life, and that all his dreams came true. Be well, my lovely boy.