Film - William Dale, 'Weekends in the Country', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

There is no deaf school in the country, so I leave my family for deaf school in Melbourne.

I am only 3. I stay in a hostel for the deaf. It is like living in a factory with hundreds of other kids.

The hostel is strict and the workers show us no love. It is abusive. I am very lonely.

On the weekends I travel home five hours crammed into an old bomb with four others. I arrive late on Friday night and leave by 3am on Monday morning. I do this year in year out. It is exhausting. At home it is hard. I'm tired from the travel and with the little time I have I find myself lonely and frustrated.

In a country town everybody knows each other, but they don't know me. To them I am different, I am an outsider.

I attend the hearing school at Cohuna, I am happy to be with my family but am lost at school and my education suffers, so I return to deaf school, this time in Bendigo. I am separate from my family. I leave school early to return home. The isolation becomes overwhelming, I am confused, should I stay, or return to deaf community. Depression sets in.

The Doctor prescribes tablets. I swallow the whole bottle and end up in hospital. I am released with no professional support and go crazy again. I leave Cohuna drifting all over the country. Nothing works. I move to Melbourne, I am still depressed, so I seek support.

I am ok now, but it has taken years for my depression to be properly diagnosed and treated. Many professionals are unable to communicate with deaf people. I am sure there are many other deaf people living in the country without networks and feeling isolated.

Film - Rob and Carmel McGrath, 'Carmel: Storyteller', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

Carmel has always loved a good story.

Well, that’s because I come from a long line of storytellers. My great-grandmother told me of her childhood in Moonta and my mother told us stories about growing up in Kalgoorlie goldfields. My grandmother had a big black handbag and in that bag she had a large money purse with a clasp that made a loud satisfying ‘click’. As a child I thought grandma was very rich because the purse was full of lovely thruppences and sixpences and we were often given a coin to spend, even when we were young adults and grandma’s memory was fading. My mother’s stories were more along the lines of cautionary tales. She would say you may be injected with a sedative and wake up to find yourself on a slow boat to China, the victim of the White Slave Trade. This was known among us girls as NSA, you’ll ‘Never be Seen Again’. Be aware.

Carmel grew up in Caulfield, had a Convent education and Graduated as a trained Infant Teacher from Toorak Teachers College.

From the age of 6 until I was 20 I was in uniform, so it was a joy to dress up for my Aunts wedding and my Debutante Ball.

…and she headed off to teach in the bush

My first school was at a small sawmilling settlement in Gippsland. I boarded on a local farm and learned to adjust to the challenges of country life.

Carmel taught my younger sisters and we met at a local dance. We married at Glenhuntly in 1961.

After our wedding we drove to Horsham in our little black Volkswagen to begin our married life. After ten years in rural schools in Wimmera and the north-east we moved back to Melbourne. This time in a station wagon because our family had grown, we now had a boy and three girls.

As the wife of a rural school Head Teacher in the ‘60s, life for a city girl with four young children presented plenty of challenges. The drought, tiger snakes on the veranda, the mother’s club.

I was never bored or lonely. There were visits from many people, from the district inspector, a passing swaggie and once a clown in full make up.

In the ‘70s Carmel began a long association with St Mary’s in Dandenong. “Yes, I’m the manager of Wellsprings for women in Dandenong where Carmel is a volunteer. She is an incredible inspiration to the women who are here and Carmel is probably the most loved person and she just contributes so incredibly generously.”

At her third and final attempt and after 30 years at St May’s, Carmel retired. Our children had done us proud. They were settled and secure in their homes and careers and it was finally time for her to develop some of her own interests but there was yet another challenge.

After Rob recovered from a heart attack and bypass surgery, I encouraged him to fulfil his long held dream.

While I was in Kenya, Carmel was diagnosed with Alzheimer disease.

I seem to be moving in smaller circles, I wasn’t driving as far or as often. I’m a great reader; I haven’t really been interested in any new books.

Carmel has accepted this ultimate challenge and since that diagnosis in 2001 she has written a book which is now nearing publication. She has written her story.

“They want to sort of do the “Carmel, Carmel” bit, oh we don’t want this…and I say I want to go out for dinner, I want to do something. I don’t want to be ‘Poor Carmel’, I don’t want that.

Film - John Estlick, 'Cardin Street', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

Two houses I lived in got pulled down. Cardin Street, that's where I found me wood.

It was a big house. The front door was made out of wood, it was white. My room was white. I liked living there. We cooked, had lunch at the house. I have a beer, and a cup of tea.  

Kribbin he lived with me, and Collin Jenkins. Corn, he was a Chinese boy. I have a coworker there, called Ann, and Janice and Tarni.

It makes me feel sad cause the holes got in the wall, big holes, it got pulled down. They knocked it down cos it was old, pretty old house. The gate falling apart. You couldn't see it properly. Every time you open the gate it fall down.

I saw the house getting pulled down, I was going to take a photo of it but I didn't have time. I went back there the next day. The house was pulled down.

It was all gone. The front door knocked down. There was nothing, only a door. Before they knocked it down, I went to have a look. They said, you better not come in here. Cos the Police will come. If the Police see you in here, you're going to get in trouble.

I took a bit of wood... a little bit... near where the kitchen used to be. Not too big. I keep it with me all the time. I like that piece of wood. Because it brings back memories. Good memories. About Cardin Street.

Nobody that I know lives there now. It makes me feel sad to see the new house. I cry about it. I miss it. I miss the house. There's a new house there now, it's made of brick. Not wooden anymore.
It makes me feel sad cuase the holes got in the wall, big holes, it got pulled down. They knocked it down cos it was old, pretty old house. The gate falling apart. You couldn't see it properly. Every time you open the gate it fall down.

I saw the house getting pulled down, I was going to take a photo of it but I didn't have time. I went back there the next day. The house was pulled down.

It was all gone. The front door knocked down. There was nothing, only a door. Before they knocked it down, I went to have a look. They said, you better not come in here. Cos the Police will come. If the Police see you in here, you're going to get in trouble.

I took a bit of wood... a little bit... near where the kitchen used to be. Not too big. I keep it with me all the time. I like that piece of wood. Because it brings back memories. Good memories. About Cardin Street.

Nobody that I know lives there now. It makes me feel sad to see the new house. I cry about it. I miss it. I miss the house. There's a new house there now, it's made of brick. Not wooden anymore.

Film - Robin and Patty Hodder, 'Passionate Pursuits', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

This is a story celebrating the life of their grandfather Robin, for Lindsay and Finn and for those grandchildren to come. Robin played hockey for Australia and won a Bronze Medal at the Olympic Games in Tokyo in 1964.

The Olympic Games is about being part of something bigger than yourself, sharing the history, spirit, ceremony and tradition of the most enduring and admirable human event of all time. He played right wing and set up the winning goal in the final game against Spain. As an elite sportsman Robin is tenacious, single minded, committed, loyal and determined. There is a drive to learn, to achieve, to play well, to win, to keep going, to never give up. Through hockey he has made lifelong friends. The qualities Robin demonstrates in his sport are part of the everyday man.

We married in 1965 and incorporated a hockey carnival into our honeymoon. What a surprise, for me at least. Life is much easier when your quirky sense of humour is finely tuned.

We are so proud of our children Jane and Andrew and were delighted when they married Murray and Yvette. Robin is the one who wasn’t fazed by a mountain of study after hockey training, parent teacher interviews or party’s when you are only 14. But don’t tell him if you put a dent in the car or ask him about his golf score if he’s unusually silent on Saturday night.

Robin trained as an accountant but changed his focus when computer technology was in its infancy. In recent years he ran his own IT business. Robin coached many teams at all levels but is committed to the development of young players. With others he commenced a juniors section at his hockey club. Robin believed in those boys and girls and as they grew older became their mentor. Andrew remembers as a Cub, Robin and he made a box kite together as a project. Together with Jane they flew it in a competition. The kite soared up and up, quickly using all the string they had and the string of anyone who had extra to spare. When it was just a speck Robin said “Let’s cut it free”. Robin encourages, empowers and then cuts you free.

Robin has a progressive neurodegenerative disorder known as Cortico Basal Ganglionic Degeneration. There is no treatment. “I feel that my life is being dismantled”. The relentless loss of physical independence and mental competence is devastation and yet he remains optimistic. He is dealing with his disease relying on the qualities he has used throughout his life to achieve and overcome difficulties with the support of those who love him.

Film - Karyn Down, 'The Drinking Man', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

When I reached 50, I thought I’d be all one piece, know myself so to speak, but there are days when I look in the mirror and see my mothers face, even down to the texture and grain of skin.

We were really nothing alike. She was uneducated but loved opera, petite, timid but ferociously stubborn.

I’m not those things so much, but like her, I tied my star to a drinking man, except I was never bashed. They say you continually deal with three or so issues in a lifetime. In my dreams someone is always drunk or stoned, but I guess I’ve broken the back of that family pattern. My partner of over 25 years has been clean and sober for just on 20. His anniversary is St Patrick’s Day and we live in Shamrock Street.

Film - Gabrielle Garrigan, 'Me Do', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

Mum said I used to always say "Me Do".

It's because I am very independent.

I live in a small community. Our family has 8 children and we all love each other. Mum wanted me to go to our local school because the teachers didn't know how smart I was I was made to go to the special schools.

Because I did so well, I went to Airly State School, and then to Sion College. One day I played on the teachers volleyball team.

Mum helped me break new ground for others to follow. I love you Mum!

I went to Singapore by myself. I stayed with my sister Angela and her family. I rode on a rickshaw with Emily, my niece. Then we went to Malaysia, where I saw my Dad's grave.

He died in the Vietnam War. I can't remember my Dad, but I love him too!

I think it's important to help people. I volunteer at St. Vinnies, deliver meals on wheels and make morning tea and the nursing home. It makes me feel good in my heart.

I work in Foster Place, so does my brother (Sean). In the gift shop I serve customers, "Hello, I'm Gabrielle, how can I help you?".

I also work in the office. I know what to do. I'm good at my job. The best part is getting paid.

Film - Jim Evans, 'Beautiful Boy', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

JIM EVANS (VOICEOVER): "Beautiful Boy." There was great joy when number-one son Gareth was born. Very quickly, he became known as "Fat Bowes," because he was a big boy. I played with Carlton in 1955 and was a very keen footie follower. Gareth and I played backyard football, but he began barracking for Geelong because of Gareth Andrews. When Andrews went to Richmond, so did my son's allegiance. Gareth was a gentle boy and shy, partly because of his slight speech impediment. He could become very fierce, especially when he had to protect his younger brother.

We moved to Bendigo when Gareth was nine. We were building a mud brick house near Maldon and Gareth helped me make the 3,000 bricks. It was very satisfying to work with the earth and Gareth and I shared this love of building. He liked yabbying in the dam with his brother and friends. He played kick to kick and cricket endlessly. He didn't like being moved from Eagle Hawk Primary, so one day, he wrote a note saying, "I have runned away because I don't want to go to Maple Street Primary." I admired his spirit and this burst of independence. When my marriage broke up, Gareth opted to live with me. I was moved by his loyalty and his gentle desire to help. I treasured the quiet conversations we had, usually about sport.

Gareth lived with me until he finished secondary school in Bendigo and then went to Monash University. He moved into a house in Richmond with his brother, which they quickly turned into a hovel. We would often go to MCG together. Gareth moved to Queensland and taught Aboriginal and Vietnamese students. This new direction in his life made me feel very good. He also worked in a child minding centre. He loved young people and he loved Brisbane. We kept in touch by weekly phone call and letters.

He was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis a short time ago. He's very quickly lost mobility and his eyesight. and speech are badly affected. Today, he is bedridden and completely dependent on care. Gareth will be 40 years old in December. I have and will always be proud of my beautiful son.

Film - Vivianne Everett, 'Friendship in a Biscuit Tin', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

VIVIANNE EVERETT (VOICEOVER): Have you ever wondered how friendships stand the test of time? While in grade five in the first two or three days, the class teacher asked, "Who would like to be Vikki's helper?" That might give me out of maths and English. I had no idea of what being Vikki's helper was about. I was a very bad speller and didn't know how to spell "spina bifida," let alone knew what it meant. One day during class, Vikki told me she had a leak in her bag and could I come and assist her. Off we went to the toilets with the biscuit tin tucked under her arm.

Vikki lived two or three suburbs away from me in Altoona with her mom, dad, and brother. She was born three months and 22 days before me. We're close in age and our outlook on life. We love to talk all day through class and still do today. As our childhood experiences grew, riding bikes, playing net ball, having our first cigarette in the backyard cubby, so did our friendship. I learned a lot of things, some medical, some social, but mostly about awareness and acceptance.

In 1986, I went off to the workforce and we didn't see each other that much. We turned 18 in 1988 and found the freedom of having a license. This made it heaps easier for both of us to get around. Our friendship grew stronger again. Our marriage brought me to the valley and some of my weekends, we would travel to one another's house to catch up, plan birthday party celebrations, and nights out. We took our first overseas trip together. Traveling with Vikki in an airport wheelchair had its perks. Vikki would say, "Stick with me, baby." We never waited in an immigration line.

28 years later, my children are an extension of our friendship. When Trent arrived, Vikki, his proud godmother, spent huge amounts of time with him, as she did with the arrival of Georgia, taking endless amounts of photos and spoiling them thoroughly. Our best friend came into my life many years ago, a friendship from a biscuit tin.

Film - John Star, 'Lost in Time and Space', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

[MUSIC PLAYING]

- I've walked a path unlike any other. As a child, I lived in a time when my grandparents came from the South. They came to build a new world on a new planet called Earth. Man comes and goes in ships that travel within the heavens. I was living in the 50th century.

I was from a world that had not yet come. In this world, money was only to show children how to count. All our needs and wants were theirs for the taking and free. The heavens gave it all to us. My home-- the stars-- where time and space travel is like driving along the Nullarbor. I lived in another world.

I open the flywire door to the backyard. We lived in the small country town of Briagolong in Gippsland. My mother is standing in the kitchen, the radio playing in the background. I step onto the back porch and I am heading down the cement path leading to the driveway. Then it hits me. Today the 8th of June 19. No, it's the 50th century. It cannot be the 20th century. God, what have you done to me? Why have you put me here, oh great God. No answer came.

I was lost in time and space. So I went to my cubby house to think. Why was I now lost in time and space? Taken from one place to another where I would never fulfill my dreams. I plan to make cities that travelled among the stars. Some would call them starships. Others would call them spaceships.

I am lost in time and space. I knew there was no way back to my time-- the time I called home. Home is the 50th century. I cried in my cubby house. Tears ran down my face. All I planned in my life was lost, would never be. God, why?

Now they say I have schizophrenia. Sitting here in the 20th century, the wonders of the 50th century give me hope of a future that I can help man make. God, is this why you let me live in a world that had not yet come? I must be here to show man a better way to live. This is my story.

[CHANGING OF RADIO STATIONS AND STATIC]

Film - Leanne Wagner, 'Gillian's Story', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

[FILM STRIP ROLLING]

LEANNE WAGNER (VOICEOVER): This is my sister, Gillian. She was born in 1970 and is the third of six children. When she was 18 months old, she began having seizures. That's when she was diagnosed with Sturge-Weber syndrome. The most obvious symptom of Sturge-Weber is the dark red birthmark. People stare. Gillian also suffers from epilepsy, glaucoma, schizophrenia, and an intellectual disability. People misunderstand.

Jill is 36 years old, but she doesn't look it. She's passionate about knitting and creates the best cables. She doesn't even need a pattern. Jill loves music. Her current favourite is the Rolling Stones. She will tell you all about the band, whether you want to know or not. Last month was Elton John. I wonder who will be next. When she was younger, Jill loved being in front of the camera. She would jump into the frame when you would least expect it. These days, she waits to be asked.

Jill works at a sheltered workshop and catches public transport to get there several times a week. She lives independently of the family in a community residential unit and shares the cooking and cleaning with the other residents. She's a very good cook. Life is hard for Jill. All the things that we take for granted are a struggle for her. She is determined, clever, kind, inquisitive, nosy, and obsessive. She drives us crazy sometimes. This is my sister, Gillian. We love you, Jill.

[FILM STRIP ROLLING]

Film - Linda Wordie, 'Gungarri Women', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

WARNING: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander viewers are warned that the following story may contain images and voices of deceased persons.

TRANSCRIPT

What’s in a name? Everything! My mothers name is Jackson and my fathers name is Kyle. I have the Gunngarri and the Gubbi Gubbi Barra Burra running through my veins. So do my children, Loren, Leroy and Justin and my grand daughters, Serena and Bianca.

Six years ago I found out I have breast cancer. I was so afraid for myself and my kids. I thought I was going to die one day soon. A year later the cancer was in my bones.

News like that changes you. I have a different way of looking at the world. I’m like a butterfly. They come to me when someone passes on.

I decided it was time to get my Degree. I’d always wanted to help my people. Studying Social Work has taught me so much about myself and others, but it’s been a juggling act between treatment, studies and family.

I met my grandma, Emily Jackson, when I went to Queensland aged thirteen. I doted on her. I’d bring her out big soup cups of tea while she sat on the veranda and together we’d gaze at the moon. She called me her little nurse. She was a planter too. In times of trouble, when I have a problem that I can’t resolve, I ask her, “What will I do Grandma Emily?” She takes care of it for me, she is always with me walking every step of the way. I now like to drink my tea in large soup cups like my grandma.

My children keep me looking into the future. My garden keeps me focused. In February I plant bulbs so I can see them in the spring. They make me feel alive. I wait for their awakening, it’s part of my healing.

Film - Raelene Boyle, 'Training for the Last Run', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

The 400 meters final, I must take charge. I can’t be put off by the crowds or get too excited. I can run the race to win or I can give it away.

As I leave my coach Ron Dewhurst and check in, I’m apprehensive but confident. My training program over the last ten days has been different, a new direction. I need to take Gold, the stakes are high. It is the Commonwealth Games, Brisbane, 1982 and I am running the last race of my athletic career.

From the moment I decide to retire, Ron and I train for much more than a 400 meter sprint. We prepare me for a new beginning, a life without sport. I’ve enjoyed the heady heights as a young athlete, been plagued by injuries, beaten to Gold by a drug cheat in the Munich Olympics, disqualified for breaking twice at the Montreal Games and then my withdrawal for personal reasons from the boycott ravaged ‘80 Olympics. I was a sprinter who never quite got her timing right, but this timing was perfect, the Commonwealth Games on my own turf seemed the ideal stage for retirement.

I left the Australian public with the memory of Gold. Although you leave the past behind, it always stays with you. It wasn’t easy making such an enormous transition. A redirection into horticulture and a move to Queensland. Family, friends, partner and my beloved pets all made it possible.

My breast cancer diagnosis in ‘96 did see me race again, this time it was a race to survive. Coming to terms with my fear and confusion, being forced to face my own mortality while my mum was dying of lung cancer, was tumultuous. I believe my greatest achievement is my ability to keep coming back and with determination I fought the battle and again a few years later when I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. With the Commonwealth Games again staged on home soil, it gives me a chance to reflect. I see the parallels between my past and present. Life is still a contest for me but his time I fight to make life better for cancer sufferers.

Film - Tom Valenta, 'A Letter for Marie', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

1970 was a big year for both of us. I met you in Johannesburg in January of that year. Thinking back to those days I clearly recall what attracted me. The dark flashing eyes, the confident tilt of the head, the sharp humour and the fierce independence blended with a gentle feminine touch. By September we were married. Some thought at the time we were a bit hasty.

33 years later I guess we can say that we did get it right. A year later we were on our way to Australia. You were prepared to leave the comfort of your family and friends in South Africa to start a new life in my homeland and you did so with barely a backward glance. You have never been short of courage or determination.

We started our own family in 1973. Shelley was our first born, a beautiful daughter who is now a secondary teacher and well on her way to getting her Masters. She has your single-minded determination and in times of trouble shows that she has no lack of courage. Paul was born in 1975 on our fifth wedding anniversary. Who would have thought that that shy, awkward little boy would become the family comedian and a lover of everything that goes fast, particularly if it’s motorized. Then in 1977, along came Lee. Happy go lucky Lee who’s life was one long party for the first 20 something years. But he is about to get married and settle into what most people would see as a relatively normal lifestyle and although he has lived in Queensland for the past eight years he is as close to us now as our Shelley and Paul.

When all three were at school you decided on a new career and returned to study so that you could become a teacher. Again your dedication and commitment placed you in the elite top one percent in all your results. A fulfilling 12 year teaching career followed. The years rolled by quickly and despite some family tragedies we can look back on those golden years with great pleasure and some satisfaction.

During 2002 we both knew something was not quite right with your health. By January 2003 we had our answer, Alzheimer’s. At age 55 you were far too young to have this terrible thing happen to you. Yet again you faced your situation with great courage and strength and we are getting on with our lives as if there has been nothing more than a small bump in the road. I have written you this letter as a permanent reminder of the wonderful 33 years behind us and as a promise of more good times to come in the years ahead.

Film - Campbell McKillop, 'The Navigator', Australian Centre for the Moving Image

[MUSIC PLAYING]

- On a day like a thousand before it, a storm swept in, deadly in its advance.

[THUNDERSTORM]

Without warning, it hit. For what seemed like an eternity, his body lay still and lifeless-- only a tiny light burning within.

- My life with the brain injury began March 2002, when I fell 3.6 meters from a ladder. The doctor said it was like crashing into a tree at 220 kilometres an hour. I was in a coma for 19 days.

- In all of us, a light burns. Life finds its way back. A new journey begins. But the road ahead appears long, lonely, and sometimes hopeless.

- I came out of the coma and couldn't move my right side. I was unable to walk or talk. I couldn't recognize objects or people-- not even my darling Michelle. The doctor said, this is the best he will get. But I'm [? Mack, ?] and I don't give up. Neither do my family.

- The promise of a way ahead is there. Patience must be your guide. The fog that surrounds you will lift.

- I started to improve, but I was scared. The bulb was broken. My biggest battle was to not give up. My biggest fear was I would.

- Know that you are not alone. The fog begins to lift eventually.

- My family never, ever gave up. My carers and therapists believed in me. I trust them. They motivated me. I never lost my sense of humour.

- The road of your past will never be travelled again. From now on, you must plan a new direction. A new adventure awaits.

- I won't ever be a police officer again. I have a new life now. I feel good about being able to do these things. I feel proud.

- Every day will be one step closer, one more step towards home, and one more ocean crossed.

- Never, ever, ever give up. Recovery lasts a lifetime.

[MUSIC PLAYING]