Aboriginal and/or Torres Strait Islander peoples should be aware that this article contains images of people who have passed away.
I'd like to take this opportunity first to acknowledge the traditional custodians of this land and pay my respects to the Elders past and present, for they are the ones who hold the memories, the stories, the traditions and the culture of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people across the many nations that cover this continent.
My name is Ash Dahlstrom and I am a proud Gamilaroi man from north-western New South Wales. My mother is a Gamilaroi woman and my father is a white man. So can you guess whose skin colour I got? That's right, my father’s. Despite tanning quite quickly in summer, most strangers see me as just another white boy. In this personal essay, I will discuss what life was like for me growing up as a white looking Gamilaroi man.
My great great Uncle, John Munro.
When I moved away from home at 19, I started engaging more with people outside of my tribe who were light-skinned Indigenous, just like me. They would share their stories about how they were asked insensitive questions about their identity, such as "How can you be Aboriginal when you're white?" Or "What are you? Like one-percent?" Being young and naive at that time, I was pretty perplexed by this. I would ask myself, why did this never happen to me when I was growing up? I later realised that my identity was never questioned, because I was raised in loving and supporting communities. Even my white friends throughout school would refer to me as Aboriginal.
"How can you be Aboriginal when you're white?"
In 2007, when I was in year eight, a new girl arrived at the school who immediately told people that she had never seen so many Aboriginals before and made a racist remark that I didn’t hear. However, I remember a group of white girls confronting her about the comment and listing off the names of Aboriginal people who "would not hurt a fly" — among which, my name was mentioned. I look back at this moment and I understand what the girls were trying to achieve, though often the nuance of racism is lost on us. But their attempts to stand up against this bully reveal another dangerous rhetoric — one that implies that only the Indigenous people you know can be safely labelled as non-violent.
Following this incident, I remember going on with my school day and didn't think much of it, apart from feeling annoyed that someone at the school had said something racist. However, despite looking white, these girls who confronted the bully still identified me as Aboriginal, along with my cousins who have darker skin — and looking back on this memory fills me with such validation about my cultural identity and how lucky I was to be around open-minded people at such a young age.
All of this changed when I went to university. Suddenly, I was surrounded by people who had never even met an Indigenous person before, let alone understood the nuance of our culture. I remember the very first time my Aboriginal identity was questioned; a group of us were waiting between classes and we were discussing our parents' backgrounds.
I mentioned "My mum is Aboriginal," and the person immediately asked to see a picture of my mother. I responded by asking to see a photo of their mum, so that they could prove they were really white — and understand the absurdity of the question. However, they insisted that it was not the same and when I asked how, they responded: "Because Aboriginals are supposed to be black."
Baby mum in the pink dress.
After my initial shock, I carefully explained to this person that Aboriginal identity is not about skin colour. It is about connection to mob, land and our history. When we refer to ourselves as Blak, we are not talking about our skin colour. We are talking about our culture. After explaining this to them, they apologised and insisted they meant no offence and that they had just never had the opportunity to speak to an Indigenous person before.
Aboriginal identity is not about skin colour. It is about connection to mob, land and our history.
I had hoped that this would be the only time I would be confronted with cultural ignorance at university. However, I was sadly mistaken. Later into my degree, I had an Aunty pass away (who was technically my distant cousin). I had asked for an extension on my assignment to attend the funeral and handle sorry business, which for some mob can last for weeks. I was not granted an extension because it was not an immediate family member and it "would not be fair" on the other students.
I had to decide which was more critical, my studies? Or saying goodbye to a woman I had known since birth? Looking back, the choice was simple — I decided to attend the funeral. However, at the time, I was pretty distraught and the situation caused mass anxiety. In the end, I failed the assignment and the entire unit, simply because I chose to attend my Aunty's funeral.
A painting of my mum (left with the dark hair) and Aunty Peta (standing in the middle) Uncle Johnboy (right) and Aunt Shelly (the baby)
Despite the cultural ignorance that I had to endure at university, it was nothing compared to what I’ve had to put up with in everyday life. As some of you know, when someone is light-skinned Indigenous, they tan easily and fast during the summer. I sometimes forget about this, but it’s quickly apparent that I’ve picked up a tan when I start getting followed around in stores and stopped more frequently by police and security guards. If the heat wasn’t a giveaway that summer had arrived, it would certainly always be the security guards.
One particular summer afternoon was quite hot, so I decided to quickly go into Woolworths express near Parramatta station to grab a soft drink. As I was wandering the store, I was wearing my noise-cancelling headphones, as I usually do. I left the store and headed to the train, but I was stopped by a police officer who gestured to me to remove my headphones. As I looked around, I found myself surrounded by three other cops and a man holding a receipt. The man holding the receipt explained that he was the manager of the Woolworths and that the security guard had asked me to stop, but that I kept on walking. I explained that I was wearing my headphones, so I could not hear, nor did I even notice a security guard standing at the exit. A police officer asked to check my bag, so I compiled and revealed my laptop and the soft drink I had paid for — confirmed by the receipt in the manager’s hand. I was given no apology — just the "advice" that next time, I should stop when a security guard tells me to.
As I looked around, I found myself surrounded by three other cops.
I think back to that time and I wonder if the same situation would have occurred in the wintertime. Then I get to thinking about people like my mum, my cousins, my aunties and uncles and mob all over who have to live in fear of something like that happening to them every time they go out — regardless of what season it may be.
But all of these experiences pale in comparison to what happened to me and my cousins when we were thirteen years old. In 2007, six of my cousins were riding our bikes around Redfern when we were stopped by two police officers asking us where we had been and what we were up to. Our elders had taught us what to do when stopped by police officers from a young age, so we answered their questions truthfully and explained that we had just been riding around aimlessly. But the officers were not pleased with the answers and one of my cousins got impatient and asked, "What the fuck did you stop us for? Just let us go!"
At this point, one of the officers removed his pistol, pointed it at us and told us all to get on the ground and not to speak back. We complied as they searched our bags and pockets and, when they found nothing, they told us to get on our bikes and that they hoped they'd never see us ever again.
It has been thirteen years since that afternoon and it is still the only time in my life where I was confident that I would die. I rode my bike home and cried into my mothers' arms, who told me everything was going to be alright and that she would never let anything happen to me.
It is still the only time in my life where I was confident that I would die.
Our skin colour as Indigenous people does not define our identity, nor our experiences. People will treat us differently and ask us offensive questions when they find out we are Indigenous. Institutions will try and tokenise us and not even attempt to understand the nuance of our culture — actively making us feel like we have to pick between our culture and our work/study life. Our experience with racism both institutionally and socially may shape us, but it is not what defines us: What defines us is our connection to country, our mob, and our language. Everything else is superficial. Always was, always will be, Aboriginal land.
