Zion

The directions on my information sheet told me to enter at the main entrance of the convent on St Heliers St and follow the signs to the Linen Room. As I made my way through the elegant grounds of the complex, past a café and other food outlets, contemporary art installations, and pop up markets, and then to my destination for the day, it dawned on me that I had a connection to the convent and its history. This was the ‘Linen Room’ of the old Abbotsford Convent in Melbourne, a huge double room with gloriously high ceilings and ornately carved mahogany wood work.

In its heyday the Linen Room would have been a less joyous space serving a less genteel or romantic function. It was an industrial laundry – Victoria’s biggest – run by the Good Shepherd sisters, with the labour provided by its female inmates – juvenile delinquents placed there via court orders by the police, or young unwed pregnant women sent there by their parents in an attempt to avoid moral opprobrium.

The convent closed in 1972, and around that time, my Mum’s cousin Naomi lived there. A social worker by profession, Naomi was also a Good Shepherd sister. While she spent much of her working life in the order’s convent in Leederville Western Australia, she also spent some time at Abbotsford.

I seem to recall that this was also the location of a dramatic standoff staged by a number of young inmates who climbed onto the roof, either as a protest against their incarceration or just as an act of gleeful rebellion. I have vague memories of TV news footage of police cars and ambulances assembled in the grounds trying to encourage the young women back to safety. I was a young woman myself at the time and the incident reverberated not just because of Naomi’s association with the place. She had earlier given me the opportunity to spend a couple of days at the Leederville convent getting some insights into social work and what the Good Shepherd sisters did with young women. The two days were enough to put me off social work for life.

Just a few years ago I sought out Naomi’s assistance to provide me with some documented evidence of my maternal grandmother’s stay at the Leederville convent from 1931 to 1934. I know she stayed there because the state government child welfare records attest to this fact. My mum Pat and her brother Joey– aged 4 and 5 respectively – were made wards of the state in 1931 ‘under a Court Committal Warrant issued in Perth’ and placed in St Vincent’s Foundling Home for the next three years.

Immediately next door was the Good Shepherd Convent, where their mother Vera had been placed having suffered a nervous breakdown, which the child welfare records suggested had ‘affected her slightly mentally’. This was the great depression. My grandfather, destitute and ravaged by alcohol, had gone off rabbit shooting, a common way to scrape together a living.

Aside from their economic woes, in 1928 my grandmother had also suffered the loss of a third child called Joan – aged three and a half months, to ‘Marasmus Asthenia’ or malnutrition. They were living in Belka – not much more than a rail siding – in the Wheatbelt region of Western Australia. 

Sadly, search of the records at Leederville and at the head office in Abbotsford failed to find anything about my grandmother’s time under the Good Shepherd sisters’ care. My mum believes that Vera gave birth to a fourth child while staying in the convent. While there are no records of this, it is very likely that the child was informally adopted out, the shame carefully hidden by my grandmother’s better-off siblings and the Good shepherd sisters.

Today, I was one of about 150 people gathered at the convent to participate in a singing workshop with Clare Bowditch, a popular singer with a solid following in Melbourne.

Ranging in age from their late twenties through to their sixties (my age), most of the people were from Melbourne, and I suspect the more hip parts of the city. Attire was casual and dominated by colourful summery outfits that you would see in Brunswick St boutiques. A handful of men were among the crowd, mostly in their 40s or older.

He was sitting by himself near the wall, eyes down, nervously fiddling with his smart phone. Perhaps about 16 or 17, with warm brown skin and finely sculpted Asian features, he was a stand-out among the buzz of conversations that filled the room.

A lone visitor to Melbourne, I wondered whether I should say hello to this boy-man. As he lifted his head and looked out into the crowd I decided that I would approach him. Immediately, he stood, and his beautiful face lit up with a gorgeous smile. ‘I’m Zion’, he said, and without missing a beat we were talking.

As a guess, I thought perhaps he was Vietnamese. ‘No’, he said, ‘I’m a bit Chinese, a bit Indian and I’ve got some European somewhere’, as his voice trailed off.

He was just a few weeks into year 11 and vocal studies was one of his subjects. This was enough to establish a link because Dom, my eldest daughter had done exactly the same in her HSC just over 20 years earlier. Then our second point of contact was revealed when he told me that he was at Footscray City College. Dom’s first born, Joe had just started there and, as a fresh 7th grader, was still settling in. Zion offered to speak to the year 7 coordinator to look out for Joe. I was very touched by his readiness to do this.

Coming to the choral workshop, which was promoted as an opportunity for people who have had little or no singing experience to ‘have a go’, was a big deal for Zion. His Mum suggested that he do so as a way of gaining some performance experience. He told me that he was worried about how he will go with his music studies, nervous because, by contrast with others in his class, he had only just begun to learn singing. But, so far, his assessment marks had been about the same as theirs. He was reassured by this; proud of it. Being at the workshop was clearly an important part of his efforts to build his confidence.

Ok, I thought. I had better not outstay my welcome. So, I left my bag on top of a stack of plastic chairs that were clustered behind and next to where we had been standing and made my way to the Ladies’ toilet. When I returned a few minutes later, Clare had appeared, and people were picking up cushions or grabbing chairs and moving into the workshop space. I retrieved my bag and took a chair. As I did so, Zion followed me, positioning his chair next to mine at the back of the crowd.

As is usual in a choral setting, Clare took us through a series of warm up exercises that involved walking around the room, moving our bodies in silly ways and making silly noises. Zion was fine with that. Returning to the safety of our chairs, we nodded to each other and he added a smile of delight and relief.

Then Clare introduced our first song, the simple but powerful ‘Wade in the Water’. Zion’s voice was tentative, barely audible, taking a while to find the correct notes. As the morning progressed, however, I could hear him more clearly. The notes spot on, the timbre round and warm. The second song, Katy Perry’s ‘Roar’, was a little more complex. Clare introduced a couple of alternative harmonies. Most of the people stayed with the safety of the melody but Zion chose one of the harmonies, singing them confidently, beautifully. I gently touched him on the arm, smiled and gave him a thumbs-up.

At lunch time we went our separate ways, so when we returned to the afternoon session of the workshop, I was a bit surprised that he again chose the safety of our spot at the back of the crowd.

The preparatory notes sent to us before the workshop included advice about bringing something special to wear at the performance for family and friends. In opening the afternoon session, Clare gave us a few tips about managing performance nerves and making the most of life. I found the life lessons a little tiresome, a bit too borrowed from the ‘wellness’ school. Then she reminded us about the dressing up advice for our performance later in the afternoon. ‘Have you got your suit?’, I jokingly asked Zion. I think I shouldn’t have said that. ‘No, I’ve got casual pants and a shirt’. ‘Great’, I said. We both chuckled but there was something in his tone which suggested that I may have momentarily shaken his confidence, and I instantly regretted it.

A third song – not my favourite – and then a fourth song were introduced: Crowded House’s ballad ‘Fall at Your Feet’. Clare suggested that we all move closer to the front. I dragged my chair a little way forward, not wanting to move too far from the comfort of my spot in the back corner. However, Zion left his chair, and made his way into the thick of the crowd and found a place on the floor among the cushion sitters. Yes, I thought, that’s a good thing.

At about 4.00 o clock, the workshop finished, and we were given half an hour to get a bit tizzed up and to rest before a final dress rehearsal and our performance.

My preparations took about 10 minutes at the most. So, I returned to the reception area where people were chatting, having a cuppa and one of the scrumptious treats on offer, or sorting out their outfits.

Then through the crowd I spotted Zion. He was sitting on the other side of the room in the same place he had been early in the morning. He now had another chair in front of him and on it was assembled a panoply of gorgeous cosmetics – foundation, blush, eye shadow, eye liner and mascara – which he was applying with great poise and grace. I glanced at him fleetingly, careful not to let him see me doing so but he was in a bubble of self-absorbed concentration, so I doubt he was aware of me, or anybody else in the room. Nor would it seem that they were looking at him either. Just before 5.00 o’clock, a middle-aged woman – perhaps gay – with two little children in tow made her way to Zion and embraced him, and I immediately wondered whether this was his mum and sister and brother.

Newly named Los Valientes – the brave ones – our 150-voice choir performed our four songs; we were loud, a bit rough on the edges but entertaining, and the audience, sitting on chairs or on the floor or hugging the walls just a few metres away, rewarded us with enthusiastic cheering and applause – the type that reflects unconditional love and support.

Afterwards I made my way back through the noisy exuberant crowd of singers and their fans gathered in the reception area. I found Zion with his family. He was triumphant – beaming – as he introduced me to his Mum who said that she was so proud of his performance that she had cried, and with that Zion and I hugged each other. I wished him good luck with his singing and with school and his career.

Just for a moment, all was right in the world. What a joyous experience.