The Immigrant

[Zondrae]

I wrote this poem about my dad. He arrived in Australia in 1927. Worked on the canefields til the second world war broke out when he was inturned. I haven't been able to find the records of this yet but I will.

The Immigrant
© Zondrae King (09/05) Corrimal NSW

His name was Giovanni and in English that is John.
He was a small and gentle man. The fact he had a lack
of trade and of diploma somehow never held him back.
His name was Giovanni, but the Aussies called him Jack.

Born north-east of Como, in a small Italian town
simply called La Valtellina. There he spent his childhood days
where Alps cross into Switzerland and flocks in summer graze.
Some cash came in from walnuts. They grew vegetables and maize.

The youngest of the family, he had to leave the farm
for it was small and could not feed an ever growing clan.
The priesthood or migration was his fam’ly’s only plan.
He headed for Australia when hardly yet a man.

He met another local lad, the day they left their home,
They’d never seen the sea before and neither one could swim
But each found comfort in someone who thought and spoke like him.
They formed a life long friendship as the sight of home grew dim.

To Queensland first they sent him, blazing sun and burning cane.
The other migrants in the fields were friends for which he yearned.
He didn’t speak much English but with eagerness he learned,
and every month he’d send back home some money that he earned.

‘Tho slightly built and wiry, he was your average man.
His eyes were bright and hazel and his hair was thick and black.
He laboured in the cane with blistered hands and aching back.
His name was Giovanni, but the Aussies called him Jack.

He’d head to town, at cuttings end for fun and for some rest.
A private man, not one for show, he led a simple life.
He waited long and patiently for fate to bring his wife
and finally at thirty four he entered married life.

He saw more of the country than most Aussies of the time
Innesfail and Ingham, Tully in the sugar fields he stayed.
When work was taken by machines a change had to be made.
Then he learned to work in laundries pressing trousers for a trade.

Then with the war, he was interned, though he’d done nothing wrong.
Some months he spent behind barbed wire of fences poorly hung.
At night while lying prone upon a stretcher, roughly sprung
he used the time to study hard his newly chosen tongue.

Released at last in ’45 with wife he headed south.
The little graves among the fields, result of work and stress
six babies born too soon and still, felt no mothers caress.
She never bore a son for him, with daughters fate would bless.

When ever he was out of doors he always wore a hat
with faded navy singlet, always working out the back.
When something really tickled him he’d say “It’s not too black”.
His name was Giovanni, and his neighbours called him Jack

One daughter was a chosen child. The other was their own.
The first was dark and beautiful, the other fair and loud
both girls completely different, but each one made him proud.
To teach them of his heritage and culture he had vowed.

No son to learn beside him but the younger daughter chose
to pass the hoe and plant the seeds and sometimes hunt out snails.
She handed him the hammer and he sent her to fetch nails.
She listened to him talk of ‘home’ and memorized the tales.

He raised his daughters wisely, though they never felt his hand.
You seldom heard him argue, and his patience never short.
There came a new direction, on the wharves of Kembla Port,
good money and conditions, no more dirty clothes to sort.

Now wharfies have traditions, every man gets a new name,
and Jack of cause was “Ripper”, following historic trend.
He found shifts suited nicely for it gave him time to spend
on building a new house to bring his roaming to an end.

When friends came round on weekends they would have a drink or two
The old familiar songs from home his countrymen would sing
It seems that each one knew his part, which harmony to bring
They stayed ‘til way past midnight and would make the rafters ring.

He left the wharves at 65. The law made him retire.
Still fit, he joined the hospital to work the parking zone.
He smoked Champion tobacco, he always rolled his own.
He hated crowds and conflict and he didn’t like the phone.

A child among the Alps attending daily to the goats
A youth, exiled from his home to face the world unskilled.
A man with just his hands, his fam’lies every need he filled
A husband, father, nonno – patient rock on which to build.

His name was Giovanni in Australia he was Jack
An honest man, achieving here far more than others had.
There is no tribute to his life, which I think rather sad.
His name was Giovanni, - but I just called him Dad.

[william williams]

Very Good Zondrae I enjoyed it Thank you

Bill Williams

[mummsie]

The pride and love you have for your Dad is felt within the beautifully written words.
Thank you for sharing.
Sue

[Neville Briggs]

Wonderful Zondrae, top stuff.

[Zondrae]

Thanks folks,

As you can see, this was a fairly early piece and I haven't scanned it (in light of my later knowledge) But it is what it is. My Dad didn't have a son. Lucky I was a bit of a tom-boy. I am proud to say I would have been one of the few girls of my generation who knew the names of all the builders tools. He always called me Bub. So it was "Bub hand me the square or the brace and bit etc." He would send me down the road to the local hardwear store to but a half a pound of 2 inch, bullet head nails. I remember the store with the bins of nails and screws that were sold by weight.

[Bob Pacey]

Nup can not see you as a Tom Boy Zondrae.

Show us some pics as evidence.

Bob

[Heather]

Truly beautiful Zondrae. Held me from start to finish.

Heather

[Maureen K Clifford]

Totally agree with all of the above Zondrae.

Dad may well have been amazed at what the family grew including the nuts but suspect they grew Maize.

Maize is a multipurpose summer cereal, grain and silage crop.

Cheers

Maureen

[Zondrae]

G'day Maureen,

Thanks for that. I've always been a shocking speller. Are you a school teacher? How do you always 'see' the spelling errors. I must have read this poem a hundred times, both dring writing it and later (written in 2005) but didn't notice this erroor. Then again maybe my bad spelling didn't recognise it.

The Maize crop was their staple food. It was used to make pullenta (again no idea of correct spelling, wait I'll check my Italian/Australian dictionary) oops polenta was eaten twice a day.

Gotta go the master calls

[Bob Pacey]

The Master Calls

Have you got a dog as well Zondrae ?

Bob