Casey Mulder

LM: Hi there. My name is Luisa Mitchell and I’m a Nyungar woman. 

Today we present to you Backyard Truthtelling: stories from Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians that were shared in local resident’s backyards all around Walyalup.  

Walyalup is the Nyungar name for Fremantle, located on the southern end of what is now called Western Australia. Just like the rest of Australia, Walyalup is an ancient country and belongs to one of the world’s oldest surviving cultures, the Whadjuk Nyungar people.  

In this collection, you’re about to hear live recordings from people who spoke about difficult truths, hidden histories and reimagined futures, all reflections of their lived experiences of colonisation in Walyalup and Australia.  

In partnership with the City of Fremantle and produced by Centre for Stories, these stories were captured on Whadjuk Nyungar boodjar. We pay our respect to Whadjuk Elders, and all Aboriginal people from the beginning, who are the knowledge-keepers and custodians of this place. 

And, before we get started, a brief disclaimer. This story may contain references to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander cultures, histories and practices. It may also include language that some individuals may find distressing or triggering. We acknowledge the ongoing impact of colonisation and the importance of truth telling and respecting Indigenous perspectives and experiences. We also know that these stories may be most triggering for mob, for Aboriginal and Torres strait islander people. So, if you’re struggling while listening to this story, please don’t hesitate to connect with 13 YARN on 13 92 76 and talk with an Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander crisis supporter. 

In this episode, you will hear Casey Mulder’s story. Casey is a Ballardong Noongar yorga with Dutch and English heritage. She works in a variety of education roles and is a freelance editor and writer. You may also know her as one of the facilitators of the First Nations Write Nights at the Centre for Stories. This is Casey. 

CM: So, when I was 23, I had a breakdown. This breakdown was brought on by being somebody that didn’t really know how to say no to the many things that people would ask me to do. Much of that was me being full time at university. The first person in my family to try to finish a university degree while also running a statewide not-for-profit and being heavily involved in activities at the church. 

This breakdown was pivotal in that. At the same time, I applied to the remote teaching service. So as a Ballardong Noongar kid who grew up in Quiarading, went to uni in the city, decided that I would embark on a teaching career in the East Kimberley. And so at 24, I moved to the Kimberley. Had never been before, and I found a church up there that was led by local Aboriginal people, and it was groundbreaking for me to be in that space with them. 

I remember saying to one of the couples there, you know, coming from that mentality that, I had been trying to leave, but was struggling to, you know, cleave myself from. I said to them, you know, there’s so much need here. You know, what shall I do? How shall I invest my time in this new community that I find myself in? 

And I remember the couple saying to me, you know, just listening as our people are so good at, and just kind of observing me for a while and then saying, well, Casey, what do you love? And I remember being dumbfounded. Nobody had ever asked me that before, to be motivated to make a decision based on what you love and deeply care about, I, I had never even considered the thought. And I thought about it for some time and I said to them, I love sitting with our old people and having cups of tea. 

And they said to me, that’s exactly what you should do. That’s how you should spend your time. You know, the time I had outside of being a full-time teacher who was a graduate, who had just left her country and was living in a new country. So over time, you know, I took that on board, not just as a shift in my own way of thinking about my life, but, you know, I had these beautiful elderly Gija, Gooniyandi, Jaru people that I’m at church with now. 

And instead of busying my time with all these different things, I really did, actively decide to just be in their presence and be in their company. And I remember my friend Laura saying to me, once, you know, Thelma is doing it real tough at the moment. Shall we we go down to IGA and just fill up a washing basket? 

I remember we bought this washing basket and just bought, you know, Bushel’s tea and long-life milk and weet-bix and she’s got, you know, seven grannies in her house who she’s caring for and, you know, bless Laura. She was such a beautifully generous person. And, and we just rocked up at the house with this washing basket full of stuff. And we just sat on the front porch and made a cup of tea, and we just sat and listened.  

Out of this time stemmed the most beautiful friendship of my life. There was a couple in the church who, he would often share messages, and I looked at his speaking notes one day, and they were written in in green crayon. And, you know, there were several words, and he’d just spoken this highly engaging message. And I looked at his notes, and I couldn’t believe that that’s where that had come from. And he said to me, sis, can you teach me how to spell? And I just thought, that’s, no, like you, you have so much richness, like the thought that that’s what you would want from me is, is unbelievable. 

But I said, why don’t you guys come around for a cuppa every Wednesday? And I’d get home from school on Wednesdays and their ute would be in my driveway. And I just had this feeling of absolute glee. And, the first week I got told that my teacups were far too small and I needed to go to IGA and get some massive pannikins, because they would not deal with such a small mug. 

So, I supplied us with massive pannikins and even then they’d have about probably four over a 2-hour yarn. And I’d make toasted sangers and put some fruit out and we’d do some spelling activities. But really, what was borne out of this time is a really beautiful friendship, where they were sharing of themselves with me, and me with them, and I felt so safe in their company. 

And in time, you know, that led to us actually going out on country together and Donald started telling me about all these times he’d nearly died. And, this is the creative nonfiction manuscript I’m working on, is the shared story of our friendship. And so we’d go camp out under the stars. He’d always bring his guitar. One night, I remember the car conking out, and me thinking, you know, are we even going to get there? And we’d just cook meat on the fire, you know, and just sing and then sleep out in the riverbed.  

Fast forward a few years. We lost him. He suffered a stroke. And this time he didn’t come through. And the grief was palpable. At the time, I was living in New South Wales. And I very much grieved him, but also celebrated, you know, such a rich and almost unexpected friendship that I wonder if I would have been open to if I hadn’t had that, the wisdom of people saying you love sitting and having a cup of tea with people, that’s what you should do. 

And in 2022, I applied to a writing fellowship at the Centre for Stories, and I read the criteria and I thought, this project does not fit the majority of that criteria, but I’ve got these oral stories, I’ve got them recorded. This is a story that really matters to me. I’m just going to send it in. Didn’t actually personally know anyone from the Centre, and I just sent it in. 

And incredibly, they saw value in that story and in our friendship. And, you know, that is something that I continue to work on. Now, in that story is so much grief and so much loss. Since that time, we’ve lost his beloved wife, who was the most joyous, faithful person you will ever meet. And this year, really, tragically, their young son who was around my age. 

And so, I’ve had to also let go of how we think processes are going to go and create room for that grief, that sorry time. And I think as I’ve then entered into the publishing industry. So now I’m really honored to be working in a role at Fremantle Press. I spend quite a lot of time at Walyalup and, you know, even with my own manuscript, I thought a lot about how people have told our stories in the past. And I read a lot of them, and I thought, this is chronological. It’s written purely in standard Australian English, you know, it’s a rich, rich story, but I don’t always hear the same things I hear as when I’m sitting across the table or sitting in a riverbed having a yarn. And I thought, how much of our stories are being controlled by the way the publishing industry thinks we need to tell our stories. 

And it really shifted my thinking about what I’m writing. Instead of making something accessible and palatable to a wider kind of settler colonial audience, I thought, how do I tell this story? You know, truthfully, for us, for our mob and also for this friendship.  

One of the projects I have the privilege of working on there is gathering six stories of Aboriginal women. And this past week, I’ve met with each of them and we sat, often in Dome. Dome is a popular choice for an editing catch up. And in the chat I had with one of our writers on Thursday, you know, she looked at me at one point and she said, I’m going to share something with you. But I just want you to, I want you to look after yourself like, you know, what are you doing today? Who have you got around you? I want you to make sure you’re, you know, you’re looked after. And before she shared with me something more horrific than I can even fathom a person going through, her first thought was my wellbeing and how I was going to be able to hold the thing that she was so bravely about to share with me. 

And as she shared that thing with me, I wept in Dome. And then, she looked down at this piece of paper in front of us, and she drew this picture of how she and her husband have been able to work through the last eight years since this incredibly traumatic incident. And even then, she’s showing me, she’s showing me how we can move through these things that, you know, that that want to take us to the pit. And how we can do that together. And, you know, I cried most of the drive home, because I see the wisdom of our old people and how they can sit with us in those spaces. And I’m so grateful that I didn’t continue to be somebody that said yes to everything. And I was able to listen to what’s within me and what I love. And in doing that, you know, create spaces to actually receive and give back to these beautiful people, right, who have these stories to share.  

So, please look out for that anthology. It’s going to be incredibly, incredibly rich. And the thing I’ve realized through all of this is that our truth is told when there are spaces in which it can be shared and received. 

Thank you.