And then I see her, my hero, Cathy Freeman. In my mind she is running gracefully on the track; she is smiling and isn’t even showing any effect of the heat of the sun. She’s breathing at the correct pace, not like me, panting away. And then I imagine I am her, turning my legs over in smooth rotation, faster and faster, focusing on the finish line, and before I know it, I’m there.
These words appear in my novel, Our Race for Reconciliation. They represent the fictional voice of a young Murri girl named Mel. But these words were born from my own experience of being overwhelmingly inspired and proud while watching Freeman win gold at the Sydney Olympics in 2000. That inspiration has stayed with me.
When I speak about my novel at festivals and other events, I ask my audience if they can remember where they were the night Freeman ran that momentous race. The race that appeared to be the flagship of the Games.
Most people of my generation know exactly where they were that night – in the stadium as spectators or volunteers, in their living rooms, in bars in other countries – and they can also recall in detail the atmosphere of that phenomenal moment for one athlete and her country.
I was in Canberra, working on the final edits of my PhD. Many of my friends were at Homebush. Was I jealous? Of course. But their pride was no more or less than mine, than most Aboriginal people who find strength and inspiration in our heroes. Or the millions of viewers who experienced the excitement via live broadcasts around the world.
Only months before the race, more than 250,000 people had marched across Sydney Harbour Bridge in solidarity and the spirit of reconciliation. It was a day that cemented the position of both our allies and our opponents, as SORRY was scrawled across the Sydney sky while the then prime minister, John Howard, maintained his argument that there had not been generations of stolen children.
Freeman winning gold in Sydney was significant. Gadigal country was the home of much of Australia’s early civil rights action, including the 1938 Day of Mourning protest and conference. It was a place that reminded Aboriginal Australia that white Australia, particularly the media, largely controlled the national narrative. And it wasn’t always honest. Or fair.
Her status as an athletic great could not be denied but it has at times been shrouded in controversy. We have a saying: when you are born black, you are born political, whether you want to be or whether you aim to be or not. Public actions in particular are always construed as political.
Freeman’s lap of honour with the Aboriginal flag after winning gold in the 400m in Canada in the 1994 Commonwealth Games is a classic example. What most of us saw as a young woman proud of her Aboriginality, others saw as a breach of her role as an Australian athlete. Questions were raised in parliament and she was criticised by the then head of the Australian Commonwealth team.
For the mob, most of us understood the role our flag plays in our community and in our individual lives: it offers strength, connection and extreme pride in what we have overcome and continue to achieve.
As the camera focused on Freeman just minutes before the Sydney race, I thought back to the opening ceremony, when she received the Olympic torch from retired hurdler Debbie Flintoff-King. At that moment, pride engulfed many of us as we saw one of our own as the face of the Games. The “glitch” that occurred with lighting of the cauldron did not faze her. She remained poised and the crowds loved her even more for her capacity to be so dignified. She was the perfect choice for the role. And how amazing did she look in that white bodysuit?!
Seconds before the 400m race, when she took a couple of deep breaths and clapped her hands, I wondered if they were nervous claps. I was nervous for her. But how can any mere mortal imagine the nerves or anxiety of an Olympian before a race?
When the starter gun went, the roar in my family home almost drowned out the roar that came from the 111,000-strong crowd in the stadium. Flashes were blinding as this significant point in history was being captured by all. There were other brilliant athletes running alongside Freeman but they were blurry to me, even though I know they were the reason that she was so good. They pushed her to be better, and she in turn pushed others to be better. To run faster. To fulfil their own dreams.
When Freeman charged home to win gold in 49.11 seconds, people watching the world over, from my family in Canberra, to Sydney and beyond, were on their feet, basking in the victory of the young Murri woman from Mackay. Her lap of honour was like a dance, as she carried both the Aboriginal and Australian flags. With those joyful steps she lodged herself in our hearts forever.
On screen we saw a sea of Aboriginal flags, Australian flags, green and gold streamers and people clapping their hands. It’s hard not to imagine that, at that minute, every Australian was proud of Freeman – and what she represented to us all. Strength, commitment, focus and belief in self. Her ability to showcase those qualities to all are part of her legacy. And her influence in that way followed previous Olympians, including Patrick Johnson and Nova Peris.
I ran my first marathon at Uluru only weeks before my 50th birthday. In my months of training I had Freeman as my motivation. I never wore a Lycra body suit, but I imagined taking her strides across the finish line, not to win gold, obviously, but because just reaching the finish line is always a win for me.
Freeman was both Young Australian of the Year (1990) and Australian of the Year (1998). In 2000 she became the sporting sweetheart and idol of the nation. Her 400m were more than just extraordinary steps. They held within them the capacity to affect generations of runners. I’d love to know how many others have, like me, found inspiration in that moment in Australian history.
• Dr Anita Heiss is a professor of communications at the University of Queensland and the author of 12 novels including Our Race for Reconciliation
