“In my late 50s I met Bill in one of my privileged roles. We had so much in common it was uncanny, and then – and then – I wept and he had to comfort me,” writes Kindness columnist ANTONIO DI DIO.

In 1966 I was born in a little place, a few miles from what used to be called an aboriginal mission. About the same time, Bill was born, near a mission, too. 

Over years, loving parents and a great little town nurtured me and told me I belonged. Mum and dad had been there 15 years already.

Bill was removed from his birthplace, never told who his parents or home were, only that they did not love him and were bad people, and this was not their land. And they’d been around a few thousand years longer than my folks.

By the time I was 11, I’d “permanently” moved six times, but every time I was cherished and loved. I had a trophy from cricket or something to feel proud of, books and friends and home, and every evening I was kissed good night and hugged. 

When Bill was 11, he had already run away a few times, and experienced the worst possible things, plural, that any child could – physically, emotionally, socially, spiritually – you name it, from cruel people who had no right to be anywhere near children. And with completely permanent damage.

By the time I was 15 I was fumblingly trying to convince a girl to hold my hand at the Nambucca Heads picture theatre. Success zero, but it was sweet and the movie involved aliens so I was fine. 

By that age Bill was selling himself to villains who were either disinterested or dangerous. They, and he, thought him of no worth. He slept on the streets for years.

When I was 18, I walked two blocks to the train station, then 12 hours to Sydney on the train. Australia had given me a free, wonderful high school at the end of my street, great teachers to drag me up. At the end of the train trip, accompanied by dad so I’d be safe, the University of Sydney gave me a free ride to do whatever I wanted. 

By that age, Bill had saved up enough to walk a couple of thousand miles, over years of pain and fear, to seek out and eventually find a parent. Like everyone else in his life to date, they swore at and shouted at him to go away, and his rejection was as painful as it was confusing. 

At 23 I embarked on my career and found love, joy, professional worth, friendship, and bought a mortgage.

By that age, Bill had embarked on a long career in homelessness, poverty and fear. And always, always, the rejection. 

When I was 30 I discovered I could string self-serving words together and got overly praised for it.

At 30 Bill accidentally became a respected artist, and got relentlessly taken advantage of by shysters and crooks.

At 40, the kids I love dearly started to bring me crazy amounts of joy and still do.

At 40, the kids Bill loved so dearly had unsurprising challenges that led to the pain he feels every day.

In my late 50s I met Bill in one of my privileged roles. We had so much in common it was uncanny, and then – and then – I wept and he had to comfort me. He. Had to comfort. Me. 

Not a day goes by where I don’t think 56 times of Cath, Alex, PDubs, Matty, Emma, Anna, Matt, Robbie. Not a day goes by where I don’t think of Bill. A man who from every possible disadvantage, who’d walked the rabbit proof fence home from every indignity, who has single handedly created love from rage, sanity from madness, art from the void.

All the while living every moment with the physical and mental consequences of what Australia has done to him, while every moment fearing homelessness will return, while every day seeing his life diminished by cruel ignorance on his TV news, while enduring rejection even from the most unexpected quarters.

a laugh and say he’s prepared to move on and travel together. And to ask for so little? I’ve written and spoken of kindness, the anecdotes and the research, for years. I knew nothing about it until I met Bill. 

Aussies discovered wi-fi, selfies, pavlovas, penicillin and mowing lawns on a slope. With Bill’s help, we will pioneer a reconciliation through a people who are not just the longest enduring indigenous occupiers in the world, but the most forgiving.

Antonio Di Dio is a local GP, medical leader and nerd. There are many more of his Kindness columns at citynews.com.au