LESSON #6: Blending in and Belonging isn't the Same Thing

My family immigrated to Australia in late 1987 from Canada, with little knowledge about our soon-to-be surrounds. Without the Internet, social media, Skype and cheap airfares, the world seemed like a much bigger place in the 80’s. Though I had a fairly good idea of what existed beyond the great white maple syrup drenched lands of Canada, my geography was a little shaky. So when my mother told us we were moving to Australia, I immediately began to fantasise about strolling the streets of Vienna, listening to Mozart and eating an ungodly amount of Danishes. A European princess.

“No – Not Austria… Australia. Like in Crocodile Dundee.”

My mother’s correction cut through me like a knife. But THAT GUY didn’t know how to use an escalator. What kind of godforsaken country doesn’t have an escalator? I watched Crocodile Dundee over and over again, trying to make sense of the insanity. Time and time again, all I could deduce from the movie was that Australia had a lot of open space, was filled with crocodiles, populated by leathery old men and seriously lacked the presence of a decent shopping center. It was clear to me that my parents had lost their minds.

But of course, we weren’t just moving to Australia. No… because just moving across the globe wouldn’t be enough of a change. Nope. We were moving to the long white sand beaches of the Gold Coast. Quite an adventurous step into the unknown, considering most of us hadn’t even seen the ocean before. In fact, up until our move, the closest our family had ever been to surfing was listening to the Beach Boys while skipping over ripples created by passing yachts out on the lake.

When we arrived on the Gold Coast, I quickly realised that it was nothing like what my Britannica Encyclopedia had promised. It was worse. I was completely unprepared for the fact that I’d soon be an immigrant living in a sub-tropical climate where wearing flip-flops in public was not only an acceptable occurrence, but a regular one. Worse, no amount of sunscreen was capable of protecting my skin from burning. I longed for my lost life in Austria.

My first day of school further confirmed my alien status. After being forced to wear the ugliest brown school uniform imaginable (which, no doubt, was chosen by the school board to beat any sense of style out of the student body), I walked into my new classroom…. a hot-box with no air conditioning in a demountable building. I remember gazing around the classroom speechless, and, on the verge of passing out in the January heat, seeing a wallaby hop across the school grounds. It was my first sighting of an Australian animal in the wild, but I didn’t care. I wanted out of this madness.

My teacher introduced me to the class – or at least that’s what I assumed he did – and the entire room turned to look at me: the pale white alien with flushed red cheeks from Canada. There was a long silence as I tried to decipher why they were staring at me, and how best to make it stop. Truth was, I couldn’t understand a word Mr Mazey or anyone else said… their Australian accent and slang terms were not the English that I knew.

“Hello?” I said, to roomful of snickers and whispers. It was the moment I realised that everyone else wasn’t different… I was. And we don’t even speak the same language. 

I become a bit of a novelty among new friends for the next couple of weeks. Kids in other classes, other grades…. kids I’d never laid eyes on before, would run up to me and demand that I speak.

“Say something!” They’d scream, before collapsing into themselves, giggling. “You sound so funny! Like a TV show!”

It annoyed me that I was continually being mistaken for an American. I spoke with a Canadian accent. Couldn’t they see that?

I didn’t mind being different, but being consistently different proved to be exhausting. I wanted desperately to have the day off, to blend in. As fate would have it, whenever I felt like I finally fit in with the other 12 year olds in my grade, some obscure element of my Canadian-ness would surface and I’d be exposed as a misfit again.

“Ewe… what’s that?” a blond, tanned blue eyed girl would say in her perfectly pitched Australian accent. From the expression of her wrinkled-up nose, she clearly didn’t like the look of my peanut butter and banana sandwich.

“But… together? In a sandwich? You’re weird.” That, coming from a girl who enjoyed eating salty black goop slathered between two pieces of bread, felt insulting. If blending in among Australians meant eating vegemite sandwiches, I was never going the blend in.

Though I loved my family dearly, my need to feel like I belonged superseded my love. It was more than just feeling homesick… I wanted to be among my people again. I yearned to be surrounded by the type of kindred spirits who’d not only looked at my peanut butter and banana sandwich and thought it was normal, but would also ask to eat the other half.

When my best friend told me she was sick of hearing my accent, I decided it was time to take matters into my own hands. After furiously packing some essential items into a small backpack for my trip, I crawled out of my bedroom window towards a more promising life back in Canada. My resolve was set. In fact, I made it clear out of the suburb before reality started to set in, and I finally began to consider whether I could realistically achieve my newly set goals on my own. Where exactly was I going? How long will it take me to get there? Why didn’t I pack a warm coat? Searching through my essential items, I realised that I didn’t even pack my passport.

I double-timed it back to my bedroom window, hoping no one had discovered my goodbye message. But my stealth-like re-entry was immediately thwarted... my small bedroom filled with so many people, there was hardly any room left for me. Somehow, within the last 30 minutes, my mother had managed to find my message, call my father (who had rushed home from work), and rustle together a search party. Even the Pastor from our church was there.

For a split second, I nervously stood in the corner, wondering how much trouble I’d be in for creating this… drama. Then, after what felt like an eternity, my father rushed towards me, threw his arms around my tiny body, and began to cry. The room eventually cleared, but my father stayed. He held me on his lap, rocking back and forth; sobbing into my hair as he quietly whispered “I’m sorry” over and over again. In a Canadian accent.

I had never seen my father cry before, so I didn’t know what do. And though I was confused by why he was sorry for something that I did, I didn’t want to question him. All I knew was that somewhere between those loving rocks, it dawned on me that I was exactly where I belonged.