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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.
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