Life Hacks for the Displaced, Volume 2: My Country, 'tis of Me
Four-and-a-half years ago, our family was sent (via a credit bureau my husband worked for) from Atlanta to Sydney. I believe I was prepped for this assignment by my move from Alabama to New York City a dozen years prior--arguably, even more of a foray into foreign territory. We boarded a flight one winter evening in America and landed on a steaming summer morning two days later in Australia, intending to stay three years. We haven’t left.
Our Australian life began that New Year’s Eve morning--appropriately, considering we were embarking on a new journey that new year. An international journey. Our boys were two and five then, one too young for Australian preschool (but not daycare, hey-oh!) and one primed to enter the school system as a kindergartner (an autistic kindergartner with a full-time school shadow therapist. Between that and our American-ness, it was like we were trying to stand out).
A couple of months in, our family ventured to IKEA, forty-five minutes away from our house. While there, I had a bit of a nervous breakdown. A quiet, internally-contained one because I am a Southern lady, but a breakdown nonetheless. The newness and anxiety of it all had finally--now that the males of the family were settled into their schools and job--gotten to me. I hotfooted it to my doctor and requested an increase in my Lexapro dosage. I sought out, and found, a counselor. And I took time to reflect on the differences between our life in America and our new one in Australia; between, indeed, the American identity I’d had for four decades and the Australian one I was just now encountering.
Growing up in America, I was fixated on creating my identity--an endeavor not out of step with the American dream itself, this climbing of a ladder to an endpoint of success and achievement that conveniently (at least at cocktail parties, in response to “What do you do?”) defines who we are. After four decades in the U.S., I had both created an identity--the consummate rule-following, high-achieving student--and watched it crumble through a series of misadventures that led me to New York, my husband, and the life for which I was actually meant. Cut to our settled-ness as a family in Atlanta giving way to another redirection, to Sydney, where I was ostensibly an outsider yet quickly came to feel at home among this breed of people who were less concerned with ladders and more enamored of surfboards. It was, apparently, time to stop fixating on a goal and start looking around at the beauty surrounding me...and breathe.
That was four years ago, and while I’m no expert, I am a bit of a veteran compared to that woman who lost it at a Swedish furniture warehouse. Therefore I give you my list of Things I Didn’t Need to Pack for Australia, followed by Things I Should Have.
THINGS I DIDN’T NEED TO PACK FOR AUSTRALIA
--a gun. They are simply not fashionable accessories here. Which means, if you need one to feel safe, you’re out of luck--but the upside is you can enter a cinema or grocery store or school or...anywhere without wondering if you’ll get shot today.
--a national flag to bring to church. Nationalism hasn’t permeated religion here. Since I grew up spending Memorial Day Sunday morning in church singing a mix of hymns and stirring songs about America’s preeminence, this was a new separation for me. So Jesus wasn’t American, or Australian? Confusing!
--learned misconceptions of economic systems: I grew up in an environment where Marx was just as much a boogeyman than Hitler (who, you should know, was quite a painter, #justsaying). Socialism was the dreaded evil one step away from communism. Never mind that pure capitalism doesn’t exist, well, anywhere, including America. Cut to me watching how government benefits can actually (gasp!) be a good thing?!
--a rugged sense of individualism: contrary to the American Dream and its built-for-one-climber-at-a-time ladder, Australia’s highest virtue is mateship, a collective mindset built on shared experiences. For example, you will hear people quietly complain about wearing masks as they actually put them on, but you will rarely see a Karen at Home Depot (it’s called Bunnings here) screaming that it’s her RIGHT to not have a MASK on her FACE.
THINGS I SHOULD’VE PACKED FOR AUSTRALIA:
--more Lexapro: see above. Culture shock is real, y’all, as is its connection to my depression/anxiety.
--an Australian-American dictionary: it just takes one instance of hearing your child tell you they need more rubbers for school, or the woman at the spa advising you over the phone to make sure you bring your thongs, to understand that just because they speak English in your new country doesn’t mean it’s the same English as your old country.
--higher alcohol tolerance: when someone invites you to an Australian BBQ that starts at “midday” (Aussie for high noon), you would be wise to clear your schedule (timetable) for the remainder of that day because you will be drinking from 12, eating around 2, then staying until sunset, at which point you will Uber home and pass out.
--an appreciation for natural beauty: as you can imagine, the Chattahoochee River, Atlanta’s most significant waterway, slightly withers in comparison to the endless eastern coastline of Australia and its views of the South Pacific. People actually greet each other here with acknowledgments of how beautiful the day/scenery/country is, along with exclamations of how lucky we all are to live here. That...didn’t happen in Atlanta.
I could go on with countless other examples in each of the above categories, or regale you with my longing to research the psychological profile of a country born of rebellion versus one that became independent peacefully. And maybe I will one day. But for now, it’s enough for me to know that in this moment, I am assured I have what I need, and what I will need is going to be provided. That’s how it’s worked out so far. I mean, I am the owner of a wetsuit now. Who saw that coming?!