From Ancestral Roots to Jet-Set Boots
(Or: How I Ended Up in a Scavenger Hunt for My Own Life)
So here I am, applying for an RRV—Resident Return Visa—for Australia, also known as "Welcome back, but only if you can prove you exist." It's been thirty years since I lived there in anything other than emotion, accent, and passive-aggressive lamington cravings. Thirty years. And applying for this visa? It’s like trying to retrace sixty years of steps in heels that were never comfortable to begin with, on cobblestones that weren’t just never digitized—they were possibly cursed.
You see, documents from the ’70s, ’80s, and even the whisper-soft early ’90s? They didn’t make it into the digital age. No, those precious relics are now probably holding up a wonky table in someone’s garage. My coming-of-age story is floating somewhere between a creased manila folder marked “Mum’s Stuff” and a scene from a dream I once had involving disco pants and a queue at the immigration office,
My parents, bless their migratory instincts, ping-ponged between Australia and America like it was just a couple of train stops. Sydney, L.A., Brisbane, San Francisco—we moved more than a witness in a mafia trial. Our shipping crates had frequent flyer status. Along the way, records got lost, tossed, or repurposed. I have a strong suspicion my birth certificate is currently doubling as a grocery list under a stack of National Geographics in a stranger’s attic.
And why didn’t I return permanently sooner, you ask? Picture a Greek tragedy, but with more Tupperware. I married the eldest of seven brothers, which means I married into a family that could start its own sitcom—or possibly a support group. Between my husband’s wildly successful career (America wouldn’t let us go) and our full-time role as the unpaid concierge service for his sprawling clan, we were busy. Eight years of “just one more crisis,” caring, accommodating, moving, smoothing, fixing, and raising our children while also managing the needs of everyone else. It was like juggling flaming swords while reading bedtime stories.
During this epic act of familial plate-spinning, my mother—my elegant, brave, hilarious mother—left her sun-soaked homeland and came to join us in America. Not for fun. Not for the weather. But for me, her only child, and her only grandchildren, whom she adored in the kind of way you see in movies where everyone ends up crying. She swooped in, helped raise the kids, and lit up our lives with her no-nonsense warmth and a stunning ability to find the perfect biscuit for any occasion. And then, far too soon, she was gone. Her absence is still loud.
But I did return to Oz. Many times. I introduced the children to their other homeland, recharged my soul with friends who are family, and took long walks in places that still remembered my feet. I couldn’t stay—but I never really left.
And now, in this strange, full-circle moment, I find myself unearthing pieces of my own life the way people usually unearth great-grandparents in ancestry databases. Except in this case, I am the ancestor. The one writing letters, begging bureaucracy, digging through closets for proof that yes—I was here. I was real. I had a library card.
In the process, something beautiful happened. I found people. I found me. Letters I wrote in 1984, friends I hadn’t spoken to in decades who still remembered the shape of my laugh, and who wrote letters of support like we’d just had tea yesterday. They said, “We know her. She belongs.” And somehow, that meant more than any official stamp. The firends I consider family, who I see on each visit that are now yearly and getting longer. The laughter we have, watching our children grow and often wondering over a glass of wine and cheese plate, "How did we survive?"
Meanwhile, my American life hums along—a fully formed story that exists parallel to this one, like two long-running shows on different networks. They never really meet, but together, they make up this intricate, strong, surprising fabric. Kind of like my paper art—layered, precise, delicate, and stronger than it looks.
So yes, I’ll keep rifling through boxes and emailing civil servants who don’t believe the 1980s happened. I’ll pack my documents, my memories, my friendships, and a sturdy pair of jet-set boots. The roots go deep. The suitcase is small. But the life? The life is big.
#nomadsoul #LifeAcrossOceans #TwoCountriesOneHeart #FamilyIsAMood #MumMadeMagic #LifeInLayers #MemoryIsAMap #ReturningToAustralia #FamilyHeritageJourney #MigrationMemoir
No comments:
Post a Comment