An opinionated, Queer Latina Woman, on Moving to Australia
The afternoon of September 9 2019 was cold, windy, and confusing.
The jet lag was hitting hard after nearly 24 hours of gruelling air travel, from my home city in Argentina, to the small Eastcoast Australian town of Kiama.
I was on my own for the first time since I’d arrived.
I knew what I was about to do was going to be a challenge, at the very least.
Settling into the driver’s seat of a 1995 Toyota Corolla, I made myself comfy, lit a ciggie and switched the radio on – a ritualistic process I practised every time I got in the car.
The voices of Triple J’s announcers invaded the 1995 Toyota Corolla and I felt my anxiety start to rise.
I couldn’t understand a word they were saying.
Nada.
Adding to my anxiety, was the fact that I’d never driven on the left side of the road before.
Reality felt quite overwhelming. My fingers were sweaty and stiff gripping the steering wheel and I could hear my heart beating like in Edgard Allan Poe's short story, The Tell-Tale Heart. At that moment I knew that if I chicken-out, I would never want to do it again.
I was scared but I started the motor and let the journey begin.
According to the Australian Bureau of Statistics, there were around 110,000 South Americans living in Australia in 2016.
Some of them might have arrived thinking of a better future for their families, some of them escaping from the dictatorships that succumbed the region in the 70s; others perhaps tempted by the beautiful beaches with turquoise waters.
A wave arrived in the 90s when the Australian government published advertisements in the main Latin American newspapers offering Latinxs a free ticket, free English course, and cash to cover rent for a few months. Those with adventurous souls came to discover what could be found on the other side of the world.
And others, like me, were following a lover.
I am not sure what they felt when they first landed ‘down-under’ but I like to imagine we all felt a bit the same.
“Desterrados” is the word I’m searching for in English but can’t seem to find.
To describe “desterrados” by metaphor, I would say I felt like an Ombú tree, with its big fat roots being pulled from the earth and moved to a different spot.
Not a worse or bad spot, just different.
Confused and a bit wounded, like a transported Ombú tree, I tried to adapt to new surroundings with wattles, beautiful banksias, and other trees and plants I’d never seen before – learning their way of communicating and cohabiting. Surviving while enjoying.
My metaphor might be inaccurate for those who had to leave their Latin country for a graver reason other than following a lover, but this is a piece of my experience.
…
Misunderstanding people was a frustrating part of my life for the first few months, in a way that those who are Aussie born-and-bred, may not be able to comprehend.
It was a nightmare trying to have conversations with impatient employees from the tax office, in a language that was not my native one. On many occasions I felt my heart break, when half way though a conversation, the person I was speaking to would crinkles their nose because my accent is more pronounced than what they are used to.
As someone who thrives on communication, this was devastating.
During those first months, I also learned what “racial microaggressions” were.
Columbia University psychology and education professor, Derald Wing Sue, defines them as…
brief and commonplace daily verbal, behavioural, or environmental indignities, whether intentional or unintentional, that communicate hostile, derogatory, or negative racial slights and insults toward people of colour.
I learned what microaggressions were in the moments when people laughed at me because I pronounced something wrong. When bosses underestimated everything the non-Australian employees said, but totally respected their Aussie counterparts without question.
I learned what microaggressions were in the moments when white ladies made unsolicited remarks about how much they ‘love’ my ‘olive skin’.
I learned what microaggressions were in the moments when I was with a group of Latinxs, being Latinxs – loud, funny, flamboyant – and having those happy moments disrupted by a passer-by who yelled; “we speak English here!”
Micro racism.
Micro aggressions.
Let’s make it simpler: Racism.
Dr. Sue, says, “addressing these microaggressions is more an art than a science, and it requires a lot of creativity,” and I could not relate more.
I try to respond to these situations with humour.
If an Aussie folk asks where my accent is from, I act surprised and answer, “sorry, which accent?”. Normally this interaction ends with an embarrassed interlocutor and a conversation that has given me - plenty of - satisfaction.
In saying this, I’m part of a group with privileges. I don’t suffer heavily from the consequences of racism in Australia compared to other minorities but, as I said, I am a gay, highly opinionated Latina.
The New Age wave taught us all our feelings are valid, and I’ll take it.
Humour is a grand survival mechanism. I noticed Australian and Argentine culture have certain similarities. We are both enthusiastic about, “taking the piss out of someone,” as a way of showing affection.
And if an Argentine were to verse an Australian in a beer drinking competition - like one of those weird U.S. eating competitions where people eat as many sausages as possible - I really don’t know who would win.
I think my Argentine ways have slowly been infiltrating my Aussie friends and family. Most of them try to speak Spanish and roll their r’s (still working on that). They all respect my culture so much, and love the fact that I am from a different world.
They have now all tried “mate” (coincidentally spelt the same as ‘mate,’ as in friend, but pronounced mah-teh), the traditional drink from Argentina.
They know I have to say ‘hello’ with a kiss on the cheek, and we have to see each other often - I mean, back at home we see our friends and family a good three times a week, so I need a minimum of a once-a-week up catch up.
I moved to Australia during a weird time, worldwide. COVID cases were rising, Australia was on fire, and then there were the floods.
But the Black Lives Matter movement represented a before-and-after in Australian history.
Following George Floyd’s murder, the United States was mobilized, and the rest of the world followed. It was great to see Australia responding. An Australia that was once more complacent than combative, was finally awake on the streets protesting, demanding justice for the high instances of police violence that were affecting, and continue to affect, First Nations people and their communities.
In Argentina, we learned through history and facts, that protesting is the way we can have a taste of justice: showing our disagreement by shouting in the streets as a united people. When found myself surrounded by tens of thousands of people, protesting on Australian soil - our faces covered by masks - I felt proud, and I felt at home.
I still blush when I find myself using phrases like, “no worries mate”, “Woolies was chockers” or “the hair of the dog,” while I crack a Stone and Wood in my stubby cooler; but I also feel incredibly part of the Australian culture.
