Home and Away

I've lived the better part of my life in Australia, Dorothea Mckellar’s much-lauded sunburnt country. From an age when my skin was considered sunkissed and not wrinkled. My face now resembles a texture closer to worn leather, closer to pension age, I am ‘too far from Australian?’ It was an internal conflict, externally broadcast. It would seem that I had contradicted every notion of appropriate contemplation expected from me by strangers and friends alike. I had never thought myself to be nationalistic, not even a patriot. Surely a lifetime away and the red soil had tinged the souls of my feet, Yet still, I brandished the words that read; place of birth; Vancouver. Sanctioned I was, by section 44 of the constitution, a condemned member of the political institution. A traitor. At first, it had seemed a menial task, a minor contention. Easily lost amongst the many other parliamentary misdemeanours, conveniently swept beneath the seaweed green carpet. 

I was wrong. 

“A modern-day witch hunt!”, “Crisis of identity takes place in parliament!’, “Spies for the other side!”

Who even was on the other side? As far as I knew, Australia had no foreign enemies and hadn’t since WW1, but I suppose the Daily Telegraph knew better. It seemed as though every news outlet did. Many times I had seen myself composed of the little pixels moving on my living room TV. 

But this time was different. 

Words poured meaninglessly from her mouth. Her presence was fatigued by the creases that burdened every surface of her being. Exemplified by the flashing lights that disapproved of her figure. It couldn’t be me. 

Only it was. 

And for every second it continued, I hated myself more. It was an unfamiliar insecurity, that craved validation amongst the conjecture of criticism that had dawned upon me. But the harder I looked, the hungrier it became. 

I stopped looking. 

I was 10, my mouth agape, marveling at the grandeur of the oak banister and reflective marble stairs. A false promise of power, distanced from me by the evident lack of masculinity I possessed. Halls lined with portraits of decaying youth, clad with variations of the same greying facial hair. It was a school trip that for most part was noteworthy by its obvious glorification of national historical and political significance. However, for me, it was the single brick that laid the foundation for an endlessly challenging career. The position I held was easily replaced but rarely attained. I could’ve surmised my 39 years of dedicated service with bitter anecdotes of sexist, misogynistic and inhumane behaviors, but that would be naive. 

My hesitation bore no feminist motivations. I was proud to be a woman in parliament, but my career had far surpassed any attempts of patriarchal dissolution. It was a largely sentimental attachment. The green marble pillars had witnessed every moment of my evolution, from the age of 23, when the heels of my stilettos had first sounded in the black-and-white political emporium. Until the very moment of my eviction; my transition to fawn-coloured ballet flats that made no sound at all.

I read and reread the legislative stipulations in complete disbelief. My birth certificate hardly constituted a representation of foreign allegiance or civil disobedience. I had visited Canada a total of once in the last four years, and as far as I knew my grandmother wasn’t a member of Canadian central intelligence. I knew little about the intricate subcultures of Canadian social demographics and frankly not even the national anthem, but the attachment I bore to my citizenship as recognition of my identity, far outweighed any source of logical reasoning. The document itself supplied only an administrative purpose, but its meaning permeated any rational thought of revocation. I found myself trying to provoke an explanation, through means of childish internet searches, ‘what does it mean to be Canadian?’ A collection of interviews yielded chauvinist cliches, and motifs of generalized dispositions. Friendly, warm, and welcoming. Perhaps I was nearer to Australia than I thought. 

Caught in the undertow of a bifurcated river. I was paralyzed by the decision. To end my career would be to leave a lover jilted. Unfinished and without closure. But part of me knew, the tie had severed several years prior. The rope that had formerly fastened me to objectives and desire had fatigued, frayed, and was now broken. This problem in all its significance had been the final thread. Over time my job has become the crutch of my existence. External recognition of my otherwise fruitless labour. The challenges were familiar, the routine somewhat mundane, but it was something to do. My twenties had passed without children, and my thirties were absent from marriage. I had built the foundation for a life of no interruptions. But as I sat in silence, pen in hand, I longed for a voice of comfort. None came. 

I thought back to my childhood in Vancouver. I envisioned myself in Stanley Park, the autumn leaves littered across the boardwalk. My sister called out from a distance, beckoning me to quicken pace so that we might make it faster to the Aquarium. Our feet crunched the gravel as she swung around the curved white pillars. My Grandpa lined up to pay. We fed our tickets through the machine and pushed the turnstile barrier. My sister bolted, straight past the glass exhibits to the Otter enclosure. It was our favourite. I longed to be standing, gazing over the otters, observing as the babies curled up on their mother’s stomachs. To feel my grandmother’s smile as she hands me dulled pink containers of goldfish snack crackers. I longed to go home. 

It was then I felt myself at the end of the Esplanade. Tears streamed down the furrows of my complexion. No longer burdened by the weight of my indecision, I was enabled to grieve what I had lost. My life void of passion was not worth living. For the first time in decades, I longed to do more than exist and serve. I wanted to live.  Resignation in hand, I looked out across the blue abyss.