When thinking of how I might try to define my sense of “home,” my brain practically glitches and like any other mature young adult, I blame my mother for this. See, when she was just a few years younger than I am now, my dear Mum was graduating from high school in Geraldton, Western Australia. Shortly after, she decided it would be a great idea to venture away from her home and take a “gap year” in Canada, before returning for university. Like they often do, this gap year turned into a few more than expected, involved marrying a foreigner, and resulted in three children. We were quickly termed the “CanAussies” by our extended families, otherwise known as the palest Australians you’ll ever see. I like to think we are the best kind of hybrid children, but I’ll let you decide whether this is a biased opinion.
Anyways, this essentially means that from the fresh age of 2 weeks old, I was on my first of many flights to Australia. Just a few years later, I’d be on the same flight with my new baby sister in my arms. As we grew up, we became quite accustomed to this travelling as my family and I would spend time in both countries most years.
In a way, my sense of home became so muddled that it is now most strongly rooted in the feeling that I get while walking into an international airport. These are the spaces that exist between the two places I love most. Outside of these places, home meant being in one country and missing the other. It became vegemite on toast before I left for ice hockey practice, or tracking down a fake pine tree to sit around before we went surfing on Christmas morning. It will always mean cheering for the Australian athletes in the Summer Olympics, and the Canadians in the Winter Olympics. For me, home became a liminal space, and a feeling of being between two or more places. I often think that this is true for most people, as we all grow and begin to associate our sense of home with multiple places. Ultimately, it becomes the stories we connect to this feeling, and the ways that we remember them. While I have many of these kind of stories, I’m going to share one of my favourites with you.
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The sun was glaring off of the pavement in front of me as we walked, and I reminded my Dad that I didn’t have any sunscreen on. He assured me that it was fine, and that the walk wasn’t too long. A few minutes later, the building was looming in front of us and I found myself wishing we were staying outside, sunburn or not.
“I don’t think I’m allowed in there.” I said.
My Dad laughed. “The rules are different here Lil, and there’s nowhere else to watch the game anyways.”
As we walked through the door, the dingy smell of worn-out leather seats and spilled beer hit me. I grabbed my Dads hand, taking in my surroundings as we headed towards the bar. The sound of laughter blended with the music, and middle-aged men jostled around me on their way to grab pints at the bar before heading to booths throughout the room. Nobody seemed very surprised to see me there.
“Crown please,” My Dad said to the bartender, who smiled down at me. “And apple juice for her.” The bartender handed me the juice in a pint glass like my Dads beer, and everyone at the bar laughed and raised their drinks to me.
“Dusty! Lilly!” Someone was calling out to us and I turned to the voices, noticing several familiar faces sitting at tables close to the TVs. I made my way towards them as my Dad chatted to some guys at the bar, walking carefully with two hands on my glass so that I didn’t spill my juice.
My uncle grabbed it from me and placed it on the table, picking me up next and setting me on a stool. It was almost taller than I was. “Lil! You drinking a beer or what?” He squeezed my shoulder and laughed. I giggled, realizing what the juice looked like. My Dad came over to the table, slapped my uncle on the back and told me that the game was about to start. I realized I was missing something.
“You got my snacks?” I asked, all business. He handed me a top deck chocolate bar and a bag of twizzlers, both of which are practically considered illegal contraband in my Mum’s eyes. I knew I needed to pace myself with the twizzlers; it was my last pack and we weren’t heading back to Canada for another month.
Suddenly, the music cut out and everyone groaned. The bartender yelled apologies, telling everyone that game commentary was being played aloud by special request of the “Canadians.” I took a swig of the juice, and set my sights on the TV ahead of me. This was what we came for, the best part of every four years. The Winter Olympics. The players hit the ice, and as always, I was immediately mesmerized by the white and red jerseys. The game started, and I completely forgot that I was an eight year old in an Australian bar.
Works Cited
Weintraub, Pamela. “At Home in the Liminal World.” Nautilus. 19 Dec. 2013. http://nautil.us/issue/8/home/at-home-in-the-liminal-world. 28 Jan. 2020.
McAndrew, Frank. “Home Is Where the Heart Is, but Where Is ‘Home’?” Psychology Today. 03 Aug. 2015. Web. https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/out-the-ooze/201508/home-is-where-the-heart-is-where-is-home. 28 Jan. 2020.
