A Moose in Tas

When your family decides to move half-way around the world, at fifteen, you simply do not understand the bigger implications. I was in love with the fact we were moving to Australia; I never anticipated the level of culture shock I did. Prior to this move, my family had moved once before, a mere eighteen months earlier from a small fishing town to an even smaller mill town. I was bursting out of the small-town life, and it was exciting.

In contrast to the excitement, there was much sadness at moving so far away from family and friends. When we moved, we knew we would be home at least once a year. That is it. Once a year. And I was only a teen, following along in the decisions of my parents…and it was taking me to Australia.

Once we arrived, we had a hotel arranged for us while we sorted out our housing. Our hotel room was nice, it was designed for living with an upstairs/downstairs area. The sleeping rooms were upstairs and the kitchen, eating and sitting room downstairs. It was an odd feeling living in a hotel, but we knew it was temporary and we enjoyed the various perks while available (aka room service).

Within a week after our arrival, I was to start school. I had left a small-town public high school where, in some classes, our teacher had no control or respect from the class to the top all girls private school (high Anglican) in the city. I had a full uniform, well multiple full uniforms – one for winter, one for summer, and our physical education uniform.

Prior to my first day, I had to acquire my uniform. My mum and I walked up to my school and on campus there was the school shop. This was my first glimpse of my new school life, and it was surreal. There were girls, all dressed the same, all relatively looking the same, laughing and talking and looking as though they were genuinely enjoying their school day.

We enter the store and my mum talks with the shop keeper. They go over my options and sizes, I am told to kneel on the floor as my skirt “must be one to two inches below” my knee. All in all, I left with two summer dresses, socks, and my straw hat to complete my summer uniform. I had a pair of track pants, a skirt (for sports??), a black cover-up to wear under my skirt to hide my underwear (what??), and a golf shirt for my physical education uniform. Cute. Classic cliché school uniform.

My winter uniform – I had a felt hat and gloves that I was told had to be worn in public at all times. I had my wool skirt (below my knees) and stockings, thick-ish do not see any hint of skin through them type of stockings, but for warmth on my bare legs during colder winter days. I had three Oxford white full dress shirts, with my maroon and white striped tie. This was to be my standard shirt until grade 12, at which time I was allowed to have a curved collar and a badge, no tie. I had a wool jumper that I was told would smell when it gets wet but to air it out over night (jumper is a sweater) and this was an optional layer for us Collegiate girls. Then came the wool maroon blazer, really quite formal and official. This item was to be worn at all times while out in public, but optional inside school grounds.

There were two more purchases my mum made – one was for a Japara, an Australian rain jacket, and my school bag (along with more instructions on how to properly carry said bag in public).

I left feeling overwhelmed and scared – what was my last few years of high school going to be like? I had left the safety and comfort of my friends, my culture, and my life and now, with all my gear for my new path, I was terrified. Well, not all my uniform. I still needed my sturdy and reliable brown shoes. Clark’s were shoes I had worn as a child, in matching dresses with my cousins. I remember a blue pair and a black pair. They had rounded toes, with a buckle (no laces) and pretty dots that maybe formed some form of floral pattern on them.

Our uniform standard shoes were Clark’s in a lace-up, brown. Plain. Simple. Sturdy. Practical.

These were to be my everyday, all day shoes. No more runners. No more colourful Chucks, no more Vans. Brown Clark’s. At least they were comfortable.

The shoes and tie were an addition to my wardrobe that connected me to my dad. As an adult reflecting back, I am fond of our moments of connection during my teen years – they were not often nor sought out when I was a teen, part of the phase. But once I had these items in my wardrobe, it was my dad who taught me proper care. The shoe polishing was fun, a mindless activity I would spend hours over the next three years doing. Our shoes had to be presentable, scuff-free, and polished regularly. All part of the look we presented to the public about “being put together and taking care of ourselves”.

Pride in appearance. Pride for the school we represented.

The sincerest memories are of my dad teaching me how to properly (and not-so-properly) tie my tie. I loved this part of my uniform, not sure why, but I did enjoy my button-up shirt and tie. I remember standing in front of the mirror with my tie hanging around my neck, obvious it is a foreign object with my hands holding either side trying to figure out what the heck I was supposed to do!

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Note:

For the youth of this generation who may read my story – this was in the days when the internet did not exist so I simply could not watch a You Tube video. I raise this because as I type my words about this time period, I can hear people frustratingly state, “why didn’t you just go on YouTube?”. I can relate –watching a horror movie and tension building with my words of, “don’t go outside, you know your going to die if you do!” Well, for anyone born after the 90s, my struggle was REAL!

~

I was also a teen. And how many of us, as teens, ask for help…do you ask for help now? I know I still struggle with it but am better. In that moment, I stared into this new me that was wearing clothes representing a uniform that identified to the city what school I was at, should my behaviour be inappropriate, I could be easily reported and subsequently reprimanded. This uniform symbolised the principles of my school, of which I was a member and must always be on my best behaviour and appropriately attired.

Beati Mundo Corte – blessed are those with pure heart (Matthew 5:8-10). This pin, the school pin, was on my left lapel of my blazer. I also had my house pin, and an anniversary pin special for the year I started. All of those I could figure out. I figured out the stockings, that I knew in time would drive me crazy and I wondered if I would go bare legged with socks in winter. The tie was breaking me, and my emotions were spiralling into a pit of failure.

As I felt resignation set in, my dad piped up and asked if I needed help. Please.

My dad came in behind me, and it was the first time I was aware that I was so much bigger than his little girl. I had grown and while I was still a half foot shorter than him, there was something about our images that reflected the change in me from young girl to young lady, more than my dad from young father to wiser father.

He was steady and took my tie, and I watched his hands show me how to tie a double knot. He explained how this was the proper way, more appropriate way, to tie a tie. We went through this several times until the tie was handed back to me and it was my turn. I don’t remember any of his words of instruction – I learned visually through watching his hands both in front of me and in the mirror. When we were both satisfied with my new ability, my dad kindly showed me the improper way to tie one’s tie…the single knot. Lazy and unprofessional are two words that left an impression upon me during that lesson. The last parting advice I received was to untie my tie every single time.

I stood and stared. My confusion had left. I was again confident in myself, in my uniform, and ready to see what my new school would bring. On Monday morning, I woke up with my dad and we started our morning routine. Another bonus about living in the hotel was my travel to school was a lovely walk through Salmanca Market, along treed streets, and through the heart of the city to my school. I would say no more than fifteen minutes walking, depending on my speed and whether I was more fascinated with my surroundings than the destination.

I went to the office, and I was met by Ms P. She was introduced as my “den mother”. I had never heard of a den mother, and as we walked, she told me that the school was divided into houses, she oversaw my house. I was to come to her if I had any questions, concerns, or needed to talk.

I knew switching from public school to private school would see some significant changes. I was most excited for the academic opportunity that would present itself in this educational setting. But the house system, that was completely foreign and unique. I was told that there was a “Head Prefect” who was the senior girl and her assistant, the “Deputy Head Prefect”. These two girls were also available to help me at any time. In that moment, I felt intimidation.

As her and I stood inside what was my homeroom for the remainder of my high school years, I had no confidence in myself that I would fit in or be accepted into this school. I was watching the girls bustle about, chatting and laughing, talking about school and their activities. And their language, while they were speaking English, was not easily understandable to my Canadian ears.

Then a bell, commotion, and Ms P’s voice above it all, “All right, good morning, girls. Attention please. Shush-shush. I need attention to me, please.” As the collective movement and shuffling of girls settled, I became aware that I was to be introduced and all eyes were already moving my way. Looking me over, assessing me, questioning me. I was as foreign to them as they were to me.

I was introduced, told I hailed from Canada, and then words of suggestion from den mother to help show me around and make me feel welcome. A circle of curious girls formed around me, and I felt myself sink further into my brand-new brown Clark shoes just wanting to avoid any direct attention to me. Impossible.

I ended up travelling with a group of girls from my year who were in my first class – social studies. I felt relieved as it was a subject I had a decent understanding of. Along the way, I was peppered with questions about America, actually. I soon became aware of the global perception about Canada, rather MISperception. There was an awareness of East (New York) and West (Los Angeles) and I know it was not out of ignorance, rather what we are taught and exposed to.

We arrived at my first class, the teacher acknowledged me, noted there was a quiz and suggested I attempt for her to gauge my level of knowledge on what we would be discussing next – politics. I did not mind, that is until the quiz was placed in front of me.

After reading the first few questions, one would think it was from an elementary school test – if I was back home, I would be able to get 100%. But I am not home in my own country; I am in a new country where my home is in a hotel and I am about to fail my first quiz. I felt heat from within, and I was missing home. I felt like a foreigner struggling without a home and not knowing where I belong.

The questions that brought these feelings up in me during that quiz: What is the capital of Australia? Who is our Prime Minister? What is our National Anthem? (Sadly, I very confidentially and seriously answered “Waltzing Matilda” to which of course, that is NOT their anthem.)

The questions about parliamentary systems, democracy and head of state matters I could answer more easily as they are similar between the two countries. Anything specifically Australian I had no answer as I had no knowledge. It was discouraging to start my new school life by failing this quiz. I did receive encouragement from both peers and teacher that I was not expected to know any of these answers, but inwardly, I felt ignorant.

I had been excited to move to this country and I did not take any time to research or investigate the country I was moving to. Why would I? I was a teen, I tried not to be hard on myself. But failure is failure. And that is how my all-girls private school journey began when I was fifteen, grade ten.

As I moved through that first day, I did enjoy the uniformity of us girls. While I had left my home and was living out of a hotel during this transition period, there was something safe and collective about our uniforms. About belonging. Community. Connection.

My mood cheered up as I progressed through the variety of courses I was to be taking for the year: French, English, Science, Maths, Socials, PE, Music, Religious Studies. The academic potential of this school and my desire to learn and absorb made it exciting. And while I never professed to be an athlete, there were two sports I enjoyed playing and had been on teams – volleyball and basketball. But there was no basketball. I learned in Physical Education, we covered a whole array of different sports including netball and field hockey. The latter terrified me. A contact sport and an awkward, uncoordinated me…a recipe for disaster as I saw it. There was volleyball and there was swimming – and I had my two sports.

From the first day I was at my school, I was introduced as a foreigner (a “Canadian”) and that label and feeling stayed with me throughout my high school years. In the first year, there was not only the fact that our accents and tonalities were different, but that we used exact same words with completely different meanings.

My biggest social faux pas happened in our homeroom within a month or two of me arriving. Our den was full of girls going about their day; a loud bustle but you were able to hear your friends in your own conversation. I had formed friendships and was part of friendship circles for my year. On this particular morning, I was near my locker and one of my mates asked me to get something for her. I commented for her to “get off your fanny and get it yourself” hahaha. I was light-hearted in my response.

“What did you just say to me?” came a harsh and loud tone from behind me. I spun around and saw her standing, as she had risen from her seated position on the bench. She was pissed! I repeated what I said, and then another girl piped in and asked me what “fanny” meant for me. “Ass, or bum, to be more polite.” Many eyes were staring at us and there was a general hush about the room. “Have you heard of a fanny pack?”

Her anger falls away and she looks confused.

“What does fanny mean here?”

“The ‘c’ word.”

I learned “fanny” is incredibly offensive in Australia…I do not use this word even now that I am home in Canada.

I looked around at the sea of girls who would of course take offense to me dropping the ‘c’ word. I apologised and said back home it means bum, as in get off your butt and get it yourself.

After that incident, I managed to learn their jargon, their language nuances through friends who knew I meant no harm nor offense. That girl remained one of my strongest friends during my years at Collegiate, thank you, B.

And overall, as I accepted “school life” and “school rules”, the uniform became easier and a symbol of pride for me. By the time I matriculated, I did feel like an ambassador for the school and was proud to uphold its image with honour and integrity. I had the best of both worlds because once we were outside our uniforms, we were just teens enjoying life through road trips, friendships, and belonging. Underneath our clothes or colour of our skin, we were just teenage girls…I had found where I belonged and fit in. Until university, that is!