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Where are you from? Its a question that people often ask, but its one that I find difficult to answer. My birth certificate states that I was born in England but the only time I really lived in the UK was when I was a baby. My citizenship certificate declares me to be Australian and while its an identity I now proudly claim, it doesn't actually explain where I am originally from. The more complicated answer, the answer my heart often wants to give, is that I am from Papua New Guinea or PNG for short.
I was eighteen months when my family moved to live in PNG. My Dad mostly worked as a plantation manager, overseeing the production of things like cocoa and cocoanut. When I was six we moved to the Duke of York Islands, a cluster of tiny coral islands in the north east of PNG. The islands are visually stunning: cocoanut palms overhang white sandy beaches and colourful fish and coral can be found just beneath the surface of the crystal clear ocean. They were also a place of endless freedom for my sister and I. There were endless trees to climb, and beaches to explore, and after a few hours of home schooling each morning, we roomed free with the local kids. We didn't speak any of the local dialects but were fluent enough in Pigeon English to communicate freely and develop a number of close friendships.
Life as I knew it stopped when my family immigrated to Australia just before my eleventh birthday. To say I experienced culture shock was a huge understatement. I was completely disorientated and lacked the ability to articulate how I felt. In my pain I buried that which was most precious to me. I told my new Aussie friends that I came from England and conveniently left out the part about living in PNG my whole life. Doing so allowed me to avoid having to answer any painful questions about my childhood, and protected my memories from all intrusions. At the same time it denied me an opportunity to celebrate the joys of my childhood, and to name and grieve, all the things I'd lost.
It took at least ten years before I found my bearings in Australia and possibly longer before I found a place that felt like home. (Not surprisingly, moving to the Coast helped a lot!) I now love that I get to raise my family in this beautiful, safe, generous country. However, as I have became more established in Australia, I have also found it important to give a voice to my younger self, to acknowledge the place I still deeply love, and to express how profoundly lost I felt when we left. This poem is what I would have said as a teenager, had I been able to speak my truth at the time.
The Legal Trespasser
by Hannah Cox
I never wanted to come here.
To leave behind the life I love
and become a legal trespasser in a strange land.
But in the tropics my pale skin betrayed me,
announcing my status as an imposter
before I could make my heart’s allegiance known.
It saw me expelled;
sent far away from steaming jungles,
colourful coral islands
and palm trees
that danced and swayed, and dropped
their heavy fruit to the ground
with a thud.
So here I am. An exile
in this barren land
of howling wind and sticky red dust
which coats my existence with a crimson film.
Once the sweetness of mangos filled my mouth,
now there is only dirt:
the crunching of grit between clenched teeth,
the saltiness of tears not permitted to fall.
The language which once danced on my tongue is silent and still
as magical words slowly slide into the dark
and are forgotten.
Freedoms of running barefoot
in lush green forests have been replaced
by square concrete buildings, navy blue ties,
and neat white socks.
I ache for all I left behind,
for relief from rub of unfamiliarity
that leaves my heart blistered and bruised.
I search in vain for something
I can anchor myself to,
a way to find my place in this land.
But all I can see is grey grass
bleached dry by an unrelenting sun,
and oases
shimmering on the bitumen,
promising hope
which doesn’t exist.
Image from Unsplash by Rowan Heuvel
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