Call Me. I’ll Tell You About the Schools.

At some point, wherever you land, you shift into an advisory role.

It’s not announced. One day you’re the new arrival, figuring out if it’s the red or green bin that needs your attention on a Tuesday. Then someone’s cousin’s friend is thinking about moving, and suddenly you’re on a video call explaining school zones to a stranger 6 hours behind you.

You see a domestic worker move in the background of the video with a handful of linen - warm from the iron they bought her. You think about Neliah. I miss Neliah more than I miss a cold Castle Light at Rockpool.

They all want to know the same things: schools, security, affordability. 

I did it too. I once jumped on a video call with a mate I hadn’t seen since I was 6. Maybe I missed him. Maybe I just wanted to know what I was in for.

And they all want to know the same thing underneath: is immigration hard?

When I moved to London at 19, it wasn’t. It was one of the easiest things I’ve ever done. I had a backpack, a job coaching sport at a school, a rugby club, a wicked-cool personality, a six-pack, and no one depending on me to know where anything was.

When I moved to Dubai at 25, that was easy too. I was just fatter but arguably funnier. It’s a trade-off. 

Maybe it was the fact that I knew these were temporary. A Mickey Mouse tattoo from a bubblegum wrapper.

Children change the maths. London was me and a carton of Benson and Hedges Ultra Mild. Dubai was me and a gym membership I never used. Perth is me, a wife, 2 kids, and a couple of unwanted car seats we picked up on the side of the road.

So when someone asks, “Is immigration hard?” I want to say: define hard.

Hard like teaching a four-year-old how to keep quiet during the morning news? Hard like bashing the steering wheel of your rented MG while the tears stream down your face? You’re parked outside your tiny rental house because you’re too embarassed for your family to see you like this. Hard because the people you work with are the worst humans you’ve ever worked with?

I do remember taking our daughter to her first day of school, and I couldn’t contain my emotions; I was welling up like the Trevi Fountain. My wife looked at me - she knew.

“Get a grip!” She spoke through her lips.

I walked outside onto another playground made of sand.

Maybe it’s hard like standing in Bunnings at 7 am on a Saturday, holding a sausage in bread, feeling a calm I can’t explain and a vague loyalty to a tradesman called Ian?

Nobody’s calling their child Ian anymore. Ian ruined it.

When a speculative immigrant calls, they're never really asking about schools, security or affordability. They're asking whether they'll still be themselves on the other side. Whether the kids will cope. Whether they will. Whether they’ll look back one day and decide it was the worst mistake of their lives.

I can’t answer that. So I tell them about the schools. 

I tell them that I haven’t settled on a beer brand yet, my way of saying that I’ve not really settled, maybe. 

I once spent forty minutes explaining the north and the south of the river. The man on the other end nodded the entire time. I don’t think he took any of it in. Neither did I. We were two men in different time zones, reassuring each other that the sun still comes up. 

I’ve started to notice what I’m doing, though. I give the same answers every time. The schools are fine. The safety is good. It’s expensive, but so is everywhere. I’ve said it so often it comes out in one breath, like a hostage statement.

Somewhere in the middle of one of these calls, I realised who I was actually talking to. The man I used to be. The one on a call with his mate, asking the questions he couldn't ask out loud. The ones about whether we'd made a mistake.

Will I make it?

I don’t know. I don’t know if I have. It’s still a rollercoaster.

When it’s you and the people who depend on you, it’s the hardest thing you’ll do. They didn’t pick it, they can’t leave a bad day behind, and they’re watching you to see whether it’s okay.

And it’s okay. I think.

In the meantime, if you’re thinking of moving, call me. I’ll tell you about the schools.