Up-rooted & Re-planted

The taxi was headed to my student accommodation building, and from there, it would take my twin brother to the airport, where he would leave for India. For the first time in my life, I would be alone; with my nearest family being over nine thousand kilometres away.

I knew that my brother would not want to say goodbye that evening. I knew that I couldn’t — I would miss him terribly. I knew that I could not know what my life would be like, and he was probably thinking the same. We had come to a common agreement, independently, that the best way to handle this separation would be to pretend it was not happening — no tears, no goodbye hugs, no comforting. The taxi pulled up, I stepped out and kept walking, up the stairwell, up three floors, down the corridor, and into my room; I shut the door behind me.

I remember, so vividly, the tidal wave of raw emotion that overcame me as I stared at my empty room.

Being a twin meant that for all my life, up to that point, I had someone to sleep next to, to quarrel with, and someone to talk to. But I was alone that night. A sheet-less beige mattress and white pillow lay on a bed to my left, an empty long shelf (that would become my desk) lined the wall to my right, and four unpacked suitcases were stacked at the foot of the bed. I had forgotten to get bed sheets and pillow covers, but it did not matter that night — I did not sleep.

All night, I lay on the carpet and stared at the ceiling, too fuelled to do anything other than to think — about what I had gotten myself into, about whether it was the right decision, and if it was too late to be contemplating whether it was the right decision! I had just turned nineteen, and was alone in a culture that was completely foreign to me. No amount of reading about Australia — her history, geography, slang, sporting culture — could ever prepare me for my life here; that preparation came by way of the amazing friends that I made that year, the friends that would become my family.

A few years later, I decided to become a residential pastoral carer and tutor at an international college. There, I saw myself in every kid that, for the first time in their lives, as adults, were trying to navigate the intricate social maze of friendship, alcohol, study, sex, health and everything in between. For all my time in Australia, that year was, by far, the most rewarding period of my life — a chance to give a little back in honour of those that gave to me.

Even today, when a song plays on the radio that I listened to then, I am transported back to that room, sitting on my desk, tuning my radio to 101.1 FM, and reading up on a lecture before attending, to maximise my chance of comprehending the strange accent that it was going to be delivered in.

I suppose you really need to be a teenager to allow the excitement within to drown out the fear that is never too far away.

Sixteen years after that taxi ride, I am home now, in Australia.