Wir Sind Australier
a short story based on the poem 'Be Good Little Migrant'
This assignment was writing short stories around Australian Identity based on themes and concepts from poems we studied in class. I cheated a little bit and adapted the story of my Opa (grandfather) based on the themes from the poem “Be Good Little Migrant” by Uyen Loewald. We also had to write this during an exam so this isn’t the exact version I submitted, and I must admit it’s not as good, but I hope you enjoy!
It was expected that Martin got sent home, he punched a kid after all. He knew the kid would cry, the wimp, and he knew the teacher would be angry with him. He just didn’t expect this sort of betrayal from his mother. She should’ve defended him instead she apologised profusely and ushered him to the car. Now he was stuck in his new room, the ceiling his only friend. The car ride home was a failed attempt at a punishment. The silence didn’t bother him anymore and gave him plenty of time to fume over the ridiculousness of the entire situation, as he had now.
Since moving from Hamburg a month ago, Martin had become the perfect son — a complete flip from the vibrant boy he had been in Germany. Quiet unless spoken too, obedient to a fault, polite in every sense of the word. At school he was no different. He tried to engage with the other children, but they all avoided him like the plague. It really wasn’t his fault when the “victim’s” face met his fist. He’d been called a Nazi of all things simply for asking if they wanted to play with his new football. Well, that and calling their sport fake-football but still.
“Martin! Komm hier jetz!” his mother called from the kitchen. This was about to be interesting. Begrudgingly, Martin vacated the safety of his room and trudged to the kitchen, expecting the lecture that was about to ensue. He knew they left Germany to start fresh, the war having destroyed their life there, and he was determined to not mess it up. He didn’t think he had but the scowl on his mother’s face said otherwise. His mother was always a formidable force in the home, her very presence commanding the room. Even now she was taking up her battle station over the stove, a familiar vinegary aroma filling the room.
She stood there expectantly, the only sounds being the sizzling bratwurst and bubbling sauerkraut.
“Can’t we eat something normal for once?” Martin groaned, eying the stove, “Like roast or lamb.” There was a flicker of hurt in his mother’s eyes when Martin didn’t apologise about the incident and then insulted her dinner, but he didn’t care. It didn’t matter that he loved Bratwurst or that it was the one thing consistent from home, he was Australian now and he needed to act like it. What would the kids at school think if they saw how they were at home. Martin didn’t even register his father coming home, lost in thought of the events of the day. The very events his mother was telling his father.
Suddenly Martin’s ears were introduced to a rage-filled flurry of German about how lucky they are and the importance of this second chance. Apparently, he did screw up that badly then. His father looked at him expectantly, oops.
“I’m sorry Father, I couldn’t understand you,” the boy said with newfound cockiness. Bad move. Red flooded his father’s face, and it was as if firework show had started. Hands were flying, saliva was flying, it was a miracle the dinner wasn’t flying. Every angry syllable accented about the importance of heritage and embracing culture, but Martin had a new culture to embrace now. One filled with meat pies and an odd version of football. One that made him fit in with his classmates and stop him being compared to those things.
Those things that ruined his life and his home. Those things that made him move to a place where he was outcast because those things gave all Germans a bad name. Those things that his parents were reminding him of. Those things he wanted to call his parents in this very moment when they were yelling at him without knowing what happened, when they were interfering with his choices and future. Anger built up inside him, vision going blurry, throat closing up.
“They called me a Nazi” a vulnerable voice whispered, every bit of pain from the past few years echoed in those 5 words. He couldn’t even look up at his parents at the confession, but he didn’t need to. His fath- his Vater kneeled before him, taking Martin’s small hand in his own. He wasn’t a Nazi, he knew that, but he was still German and nothing he could do would take that away. But punching a kid over it wasn’t helping him fit in, it was confirming their beliefs. They never said it would be easy to uproot their entire lives and move across the globe but it’s what they needed.
Just because he was in a new place didn’t mean he had to forget his past, and just because he was from somewhere else didn’t mean he couldn’t embrace a new culture. Yes, Martin knew they ate German; yes, Martin knew they spoke German; yes, Martin knew they were German. But they had a second chance – a chance to be Australian – and he wasn’t going to blow it.