“I’m afraid it says here you have unlawful status, sir. You’re unlawful.”
The voice on the end of the phone carried a note of sympathy, but was emphatic as a knee to the crotch.
But this couldn’t be right, could it?
I’d been a permanent resident in Australia for seven years, I was just calling the Department to get verification of that for some contract work at a university (a formality so long as the on-hold music could be endured) and now they’re pulling this unlawful line? Into what manner of Kafka-esque quagmire had I stumbled? What cryptic and unfounded accusation was this?
Then I remembered.
The overseas trip me and my beleaguered co-parent had taken to celebrate 10 years together and her birthday (ah sweet memory - 10 days child-free, 10 days that aged their grandparents by a decade).
Arriving back in Melbourne I was told that the visa to travel I never knew I needed had expired while we were away. The border officer on that occasion, like the voice on the phone, harmonising congenial and hardcase as he talked me through my transgression and dished me out a bridging visa.
“You must make sure, sir, and I can’t stress the importance of this enough, that you contact us within 30 days and let us know what steps you’ve taken to update your status.”
No problem. I was finally going to apply for my Australian citizenship anyway – this was extra incentive.
And that was, what, three months ago? The documentation, and phone number I was meant to call, nestled since at the back of my sock drawer.
Oh crap. I was unlawful.
This was all back in October 2014. I remember slipping on my arse on a shining, rainy Spring Street on being summoned to what was then the Department of Immigration and Border Protection to renew that visa to travel, and getting told how I’d have to keep my besmirched nose clean for four years straight before putting in for citizenship.
Now I’ve done my time. And in a spirit of new year get-up-and-go-dom (you really need to make the best of that stuff – it rarely lasts this far into January), I’ve decided to apply for that citizenship.
Eleven years a permanent resident now. Six prime ministers. About time I have my say in this mayhem and get my vote.
It’s hard to say what held me back from applying during the seven long years of residency that preceded my visa bungle. Maybe because residency, even the permanent kind, feels sort of passive. Citizenship calls for actively-seeking Aussieness, getting right on board.
I’ve only ever been an accidental Australian. The accident was that I met and fell in love with an Australian woman who two years later got kicked out of the UK on her own visa issue, whom I had to either follow back here, or lose. A happy accident, and an easy decision.
But go all the way, become a proper Australian, with the roo-festooned passport and all? Would I have to pronounce it yo-ghurt, pretend to like lamington, wear shorts with workboots?
Wrestling such dilemmas, plus the blissful drudgery of early parenthood, fuelled years of procrastination. Then, when I was at last ready to go the full Vegemite, don the figurative Akubra, bite the lamington-bullet and stake my claim to fair Australian advancement, the unlawful status chucked me a Warney-worthy googly.
But lucky old me. Lucky old, educated, Anglo me. Four years later, I still get to decide I’m good and ready to take my plunge, to tie my lucky flag to the lucky country’s mast.
Once I take my test, fill in my online form and pay my dues, I imagine my feet should barely touch the ground on the way to my citizenship ceremony.
It will be in a town hall. There will be other newbie Aussies. We will read whichever version of the “commitment pledge” we’ve chosen, before we shake a local bigwig’s hand, get handed a certificate and a gum sapling, mouth the national anthem and mooch off to take photos with whatever entourage we’ve managed to muster.
It shouldn’t hurt a bit.
Back in the DIBP, on that rainy October morning in 2014, I stood at the desk to renew my visa and gave my best Hugh Grant, all sheepish contrition, plummy vowels, silly old scatter-brained me. They couldn’t lift my “unlawful” label quickly enough.
I’d like to think they would have been just as easy on me, had I been in the same position - a resident de facto spouse who had broken their terms of stay and swerved across line lawful with only dopiness as an excuse - only from, let’s say Iran, Cambodia or Senegal, instead of England.
Yes, I’d really like to think so.
NITV presents a selection of dedicated programming, special events and news highlights with a focus on encouraging greater understanding of Indigenous Australian perspectives on 26 January. Join the conversation #AlwaysWasAlwaysWillBe.
