After travelling in New Zealand for a few days, I started to get a vague feeling of familiarity. It was a weird kind of feeling that wasn’t saying “I’ve been here before”, but more like “I’ve felt this way before”. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first, but after poking my head into a few of the many rugby shops in this country, I put two and two together. On the rack in one of these stores I noticed a t-shirt that said, “I cheer for only two teams, New Zealand and anyone who’s playing Australia”. There it was, staring back at me in 100% cotton, an explanation for this weird sensation. And it confirmed what I had been hearing in the media, the voices of the tour guides and locals in the pie shops - that despite their proximity, the Aussies and the Kiwis really don’t like to get along. Why this relationship seemed so familiar was that, in essence, New Zealand is the Canada to Australia’s United States. Thus, on the issue of national identity, New Zealand felt a lot like home!
It may, in fact, all stem from the vicious rugby rivalry. Actually, apart from the All Blacks and the America’s Cup the Kiwis don’t really match up, in size anyways, to their neighbour across the Tasman. And in that there is a common thread that links Canadians and Kiwis together. Both have larger dominant cultures on our borders. We are constantly and consistently confused for the other. We spend a lot of time explaining that we are not from the other place and why, in fact, we are better than that other place. We are often defined more by our geography than anything else and we are overjoyed when we beat our larger neighbor at anything. Even winning the recession seems like something worth back-slapping about.
In point of fact, during our time in Oz we have spent a lot of time trying not to be American. I would have to say that 9 times out of 10 an Aussie will assume we are from the States. And being Canadian and having had to deal with this all our lives, we usually smile, shake our head and politely say, "No, actually we’re from Canada”. Which usually gets one of the following responses: 1) A pause, then a brief look of confusion and then a shrug as if to say, “No matter, you’re all the same” 2) A pause, and then a knowing nod as if to say “Hey, then you’re alright – another mate from the colonies!” 3) A pause, then a look of concern and then something like “Mate, how cold’s it back home?” 4) A pause, then a look of genuine apology with something like “Sorry mate, I shouldn’t assume. That’s like assuming I’m from New Zealand.” And on that point, I would have to agree, it is like calling an Aussie a Kiwi or vice versa – and none of us, it seems, are all that crazy about it.
It would also seem that both Aussies and Kiwis have some sort of weird “hate on” for the States, or at least the idea of the U.S., though Mr. Obama seems to have lessened the fire, to a degree. So to be mistaken for an American in Australia is to incur the wrath or merely the hairy eyeball from many an Aussie who wonders why we’ve come. Of course, we all do this kind of “cultural profiling” all the time. Right now, somewhere in the “true north strong and free”, I'm sure some well-adjusted Canadians are persecuting some poor Aussie by insisting he eats kangaroo and wrestles crocodiles.
But in spite of my desire to set the citizenship record straight, there are times that I’m quite willing to run to the defence of the Americans. After all, we share the same continent and do tend to get painted with the same brush of distance-inspired ignorance. And while I might agree Americans can be loud or brash, I would also feel comfortable saying that compared to the Kiwis, Australians could be considered loud and brash, too. The point here is that we all get too much mileage and sanctimonious chest pumping out of repeating a few tired stereotypes often in the face of our own inner denial. For Canadians, that often plays out in a sort of “We’re not sure who we are, but at least we’re not American” approach to nation building. And I’ve been feeling that a bit around New Zealand as well. With so few people in such a small (or large) and remote country, perhaps it’s hard to confidently define oneself while looking “in”. Maybe we all need the big brother standing over us in order to chart a course based on nothing more than "not being like him”. Maybe that’s why in our travels around the South Island I can feel them “worrying” about what Australia thinks a bit too much.
The other night we were out for a drink with Lint’s cousin Sheila and her husband Andrew at a trendy bar in downtown Melbourne. After ordering our drinks we were accosted by a young woman from the table beside us. “F@#$!n Americans!” she drunkenly and jokingly slurred at us. Apparently, in her mind, she was the life of the party. She was actually pretty funny in terms of how drunk she was and how young and ignorant she was behaving. The minute we begged to differ and waved our Canadian passports in the air, all was forgiven. “Oh” she cooed, “I love Canadians!” After only 20 more magnificent minutes of her hilarious abuse, it came to pass that she was actually Kiwi! Thus her outburst against Americans started to make more sense – or at least more than she herself was capable of at that particular moment. In all of her self-conscious grappling for an identity, wherein she even admitted to moving away to “make it” in Australia, she could at least be safe in bashing the Americans – because after all we all “hate the Yanks!” I’m not sure why she thought we wanted to listen to her – maybe it was the vodka speaking or maybe the Kiwi saw Canuck as comrade. Regardless, she was thinking and drinking and worrying too much!
And I’m sorry, but I don’t hate the Yanks anymore than I do Kiwis or the Aussies or the Finns. Which is really to say, not at all. Sure, I didn’t much like their past president, don’t admire their health care or gun laws, and don’t really get “grits” - but I don’t hate Americans. And I spend a lot of time trying not to be one in Australia as much to merely educate people about recognizing the difference versus any real aversion to coming from Iowa. The lesson for me here and over there and everywhere is personal, slightly biblical and might go something like this: “Let he or she who lives in a perfect country, cast the first stone…and until then, get over yourselves!” Frankly, it’s all enough to make me just a little more proud when I utter the odd, “eh?”
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