Identity is not nationalism - how to be yourself

Things I’ve learnt from my research:

National identity: is in danger of developing into politically imposed nationalism which, history shows, has always had destructive consequences for humanity.

Dual citizenship: In today’s newspaper The Age, Hugh Morgan said that dual citizenship was a form of bipolar mental disease and that you should hand in your passport if you have dual citizenship in Australia. Does that mean he won’t tolerate people with mental illness either?

Citizenship: Morgan said this is one of the most important elements of personal identity and the survival of Australia as a nation. I agree but not nationalistic citizenship. I favour a new kind of democratic world citizenship where we participate as citizens of the planet in caring for our place and all of humanity.

Mushy misguided multiculturalism: is what the Australian treasurer Peter Costello thinks having multiple identities amounts to. I think he is the mushy, misguided one.

Diversity in personal identity: For the first time in history more people are relating to others who are different and in different places on an unprecedented scale. Our kids are becoming ‘world kids’ who experience immensely creative forms of localised identity alongside trends of incredible sameness in world music, world cuisine, clothing, and movies on the internet. They need bilingualism and intercultural skills for global participation where they are experiencing myriad forms of cultural hybridity and vast intercultural experimentation. They travel. They talk on the net. Immigrant children who live in bilingual communities have an advantage. Languages have become the new ‘cultural capital.’

Identity formation: is adaptation. Humans are good at this. I encourage people to develop multiple emerging identities based on where they came from, who they are now and where they want to go. It’s better to be true to all the myriad elements of yourself than to suppress parts of your heritage as was the case during the assimilation years. Of course, it’s easier if you are part of a like-minded community or if you can find, or even create a meaningful community to be part of. It could be the local golf club or even your blogging community.

Like-minded networks: These days a network of shared interests is a community. You no longer have to all live in the same village. We live in a very exciting time where we move around fast and interact with lots of different people. Diversity rules, not sameness.

Speaking up: and speaking the truth are very important skills to develop. It’s about being honest and open, being yourself.

Diplomacy: Speaking with diplomacy is another skill that Morgan and Costello both lack because they talk in hidden agendas that hurt, belittle and manipulate other people for their own ends. Diplomacy does not mean confounding your listener with false loyalties or sugar-coating the subject. No, diplomacy means treating the others with honesty and compassion. When we speak up we ought to show genuine concern and compassion for the other whilst speaking what we believe to be the truth. If your intention is good, you'll find the right way to do it. Like all other things, it comes with practice.


Motto for the day: Compassion comes first, then world citizenship has a chance.

It was wrong to never come first

My data analyis: The story of postwar European immigrants is emerging nicely through my interview data.

My aha experience: Forgotten memories of the past are resurfacing as I work through the hardships of the postwar assimilation years.

From my collection of op-shop stories:
She was much fitter than all the other kids but she didn’t know it. They didn’t have to walk to school for several hours every day from an outlying farm. She didn’t like to attract attention. Just follow the rules. Do whatever the teachers say. That’s the best way to fit in. Don’t talk. Do your work. “We have to fit in,” her family said at home.

She never smiled although she didn’t know that either. When she carefully obeyed the instructions of the school photographer the others said, ‘Why aren’t you smiling?” But she was, inside somewhere.

The interschool races were held on the oval at the end of the sleepy township away from the school. The Grade Oners lined up to race. It was too far, right across the oval, she thought. Too far for her age group. “Run as fast as you can,” was the teacher’s instruction, “as fast as you can.”

She never thought about being the asthma baby of the class. She didn’t know what it was like not to be sick. Better not to make a fuss about it. Better not stand out. She knew she was different, not like them. Hers was a migrant family coming out of the wartime internment camp. That seemed normal. Her parents were accidental immigrants not like the Brits who had special accommodation and still complained. She walked to the shops with her mother every week, even further than the school. Poverty meant no toys and no lollies. Sometimes she ran with her older brother to play under the pine trees at the top of the farm. “That’s exactly one mile,” her mother said.

The gun shot exploded and the kids took off. It frightened her. She didn’t know what to do. “Run! Run as fast as you can,” yelled the teachers. So that’s what she did till she caught up with the pack. Run as fast as you can, she thought. She always did what she was told. Quietly, not to attract attention. Soon she wasn’t running with the pack any more. She was running on her own. Where did they all go? Better keep running, as fast as you can, she thought.

Then a fear gripped her, worse than the fear her mother felt when she dreamt of the war years she left behind. They were behind her. She was way ahead of the pack, tearing out in front of them across the green, when she saw the ribbon. Two teachers were holding the ribbon taut ahead of her. Suddenly she understood. The winner runs through the ribbon. “That’s it! Run!” they yelled. The winner would get all the attention. That’s not how to fit in.

She wasn’t even tired but she slowed her pace till the pack caught up with her, till she was at the back of the pack. Somebody else won the race. Someone she didn’t know. The teachers were dumbfounded, “What happened? Why did you stop running?” Too much attention, she thought. She had just learnt the most important lesson of her life. If she was to do well at school, never come first. And more importantly, don’t ever let them know you can.

My motto: It takes a lifetime to recover from old hurts, but all's well that heals well.

Perfectly good material

My day job: The data analysis of my 67 interviews is telling a great story of immigrants and their offspring. The 80-and-90-year-olds paint a rich picture of postwar immigrants. Their dilemma was deciding what bits of their culture and language to actually give up so their children could fit in – a story of lost hopes and dreams. The 60-and-70-year-olds have a slightly different perspective and still fit into both the old and the new worlds – true intercultural beings. Their dilemma was pretending that they had given up the old world and keeping up that facade. The 40-and-50-year-olds have taken on the burden of the first generation and were left with the pain of an incomplete sense of self, with damaged intercultural skills. Some revived these, other couldn’t but never felt quite whole.

What I’m reading: Zits cartoons by Jerry Scott and Jim Borgman. I love their character 15 year old Jeremy.
Have a look
Zits comics

What Jeremy said: (to his dad who was just going to tell something funny that happened in the office) Dad! Stop! I just hate to see a person waste perfectly good blog material by describing his life experiences out loud.

Analysis shock

Just like life: My thesis is a microcosm of life. Every time I complete a major chapter I think I have completed the main part of the study only to find out an even bigger hurdle is yet to come.

Main workload done: My field work data is gathered and transcribed, my methodology and literature review (background theory) chapters are written except for a few edits.

Shock-horror aha experience: I’m onto analysing and writing up my interview and participant-observation data. I thought I could do this section reasonably quickly. I’m horror-struck. It’s almost as much work as all the cumulative work I’ve done so far.

My new day job: Having fun with my daughter. Today we’re going to watch a re-run of Corpse Bride – Johnny Depp we love you.

What I’ll do next: Walk in the morning; analyse data for the rest of the day; read at night.

My motto: Shrink the body, expand the mind.

Lovely data not lovely legs

The stage I’m up to in my thesis: I’ve submitted a partial draft of 'Chapter 4: Analysis' to my supervisor. I’m on the home run.
What my supervisor said: You have lovely data.
What I thought: That’s the ultimate compliment for a thesis writer. It’s better than ‘you have lovely legs’ or ‘lovely eyes’. At last I’ve won her approval again.
What I told my muse: My writing progress is slow but I know the quality is good. My existence meanders between two dreams, the life of my thesis and the life at my home with my beloveds.
What else my supervisor said: Tell the story in your Analysis Chapter through the characters. Tell a story, not a diatribe.
What I said: She’s right. That’s how I learn about life, from other people. That’s how I’ll build the themes in my latest chapter. For so long I was lost in sociology theories and academic research. I’ll let my research participants tell the story through their comments. It’s so easy. I’ll be their scribe.
What my daughter said: How do you like your new blog-look?
What I said to her: I love what you’ve done. You brightened my life. You are my inspiration. Thanks a million my darling.
What my muse said: Wait and see how your blog-buddies' retinas cope with a pink-stripey-background. Obviously teenage-power copes just fine.

Under construction

Still under construction. Homework and mother-daughter conflict are slowing us down. At least we're getting lots of bonding time.

Work in Progress

My daughter is giving my blog a makeover.
We don't agree on everything. Sometimes we don't agree on anything but she's trying to give me what I want.
If it was up to her it would be black, purple and hot pink.
A bit too much for me. Possibly she knows best.