My family always embraced the “Five Year Plan.” We were only going to stay in the US for five years, then we would escape back to our real home. New Jersey was only temporary, a little sojourn on the way back to kangaroos and beaches. Eventually the plan was extended for two years; it made sense to wait until the eldest child finished high school, he would then lead the exodus. Then another five year plan was put in place, only a minor delay to wait for the next child to graduate. Extensions amounted, 16 years had past, and suddenly things had become too complicated for a five year plan.
Within the walls of 36 Molasses Hill Road, there was little doubt about where cultural allegiances rested. You spoke with an accent, ate a Vegemite sandwich for lunch, never asked for a sweater ‑ your drawers only held jumpers. It was never discussed, never explicitly stated, but every Rugg knew he or she was Australian.
Yet, I went to an American school and had American friends. Friends I spoke to with an American inflection about “America’s Next Top Model.” I could recite all the Presidents, and maybe three Prime Ministers? I knew the past five Super Bowl winners, but struggled to explain the rules of cricket. While my house was a little piece of Australia, at least half of my experiences, and subsequent knowledge, occurred outside that Aussie territory.
My older sister, Libby, had a similar circumstance as me: her accent changed depending on the listener, and her history of the Commonwealth was a little shaky. Yet, she had an extra five years to develop memories and love for our motherland. She can recall walks in the bush, the smell of fresh Oatley Oven’s pies, the distinctive call of the country’s native birds. Unlike me, she had a concrete sense of what her American life was missing.
Ten years old when he moved, my brother fought to preserve his national identity. Almost every day during his first year in NJ schools, he proudly wore an Australian themed shirt. Never once did he say, “mom” instead of “mum,” or god forbid did he pronounce “car” like a real Jerseyite. Peter had a choice once he finished high school: Rutgers or Sydney Uni. It was an enormous decision for him, ultimately choosing allegiance. It was a decision that would have great implications for the rest of the family. By choosing to go across the Pacific, he ensured the rest of us would follow in due time. When it was Libby’s turn, she didn’t open a single brochure the College Board sent. She was joining her brother in the setting of their first memories.
While my siblings relied on their childhood, I had two weeks each year in Australia to embrace the country for which I was meant to yearn. These were hectic trips specifically designed so I could see every person interested in how tall I had grown (usually very), and what sports I play (usually none). I loved these trips, but they were exhausting; trying to cram a year’s worth of family fun into a few days was overwhelming.
So with a hybrid cultural identity, I believed normal was having two separate speaking voices, having half a world between my extended family and I, and having a perpetual five year plan. While this normal was comforting and uniquely my own, it had an expiration date. It could not continue; at some point the five year plan had to end and I had a decision to make.
It would have been easier just to go along with the proposal my family had laid out in front of me: graduate high school then go to Sydney University. All the tests and AP classes I took were to help me get to that point. I was expected to go to the school of my father, mother, brother, and sister. I was expected to return to Australia. But, by September of my senior year I wasn’t sure I could follow through with this expectation.
It is still difficult for me to articulate how I came to this decision. While I identified myself as Australian, I was clearly at home in America. This was what I knew, where I was comfortable. I couldn’t picture myself living in Sydney, I couldn’t see it as a smooth transition; I knew so little. With my newly acquired duel citizenship, it finally felt acceptable to belong to both countries, and that I may find a future in this one.
This did not come to me in some epiphany, in fact I don’t remember exactly when I decided this, just that it happened. This should have been some awakening where I discovered myself, but it actually scared me more than anything. Most of my actions were driven by what would please others, and this was certainly not what my parents wanted. When I first informed them I would be looking at schools on this continent, I doubt they believed I would actually stay in the US. It felt like they were just humoring me; if they took me on a few trips, helped me write a few essays, I would eventually come to my senses. While I truly believed staying was the best option, it took me a long time to actually say it aloud, until then I was always just “looking at all my options."
Leaving or staying terrified me equally. I would love to live near my family, but would I ever feel fully Australian? What happens when my parents finally retire back to their original home? It was a decision that felt beyond my years, it was the first time I had to choose something for myself. All I wanted was to be able to look five years into the future to see where both paths would take me. Not too much to ask, right?
In an attempt to get some perspective, I talked to a friend who had only immigrated to the States four years ago. Unlike me, Catherine had never considered going back to her motherland after she graduated. She clearly identified herself as British, yet didn’t feel she had to go back as soon as possible. Part was convenience, and part was she just wanted to experience more of America. She knew England would always be there waiting for her, she knew she was comfortable there, and she wanted to know she could be comfortable here as well. Because Catherine didn’t have the same cultural identity crisis as me, she didn’t feel the urgency to make a decision; she could be content in either place. She assured me my choice wouldn’t bind me to a country forever, yet I couldn’t shake the fear of the consequences of choosing one over the other.
The application process progressed and I had yet to admit to any one I really wanted to stay. Eventually, I received the big envelopes from all the potential colleges and these “options” I was supposedly just exploring were becoming very real, very fast. Most of my friends had been planning their college process for years. Actually, so had I, but my problem was I decided to abandon that initial strategy. So after quickly choosing where I might like to study for four years, I went through the agonizing process of proving my worth to these institutions. Then suddenly, I had three congratulatory letters and these “possibilities” were beginning to shape. This development made it feel like I could actually stay, I had a tangible reason to after all. While I was no where near deciding which US college I would attend, it became apparent, to me at least, I was staying.
Even as it became more clear to her I wasn’t going to Sydney, my mother continued to struggle with the inevitable. She finally agreed to at least a semester at a US college, but I had to apply to her alma mater just to be sure. While my mother’s previous family five year plans were flawed, her eldest two children completed their respective plans ‑ with only a few bumps ‑ beautifully. As prophesied, Peter became a lawyer, Libby a school teacher. On the other hand, my life was a little more difficult to predict. At different times I was to be a music teacher, art curator, writer, and speech pathologist. There may have been multiple iterations of my plan, but all of them involved my return to Aus. Once I made it clear I truly intended to stay Stateside, Mum admitted to never exactly knowing what I would do later in life, and had always worried she had kept me here for too long.
After struggling to get my parents on board, my next challenge was receiving the blessing from my siblings. My sister understood me well, and respected my choice, but Peter was difficult. Because my brother never accepted America as his home, he couldn’t comprehend why I would wanted to stay in the first place. The first time we discussed my change of plans, it was a crying, yelling disaster - that is on my end, he has the composure of a Sydney trained lawyer. I hated disappointing my brother, I knew he was anticipating a day all the Rugg children lived in the same country again. Going to school here meant at least another four years of once a year reunions.
I remember my brother telling me I could end up all by myself in America, a statement that brought up my biggest fear. Choosing to stay could isolate me from the rest of my family, I could curse myself to years of missing the family’s happiest, and saddest, moments. Struggling to justify this gave me a new appreciation for the past sixteen years of my parent’s lives. They missed sixteen years worth of celebrations, deaths, and births. No matter how many trips they managed to squeeze out of a few weeks vacation, it couldn’t make up for the lost time. If I were to accept my decision, I had to accept these inescapable absences.
One month into college, my feelings are still evolving. I am not entirely at peace with my decision, and I doubt I will be too soon. There will always be new challenges and difficulties to overcome, and one of the implications of staying has already shown up. Recently my parents were going to Australia for a routine visit, when a pair of family deaths made it anything but ordinary. Their trip was extended for a week, then prolonged again, with one more extension for good measure. So, I found myself having to deal with grief in a place that doesn’t yet feel like home, without any one that makes me feel like home. It was the first time my fear of isolation really hit me. This was supposed to be a time family comforts each other, yet I was 10,000 miles from another Rugg. I couldn’t help but feel selfish; choosing to stay in America for my own reasons, when I could have done what was expected and been sitting beside them. his was what I dreaded and knew would eventually happen, but I wish it didn’t have to be so soon. Yet, as difficult as this feeling still is, this is what I signed up for when I accepted my offer of admission.
I can’t help but question how my life would have been different if we never moved to the US, or if Peter hadn’t decided to go back to Sydney, or if one of those five year plans had panned out. I am sure my questioning is unhealthy, but I cannot resist. If any of these events had been different, maybe things would have been easier, maybe my life would fit into a nice plan. This is where I should say I wouldn’t change any thing for the world, or it all happened for a reason. But, it is too soon to know. Right now, I know that I am happy and I have been able to handle what life has thrown at me. However, I am hoping to have many more than eighteen years on earth, and I doubt the rest of them will coast along happily. All I can ask is that I can learn from the last problem, and deal with the next better. And if I am unhappy with my choice in any of the millions of decisions that rest before me, I have the courage to change.
Now that I have had to start deciding my future for myself, I begin to see the beauty of my mother’s five year plans. I wonder if she ever believed they would work, or if they were just a device to give the allusion of control in our lives. It gives some sense of direction, that we have a say in where we are headed. All the while, the universe around us changes, making the original plan futile. But, the wonderful thing about five year plans is that if one doesn’t come to fruition, there is another on deck, ready to take the last failure’s place. While five years is a little too ambitious for me now, my two year plan is in place and it lays out a nice course I can follow. Though if you were to ask me about this plan in a few months, I am sure it will have been altered many times. As my mother taught me, things can never stay the same, so your plan must be flexible.