International Arrivals

Today is Australia Day. There is a lot of controversy in this country about whether we should celebrate our nationhood on the 26th of January as it is in fact the day Europeans invaded a country that belonged to the indigenous people, decimating and dispossessing the population. Aboriginal people call this ‘Invasion Day’, ‘Day of Mourning’, ‘Survival Day, and in the last few years ‘Aboriginal Sovereignty Day’. It is a commemoration of deep loss.

Aboriginal woman Professor Jakelin Troy is the Director of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Research at the University of Sydney. “We shouldn’t have to be marching and protesting and making big political commentaries in order to get recognition – that should be built into this day,” she says. “There should be, in all the advertising that goes out about Australia Day… it shouldn’t be this frivolous, frothy sort of stuff about barbeques and coloured towels and spending the day at the beach. It should be, you know what does Australia Day mean for all Australians?” [From Creative Spirits]

In that spirit, I’m sharing what Australia means to my family. Everyone who has emigrated here has a personal story. My parents and three older sisters escaped from Communist Yugoslavia, and, via the Catholic Church in Austria, were accepted as refugees into this country. Australia, to them, meant freedom. It also meant that they felt fortunate enough to have one more child. If they had not immigrated here, I may have never been born!

The photo above shows them arriving in Melbourne in 1969 via a domestic airline, most likely from Sydney; probably my uncle who was already living here took the photo.

Yes, there are tragic things that happened in the past, which are difficult if not impossible to atone, but here and now I personally am grateful that I can call Australia home.  

Garden Party

On a warm day in October 2004, I took my mum to the botanic gardens near my home for lunch to celebrate her birthday. Mum is wearing her sensible shades of brown, but I am dressed rather more flamboyantly.

My outfit has a Fifties flavour, owed to the trifecta of hat, scarf and capris. I wore the enormous cartwheel hat by Mimco to protect my delicate complexion; a black tank (since worn out); denim capris (ditto); green suede sandals with grosgrain ribbon ties by Country Road (also departed for the place that beloved shoes go when they die – the trash); a tomato-red, reptile-embossed, patent leather purse by Oroton (tragically RUINED long before its due date by an unfortunate babaganoush incident at a picnic); and a silver sequin scarf still in circulation.

I adored that purse that looked like an envelope. It had a wrist strap which made it so convenient. It has become my Holy Grail of purses, but I have never seen its like since. For a long time after the tragic accident, I trawled eBay for a new one, but I never found one. (Although this one would not be a bad replacement!)

On the other hand (or head), the fabric hat was an investment that has served me well for more than a decade, even travelling with me overseas, for it is completely uncrushable and can be easily folded up and stashed in a suitcase. People always compliment it when I wear it.

The funny thing is though since I’ve segued back into minimalism (somewhat), I’ve discovered a new-found liking for neutral shades of brown. It used to be my most hated colour. Maybe it’s true what they say – I’m really turning into my mother!?

Girls in Pastel

Here is my family, recently immigrated to Australia, going by the age of my next-oldest sister, Star, the baby in the photo. Innocent pastels were clearly in fashion for young girls at the end of the 60s, for there are my sisters wearing pale pink florals, and blue with white, and white bobby socks with white shoes – quite reminiscent of the Regency period in English fashion. Don’t they look sweet? New country, new clothes.

The Purple Dresses

Yesterday I revealed that my mum’s favourite colour is purple. Today I bring you proof. But there is much gold in these pictures too. Observe:

There is a heavy influence of Victoriana in the wedding photo above. It is my sister Serena’s wedding, and I am about eight or nine years old. I am wearing the reviled purple dress. I hated everything about it: the high neck, the long sleeves, the elasticised waist, the colour, the fabric. To this day I remember the itchiness of it, and I suspect it was made from acrylic crepe. I felt Dowdy. Even my tragic expression seems to presage at least a decade of unremitting, unrepentant purple-hating. However, the tall black leather boots are cool. (I looked way cuter in this wedding outfit [second photo].)

… my tragic expression seems to presage at least a decade of unremitting, unrepentant purple-hating

My sister Blossom, on far left is wearing oxblood velvet with a white lace jabot! And bridesmaid Star next to her is in a shade of light mauve. Her dress also features Victoriana style with that lace yoke and bishop sleeves. Mum is letting the side down and wearing neutral grey. Then there is the bride, Serena in a high-necked gown covered with lace, and … I am not sure what length to call those lace sleeves. They are between short and three-quarter. But – heaven! A bridal gown that is not a strapless princess line! Praise be. (Oh and that’s dad on the end, which you probably guessed.) But you can see mum’s influence at work here, right?

Here is my sister Serena as a young teen in the early 1970s, wearing a purple mini with bishop chiffon sleeves – a classic style from that era. Far more awesome than the purple dress mum inflicted on me.

And the pièce de la résistance: my mum in a glorious royal purple velvet gown, featuring pussy bow and matching bolero with flared lapels. I am sad to report that this garment has long since been removed from the confines of her closet, or I would undoubtedly have modelled it already on these pages. (Although perhaps I would have been tempted to turn that dress into a maxi skirt.)

I truly was born to the purple. 

Note: I have colour corrected these photographs – the originals have faded a lot, but I thought I should be fair and let you see these dresses as they were in their heydey.

So Not A Princess

This picture makes me chuckle, firstly for the way that everyone is lined up hard against the garage to soak up the last rays of the afternoon sun, and secondly, because it is so very Seventies. There are minis and maxis, wild florals, stripes, and flares, and stockings worn with sandals.

I am flanked by mum on the right, and my sister Serena on my left, and I guess I must be around four. The garage is so very new the photo must have been taken shortly after our family home was built.

I am delighted to see that even when I was so little I liked clashing colours and breaking rules – I am wearing pink and red together (I loved red shoes even back then), although perhaps my mum or one of my older sisters dressed me. I think the pleated dress was polka-dotted. I really dislike Peter Pan collars on adult clothing though – way too childish in my book. But look – I did approve of socks worn with sandals then!

I don’t remember being very fussy about clothing when I was little …

I don’t remember being very fussy about clothing when I was little, except that I deeply and passionately loathed purple (my mum’s favourite colour), and recall once wanting to play outside in the middle of winter wearing only a dress. Mum forbade this excessively risky behaviour and said I could wear my dress if I wore trousers underneath. This was such a shocking and horrifying suggestion I refused to go outside at all rather than court public humiliation. Now such an ensemble is quite acceptable, if no longer at the height of fashion as it was a few years ago.

I also hated this hairstyle (inflicted on me by a well-meaning relative) because it made me look like a boy. I remember – when I first understood the difference between the sexes – being quite, quite satisfied that I was a girl. The boyish haircut possibly explains the extreme girliness of my outfit, for I never was prissy at all. I liked to run, and climb trees and roofs; I always had bruises on the legs …

Still the case (even the bruises, although they’re more likely due to martial arts these days rather than climbing trees) – this blog is called So Not a Princess after all.