You’re Not My Real Dad
Embracing diversity has always been important in my family. As a sprightly young tyke, I was forever being encouraged to adopt the rich tapestry of customs offered by the many cultures among us. When Mum got wind of an overseas cultural exchange program operating from my senior high school, she all but sold the house to pay for my seat on the jumbo. An optimist would interpret this as Mum wanting only to further my education and understanding of the world at large. As a realist, I believe she simply wanted a few weeks alone with the G and T.
My trip comprised two weeks in America with a host family from Seattle, who were given the responsibility of ensuring their temporary teen received a hefty dose of all-American cultural contentment. Seattle, they claimed, ‘isn’t just the home of grunge and Nirvana’. They’re quite right. It’s also the serial killer capital of the world.
The other students and I arrived in America and each received our itinerary, informing us we’d attend our allocated school in Lake Washington the next day to meet our host family. The school was more like a maternity ward. It even had a crèche built on-site for those eager teens getting an early start on parenthood. It was quite captivating watching them arrive at school – seeing mothers drop off their children, who then dropped off their own children, like a promiscuous version of babushka dolls.
Let me say right off the bat that my temporary family didn’t much like me. I’ve never been one to pick up on subtle hints, but when your host family from Seattle contacts the school and tries to swap their new arrival, it’s hard to feel welcome. That’s right, my family tried to swap me.
It turns out they didn’t think I was ‘Aussie’ enough for them. Before we left, we were asked to provide our host families with a photo of our good selves. I thought I’d be charming and so I sent them a photo of me feeding a kangaroo. When I arrived, a man holding a sign with my name on it greeted me. I approached him and said, ‘Hello, I’m Daniel.’ He stepped back and said, ‘Oh, you’re Daniel? We were expecting a proper Aussie.’ For a moment, I thought, ‘Oh shit… maybe they thought I was the kangaroo.’
What they had hoped for was a tanned, fit young lad with blonde hair and blue eyes, and not the hideous, pasty loaf with brown hair they encountered. Where’s Oskar Schindler when you need him? Their request was denied and I remained there for the duration of my trip. Unwanted Australian – 1; ungrateful American family – 0.
Needless to say, the next week and a bit proved to be tense. Despite this, I wasn’t going to let my ‘cultural enrichment’ be compromised by the race-based disappointment of the ‘Hitlers’. So I marched on… What a brave little soldier.
A week and a half into the trip, an American girl I had befriended asked if I’d like to see a movie with her. Finally, things seemed to be going well. Two hours of a shit movie and awkward flirting passed, and I genuinely thought there was a chance of a kiss. As I leaned in and puckered up, my fair lady pulled away at the last minute and insisted we put our hands over our lips so they didn’t actually have to touch. Basically, our first and only kiss was a high five.
Humiliation, rejection and general failure aside, I approached the final day of the trip with gusto. I packed my bags and looked forward to going home. It was time to say goodbye to the Hitlers.
As a sign of their sincerity and warmth, the other host families drove their adequately Aussie kids to the designated meeting place, where we’d catch our final bus to the airport. The Hitlers simply gave me bus money and sent me on my way. I kept the money, and hitched a lift with another student and his seemingly normal family. Unwanted Australian – 2; ungrateful American family – 0.
Mum met me with open arms at the airport back in Sydney. It felt nice. She asked me what I’d learned from my cross-Atlantic cultural tour. I told her Seattle isn’t just the home of grunge and Nirvana, it’s also the serial killer capital of the world.
‘Sounds a bit weird to me,’ Mum said… You have no idea.
Daniel Moore is a Melbourne-based writer and comedian who runs a weekly comedy room called ‘A Mic in Hand’, on Smith Street, Fitzroy, Melbourne, Thursdays from 8pm. Visit his website.
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