Jenny Bloomfield
I was 12 when my parents told me we were moving to Australia. I was ecstatic. It felt like a dream finally coming true.
My mother’s brother had migrated under the assisted passage scheme in the early 1960s; her mother and sister followed. Melbourne was all I heard about as a child: the wide spaces, the opportunities, the family reunions without us. As a preschooler, I begged to be enrolled in English classes before I could even read or write. Australia was not just a place to me. It was a promise.
But arriving here at 12 was not the seamless beginning I had imagined. In Greece, I had been a top student. I had even carried the flag and led my school in the 28 October Ohi Day parade – the first girl ever chosen. There, I knew who I was.
In Australia, suddenly, nothing was familiar. My new school had no uniform, the subjects were different, there were no grades and students called teachers by their first names. My textbook English was worlds away from the way Aussie teenagers spoke. I stood out in my stiff, formal clothes while my classmates wore trackies and runners. I had come to the country of my dreams, only to find myself a stranger in it.
Even Greek school, where I thought I would belong, was complicated. My Greek was far better than that of my Australian-born classmates, and they called me a “tape recorder” – not out of cruelty, but because I sounded like the homeland they had never known. Somehow, I was different in both worlds.
School, once my greatest joy, became something I dreaded. Sport was everywhere, and I was hopeless at most of it. Dog-paddling in the Aegean had not prepared me for an Australian swimming carnival. Nor had a childhood under the Greek sun prepared me for “Slip, Slop, Slap” After one painful sunburn, my aunt covered me in yoghurt and cucumber slices. From then on, being sun-smart became part of my Australian education.
We were learning that identity could be negotiated in small, everyday choices.
So did Special English classes in a portable building beside the school oval. I asked to join them even though my teacher protested, “But you’re an A student!” There I met other newcomers: sisters from Sicily whose home had been destroyed by an earthquake, and a Vietnamese refugee named Thao. She and I ate lunch under a tree. We had few shared words, yet somehow we communicated. Her family had fled war and endured a refugee camp before finding safety in Australia. Hearing her story placed my own difficulties in perspective.
At home, my brothers and I gradually began speaking English to one another. We anglicised our names. I went from Polyxeni to Jenny – a name that was familiar, easy to pronounce and, to my 12-year-old self, unmistakably Australian. We were learning that identity could be negotiated in small, everyday choices: the language spoken with friends, the clothes worn to school, the name answered to in the playground.
My parents worked relentlessly. My father painted houses, worked in a bakery and a chemist, cooked dinner, then left for a night shift at an aluminium factory. My mother worked as a machinist, sold cookware, catered at events and cared for four children and her elderly mother. Their lives in Australia bore little resemblance to the lives they had left behind, but they accepted every sacrifice as an investment in their children’s future.
Slowly, Australia entered our home. We watched A Country Practice, Neighbours and Hey Hey It’s Saturday. We cheered for Australia at the Commonwealth Games, barracked for the Bombers, and spent summers absorbed in cricket. Greek radio still filled the kitchen, while SBS brought Greek films into the lounge room. We were not replacing one life with another. We were learning how two lives might coexist.
Changing high schools was a fresh start and a turning point. In a place where I felt valued, respected and seen, I found my confidence again. I devoured literature, made lasting friendships and rediscovered the joy of learning. By the end of year 12, less than five years after arriving in Australia, I had gained admission into law at the University of Melbourne.
University brought new challenges, but eventually I found my place. After graduation, I became an Australian public servant and diplomat. I met and married James, and together we raised four children and travelled the world. When James passed away after an illness, it was this country – our community – that held us up.
Three decades after arriving as a migrant schoolgirl I served as Australia’s ambassador to Greece, the first Greek-born Australian, and the first woman, appointed to the role. It was one of the most difficult periods in Greece’s recent history. Drawing on my understanding of both countries, I worked to build trust, support Greece through the crisis and deepen a relationship grounded in shared values, wartime bonds and the Greek Australian community.
The appointment moved and humbled me, but it also said something profound about Australia: that a child born elsewhere could arrive as a migrant and one day be entrusted to represent this nation in the country of her birth.
Standing in Athens as Australia’s ambassador, I came to understand that it was possible to belong to two places at once. Belonging is not about erasing where you come from. It is about embracing the life you have built while honouring the heritage and memories that continue to shape you. We do not have to choose between the different parts of who we are. Together, they make us whole.
Australian Ambassador (Black Inc Books) by Jenny Bloomfield is out now.
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