I was once told that I should remember where I’m from.

My immediate reaction was shock, unable to respond.

I changed the subject.

I was hurt.

Sometimes, people don’t understand the power of their words.

The incident caused me to question why I was so upset.

And of course, it is linked to my parents’ past.

I understand that we are often a product of our parents’ behaviours, views and opinions, which linger and shape our future.

Migrants and refugees often struggle to gain acceptance, constantly searching for ways to prove themselves.

For my father, born and bred in Northern Ireland, where you’re from meant something. Not because it allowed you to be verbose about trendy and romanticised convict heritage. Rather, it was a constant reminder of inadequacy, plainly imagined and unfounded, yet nevertheless dictating much of dad’s life and relationships.

To explain matters further, out of the blue, recently, a family treasure was returned.

My Aunt Margaret sent mum an old postcard, stamped in England where my father was working for the Royal Mail after leaving the Royal Air Force. On the front, a photo of Trafalgar Square and Nelson’s Column, London by John Hinde, F.R.P.S. And on the back a beautifully handwritten message, which defies the fact that dad left school at 14 years of age, and simply reads:

21 Sep. 1964

Mrs K. Wightman

Dear Mother,

Well at last I have received my departure date. I leave from London on 6th of Oct. for Melbourne.

I am going out to-day to see if I can book a flight to Belfast for Sunday night.

I finish up at work this coming week-end and I have a few weeks holidays to come.

My regards to all the family.

Love to All,

Billy

xxx

William Wightman moved to Australia and a suitcase of amazing opportunities opened. Dad returned to Belfast in 1969, well-travelled but with no qualifications, met my mum and left their home and families forever in 1971. My brother and I are the Australian products of that decision.

Much like my parents at the same age, Katie and I, and the twins are moving……house. To a family home, as we have outgrown our cottage next door to my mum – yes, where I grew-up.

Yet, unlike my parents, it’s not very far.

Google tells me it’s a 1000 metre walk, and that’s if you take the long way.

But is feels like a journey.

I don’t really know why.

I just know that my family never says goodbye, because leaving is heartbreaking.

They say, I’ll see you later.

However, we rarely forget. Particularly the opportunities that have presented because of what Tasmania has offered, combined with hard-work, and an unwavering commitment to improving life-chances through education.

We should all remain curious about Australia, and the diverse range of people that complete our country. Whether we are Palawa, refugees or migrants, we can all continue to learn and achieve.

Describing where you’re from should generate conversation and understanding, not a moment of silence, and never an opportunity for ridicule.