December 2, 1972 was the first election I voted in, and it was a thrill then to cast my vote for Gough Whitlam’s Australian Labor Party. The conservative parties had ruled for 23 years, I had lived under 14 of them and, like most of my generation, found Menzies and his successors both tiresome and bumbling. On matters concerning women they were antediluvian. In foreign affairs they were cringe worthy. They had got us into Vietnam, for one thing, and were conscripting guys to fight in that ill-advised, ill-starred Yankee adventure. It felt liberating to be done with them.
|phoning that other home|
Yet the dark side of that moment was that I'd lost my US citizenship. This was because I’d become a single mother and the best chance for steady employment in Canberra, Australia’s capital, was in the public service, but you had to be an Australian citizen to work there. I had joined the Australian News and Information Bureau just before the Whitlam government took office, and had to take out Australian citizenship to do so. As soon as I did the American consulate was alerted. I received a letter from them asking me to explain if I’d been kidnapped or otherwise forced to work for a foreign country. I wrote back that it was Nixon’s citizenship that should have been under question as he had just bombed Cambodia. Needless to say, this didn’t sit well with the consulate, and a few days later I was asked to hand over my passport.
This was more disturbing than I’d thought it would be. In a curious way it was like I’d just lopped off a limb. For days I was in shock. In one swift stroke I had cut off my past. No one who has ever had that happen to them knows just what it’s like. People assume that changing countries in that highly symbolic yet ultimately material way is a question of will, a matter of joy. It is, and it isn’t. It raises unanswerable questions about loyalty and allegiance. It makes you think hard about patriotism, how often – too often – it turns into ugly jingoism. Having spent my childhood during the second world war, and Jewish to boot, I knew only too well how dangerous such notions can be.
Now I was a dinky-di Australian, if a strange sort of one with the wrong kind of accent, the wrong sort of English and an abiding love of Mexican food, sour dough bread and big fat chilli hot dogs. When I began publishing books they had to be ‘Australian’, and I spent many futile hours trying to figure out whether a sentence I wrote gave away my background. I say futile because today writing like an American is okay, even admired, but it was resented in the 1980s. Faulkner and Twain were taken seriously, but to profess the influence of Fitzgerald or Dos Passos then was to mark you as a barbarian. There was none so sniffy as our Australian literati, especially those who hadn’t even heard of some of the writers whose works had informed my sensibility, writers like Raymond Chandler or Ray Bradbury or John Fante or Nathaniel West, even Aldous Huxley, all of whom lived in and wrote about Los Angeles. (Interesting, too, that these were all men, a fact needing investigation, perhaps in a future post.)
Then in the 1990s, the US changed its attitude towards dual citizenship. It was the New International Order, the West was triumphant, it was the ‘end of history’, international borders were becoming more permeable, for capital at least. The world was now ‘global’, after all. When Clinton became president he passed an executive order the effect of which was to turn earlier Supreme Court decisions into law, thus enabling US citizens to take out citizenship in other countries. At an embassy gathering for writers I was told that I could now apply to have my American citizenship restored, so on leaving Australia for a five-year spell in Canada I did.
It turned out to be not quite the native’s return I’d imagined. In Vancouver I was handed, along with my US passport, a notice demanding copies of my previous six Australian tax returns. Suffused with emotion, I hadn't previously twigged that this was behind Clinton’s generosity. Nor aged 60 did I realise, having migrated to Australia as a minor, that from now on I would have to lodge an annual US tax return, in addition to the Australian and Canadian ones. The US and Eritrea are the only two countries that tax their citizens on world income unless there is a treaty with the country of residence, but it still is immensely complicated. The American tax return is deliberately complicated – every move to simplify it has been successfully resisted by organised accountants and the online company TurboTax that’s meant to simplify it but doesn’t, at least for someone who since the age of 19 has never lived or worked in America or who, like most writers, is self-employed. Then there was the exchange rate. My native land lay tantalisingly over the border but I could scarcely afford to enter it, as the Australian dollar was less than half the American one at the time and what income I had was Australian. Nor was I eligible for Social Security, as I hadn’t worked in the US since I was in my teens.
Then came 9/11, and not long after, Bush’s Patriot Act. This requires expatriate US citizens to file other quite onerous forms the point of which is to prove we aren’t terrorists. The whole business is so time-consuming and expensive that I’ve been at the point of relinquishing my citizenship a second time, only to find that that too is so prohibitively expensive and mindbloggingly bureaucratic that I haven’t got on top of the process.