Category: Essays

  • What Is a Tradie in Australia? More Than Just a Bloke With a Toolbox

    What Is a Tradie in Australia? More Than Just a Bloke With a Toolbox

    If you’ve spent any time in Australia, you’ve probably heard someone mention a tradie.

    Maybe the plumber is coming around to fix the hot water. Perhaps the sparky has been called because half the house has lost power. Or someone has announced that the tradies next door have started work at seven in the morning, which is lovely if you happen to be a rooster.

    For Australians, the word barely requires an explanation. It’s simply part of everyday conversation.

    For anyone unfamiliar with Australian English, though, it can sound like an entirely different occupation.

    So what exactly is a tradie?

    The short answer is that a tradie is an Australian slang term for a tradesperson, particularly someone working in a skilled manual trade such as plumbing, electrical work, carpentry or bricklaying.

    But that simple definition doesn’t quite capture the whole picture.

    Because in Australia, tradies have developed a recognisable identity of their own, complete with distinctive clothing, workplace traditions, a vocabulary that occasionally requires translation, and an almost legendary relationship with the local bakery.


    What jobs do tradies actually do?

    A tradie isn’t one particular type of worker. It’s an umbrella term covering a wide range of skilled trades.

    The word comes from tradesperson, shortened and given the familiar Australian ending that has also produced words such as brekkie, barbie and mozzie.

    Some of the occupations commonly described as tradies include:

    Australian termWhat they do
    SparkyElectrician
    ChippyCarpenter
    BrickieBricklayer
    Dunny diverPlumbing and pipework
    RoofieInstalls roof tiles
    PlastererPlastering and wall finishing
    PainterPainting and decorating
    ConcreterConcrete work

    Not every tradesperson necessarily calls themselves a tradie, and the term is mainly associated with construction and related industries.

    A mechanic, for example, might also be described as a tradie, although Australians are just as likely to call them a mechanic.

    The important distinction is that a tradie is generally someone with practical trade skills, often developed through formal training and experience on the job.

    It isn’t simply another word for anyone who works with their hands.

    Australian electrician working on an electrical installation.
    From sparkies to chippies, the word tradie covers a wide range of skilled occupations

    Why do Australians call them tradies?

    Australians have a longstanding habit of shortening words and adding an informal ending.

    Breakfast becomes brekkie. A barbecue becomes a barbie. A mosquito becomes a mozzie.

    A tradesperson becomes a tradie.

    There’s no complicated secret behind it, although the broader Australian habit of shortening words is worth exploring in its own right.

    What makes tradie interesting is how naturally the shortened word has become part of everyday language.

    You might hear someone say:

    “The tradie’s coming around tomorrow.”

    “The tradies are working on the house next door.”

    “We need to get a tradie in to have a look at that.”

    Nobody needs to specify which trade unless it’s relevant to the conversation.

    It’s also a useful example of how Australian English can sound informal without necessarily being disrespectful.

    Calling someone a tradie is generally a perfectly ordinary way of referring to their occupation.

    You can be talking about a highly experienced, licensed electrician running a substantial business and still call them a tradie.

    The nickname doesn’t erase the skill involved.

    In fact, if your hot water system has stopped working in the middle of a Canberra winter, that tradie might suddenly become the most important person in your life.


    The apprenticeship: how someone becomes a tradie

    One of the things worth understanding about Australian trades is that many involve structured training.

    A common pathway is an apprenticeship, where someone combines paid employment with formal vocational education.

    Depending on the trade, that training might involve a registered training organisation such as TAFE, which stands for Technical and Further Education.

    An apprentice learns practical skills while working alongside experienced tradespeople and completing the relevant training requirements.

    Many traditional trade apprenticeships take around three to four years, although the exact duration and qualification requirements vary.

    Some trades also require licensing or registration before a person can carry out certain work independently.

    An electrician, for example, cannot simply buy a toolbox, watch a few YouTube videos and start rewiring houses.

    There are training and licensing requirements.

    The same principle applies to various aspects of plumbing and other regulated work, with requirements differing between Australian states and territories.

    So while tradie sounds wonderfully casual, the occupations behind it can involve substantial technical knowledge, qualifications and legal responsibilities.

    And that brings me to something I understand rather well.


    I was an apprentice myself

    I completed a four-year chef apprenticeship in Australia, went to culinary school and eventually worked as both a sous chef and an executive chef.

    Now, chefs aren’t usually the first people Australians picture when someone says tradie. Most people immediately imagine someone on a building site.

    But the apprenticeship system is familiar territory to me.

    You learn the theory, work alongside experienced people and discover fairly quickly that knowing how something should be done and actually doing it under pressure are two very different things.

    In a kitchen, that might mean learning to prepare a complicated dish while someone is shouting that table twelve has been waiting twenty minutes.

    On a building site, I imagine the pressure comes in slightly different forms.

    Either way, practical skills aren’t something you acquire simply by buying the equipment.

    I own a toolbox.

    That doesn’t mean you should let me anywhere near your electrical wiring.

    Apprentice learning practical trade skills during vocational training.
    Apprenticeships combine practical experience with formal training. I went through the system myself as a chef.

    The unofficial tradie uniform

    If you want to spot a tradie in Australia, the clothing can be a fairly useful clue.

    High-visibility shirts, work shorts, steel-capped boots and a ute parked somewhere nearby are all familiar parts of the picture.

    Of course, not every tradesperson dresses like this. Workwear depends on the job, employer, weather and safety requirements.

    But the combination is recognisable enough that Australian workwear has become something of a cultural identity.

    What’s a ute?

    For American readers, a ute is short for utility vehicle.

    Think of something in the general family of a pickup truck, although the Australian ute has its own history and has included both car-based vehicles and larger pickup-style vehicles.

    A tradie’s ute might contain tools, materials, ladders, equipment and several objects that look suspiciously like they haven’t moved since 2017.

    Some are immaculately organised.

    Others look as though a hardware store has exploded in the back.

    I’m not judging. You should see my garage.

    Australian tradie's utility vehicle carrying tools and building equipment.
    The ute is a familiar sight on Australian building sites, although the contents of the tray are another matter entirely

    The tradie breakfast: Australia’s unofficial construction-site cuisine

    Now we arrive at an important subject.

    Food.

    If you’ve ever visited an Australian bakery early in the morning, you might have noticed workers in high-visibility clothing lining up for breakfast.

    A meat pie, sausage roll or bacon and egg roll can make a convenient meal when you’ve got a long day ahead of you.

    Naturally, not every tradie eats this way. Some bring lunch from home, some stop at cafés, and some probably eat something sensible involving fruit.

    But the association between tradies, bakeries and takeaway food is a familiar part of Australian popular culture.

    And as a former chef, I can appreciate the practical appeal.

    A meat pie is portable, filling and requires very little ceremony.

    It also has the potential to deposit molten gravy directly onto your shirt, which is why eating one while driving is an activity best left to people with considerably more confidence than me.

    The humble sausage roll is another popular bakery option.

    For anyone unfamiliar with Australian food, it’s seasoned sausage meat wrapped in pastry and baked until golden.

    Not a sausage sitting inside a bread roll.

    That’s a different thing entirely.

    Traditional Australian meat pie and sausage roll displayed at a bakery.
    A meat pie and sausage roll. Not compulsory tradie equipment, but certainly convenient when you’re hungry.

    What is a smoko?

    There’s another Australian workplace word you might encounter when people are talking about tradies.

    Smoko.

    Traditionally, smoko referred to a short break from work, often associated with having a cigarette.

    The word has been used in Australian workplaces for generations, including factories, farms and building sites.

    These days, someone might say they’re going on smoko even if they don’t smoke.

    They might be having a coffee, eating a sandwich or simply taking a break.

    The term isn’t exclusive to tradies, and not every workplace uses it, but it remains a recognisable piece of Australian working vocabulary.

    If someone announces that they’re heading off for smoko, don’t automatically assume they’re about to light a cigarette.

    They might just be looking for somewhere to sit down and eat their sausage roll.


    The tradie stereotype: what’s true and what’s exaggerated?

    Australian humour loves a recognisable character.

    The tradie is no exception.

    In advertising, television and everyday jokes, you’ll sometimes encounter the familiar image of a bloke wearing work shorts, driving a ute, drinking enormous coffees and discussing football.

    He might have a few colourful expressions in his vocabulary.

    He might also have strong opinions about which brand of power tools is worth buying.

    But that’s a stereotype, not a description of every person working in the trades.

    Australian tradespeople come from different backgrounds, include women as well as men, and work in everything from small family businesses to major industrial projects.

    Some run their own companies. Others work for contractors or large employers.

    Some spend their days on residential building sites, while others work in hospitals, factories, mines or infrastructure projects.

    There’s also a difference between being a qualified tradesperson and being a general construction labourer, although the two might work alongside each other.

    The popular image of the tradie is only one small part of a much broader workforce.


    What about female tradies?

    The word tradie isn’t restricted to men.

    A woman working as a qualified electrician, plumber or carpenter can absolutely be called a tradie.

    You might also hear the informal expression lady tradie, although simply calling someone a tradie is perfectly sufficient.

    The fact that popular stereotypes often portray tradespeople as men doesn’t mean the occupation or the nickname belongs exclusively to them.

    Female Australian carpenter working with timber and wearing appropriate safety equipment.
    Tradie is a gender-neutral term, even if the familiar stereotypes haven’t always reflected that

    Do tradies earn good money in Australia?

    This is one of those questions where the answer depends enormously on the trade.

    An apprentice learning the job will generally earn less than an experienced, qualified tradesperson.

    Someone running their own electrical business has a very different financial situation from someone working as an employee.

    Location matters too.

    So do overtime, specialised qualifications, industry demand and whether the work is residential, commercial or industrial.

    A tradesperson working on a remote mining project might have very different earnings and conditions from a carpenter working for a small residential builder.

    It’s also important to distinguish between a business’s revenue and the owner’s personal income.

    A plumber might charge a substantial amount for a job, but that fee has to cover more than the time spent holding a spanner.

    There may be vehicle costs, insurance, tools, materials, administration, licensing and other business expenses.

    If you’re researching trade careers or wages in Australia, the Fair Work Ombudsman  is a useful starting point for employment conditions and applicable minimum pay rates.

    Apprentice pay depends on the relevant award, training stage and other applicable rules.

    The important point is that tradie isn’t an income bracket.

    It’s a description of the work someone does.


    Is calling someone a tradie offensive?

    Generally, no.

    Tradie is an informal, widely understood Australian term for a tradesperson.

    It isn’t inherently insulting, and many people use it comfortably to describe themselves or their work.

    As with most language, context matters.

    Someone might use it affectionately, neutrally or sarcastically, depending on what they’re saying.

    “The tradie did a brilliant job” is obviously a compliment.

    “The tradie said he’d be here at eight, but apparently he meant next Thursday” is rather less complimentary.

    That second example is also a joke about a familiar customer frustration, not a claim that tradespeople are universally unreliable.

    If you’re speaking formally, particularly in professional writing or employment documentation, tradesperson is usually the safer choice.

    In everyday conversation, tradie is entirely natural.


    Is a tradie the same as a contractor in America?

    Not exactly.

    An American might hear the word tradie and think of a contractor, construction worker or skilled tradesperson.

    There’s some overlap, but the terms aren’t interchangeable.

    A contractor generally describes a business or working arrangement rather than a specific occupation.

    A contractor might be a licensed electrician, a builder or someone coordinating an entire construction project.

    A tradie, meanwhile, describes someone working in a trade, regardless of whether they’re self-employed or working for someone else.

    A plumber employed by a large company is still a tradie.

    An electrician running a one-person business is also a tradie.

    A general contractor who manages subcontractors but doesn’t personally practise a trade isn’t necessarily what an Australian would have in mind when using the word.

    For American readers, skilled tradesperson is probably the closest general translation.

    Although it doesn’t sound quite as Australian.

    Australian carpenter measuring timber during a residential construction project.
    Whether employed by a company or running their own business, a qualified tradesperson can be called a tradie

    The tradie is part of everyday Australian life

    What I find interesting about the word tradie is that it manages to be both informal and perfectly respectable.

    You can use it in a conversation about a leaking tap, a major building project or someone’s career.

    It doesn’t require an elaborate explanation in Australia because everyone understands what you’re talking about.

    The same goes for sparky, chippy and brickie.

    These are ordinary occupational nicknames, not mysterious secret codes.

    Although I do wonder what an American would make of a conversation involving a sparky, a chippy and a smoko.

    It sounds like the beginning of a particularly strange children’s television programme.

    Ultimately, a tradie is someone who works in a skilled trade.

    The clothing, utes, bakery breakfasts and workplace slang are interesting parts of the surrounding culture, but they aren’t what defines the occupation.

    The skills are.

    Because when the power goes out, the pipes burst or the roof starts leaking, nobody is particularly concerned about whether the person arriving has the correct tradie uniform.

    You just want someone who knows what they’re doing.

    Preferably before the water reaches the carpet.


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  • The Hidden Cost of Competitive Dance in America

    The Hidden Cost of Competitive Dance in America

    There is a point in every parent’s life when you realise your child’s hobby has developed its own economy.

    I think we reached that point somewhere between the dance costumes, competition fees, hotel rooms and my wife working an eight hour shift at Bridgestone Arena while I sat in a car outside a dance studio doing work on my phone.

    Our ten year old daughter Georgia dances competitively.

    Seven routines this year.

    Our seven year old, Brianna, has gone back to dance too and has already announced that she would like to try out for the competition team next year.

    Because apparently we looked at our current family schedule and thought it lacked ambition.

    The funny thing is, none of this feels particularly unusual anymore.

    Afternoons are spent driving to the studio.

    Groceries happen while somebody is dancing.

    Work gets done from the car.

    Weekends disappear into competitions.

    Family trips get built around nationals.

    Money quietly moves from one part of the family budget to another.

    Somewhere along the way I realised there is an enormous economy sitting underneath American kids’ activities that you barely notice until your own family becomes part of it.

    And I don’t just mean money.

    Young competitive dancer performing alone under dramatic stage lighting at a dance competition
    What you see is a few minutes onstage. What you don’t see is the family economy of time, travel, work and money that helped get her there.

    It Starts Out So Innocently

    Georgia started ballet when she was two years old in Australia.

    She loved dance from the moment she put on her first ballet shoes.

    Back then, dance was relatively simple.

    You went to class.

    You learned your routine.

    There was an end of year recital.

    Parents watched.

    Everyone went home.

    Competitive dance is a different universe.

    Georgia is now in her fourth year on company, and the older she gets, the greater the commitment becomes.

    Tuition is higher.

    There are competition entry fees.

    Costumes.

    Choreography fees.

    Solo lessons.

    Travel.

    Hotels.

    Food.

    Then there are seven competition dances, which means seven routines have to somehow make their way from a studio in Tennessee onto stages around the Southeast.

    We regularly travel to Kentucky and Georgia for competitions. Nationals this year was in Daytona Beach, Florida.

    We were there for seven days.

    One day without dance.

    We called it a family holiday. Technically, I think that counts.


    The Three Minutes You See Aren’t the Expensive Part

    A competition routine might last a few minutes.

    Getting a child onto that stage can consume an entire weekend.

    For us, a typical competition begins on Friday.

    If we’re heading somewhere like Atlanta, Georgia may have to leave school early so we can get there that evening. At the moment her elementary school doesn’t consider dance competition an excused absence, which is something that will become more complicated as she gets older and Friday night performances become more common.

    We arrive Friday evening, check into the hotel, find dinner and get to bed.

    The preparation has already started.

    Georgia may have done her fake tan a couple of days earlier, or sometimes before we leave on Friday.

    If she has an early Saturday performance, Nikki can be up at 4 a.m. doing hair and makeup.

    Four.

    In the morning.

    I grew up dancing ballroom in Australia and somehow I don’t remember Bankstown RSL requiring this level of preparation.

    Then you arrive at the competition.

    Some of these events are extraordinary.

    Huge stages.

    Professional lighting.

    Multiple cameras.

    Some of the bigger ones feel less like the dance competitions I remember growing up and more like television productions.

    It is genuinely impressive.

    You can then spend anywhere from 8 a.m. until 9 p.m. there.

    At one competition in Atlanta last year, it was so crowded that Brianna and I couldn’t even find somewhere to sit and watch Georgia.

    We had already checked out of the hotel.

    So after driving all the way from Tennessee to Atlanta to watch our daughter dance, we went back to the car…

    and watched her on an iPhone. Parenting is magnificent.

    Large competitive dance stage with theatrical lighting and cameras during a dance competition.
    Some of the larger competitions feel closer to television productions than the dance competitions I remember growing up with in Australia.

    Then There Is the Cost Nobody Puts on an Invoice

    This is the part I hadn’t really thought about before becoming a dance parent.

    Time.

    A 30 minute dance class does not take 30 minutes.

    There is the drive there.

    The wait.

    The drive home.

    Multiply that across two children and several days a week and suddenly large pieces of your family life are being organised around a dance studio.

    I deliberately schedule my own ballroom lessons while the girls are at school.

    Afternoons are largely theirs.

    If one of them only has a 30 minute or one hour class, sometimes there isn’t much point driving home, so I stay in the car and work.

    Other times I do the groceries while they’re dancing.

    You become surprisingly good at this.

    Dance class at 5:00.

    Groceries at 5:07.

    Back at the studio at 5:56.

    Child retrieved.

    Nobody forgotten.

    Successful evening.

    The car becomes an office, waiting room, transport department and occasionally somewhere to eat dinner. A portable charger has become essential equipment for this dance dad when I’m working from the car.

    Nobody sends you an invoice for any of that.

    But it still costs something. Time is part of the hidden economy too.


    Sometimes Hockey Pays for Ballet

    This may be my favourite part of the whole strange system.

    Nikki is the only member of our immediate family who doesn’t dance.

    So naturally, she has been dragged into the dance economy anyway.

    She works concession stands at Bridgestone Arena in Nashville through a fundraising arrangement that allows parents to work events to help raise money toward their children’s activities.

    She’s the only parent from our studio doing it, but she works alongside dance mums from other studios.

    The shifts are long.

    Usually around eight hours.

    There is a small set amount, but most of what the group receives comes from tips that are shared among the people working. Nikki will typically generate around $120 to $150 from a night, with checks made out to the dance studio.

    That means somebody can walk into Bridgestone Arena to see a Predators game or a country concert, buy something from the concession stand and leave a tip.

    A little piece of that money eventually helps pay for a child’s dance.

    Last week Nikki worked the Brooks & Dunn concert.

    Now the Nashville Predators are back.

    So in our house, hockey season is also dance fundraising season.

    Country music pays for ballet.

    Hockey pays for tap lessons.

    America has some fascinating economic systems. Similar nonprofit concession fundraising arrangements operate elsewhere in Tennessee, where registered organizations staff arena concession stands and funds can be applied toward participants’ fees and other activity costs.

    Bridgestone Arena in downtown Nashville, where parents can work event concessions to help fund children's activities.
    In our family, a night working concessions at Bridgestone can help pay the next dance bill.

    Not Every Family Experiences the Cost the Same Way

    There is another side of competitive dance that I’ve become increasingly aware of.

    Some of the families around us appear considerably better off than we are.

    You see the houses.

    The cars.

    The travel.

    Some live in homes that, by our standards, look like mansions.

    I don’t know their finances, and appearances certainly don’t tell you everything.

    But I do know ours.

    There have been times when I’ve looked at what is coming up and wondered how we’re going to afford all of it.

    So far, we always have.

    We have never sat Georgia down and told her she might have to stop dancing because we can’t pay for it.

    I hope we never have to.

    But it has made me realise something.

    When people talk about opportunities for children, we often focus on whether the opportunity exists.

    I’ve written before about something else I’ve come to admire in America: the willingness to encourage children to imagine what might be possible.

    But encouragement is only part of it.

    Someone still has to get the child there.

    Pay the entry fee.

    Buy the costume.

    Book the hotel.

    Be available at 4 a.m. to do the hair.

    Someone has to sit in the car. Someone has to make the whole thing work.


    Because This Isn’t Just a Hobby to Her

    This is the part that matters.

    If Georgia were miserable, none of this would make sense.

    She isn’t.

    Dance is her passion.

    She started ballet at two and she’s now ten. She’s been on company for four years.

    I regularly give her the opportunity to try something else.

    Her response is usually some variation of:

    Dad, are you serious?

    This is all she wants to do.

    If we told her tomorrow that school had been cancelled permanently but dance was still on, I suspect we’d barely finish the sentence before she was in the car.

    She lights up when she dances.

    She already talks about going to college and eventually becoming a dance teacher.

    There are genuine pathways from dance into higher education in America. Universities including USC’s Glorya Kaufman School of Dance offer competitive talent based dance scholarships, while other universities offer scholarship opportunities tied to dance majors and auditions. USC Glorya Kaufman School of Dance

    She’s ten.

    Nobody knows where any of this will lead.

    She may become a dance teacher.

    She may pursue something completely different.

    Life has plenty of time to work that out.

    Right now, our job is simply to give her the opportunity to find out.

    I’ve already had moments when I’ve realised just how much Georgia’s dreams are being shaped by growing up here rather than in the Australia where she was born.

    Georgia preparing to dance during her fourth year on a competitive dance company.
    She started ballet at two in Australia. Eight years later, dance is still the thing she wants to do more than anything else.

    Apparently One Competitive Dancer Isn’t Enough

    Then there’s Brianna.

    She returned to dance this year and is taking jazz, hip hop and ballet.

    She now wants to try out for company next year.

    This should probably terrify us.

    Instead, our reasoning has become:

    Well, she’s already at the competitions anyway.

    There would be overlap.

    The second child is cheaper.

    We’re already paying for the hotel.

    What could possibly go wrong?

    There is something slightly alarming about reaching the point where adding a second competitive dancer starts sounding like an efficiency measure.

    But that’s how embedded this world has become in our family.

    It isn’t something we occasionally attend anymore.

    It is part of the rhythm of our lives.


    Nationals Is a Holiday. Sort Of.

    This year nationals took us to Daytona.

    We were there for seven days and, thanks to some flight credits I needed to use, we flew rather than drove.

    We spent plenty of time at the beach.

    We ate out.

    A lot.

    That last part belongs firmly in the expense column.

    We had a great time and absolutely treated the trip as a family holiday.

    But out of seven days, we had exactly one day with no dance.

    That pretty much sums it up.

    Even the family holiday gets absorbed into the machinery.

    Dance first.

    Beach around it.

    Family trip to Daytona Beach during a week away for a national dance competition.
    We turned nationals in Daytona into our family holiday. Out of seven days, one was completely dance free.

    Then She Walks Onto the Stage

    After all of that, there is the actual dancing.

    I don’t get particularly nervous watching Georgia in group routines.

    The smaller groups, with five or so dancers, are fun.

    The enormous team productions can become a completely different challenge.

    Sometimes there are so many dancers moving on and off stage that if you don’t already know where Georgia is supposed to be, finding your own child becomes part of the entertainment.

    Then there’s her solo.

    That’s different.

    I get nervous.

    Really nervous.

    I feel like I watch the entire thing holding my breath.

    For those few minutes there is nowhere for her to disappear.

    It’s just her.

    And perhaps that’s when the hidden economy becomes visible to me.

    Not the dollars.

    Not the hotel.

    Not the petrol.

    Not the hours in the car.

    All the things behind it.

    The lessons.

    The rehearsals.

    The 4 a.m. makeup.

    Mum working at Bridgestone.

    Dad working from the car.

    The trips to Kentucky and Georgia.

    The week in Daytona.

    The costumes.

    The school juggling.

    All of it leads to one little girl standing alone under the lights doing the thing she loves. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel particularly complicated.


    What I’d Tell Another Parent

    If somebody with a five year old who loves dance asked me whether their child should try out for a competition team, I wouldn’t tell them not to.

    I’d tell them to understand the commitment.

    Because the child isn’t the only person joining the team.

    The family is.

    Competitive activities don’t simply occupy a line on the family calendar.

    Eventually they start rearranging the calendar around themselves.

    That doesn’t make them bad.

    It doesn’t make the money wasted.

    It simply means parents should understand what they’re saying yes to.

    Because if the child really loves it, you may be saying yes for quite a while.


    I Don’t Think There Was Ever Much Doubt

    Sometimes I think back to Georgia putting on her first ballet shoes in Australia.

    She was two.

    It would be tempting to say I never imagined that tiny ballet class would eventually lead to enormous American competition stages, seven routines, interstate travel, national competitions and an entire family economy operating behind her.

    But that wouldn’t really be true.

    She loved dance from the moment she put those shoes on.

    I don’t think there was ever much doubt we’d end up somewhere like this.

    The stages got bigger.

    The commitment got bigger.

    The bills definitely got bigger.

    But the reason we’re doing it hasn’t really changed at all.

    She loves to dance. Sometimes an entire family economy grows around something as simple as that.

    Georgia wearing her first ballet shoes at age two in Australia.
    It started with ballet at two years old in Australia. The scale has changed. Her love of dance hasn’t.

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  • Why Australians Don’t Tip Like Americans

    Why Australians Don’t Tip Like Americans


    Australians aren’t opposed to tipping. We just have a very different idea of when someone deserves one. After living in America, I’ve learned to navigate the rules. Well, most of them.

    I have lived here for eight years, and I still occasionally find myself standing in front of a payment terminal wondering whether I’m supposed to tip the person on the other side of the counter.

    Restaurants? Easy.

    Bars? No problem.

    The barber? I’ve got that one sorted.

    But the person handing me a takeaway bag?

    The bloke who delivered my furniture?

    Apparently, somebody even tips their chiropractor.

    At this rate, I’m beginning to wonder whether I should be tipping the woman who checks my receipt at Costco.

    Tipping is one of those cultural differences between Australia and America that seems relatively straightforward until you actually have to navigate it.

    Australians do tip. I’ve done it myself, both as a customer and during my years working in hospitality.

    The difference is that, traditionally, Australians have viewed tipping as a reward for particularly good service. In America, especially in full-service restaurants, it’s an established part of the transaction.

    After living on both sides of the Pacific, I’ve come to appreciate certain aspects of the American approach. Others still leave me scratching my head.

    restaurant bill showing tip
    After eight years in America, I’ve worked out most of the tipping rules. Most of them.

    Australians Do Tip. Just Not the Way Americans Do.

    Growing up in Australia, tipping was never something my family automatically did.

    I remember occasionally going to restaurants where my parents would leave something extra because the service had been particularly good.

    They’d comment on how well the server had looked after us and say they deserved a tip.

    That was the reasoning behind it.

    Someone had done a great job, so you gave them a little extra to show your appreciation.

    It was also something I only remember happening when we were eating in at restaurants.

    We weren’t tipping the person who handed us a takeaway order, the person making our coffee or someone who performed an everyday service.

    You paid the advertised price, and that was generally the end of the transaction.

    But I think there’s a misconception that Australians simply don’t tip.

    Having spent years working as a chef in Australia, I can tell you that tipping was very much a thing in the restaurants where I worked.

    At one restaurant, the tips went exclusively to the front-of-house staff. At another, more upmarket establishment, they were shared with the kitchen as well.

    The amounts weren’t usually substantial, but occasionally we’d have a particularly good night.

    I remember diners leaving unexpectedly large tips and the staff being genuinely blown away.

    It was a lovely surprise.

    The important distinction was that nobody expected it.

    We weren’t standing around calculating what percentage of the evening’s sales we should receive from customers.

    If someone left a tip, fantastic. If they didn’t, that was perfectly normal too.


    Why Australian Restaurant Workers Don’t Depend on Tips

    Part of the explanation lies in how hospitality workers are paid.

    Australia has a system of minimum wages and industry awards that establish legally enforceable pay rates and working conditions.

    Under the Restaurant Industry Award, employees are entitled to minimum rates determined by factors including their classification and employment status. Additional payments can apply for evening work, weekends, public holidays and overtime.

    As of July 2026, Australia’s national minimum wage is A$26.44 an hour, although restaurant employees may be entitled to different rates under their applicable award.

    The important point isn’t the precise hourly figure.

    It’s that an Australian restaurant worker’s legal minimum wage isn’t dependent on whether I decide to leave an extra ten dollars after dinner.

    That doesn’t mean every hospitality worker in Australia is financially comfortable. The cost of living is a very real issue, and hospitality can involve long hours, difficult customers and physically demanding work.

    I spent enough time in commercial kitchens to know that it’s not an easy way to earn a living.

    But the wage structure is different.

    In Australia, tipping is generally additional income rather than a mechanism employers use to meet their minimum wage obligations.

    And that helps explain why the social expectation surrounding tipping developed differently.

    Chef during service in a restaurant
    Having worked in Australian restaurants, I’ve seen tips distributed in different ways.

    Why Tipping Matters So Much More in America

    Before moving to America, I already knew tipping was a big part of the culture.

    That wasn’t a surprise.

    What I wasn’t entirely sure about was how much to tip and, perhaps more importantly, who I was supposed to tip.

    I Googled it. I asked American friends.

    Eventually, I worked out the basics.

    But understanding why tipping is so firmly established requires looking at how American hospitality workers are paid.

    Under federal law, employers can pay eligible tipped employees a direct cash wage of just $2.13 an hour, provided their wages and tips together meet the applicable minimum wage.

    The federal minimum wage is $7.25 an hour. If tips don’t bring an employee’s earnings up to that required minimum, the employer must make up the difference.

    Here in Tennessee, those federal figures apply to covered tipped employees.

    That doesn’t mean every American server earns $2.13 an hour, or that $7.25 represents what servers typically take home.

    America’s wage arrangements vary considerably by state, employer and individual worker.

    Washington, for example, requires employers to pay the full state minimum wage before tips. In 2026, that statewide minimum is $17.13 an hour.

    Yet tipping remains a familiar part of restaurant culture in states with very different wage systems.

    So while wages help explain why tipping matters, they aren’t the entire explanation.

    Tipping has also become an established social custom. And once a custom becomes that deeply embedded, changing it isn’t necessarily as simple as changing the wage structure.


    Does Tipping Actually Produce Better Service?

    Here’s where my experience might surprise some Australians.

    I think tipping can encourage better service.

    Having spent years living in America, I’ve noticed a considerable difference between the restaurant service I experience here and what I’ve experienced in Australia.

    American servers are often incredibly attentive.

    They greet you when you arrive, explain the menu, check whether everything is going well and make sure your drinks are topped up.

    Sometimes they’re a little too attentive.

    There are occasions when I’d quite like to finish chewing before being asked whether everything is tasting fantastic.

    But generally speaking, I appreciate the effort.

    When we visited Australia last year, the difference was particularly noticeable.

    At several establishments, we weren’t greeted when we arrived. We had to ask for menus, waited a long time to be served and sometimes struggled to get someone’s attention when we wanted the bill.

    Not everywhere, of course.

    Australia has some wonderful restaurants and exceptional hospitality professionals.

    But across a number of dining experiences during that trip, the service felt noticeably more relaxed than what we’d become accustomed to in America.

    Whether tipping itself causes that difference is a more complicated question.

    Restaurant culture, staffing, management and customer expectations all influence service.

    What I can say is that, from my own experience, the American system often seems to encourage a level of attentiveness that I appreciate. Although perhaps we could find a happy medium somewhere between being completely ignored and having someone ask how my meal is going every four minutes.

    Restaurant server attending to customers at a table in an American restaurant.
    American restaurant service often feels more attentive to me, although occasionally I’d like to finish a mouthful before the next check-in.

    The Steakhouse Waitress Who Absolutely Deserved Her Tip

    One of my favourite examples of American hospitality happened at a steakhouse.

    I can’t remember which restaurant it was, but I certainly remember the waitress.

    We were dining with our daughters, who were being a little fussy about what they wanted.

    She was incredibly accommodating.

    Nothing seemed too much trouble. She was quick with the drinks, attentive throughout the meal and genuinely friendly.

    It wasn’t simply that she performed her job efficiently.

    It was how she made us feel.

    We felt welcome, comfortable and looked after.

    She received a substantial tip.

    That’s the kind of experience that reminds me why I appreciate having the opportunity to reward someone for exceptional service.

    Interestingly, it’s exactly the same thinking I remember from growing up in Australia.

    The difference is that, in America, I’m also expected to tip when the service is merely adequate.

    And even when it’s downright awful, I find it difficult not to leave something.


    I Once Left a Tip After Some Truly Terrible Service

    I don’t think I’ve ever left an American restaurant without tipping.

    But I have certainly reduced the amount.

    One experience at a Cracker Barrel in Knoxville comes to mind.

    The server was rude, our order was wrong, everything took forever, and there was virtually no attention throughout the meal.

    It was a thoroughly unpleasant dining experience.

    I still left a tip, although considerably less than usual.

    For particularly poor service, I’ve sometimes left 10% or simply five dollars.

    My normal approach is around 20%, often with a little rounding.

    If the bill comes to $152 and the service has been good, I might round the total up to $190.

    If it hasn’t been particularly good, I might make it $180.

    It’s not a complicated mathematical formula.

    I’m simply acknowledging the quality of the experience.

    But this is one of the tensions in American tipping culture.

    I understand that servers may depend heavily on tips to earn a living.

    At the same time, I don’t think customers should feel obligated to reward genuinely poor service at exactly the same level as exceptional service.

    That’s a difficult balance.

    And it becomes even more complicated when you consider how much individual servers can earn.


    Some American Servers Make Serious Money From Tips

    Living in Nashville, I’ve had conversations with bartenders working on Broadway.

    Some have told me they can make between $1,000 and $2,000 a week in tips.

    That’s a substantial amount of money.

    Of course, Broadway is a particularly busy entertainment district, and those figures are what individual bartenders have told me about their own experiences. They’re not representative of every bartender in Nashville, let alone America.

    The people I’ve spoken to described it as hard work, but they also enjoyed the atmosphere.

    They were young, loved the rush of the job and enjoyed the social side of working in such a lively environment.

    For them, tipping could be financially rewarding.

    But I’ve also spoken to hospitality workers in quieter establishments who tell a very different story.

    Some struggle to make ends meet and need multiple jobs to cover their rent and living expenses.

    That’s the difficulty with a system where a significant portion of someone’s earnings can depend on customer traffic and generosity.

    A busy Saturday night on Broadway can look very different from a quiet Tuesday afternoon in a suburban restaurant.

    It also explains why I’m not convinced there’s a simple answer to the question of whether America should eliminate tipping and replace it with higher wages.

    Some workers may prefer the predictability of a higher guaranteed wage.

    Others may value the earning potential of tips.

    The experiences I’ve heard certainly aren’t all the same.

    A bar on Broadway in Nashville
    Broadway bars are great places to earn tips, but you’ll work for it

    When Did Everyone Start Asking for a Tip?

    This is where American tipping culture starts to lose me.

    I’m perfectly comfortable tipping at restaurants and bars.

    I’ve become accustomed to tipping my barber.

    But I don’t understand why I’m increasingly being presented with tipping options for services that involve little more than handing me something I’ve already paid for.

    Take Starbucks.

    I use the drive-through, order my coffee, and eventually reach the payment window.

    The employee hands me the payment terminal.

    Then comes the familiar line.

    “It’s just going to ask you a question there.”

    I know what the question is.

    You know what the question is.

    The payment terminal certainly knows what the question is.

    Would I like to leave a tip?

    No, thank you.

    I’m not suggesting that making coffee doesn’t involve work or skill. Of course it does.

    But I’ve already paid for the coffee.

    If I’m collecting takeaway and someone simply walks a bag from the kitchen to the front counter, I don’t understand why that transaction should automatically involve a gratuity.

    To me, that’s the service I purchased.

    Apparently, I’m not alone in noticing how widespread tipping requests have become.

    A 2023 Pew Research Center survey found that 72% of US adults believed tipping was expected in more places than it had been five years earlier.

    Research reference: Pew Research Center, How Americans See the Norms and Practices of Tipping (2023) .

    That distinction matters.

    It’s not simply Australians arriving in America and struggling to understand the rules.

    Americans themselves are navigating a tipping culture that can feel increasingly complicated.

    Digital payment terminal displaying suggested tip percentages at a coffee shop counter.
    The familiar payment terminal question. Sometimes I feel like it’s following me everywhere.

    Eight Years Later, I’m Still Not Sure Who I’m Supposed to Tip

    When we moved to America, our furniture took three months to arrive by ship from Australia.

    Eventually, a removal company delivered everything and unpacked it.

    That was the service we’d paid for.

    I didn’t tip the removalists.

    At the time, it didn’t even occur to me.

    Now, looking back, I sometimes wonder whether I should have.

    Were they expecting a tip?

    Did I commit some terrible American social offence without realising it?

    I genuinely don’t know.

    Then somebody recently told me they tip their chiropractor.

    Their chiropractor!

    I’ve never done that.

    Suddenly, I found myself questioning another perfectly ordinary transaction.

    This is what I find most confusing about American tipping culture.

    There are situations where the expectations are clear, and then there are others where you seem to need an instruction manual.

    Restaurants, bars and barbers? Sorted.

    Furniture delivery and chiropractors?

    Apparently, I’m still learning.


    Why I Think Australians Should Tip When Visiting America

    Despite my occasional frustration with the system, I think Australians visiting America should follow the local tipping customs.

    It’s part of visiting another country.

    When you travel, you encounter different expectations, traditions and ways of doing things.

    I’ve lived in several countries, including Samoa and New Zealand, and I’ve learned that respecting local customs is an important part of adapting to a different culture.

    You don’t walk into a Samoan fale and insist on keeping your shoes on simply because that’s what you might do at home.

    Likewise, the Māori hongi, a traditional greeting involving the touching of noses, is something to approach respectfully when invited to participate.

    Different cultures have different expectations.

    Tipping in America is another example.

    You don’t have to agree with every aspect of the system to recognise that the person serving your dinner didn’t create it.

    Refusing to tip a restaurant server because you disagree with American wage structures isn’t going to change those structures.

    It may simply leave that individual worker worse off.

    My approach is to follow the established customs where I live while reserving the right to question the increasingly inventive places where tipping requests appear.

    I think that’s a reasonable compromise.


    Would I Want American Tipping Culture in Australia?

    Not really.

    Australia already has a wage structure designed to ensure employees receive a legally enforceable minimum payment for their work.

    I don’t see a compelling reason to replace the traditional Australian approach with an expectation that customers routinely add another percentage to their restaurant bills.

    That doesn’t mean tipping should disappear.

    Far from it.

    I like being able to reward someone who makes an evening special.

    I remember how much an unexpectedly generous tip could mean when I worked in Australian kitchens.

    But I’d rather it remain a genuine gesture of appreciation than become something customers feel obliged to do every time they encounter a payment terminal.

    And there’s another aspect of the American system that bothers me.

    Restaurant prices have increased considerably during my time living here, at least in the places my family frequents.

    Yet the expectation to tip remains.

    Because tips are often calculated as a percentage of the bill, higher menu prices also mean a larger tip in dollar terms, even when the percentage doesn’t change.

    A 20% tip on a $100 meal is $20.

    If that same meal costs $150, the tip becomes $30.

    That’s a substantial difference when you’re taking a family out for dinner.

    I’m not opposed to paying for good service.

    I simply think the total cost of dining out is worth considering when discussing how much customers should be expected to contribute.


    Perhaps the Biggest Difference Isn’t Generosity at all

    After eight years in America, tipping has become a fairly normal part of my life.

    I generally leave around 20% in restaurants. I’ll happily leave more when someone provides outstanding service.

    I also understand that many American hospitality workers depend on tips in a way that Australian workers generally don’t.

    But I still think about those childhood restaurant visits in Australia.

    When my family left a tip, it was because somebody had made the experience special.

    Nobody had to calculate a percentage.

    Nobody felt pressured by a payment terminal.

    It was simply a way of saying thank you.

    That’s what I liked about the Australian approach, and it’s still what I appreciate most about tipping in America.

    When someone goes out of their way to make my family feel welcome, I’m more than happy to acknowledge it.

    Just don’t ask me to tip the chiropractor. I’m still trying to work that one out.


    Enjoy reading about life in America through Australian eyes?

    If you’ve enjoyed this article and feel like leaving a tip, you can buy me a coffee. Completely optional, of course. I’m Australian.

  • I Want My Girls Safe Online. What Happens to Our Privacy?

    I Want My Girls Safe Online. What Happens to Our Privacy?


    I’ve been trying to understand Australia’s proposed digital duty of care, and I keep coming back to one fairly simple thought: I want my girls to be safe online.

    The less simple question is what we should do to make that happen.

    I’m an Australian dad living in the United States. I’ve watched this discussion develop in both countries, and I can see why people come at it from different directions. But I’m not writing this because I’ve landed on a firm position. I haven’t. I’m trying to work out what the proposal would actually mean for families like mine, and what questions I’d want answered before deciding whether it’s a good idea.


    What does “duty of care” mean online?

    “Digital duty of care” sounds like something I’d have to sign before being allowed into a meeting.

    As I understand it, Australia wants online platforms to take more responsibility for the harm their services can cause. That means looking at how the platforms work, including the algorithms that decide what keeps turning up in our feeds, rather than waiting for someone to report a problem after it’s happened. The proposal would also give people more choice about those feeds.

    I can see why that appeals to parents. I’d like to know the people running these platforms have thought about what happens when a child uses them. But I’m still trying to understand what they would actually be required to do. If my daughter is being bullied, I want the platform to act. Beyond cases like that, who decides what counts as harm, and what would acting on it look like?

    For now, this is still a proposal. The Australian Government’s exposure draft and consultation material describe a new responsibility for online services to manage risks and prevent serious harms. The government says the framework is meant to improve safety while protecting freedom of expression. Those aims sound compatible in a sentence. The difficult work is deciding how they fit together when a real case lands in front of a platform.


    The part I understand as a dad

    It’s hard to monitor what your children see online every minute of every day. My girls are still young, and I can already imagine how much harder that will become as they get older and want more privacy and independence.

    If stronger safeguards help protect my girls from bullying and harmful material, I’m all for them. Kids shouldn’t have to manage every online risk alone just because the internet is difficult to regulate.

    I worry about AI-generated and manipulated images, too. Someone could take an ordinary photo of one of my girls and alter it to make it look as if she’d done something she never did. I would hate for that to happen. Once someone shares a manipulated image, getting it back under control can be nearly impossible.

    In a case like that, I’d want the image removed, the person responsible to face consequences, and the platform to face financial penalties if it failed to respond properly. That feels clear to me. Where I get stuck is deciding what rules should apply to material that upsets or harms people but isn’t obviously illegal. Who decides what crosses the line? How do we give platforms enough responsibility to act without asking them to remove anything that might attract criticism? Those questions are not an argument against protecting children. They’re part of working out what protection should look like.


    Why the debate sounds different across the Pacific

    Living in America has made me more aware of how quickly questions about government power and free speech enter the conversation here. The US administration’s response to Australia’s proposal focused on the risk of censorship and the effects the rules could have on American technology companies. Australia’s proposal, by contrast, starts with the responsibility of online services to take reasonable steps against foreseeable harms.

    That’s a difference in emphasis, rather than a neat split where one country cares about safety and the other doesn’t. People in both places worry about children and value free expression. But in my experience, Australians are often more comfortable asking what rules might help, while Americans are quicker to ask who gets to make those rules and how far they could reach. I understand both questions. I don’t want a platform shrugging off serious harm. But I also don’t want a broad or unclear standard to become a reason for lawful speech to disappear. I’m not sure there’s a simple line that resolves that tension for every situation.

    A man sits beside a phone and photographs of Australian and American neighbourhoods.
    Living between Australia and America can make the same online safety question sound quite different.

    Age checks bring privacy into it

    The question gets more personal when the proposed solution involves proving who you are, or how old you are.

    Here in Tennessee, state law requires age verification for certain websites with material considered harmful to minors. I understand the aim: children shouldn’t be accessing adult material. But I still find myself asking what information a user has to provide, who handles it, and what happens to it afterwards. People have challenged the Tennessee law in court, too. The argument over where to draw the line is far from settled.

    When I walk into a shop to buy alcohol, someone checks my ID and lets me go. As far as I know, they don’t record my details or keep a list of what I’ve bought. What is the online equivalent? Can a service confirm that I’m an adult without storing my identity or keeping a record of what I visit?

    That distinction matters to me. I could be comfortable with age verification if it genuinely confirmed age without retaining identity or browsing history. I’m less comfortable with the idea of handing over personal information without understanding who can see it or how long it stays around.

    I already get spam calls and adverts that seem to know an unsettling amount about my interests. I don’t know where every detail comes from, and I’m not claiming my phone reads my mind. But the experience does leave me wondering how much information is collected as we move through everyday life online. And then there’s the question I keep coming back to: twenty years ago, most of us weren’t asked to prove our age before using the internet. The online world has changed, and children can now encounter things that were much harder to reach. That’s a real difference. Still, I want to understand why a particular check is needed, whether it will work, and what information it will create before I decide I’m comfortable with it.

    A hand holds a phone beside a leather wallet on a living-room table, with the screen and ID details hidden.
    An online age check raises a question I don’t have to ask when I show my ID at a shop: who keeps the information afterwards?

    I’m still working it out

    I don’t want the government telling me how to raise my children or what they should believe. I do think government has a role when children are neglected or seriously harmed. Between those two statements sits a lot of difficult territory, especially when a platform’s design can influence what a child sees without a parent knowing it’s happening.

    I want my girls protected from bullying, exploitation and manipulated images. Platforms to take responsibility when their systems contribute to serious harm. I also want parents to remain parents, and I want people to have privacy online.

    I can’t yet say exactly how all of that should be balanced. So I’m trying to understand the proposal before deciding what I think of it: what risks it is meant to address, what platforms would have to do, who decides when they’ve done enough, and what information users may be asked to give up along the way.


    If you enjoy these personal observations about life between Australia and America, you can support From Down Under to Down South through Buy Me a Coffee.

  • Dance Dads Have a Clique. I Didn’t Make the Cut.

    Dance Dads Have a Clique. I Didn’t Make the Cut.


    I recently discovered that I have failed to join the dance dads.

    Apparently there is a group.

    There may be a committee.

    There could be membership requirements.

    I wouldn’t know.

    Nobody sent me the paperwork.

    My daughter Georgia has been dancing at the same studio for six years now, including four years on the competition team.

    I know most of the teachers. I know many of the parents. I know the kids. I know which competition venues have decent coffee, which ones have terrible parking and roughly how many rhinestones can fall off a costume before somebody declares an emergency.

    But somehow, after all these years, I remain an independent contractor. A freelance dance dad.


    I should have noticed the dance dads years ago

    The evidence was there from the beginning.

    At competitions, a group of dads would help build the sets. They’d carry everything onto the stage, assemble whatever needed assembling and then, when the job was done, take a little bow before running offstage to applause.

    It was like a very specialised Broadway production where nobody actually danced.

    I was never asked to join them.

    I wasn’t offended.

    At first I didn’t think much about it.

    But over the years, I started noticing the same dads together elsewhere.

    At practices, they’d stand around talking in a circle.

    At competitions, they’d sit together.

    Sometimes they’d go out for dinner afterwards.

    There was clearly a social structure here that I had somehow missed.

    The dance mums had their groups too, of course. I’d noticed those.

    I just assumed the dads operated differently.

    Turn up.

    Find somewhere to sit.

    Look at phone.

    Move costume bag when instructed.

    Ask when we’re leaving. Apparently I had underestimated the complexity of dance fatherhood.

    Parents and families gathered at a children's dance competition.
    Dance competitions have their own little communities. Some of us are apparently non playing members

    Then one of the dads confirmed my suspicions

    Recently, I was standing outside the studio waiting for Georgia.

    One of the dance dads walked out.

    I’ve known him for several years. Not well, but certainly well enough that we’re not strangers.

    He looked straight at me.

    I said hello and asked how he was.

    I got a quick good, how are you?

    Then he proceeded to enthusiastically talk to seemingly everyone else within a fifty metre radius.

    People walking past.

    Other parents.

    People sitting in their cars.

    Had somebody driven past slowly enough, I suspect he would have leaned through the passenger window.

    It was like watching a politician work a rope line.

    And I stood there thinking:

    Well.

    Nice catching up.

    To be fair, perhaps I’m being unfair.

    Because there is another possibility I have been forced to consider. Maybe they think I’m the snob.


    This is where my argument begins to fall apart

    I don’t approach groups.

    Ever.

    If I walk into the dance studio and six dads are standing in a closed circle talking, there is absolutely no chance I am walking over and inserting myself into the middle.

    None.

    They could be discussing how to divide a winning Powerball ticket and I’d probably stand twenty feet away looking at my phone.

    Part of it is probably shyness.

    I’m much better one on one than I am in groups, particularly with people I don’t know well.

    Part of it may simply be habit.

    And part of it is that I often walk into the studio without my glasses and can’t actually tell who anybody is.

    It’s difficult to confidently greet someone when there’s a reasonable possibility you’re about to introduce yourself to a coat rack.

    So I sit down.

    I pull out my phone.

    I answer emails.

    I work on the website.

    I check YouTube.

    I watch Georgia or Brianna through the window.

    From my perspective, I’m giving everyone else their space.

    • Somewhere along the way I’ve also learned that a portable phone charger is less an accessory at a dance competition and more emergency equipment. These things can run all day.

    From their perspective, perhaps there’s an Australian bloke sitting in the corner staring at his phone who never comes over and talks to anyone. This investigation is becoming increasingly inconvenient.


    I don’t actually dislike talking to people

    That’s the strange part.

    If one of the dads comes over and talks to me, I’m perfectly happy.

    It has happened occasionally.

    At Nationals over the summer, I ended up having a great conversation with another dad about soccer and the World Cup.

    He’d had a couple of drinks, which may have assisted international diplomacy.

    But it was easy.

    Natural.

    Two dads talking about football.

    I’ve had similar conversations with other parents over the years.

    The confusing part comes afterwards.

    Sometimes you’ll have a really good one on one conversation with somebody. You think you’ve finally broken through that awkward stage.

    Then the next time you see them, they’re back with their usual group and it’s as though the conversation never happened.

    Hello again, coat rack.

    That’s when the whole thing can start to feel slightly performative.

    Warm and friendly when you’re one on one.

    Different when the group reappears. And that’s probably why I’ve become even less inclined to push myself into it.

    Young competitive dancer performing onstage at a dance competition.
    The kids somehow manage to make friends while competing against each other. The adults have developed a more complicated system.

    The kids may actually be better at this than we are

    Georgia has her best friend at dance.

    Like most childhood best friendships, it can occasionally resemble Days of Our Lives.

    They’re inseparable.

    Then they’re not.

    Then they are again.

    The other girls her age seem to operate similarly. They have close friendships and often pair off rather than moving around as one enormous group.

    Meanwhile, some of us adults seem to have recreated high school in the lobby.

    The children are learning choreography.

    We’re apparently still working out where we’re allowed to sit at lunch.

    And that, I’ve realised, might be part of why I find these situations uncomfortable.


    Just tell me where I’m supposed to sit

    At competitions, we’re often sitting by ourselves or with Georgia’s best friend’s mum and another parent we know.

    I’ve watched other dance studios arrive and seemingly have this sorted.

    Their families sit together.

    They have a section.

    They cheer together.

    Some even have team chants.

    You can see immediately that they’re there as a studio.

    I actually think I’d enjoy that.

    Which surprised me when I thought about it.

    Because my problem isn’t necessarily being around everybody.

    My problem is the bit beforehand.

    Walking into a room and trying to work out where you belong.

    I don’t want to walk up to a row of people and ask whether a seat is free, only to hear:

    Sorry, someone’s sitting there.

    Suddenly I’m back on the school bus trying to work out where I’m allowed to sit.

    I’m 52.

    I don’t need that kind of pressure.

    Give me assigned seating.

    Put my name on a chair. I will happily participate.

    • I’ve spent enough hours in dance venues now that I’m beginning to think a decent stadium seat cushion should be issued when your child joins the competition team.

    Apparently I require organised socialising

    There was an awards night at Nationals over the summer.

    Families were invited.

    I didn’t go.

    I stayed with Brianna in the hotel room instead.

    Maybe I should have gone.

    But I could already picture myself walking into the area, looking around at all the established groups and trying to work out where to stand.

    No thanks.

    Yet if the studio announced tomorrow that all the families were sitting together at the next competition, I’d genuinely look forward to it.

    So apparently my social requirements are:

    I would like to be included.

    I do not wish to ask to be included.

    Please provide clear instructions.

    Assigned seating preferred. Refreshments appreciated.

    Daytona Beach Florida
    Daytona Beach, dance dad life does include some travel perks.

    The really annoying part is that I’m perfectly sociable elsewhere

    I dance too.

    Ballroom.

    And at my ballroom studio, I feel completely at home.

    From the beginning, people said hello when I walked through the door.

    They remembered my name.

    They talked to me.

    It was welcoming.

    Now I can walk in and feel like I belong there.

    Same bloke.

    Same personality.

    Same reluctance to charge into a group of strangers.

    The difference is that somewhere along the way, I was given enough little signals that said:

    You’re part of this place.

    That’s all it took.

    At Georgia’s studio, after five or six years, I know almost everybody.

    I always say hello to the teachers by name.

    Sometimes I wonder whether they know mine.

    Although, in fairness, it is a children’s dance studio.

    They’re there for Georgia.

    I’m essentially transport. Transport with a credit card.


    Put me in my own house and I’m completely different

    Here’s another piece of evidence against my claim that everyone else is responsible.

    We’ve hosted plenty of birthday parties for the girls.

    When people come into my house, I’m a host.

    I talk to them.

    I make them feel welcome.

    If I see another dad standing by himself, I’ll go over and talk to him.

    I don’t want someone standing alone wondering whether anybody wants them there.

    Because I know exactly what that feels like.

    Once I’ve spent time with someone, things become much easier.

    There are dads I’ve got to know through the girls’ friendships, birthday parties and school events. I can walk up to them now, say hello, sit down and have a chat.

    It just takes me time.

    Apparently quite a lot of time. Possibly several financial years.


    Phones probably aren’t helping any of us

    There is also a modern complication.

    The phone.

    If I’m sitting alone at dance, my phone gives me somewhere to go.

    I can work.

    I can read something.

    I can scroll.

    I can look extremely busy while accomplishing absolutely nothing.

    Twenty years ago, if you were sitting alone waiting for your child to finish an activity, eventually you probably had to look up.

    Someone else looked up.

    You talked.

    Now we can spend two hours sitting six feet apart without ever acknowledging that another human being exists.

    The phone makes being alone easier.

    It also makes being alone look intentional.

    Someone might look at me and think:

    He’s busy. I’ll leave him alone.

    Meanwhile I’m looking at the group across the room thinking:

    They obviously don’t want me over there.

    Excellent.

    Everybody has successfully respected everybody else’s desire to do something none of us actually wanted.

    Phone and dance bag while waiting at a children's dance studio.
    The modern dance dad survival kit. A phone, somewhere to sit and several hours to kill.

    Maybe I’ve been watching the wrong people

    This is the part I hadn’t really considered until recently.

    I’ve spent years noticing the group.

    Dads standing together.

    Parents sitting together.

    People going out afterwards.

    Maybe I should start looking for the other person.

    The dad sitting twenty feet away on his phone.

    The mum standing by herself waiting for rehearsal to finish.

    The parent who walked into the room, saw the established groups and quietly found a chair.

    Because maybe they’re not antisocial either.

    Maybe they’re doing exactly what I’m doing.

    Waiting for someone else to go first.

    I’m still not walking into the middle of that closed circle.

    Let’s not get ridiculous.

    But perhaps next time I see another parent sitting alone, I’ll say hello.

    One person I can handle.

    Give me another five or six years and I may even help build a set.

    Just don’t expect me to take a bow.

    Actually, that’s not true.

    I’m a ballroom dancer. Of course I’ll take the bow.


    If you enjoy these stories about family, dance and the strange little things I notice while living in America, you can support From Down Under to Down South through Buy Me a Coffee.

    It helps me keep writing, filming and podcasting. And, apparently, gives me something productive to do on my phone while all the other dance dads are talking to each other.

  • Why Do Australians Swear So Casually? It’s Not Always What You Think

    Why Do Australians Swear So Casually? It’s Not Always What You Think

    AUSTRALIA EXPLAINED


    There are certain things that you learn very quickly when you move from Australia to America.

    You learn to drive on the other side of the road. That biscuits aren’t quite the biscuits you are used to. You discover that asking someone where the toilet is can produce a surprisingly uncomfortable situation.

    You also discover that some of the words you’ve been using quite happily for most of your life can make an American look as though you’ve just insulted their grandma.

    Now I don’t consider myself an especially foul-mouthed kind of person. I know when to watch my language, especially as a Dad to two young girls but even in professional settings as well.

    But after eight years in the United States, I’ve become much more conscious of something I barely thought about back in Australia.

    Australians can be remarkably casual about swearing.

    Not all Australians, obviously. There are plenty of people who wouldn’t dream of dropping an F-bomb over breakfast.

    But in certain Australian social circles, a swear word can slip into a conversation without anybody batting an eyelid.

    It doesn’t necessarily mean someone’s angry.

    It doesn’t necessarily mean they’re being rude.

    Sometimes, it doesn’t seem to mean much of anything at all.

    Which raises an interesting question. Why?

    Friends enjoying a relaxed conversation at an Australian backyard barbecue.
    In Australia, the meaning of a swear word can depend as much on the company as the language itself

    Swearing Isn’t Always About Being Angry

    When someone swears, it’s easy to assume they’re expressing anger, frustration or hostility.

    Sometimes they are.

    But swearing can serve quite a few other purposes.

    Imagine an Australian watching a friend attempt something spectacularly stupid.

    “You’re a bloody idiot.”

    Now imagine that same Australian saying exactly the same words to someone who has just damaged their car.

    Same sentence.

    Entirely different conversation.

    In the first situation, it might be accompanied by laughter, a shake of the head and another beer.

    In the second, somebody might be about to have a very unpleasant afternoon.

    The words haven’t changed. The relationship, tone and circumstances have.

    That’s an important part of understanding Australian swearing.

    Linguists have examined how informal language, swearing and terms of insult can express camaraderie, nonchalance and resistance to excessive formality in Australian English. It’s a cultural tendency, not a rule that applies to every Aussie.

    The mistake is assuming that every swear word is being used as an insult. Sometimes it’s simply part of the conversation.


    The Australian Art of Insulting Your Friends

    One of the more confusing parts of Australian humor is our willingness to give people we like a hard time.

    If you’ve ever spent time around a group of Aussie mates, you might have noticed that affection isn’t always expressed through compliments.

    Sometimes it’s expressed by pointing out someone’s stupidity in considerable detail.

    A friend arrives wearing a shirt that looks like it was bought from an op-shop.

    Someone comments on it.

    Everyone laughs.

    The friend fires back with something worse.

    Nobody takes offense.

    In fact, being included in the exchange can be a sign that you’re comfortable with one another.

    Of course, there’s a difference between friendly teasing and genuine bullying. The distinction depends on whether everyone involved is enjoying themselves.

    The Australian sense of humor doesn’t magically excuse being rude.

    But among friends who understand each other, a little verbal abuse can become an oddly affectionate ritual.

    The trick is knowing the relationship.

    You can’t walk up to a complete stranger, call them an idiot and assume they’ll appreciate your cultural authenticity.

    That’s not how it works. Although I’m sure someone has tried.

    Australian men at a bbq
    You can always count on your Aussie mates for a bit of banter

    Why Australians Use Swear Words as Punctuation

    There’s another kind of Australian swearing that has almost nothing to do with insulting anybody.

    It’s the casual swear word that sneaks into an otherwise ordinary sentence.

    “Where’s the bloody remote?”

    “It’s bloody hot today.”

    “That was a bloody good game.”

    In these examples, bloody isn’t necessarily expressing hostility. It’s adding emphasis.

    The remote is missing. The weather is hot. The game was good.

    The swear word simply gives the sentence a little extra weight.

    It’s not entirely different from an American saying something was “damn good.”

    Of course, bloody is a relatively mild example.

    Stronger words can serve similar purposes in some Australian social settings, although the acceptability changes considerably depending on the audience.

    A swear word might emphasize surprise, excitement, disappointment or admiration.

    Sometimes it can do several of those things in the same conversation.

    If you removed every unnecessary swear word from certain Australian conversations, you’d be left with something resembling a very short meeting agenda.

    Technically, all the information would still be there.

    It just wouldn’t sound quite the same.

    Television remote wedged between couch cushions in a living room
    A missing remote can inspire an impressive amount of Aussie lingo

    Why the C-Word Is Different in Australia

    I should probably address the elephant in the room.

    Or, more accurately, the word that tends to make the elephant leave the room.

    The C-word.

    In the United States, it’s widely regarded as an extremely offensive insult, particularly when directed at women.

    In some Australian social circles, however, the word can have a much broader range of meanings.

    It can be an insult.

    It can be a casual reference to a person.

    Among certain friends, it can even be used affectionately.

    A 2026 linguistic study by Henry Carls examined these different uses in Anglo-Australian English, including hostile, neutral and friendly meanings.

    That doesn’t mean the word is universally acceptable in Australia.

    Far from it.

    There are plenty of Australians who dislike it intensely. Age, upbringing, social environment and personal preference can all influence how someone reacts. Personally, I’m not a fan of it either.

    You certainly wouldn’t assume it was appropriate in a workplace, a family gathering or a conversation with someone you’ve just met.

    And using it affectionately with a close friend doesn’t make it harmless when directed at someone who finds it offensive.

    The important distinction is that the word’s meaning isn’t fixed across every social situation.

    For an American unfamiliar with that usage, hearing it casually exchanged between Australian friends can be pretty shocking.

    For the Australians involved, it might be completely normal.

    Neither reaction is particularly mysterious once you understand the cultural expectations.

    Personally, I wouldn’t recommend testing the boundaries of this particular linguistic difference during your first visit to Australia.

    Start with “G’day.” Work your way up.

    a kangaroo teaching a tourist Australian slang.
    No need to be a hero, take it easy on the slang cobba!

    Even the Word ‘Mate’ Can Be an Insult

    Here’s where Australian English becomes particularly entertaining.

    We don’t even need to swear to sound threatening.

    Take the word mate.

    “Thanks, mate.”

    Friendly.

    “How’s it going, mate?”

    Probably friendly.

    “Listen here, mate.”

    Potentially an entirely different situation.

    You can almost hear the change in tone.

    Australian National University linguist Johanna Rendle-Short studied how the placement of mate in conversation affects its interpretation. Her research found that the word can communicate friendliness but can also take on antagonistic meanings depending on how it is used.

    In other words, the supposedly friendly word can sometimes be more concerning than the swear word.

    An Australian calling you a bloody idiot while laughing might be perfectly happy with you.

    An Australian looking you directly in the eye and saying “Listen, mate” might suggest the conversation has taken a turn.

    Context is doing most of the work.


    Is Australian Swearing Part of Our Anti-Authority Culture?

    There’s a broader cultural explanation worth looking at.

    Australian identity has long been associated with informality, egalitarian ideals and a certain suspicion of people who take themselves too seriously.

    That doesn’t mean Australians reject authority altogether.

    We have rules, institutions, hierarchies and plenty of people who enjoy enforcing them.

    But excessive formality can sometimes feel a little uncomfortable in Australian social settings.

    Using informal language can help reduce the distance between people.

    A boss who speaks casually with employees might be trying to create a relaxed atmosphere.

    Friends might use deliberately rough language to avoid sounding overly sentimental.

    Someone might swear while telling a story simply because that’s how they’d naturally tell it.

    Research by linguists Alyssa Severin and Kate Burridge connects Australian colloquial language, including swearing and terms of insult, with cultural ideals such as mateship, egalitarianism and anti-authoritarianism.

    That doesn’t prove every Australian swear word is a miniature rebellion against “The Man”.

    Sometimes you’ve just dropped a hammer on your foot.

    But it helps explain why informality can carry positive social meaning.

    For some Australians, speaking plainly is part of showing that you’re not putting on airs.

    Whether the language actually makes anyone more genuine is another question entirely. A person can swear like a sailor and still be completely full of crap.


    Does That Mean Australians Swear More Than Americans?

    Not necessarily.

    It’s easy to hear a few Australians swearing casually and conclude that the entire country has a more colorful vocabulary than the United States.

    But that’s a different claim from saying Australians use particular swear words differently.

    Swearing varies enormously within both countries.

    An American construction site, a military barracks, a family dinner and a corporate boardroom are unlikely to have identical expectations about language.

    Neither are their Australian equivalents.

    Without comparable national data, there’s no good reason to declare one entire population the champion of profanity.

    What I can say from my own experience is that living in America has made me more aware of when certain words might land differently and that is certainly more noticeable in the southern states.

    Something that would pass without comment among Australian friends might cause a very different reaction here.

    Not because Americans never swear.

    They certainly do.

    But because the same word can carry different social baggage.

    The difference isn’t always how frequently people swear. Sometimes it’s what they’re prepared to overlook.

    An everyday social setting in Tennessee
    Eight years in America have made me much more conscious of which Australian expressions travel well

    The Swear Words That Aren’t Quite What They Used to Be

    Language changes.

    Words that once caused widespread offense can become relatively mild, while other expressions become less socially acceptable.

    This is particularly interesting in Australia because traditional profanity and language that targets someone’s identity don’t necessarily carry the same weight.

    A 2025 study published in the Australian Journal of Linguistics surveyed 60 Australian-born university students about taboo language.

    The researchers found that participants considered discriminatory language more taboo than some categories of traditional swearing. The sample was small and limited to university students, so the results shouldn’t be treated as a definitive measure of the entire Australian population.

    Nevertheless, it raises an interesting distinction.

    Someone might be perfectly comfortable with a conversation full of traditional swear words while objecting strongly to language that demeans a particular group of people.

    Being relaxed about profanity doesn’t mean being relaxed about every kind of offensive language.

    Nor does it mean that someone who swears casually is incapable of recognizing when their words have crossed a line.

    The question isn’t simply whether a word is rude. It’s also what the word is doing and who it affects.


    How to Tell When an Australian Is Actually Insulting You

    Unfortunately, there isn’t a universal Australian translation manual.

    But if you’re visiting Australia or spending time with Australian friends, there are a few things worth paying attention to.

    First, listen to the tone.

    A laughing friend calling you an idiot is very different from an angry stranger saying the same thing.

    Second, consider the relationship.

    People who have known each other for twenty years can get away with language that would be completely inappropriate between strangers.

    Third, look at the reaction of everyone else.

    If the entire group is laughing and the person being teased is laughing too, you’re probably witnessing friendly banter.

    If someone looks uncomfortable, goes quiet or asks for it to stop, the situation is different.

    Finally, don’t assume you need to imitate the language to fit in.

    You can enjoy Aussie humor without adopting every expression you hear.

    In fact, an American arriving in Sydney and immediately attempting to use the strongest Australian swear words imaginable is probably going to sound less like a local and more like someone who learned English exclusively from a series of YouTube videos. There’s no rush.


    Living Between Two Versions of English

    One of the fascinating things about moving overseas is discovering how much of your own culture you never consciously noticed.

    You don’t spend your childhood analyzing the language around you.

    You simply absorb it.

    You learn which words are acceptable at home, which ones you can use around friends and which ones will get you into trouble.

    Then you move to another country and discover that the rules have changed.

    The words are largely the same.

    The meanings aren’t always.

    After eight years in America, I find myself paying more attention to those differences.

    I still enjoy the informality of Australian conversation. I appreciate the humor, the teasing and the ability to express frustration without necessarily turning it into a major emotional event.

    But I’ve also learned that a word I consider relatively harmless might carry a much stronger meaning for someone else.

    That’s worth respecting.

    Adapting to another country doesn’t require abandoning your personality.

    It does require understanding that other people haven’t necessarily grown up with the same social rulebook. And sometimes, the most useful thing you can learn about another culture is when to keep your bloody mouth shut.


    Enjoy seeing Australia through a different lens?

    From Australian slang to the little cultural differences you only notice after moving overseas, there’s always something new to discover.

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  • Why Americans Never Really Leave School Behind

    Why Americans Never Really Leave School Behind


    There are certain things I expected to leave behind when I finished school.
    Homework. Exams. Being told what to wear. The occasional teacher who seemed personally offended by my existence.
    What I didn’t expect was to move to America decades later and discover that, for some people, school never really ends.
    Not the actual education, mind you. The identity.


    I’ve lived in the United States for eight years now, and one thing I’ve noticed is how often schools find their way into everyday conversations.
    Where did you go to high school? Which college did you attend? Who do you support?
    That last question can be particularly dangerous in Tennessee. Give the wrong answer and you may find yourself in a conversation about football that lasts considerably longer than you intended.

    At first, I thought this was simply another American cultural quirk.
    But the longer I’ve lived here, the more I’ve come to appreciate that the question of where someone went to school can be about considerably more than education.
    Sometimes it’s about finding a connection.
    Sometimes it’s about belonging.
    Maybe it’s about a football team that hasn’t won anything significant in years, but whose supporters remain convinced that next season will be different.
    And sometimes, whether we like it or not, it’s about social status.

    For some American communities, school spirit continues long after graduation.

    The Question That Sounds Simple but Isn’t

    Imagine meeting someone at a party.
    You exchange names, establish that neither of you is particularly interested in discussing the weather, and then comes the question

    “Where did you go to school?”

    For an Australian, the answer might be a straightforward piece of biographical information.

    For an American, depending on where you live and who’s asking, it can open an entire conversation.

    The person might recognise the school. They might know someone who attended it. They might have played against its football team or discovered that your cousin married their old chemistry teacher.

    Suddenly, two strangers have something in common.

    One particularly interesting example is St. Louis, Missouri, where asking someone which high school they attended has long been recognised as a local conversational tradition.

    A 2007 feature in St. Louis Magazine explored how the question can reveal shared acquaintances, neighbourhood connections and aspects of someone’s background.

    Imagine that.

    You could be 52 years old, have a mortgage, two children, a career and a perfectly respectable collection of lawn maintenance equipment.

    Yet someone still wants to know where you were sitting during Year 10 biology.

    To be fair, I can understand the appeal.

    I’ve moved between countries and lived in enough different places to appreciate how valuable a familiar connection can be.

    When someone discovers that you grew up near the same place, knew the same people or experienced something similar, the conversation immediately changes.

    You stop being two strangers.

    You have a shared starting point.

    But there’s another side to the question, and it’s worth acknowledging.


    Sometimes Your School Says Something About Your Background

    Not every question about education is innocent curiosity.

    The name of a school can sometimes suggest where someone grew up, the financial circumstances of their family or the social circles they moved in.

    That doesn’t mean everyone asking is making those judgments.

    It means the information can carry social meaning beyond the classroom.

    In St. Louis, for example, discussions about the famous high school question have included both interpretations: people who see it as a way of finding mutual friends and people who believe it can be used to establish social standing.

    The distinction matters.

    Asking where someone went to school because you’re hoping to discover a mutual acquaintance is one thing.

    Deciding what sort of person they must be because of the answer is quite another.

    I find this especially interesting because schools can become shorthand for entire communities.

    A school name might tell a local person roughly which neighbourhood someone came from. It might suggest a particular sporting rivalry, a religious tradition or a family connection stretching back generations.

    Of course, none of that tells you whether the person standing in front of you is actually worth knowing.

    For that, you’re probably going to have to talk to them.

    An outrageous concept, I know.


    Then There’s College. That’s an Entirely Different Level.

    American college football supporters wearing university colours at a homecoming game.
    For many graduates, university loyalty becomes a lifelong connection.

    One of the things that surprised me about American university culture was how visible it remains outside the university itself.

    People wear college shirts to the supermarket.

    They put university stickers on their cars.

    They decorate their homes in school colours.

    They follow the sporting achievements of students who were probably born long after they graduated.

    Some even travel considerable distances to return to campus for homecoming celebrations.

    Now, Australian universities have alumni associations, sporting clubs and plenty of graduates who remain proud of their institutions.

    But the scale and visibility of American college identity, particularly around major sporting programs, feels quite different from what I grew up with.

    You don’t need to have attended the University of Tennessee to notice its presence around Nashville.

    Orange merchandise is everywhere.

    In parts of the South, college football isn’t simply something you watch.

    It’s something you inherit.

    Your parents supported a particular university. Their parents supported it. Now you’re expected to continue the tradition.

    You might attend an entirely different institution.

    You might never attend university at all.

    Doesn’t matter.

    Apparently, your football allegiance was settled before you were old enough to hold a spoon.

    And it’s important to recognise that the relationship between universities and their supporters isn’t limited to graduates.

    College teams can represent an entire state or region. For some supporters, the institution is part of their community identity rather than their personal educational history.

    That makes the question of which college someone supports quite different from asking which college they attended.

    One is about education.

    The other might be about family, geography and several generations of sporting disappointment.


    Why School Sports Matter So Much

    If you want to understand the continuing importance of schools in American communities, sport is a useful place to start.

    High school football in particular can bring together people who otherwise have little reason to gather in the same place.

    Parents, grandparents, former students, local business owners and neighbours turn up to support the same team.

    For some towns, Friday night football is a major community event.

    A September 2026 Associated Press report explored how high school football continues to provide a sense of unity, tradition and opportunity in communities such as Aliquippa, Pennsylvania.

    That community role helps explain why people can remain attached to their old school long after graduating.

    The school wasn’t just somewhere they attended classes.

    It was where they played sport, made friends, performed on stage, attended community events and developed relationships that might last for decades.

    The sporting connection is widespread, although certainly not universal.

    A Pew Research Center survey conducted in February 2022 found that 48% of American adults reported participating in organised competitive sports during high school, college or both.

    That doesn’t mean every former student remains interested in school sport.

    But it does demonstrate how many Americans have personal experience of the sporting side of education.

    And I can see why those memories endure.

    When a school is also a community gathering place, leaving the classroom doesn’t necessarily mean leaving the community behind.

    College marching band performing in Nashville
    American school traditions extend well beyond the players on the field

    Watching My Own Children Grow Up in the American School System

    This is where the subject becomes a little more personal for me.

    I’m an Australian raising two daughters in Tennessee.

    Their experience of school is already different from mine.

    I’m watching them grow up with traditions, terminology and expectations that weren’t necessarily part of my own childhood.

    Things like school spirit, mascots and the importance attached to particular school events are part of the world they’re learning to navigate.

    As a parent, I find myself paying attention to things I wouldn’t have given much thought to before.

    Which school will they attend?

    What opportunities will it offer?

    Will they find good friends?

    Will they feel comfortable there?

    Will it encourage their interests and help them discover what they’re capable of?

    Those questions aren’t uniquely American, of course.

    Parents everywhere worry about their children’s education.

    But living here has made me more conscious of the role a school can play in shaping a child’s wider social world.

    For my girls, school isn’t simply a building where they learn maths and English.

    It’s part of where they’re growing up.

    It’s where friendships develop, confidence can grow and memories are made.

    As a father, I hope those memories will be good ones.

    I also hope that, years from now, when someone asks them where they went to school, they’ll remember more than the name on the building.

    Marching band at Neyland Stadium in Knoxville Tennessee
    Raising my daughters in Tennessee has given me a different perspective on the role schools play in American life.

    The Part of American School Culture I Understand Better Now

    When I first arrived in America, I sometimes found the continuing attachment to schools a little strange.

    I couldn’t quite understand why a grown adult would be so emotionally invested in an institution they left 30 years ago.

    Particularly when the attachment involved shouting at a television because a 19-year-old missed a field goal.

    But after eight years here, I’ve started to see the bigger picture.

    A school can provide something that becomes increasingly valuable as we get older.

    Continuity.

    People move away. Careers change. Families grow. Neighbourhoods transform.

    The place where you spent your teenage years might be one of the few connections that remains.You can return for a reunion and encounter people who remember a version of you that your current friends have never met.

    You can watch a football game and feel connected to the town where you grew up.

    You can meet someone on the other side of the country, discover they attended the same university, and immediately have something to talk about.

    None of that requires believing your school was better than anyone else’s.

    It’s simply the comfort of belonging to something familiar.

    Of course, not everyone has happy memories of school.

    For some people, graduation was a welcome escape, and they have absolutely no desire to return.

    That’s worth remembering whenever we romanticise school spirit.

    A place that represents belonging for one person might represent exclusion for another.

    The value isn’t necessarily in the institution itself.

    It’s in the relationships and experiences people associate with it.


    Maybe the Question Isn’t Really About School at All

    I’ve come to think that asking someone where they went to school is often another version of a much more familiar question.

    Where are you from?

    Not necessarily geographically.

    Where did your story begin?

    What sort of community shaped you?

    Do we have anything in common?

    Americans have plenty of ways of answering those questions, and schools are just one of them.

    For some, it’s a university.

    For others, it’s a hometown, a church, a sporting club or the neighbourhood where they grew up.

    I still find it amusing that a person can spend four years at university and then devote the next 40 to wearing its merchandise.

    But I understand it a little better now.

    Perhaps that’s one of the things I’ve learned from living between two cultures.

    Sometimes the things that initially seem strange aren’t particularly strange at all.

    They’re simply familiar human needs expressed in unfamiliar ways.

    The desire to belong.

    The pleasure of finding a shared connection.

    The comfort of knowing that somewhere, even decades later, there’s a place that still feels a little bit like
    home.

    Although if someone asks me where I went to high school, they’re going to need a few minutes.

    Mine was in Australia.

    That tends to complicate the conversation.


    Enjoy seeing America through Australian eyes?

    From Down Under to Down South is an independent project exploring the little things that make life between two countries interesting. If you enjoy these stories and would like to support more of them, you can buy me a coffee. Thanks for being part of the community.

  • My Daughter Got Braces. I Nearly Ended Up in the Hospital.

    My Daughter Got Braces. I Nearly Ended Up in the Hospital.

    Some fathers hold their daughter’s hand at the orthodontist. I’m the father who needs someone to check his pulse.

    My ten-year-old daughter, Georgia, got braces recently.

    She handled the whole thing remarkably well. A little discomfort, a few adjustments to what she could eat, and the beginning of that wonderful childhood experience where you discover that even a slice of bread can be surprisingly difficult to chew.

    I know. I had braces myself when I was younger.

    Naturally, as her father, I wanted to be there to support her.

    Unfortunately, there was a slight problem.

    I have a habit of fainting in medical establishments.

    Doctors, dentists, hospitals, needles. Sometimes I don’t even need any of those things to happen. Simply being in the building can be enough.

    So when Georgia went to have her braces fitted, my wife Nikki took her.

    I stayed home.

    Not exactly the sort of fatherly heroism they make Father’s Day cards about, but there was a very good reason for it.

    The last time I went to Georgia’s orthodontist, I ended up on the floor.

    Having braces fitted at the dentist
    Georgia handled getting braces considerably better than her father handled looking at an X-ray.

    The orthodontist appointment that went terribly wrong

    About a year ago, we took Georgia to the orthodontist to discuss getting braces.

    It was a consultation.

    Nobody was having a tooth pulled. Nobody was being drilled. There were no needles, no blood, and absolutely no reason for a grown man to require medical assistance.

    The orthodontist was showing us an X-ray of Georgia’s mouth.

    I remember looking at the screen.

    There were her teeth. There was her jaw. Everything was perfectly normal.

    Then my body apparently decided we’d seen enough.

    The next thing I knew, I was on the floor.

    The staff were wonderful. Cold towels appeared. Someone brought me a hydration drink. Everyone made sure I was all right.

    Meanwhile, my daughter’s orthodontic consultation had somehow become an unscheduled medical appointment for her father.

    It wasn’t exactly the impression I’d hoped to make.

    Apparently, it was memorable, though.

    When Georgia returned to get her braces fitted a year later, the staff still remembered me.

    Not necessarily as Mike. More as the father who’d collapsed during the consultation.

    Wonderful.

    You spend years trying to teach your children how to behave in public, and then you become the family member everyone remembers for lying on the floor. At least Georgia has a story to tell.

    Waiting area of an orthodontic practice with chairs and reception desk.
    A perfectly ordinary orthodontic appointment. Unless you’re me.

    I’ve always called it white coat syndrome. That’s not quite right.

    For years, I’ve referred to this little problem as white coat syndrome.

    It sounds reasonably respectable, doesn’t it?

    A medical condition. Something you can explain without admitting that an X-ray of your daughter’s teeth has just knocked you unconscious.

    But I’ve since learned there’s an important distinction.

    White coat hypertension is when someone’s blood pressure is elevated in a medical setting but normal outside it. 

    What I’m describing is consistent with something called a vasovagal response, although only a clinician can establish the cause of an individual’s fainting.

    Essentially, the nervous system can overreact to certain triggers, causing blood pressure and sometimes heart rate to drop suddenly. If that reduces blood flow to the brain enough, the person can faint.

    Blood, needles, medical instruments and emotional stress are among the recognised triggers. 

    In my case, apparently, the list also includes sitting quietly in an examination room and looking at dental X-rays.

    It’s quite an impressive range.

    The frustrating thing is that I can know perfectly well that I’m safe.

    I can understand that nobody is about to hurt me. I can tell myself there’s nothing to worry about.

    My nervous system doesn’t seem particularly interested in my opinion. It has already decided to shut the entire operation down.


    The time my sister fell off a horse and I needed five stitches

    If you think the orthodontist story is ridiculous, I can do better.

    Years ago, when I was living in Australia, my sister fell off a horse.

    She ended up in hospital, so naturally I went to visit her.

    A fairly normal thing for a brother to do.

    I wasn’t injured. I hadn’t been anywhere near the horse. My involvement in the entire incident was limited to being a concerned family member.

    At some point, I went down to the hospital cafeteria to get something to eat.

    The next thing I knew, I was on the floor.

    I’d fainted, struck my head against a door on the way down and split my chin open.

    Five stitches.

    My sister had fallen off a horse, and I’d somehow managed to sustain an injury serious enough to require stitches simply by visiting her.

    She was the patient.

    I was supposed to be the visitor.

    The hospital ended up getting two patients for the price of one. I’m not sure what the medical term for that is, but from a family perspective, it’s bloody embarrassing.

    Emergency department sign
    Five stitches, courtesy of a horse I never even rode.

    Apparently, an empty examination room is dangerous too

    You might reasonably assume that my problem is limited to seeing something unpleasant.

    Blood. Needles. Medical procedures.

    That would make sense.

    Unfortunately, I’ve managed to faint while sitting alone in an examination room.

    I went to see my doctor here in America. They showed me into a room and left me waiting.

    Nothing happened.

    Nobody examined me. Nobody produced a needle. There wasn’t even an X-ray to look at.

    I was simply sitting there.

    Then I fainted.

    Imagine being the doctor returning to the room.

    You’ve left a patient sitting quietly on the examination table, and when you come back, he’s disappeared.

    Until you look down.

    There he is.

    On the floor.

    Again.

    At this point, I suspect medical practices should have a separate checkbox on their patient intake forms.

    Reason for visit: Routine appointment. Additional requirements: Please ensure patient remains upright.


    My elaborate strategy for surviving a blood test

    Blood tests are particularly entertaining.

    Over the years, I’ve developed an entire routine.

    First, I absolutely cannot look at what’s happening.

    Second, I get my phone out.

    Third, I start talking to the nurse.

    It doesn’t matter what we discuss.

    The weather. Football. Australia. What they had for breakfast. Their plans for retirement.

    I’ll happily listen to a detailed account of someone’s kitchen renovation if it keeps my mind occupied.

    In fact, the more mundane the conversation, the better.

    The nurse probably thinks she’s having a pleasant chat with a friendly Australian.

    What she doesn’t realise is that she’s also performing the important secondary role of keeping the Australian conscious.

    Unfortunately, even this strategy isn’t foolproof.

    I’ve fainted during blood tests despite doing everything I can to distract myself.

    I’ve learned that the sensible approach is to warn medical staff before anything begins, rather than hoping I can bluff my way through it.

    There are practical precautions worth discussing with a healthcare professional, too. For people prone to vasovagal fainting, lying down when warning symptoms appear can help prevent a fall. Some people may also benefit from physical counter-pressure techniques, provided they have enough warning and have been shown how to use them appropriately. 

    Given that I’ve already managed to injure myself during one episode, avoiding another spectacular encounter with the floor seems a worthwhile objective. Recurring fainting also deserves medical evaluation rather than simply assuming every episode has the same cause.

    Blood test whilst looking at a phone
    My blood test survival strategy involves a phone, a very talkative nurse and absolutely no eye contact with the needle.

    Here’s the strange part.

    I was there when both my daughters were born.

    This is the bit I genuinely cannot explain.

    I was in the delivery room when Georgia was born.

    I was also there when Brianna arrived.

    Actual childbirth.

    An enormously significant medical event involving rather more than a dental X-ray.

    When Georgia was being born, I felt a little faint for a while, but I managed to stay upright. Once she arrived, I was fine.

    I was there for Brianna’s birth as well.

    Yet apparently, a perfectly harmless image of Georgia’s teeth is enough to send me crashing to the floor.

    I have no idea why those experiences were so different.

    Perhaps being focused on what was happening helped. Perhaps the circumstances were different enough that my body reacted differently.

    I’m not going to pretend I know.

    All I can tell you is that I can apparently cope with the birth of a human being.

    But show me a dental X-ray, and all bets are off.

    My body has some very peculiar standards.

    The hardest part isn’t actually the fainting I can laugh about all of this now.

    The hospital incident, the orthodontist, the empty examination room. They’re ridiculous stories, and I suspect I’ll be telling them for years.

    • Want to hear me tell this story, along with the week’s other American absurdities? Listen to the full episode of This Week in America.

    But there is another side to it.

    When you’re a parent, you want to be there for your children.

    You want to be the reassuring one. The person who sits beside them when they’re nervous and tells them everything will be all right.

    Getting braces might not sound like a particularly significant event in the grand scheme of things, but when you’re ten years old, it’s a big deal.

    Georgia was facing something new. Something that would be uncomfortable for a while and would change the way she looked and ate.

    I wanted to be there.

    Instead, I had to acknowledge that my presence might create a completely unnecessary distraction.

    I didn’t want her appointment becoming another episode of Dad Needs Medical Attention.

    So Nikki took her.

    Georgia got her braces.

    Everything went smoothly.

    There was no drama, no emergency, and no grown man requiring cold towels.

    Sometimes being a sensible parent means recognising that you’re not necessarily the right person for every situation. Even if the reason is that you can’t be trusted around an orthodontic X-ray.

    Father and daughter holding hands
    Georgia got her braces. Dad managed to stay conscious. Everybody wins.

    So, how did the braces go?

    Georgia handled them beautifully.

    She’s adjusting to the discomfort, learning what she can and can’t eat, and getting on with life.

    I’m proud of her.

    As for me, I successfully survived the entire appointment by remaining several miles away from the orthodontist.

    It’s not a particularly impressive achievement, but given my previous performance at that establishment, I’ll take it.

    I do hope that one day I’ll be able to walk into a doctor’s office, sit down, have a perfectly ordinary appointment and leave through the front door without anyone needing to check my pulse.

    Until then, I’ll keep warning the staff, taking the necessary precautions and trying to avoid any further injuries.

    Although I suspect the orthodontist will remember me for quite some time.

    Georgia might eventually get her braces off. I’m not entirely sure I’ll ever live down the X-ray.


    For further reading, I recommend this book by Dr Mara Vale


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  • Why Americans Say “I Appreciate You” Instead of “Thank You”?

    Why Americans Say “I Appreciate You” Instead of “Thank You”?

    AUSTRALIAN EYES ON AMERICA


    There’s a phrase I’ve heard quite a bit since moving to America that, even after eight years, I still don’t quite know what to do with.

    “I appreciate you.”

    It sounds nice. It is nice.

    Well, probably.

    But every time I hear it, the Australian in me still has the same reaction.

    You appreciate me?

    What have I done?

    “Thank you,” I understand. “Thanks, mate.” Easy. “Cheers, mate.” Even easier.

    But “I appreciate you”? Yeah, we’ve only just met. Where exactly is this going?


    The One Word That Changes Everything

    Before moving to the United States, my family and I came here on vacation quite a lot. Every now and then, I’d hear someone say “I appreciate you.”

    Once I actually moved here and started living and working among Americans every day, I heard it much more often, especially here in the South.

    Someone does some work at your house. You pay them.

    “I appreciate you.”

    You help a client sort something out at work.

    “I appreciate you.”

    To the person saying it, there may be nothing particularly remarkable about the exchange.

    To my Australian ears, it sounds surprisingly personal.

    If an Aussie mate of mine suddenly looked me directly in the eyes and said, “Mike, I appreciate you,” I’d immediately become suspicious.

    What do you want?

    Or are you taking the piss?

    Australians aren’t short of ways to express gratitude. We say “thanks,” “cheers, mate,” “you didn’t need to do that,” and plenty of other variations.

    I also say “I appreciate that” all the time. And that, I think, is where this gets interesting.


    I Appreciate That. Not Necessarily You.

    When my daughters were younger, I remember trying to get groceries out to the car while pushing a pram.

    You’ve got shopping bags. You’ve got a baby. Another child who has suddenly decided that the opposite direction is the only direction worth travelling in.

    Every now and then, someone would offer to help.

    “Oh, thank you. I really appreciate that.”

    Perfectly natural.

    But notice that final word.

    That.

    I appreciate the thing you did.

    Change one little word and suddenly it becomes:

    “I appreciate you.”

    Now you’re appreciating me.

    That sounds different. At least it does to me.

    I appreciate that refers to the action, while I appreciate you refers to the person
    One small word changes where the appreciation lands: on what someone did, or on the person who did it.

    Apparently, I’m Not the Only One

    I went looking online to see whether this was simply another case of me living in America for eight years and somehow misunderstanding everybody.

    Wouldn’t be the first time.

    It turns out people are surprisingly divided over “I appreciate you.”

    Some love the expression precisely because it moves the gratitude away from the act and toward the person. “Thank you” acknowledges what somebody did. “I appreciate you” acknowledges the person who did it.

    Which…

    Okay.

    That’s actually pretty nice.

    Damn it.

    I was hoping this would be easier.

    Other people hear exactly what I hear. To them, it can sound too personal or even slightly intimate for a brief interaction with someone they barely know.

    People even Google whether “I appreciate you” is flirting.

    That makes me laugh because nobody is sitting at home at midnight searching:

    Cashier said thank you. Does she want me?

    Change the exchange to “I appreciate you,” though, and suddenly someone is wondering:

    Hang on. What did she mean by that? Should I go back tomorrow?

    Mate, she was being nice.

    Leave the poor woman alone.

    Still, the fact that the question gets asked tells us something. “I appreciate it” doesn’t seem to create the same confusion. Neither does “I appreciate that.” It’s you that changes the feeling.

    Search asking whether saying “I appreciate you” is flirting
    Apparently, “I appreciate you” can sound personal enough that people actually wonder whether it’s flirting.

    Why “I Appreciate You” Sounds Southern to Me

    For a long time, I assumed this was simply an American expression.

    Then I realised my sample might be slightly skewed.

    I’ve spent most of my American life in the South. “I appreciate you,” including the more Southern sounding “‘preciate ya,” has long been associated particularly associated with Southern speech.

    That doesn’t mean people elsewhere don’t say it. They absolutely do.

    So before somebody in Wisconsin starts furiously typing, “I HAVE APPRECIATED PEOPLE SINCE 1987,” I’m not suggesting the South owns appreciation.

    It’s simply where I’ve really noticed it.

    And when I think about Southern conversation, the expression makes sense.

    People here can make remarkably small interactions feel personal. It’s one of the things that surprised me after moving here: Americans will talk to complete strangers.

    You can be standing in a supermarket and suddenly find yourself talking to somebody you’ve never met about barbecue, the weather, their knee replacement and where their daughter went to college.

    You only wanted milk. Twenty minutes later, you’re practically family.

    Two strangers chatting casually in the aisle of a Dollar General store in Tennessee
    In the South, a quick trip to Dollar General can turn into a conversation with someone you’ve never met.

    Maybe “I appreciate you” belongs in that same world.

    It’s a little warmer than the interaction actually requires.

    The bloke fixing your air conditioner isn’t just the bloke fixing your air conditioner.

    He’s Dave.

    How’s your mum?

    Did your son win his baseball game?

    Here’s your cheque.

    I appreciate you.

    The Australian version might simply be:

    “Cheers, mate.”

    Same affection.

    Considerably fewer syllables. Efficiency.


    But Do People Actually Mean It?

    There’s another part of the expression that interests me.

    Once something becomes a phrase people use automatically, does it still carry its literal meaning?

    If someone says “I appreciate you” to every customer who walks through the door, do they genuinely appreciate every single one of them?

    Yeah, probably not.

    Sometimes it may simply be verbal furniture. It sounds nice, fills the space and signals that an interaction has gone well.

    We all do this.

    “How are you?”

    “Good, how are you?”

    Nobody wants the actual answer.

    “Well, since you’ve asked, my back’s playing up, the cat threw up at three this morning and I’m questioning several major decisions I’ve made since 1997.”

    No.

    “Good.”

    “I appreciate you” can work the same way. Sometimes it may simply mean “thanks,” “have a good one,” or “we’re finished here.” But sometimes it means considerably more.


    The Time I Knew They Meant It

    I spent many years working in banking, and I heard “I appreciate you” from clients fairly regularly.

    Usually it was simply part of the relationship.

    They’d say, “I appreciate you.”

    I’d respond, “No problem” or “No worries.”

    Someone offers me direct praise and apparently my Australian instinct is to immediately knock it down three levels.

    No worries.

    But I remember one situation involving a complicated deceased estate.

    Those situations can be difficult. There are documents everywhere, accounts that need sorting out and procedures that have to be followed.

    Meanwhile, the people you’re helping haven’t developed a sudden passionate interest in banking paperwork.

    Somebody has died.

    I worked through everything with the family and eventually got it finalised.

    They told me:

    “I appreciate you.”

    That one felt different.

    I knew exactly what they meant.

    They weren’t thanking me for processing some paperwork. They were saying:

    You helped us through this.

    In that moment, “I appreciate you” said something that “thanks” couldn’t quite say.

    Which is where my entire argument falls apart.

    Very inconvenient.

    Maybe the reason the expression can make me uncomfortable is also the reason it can be so effective.

    It is personal. That’s the point.


    Did Ted Lasso Have Something to Do With It?

    There is one other possible culprit in the wider popularity of “I appreciate you.”

    Ted Lasso. The show certainly didn’t invent the expression. People in the American South were using it long before Ted wandered into Richmond with a moustache and an alarming amount of emotional stability.

    But some viewers have said they started using “I appreciate you” after hearing Ted say it.

    Which makes perfect sense.

    You’ve got this relentlessly optimistic American bloke wandering around England telling people he appreciates them.

    The British are presumably thinking:

    Please stop.

    But the expression fits Ted because his whole character is built around making interactions personal. He notices people. He acknowledges them. “I appreciate you” does exactly that.


    I Still Can’t Bring Myself to Say It

    After eight years in America, I’ve picked up plenty of American language without even noticing.

    “I appreciate you” has never made the journey.

    Somebody could do something wonderful for me and I’d happily say:

    “Mate, thank you. I really appreciate that.”

    That sounds like me.

    “I appreciate you”?

    I feel like there should be soft music.

    Maybe a candle.

    At the very least, someone’s buying dinner.

    But I understand the expression better than I did when I first started hearing it.

    Sometimes it’s simply another way of saying thank you.

    Even a habit.

    Sometimes it means exactly what it says.

    And perhaps that’s one of the things I’ve come to appreciate about living in America, especially here in the South. There’s often a willingness to add a little warmth to an interaction that doesn’t strictly require it.

    “Have a blessed day.”

    “Y’all come back.”

    “You be safe.”

    “I appreciate you.”

    My Australian side still hears those last three words very literally.

    The person saying them might simply mean:

    “Thanks, mate.”

    Just with considerably more emotional paperwork.

    I still don’t think I’m going to start saying it.

    I’d get halfway through and lose my nerve.

    “I apprecia… cheers, mate.”

    There we go. Back on familiar ground.


    If you enjoy these observations about life between Australia and America and want to support the site, you can buy me a coffee below.

  • Apparently, I’m Old Now. The Evidence Is Becoming Difficult to Ignore

    Apparently, I’m Old Now. The Evidence Is Becoming Difficult to Ignore

    THIS WEEK IN AMERICA


    Nobody actually tells you when you get old.

    There is no letter.

    No government department quietly updates your status.

    Your children don’t gather around the kitchen table and explain that, after careful consideration, the family has decided you are no longer young.

    It happens much more subtly than that.

    One day you’re driving to get a haircut, flicking through radio stations, when you hear a Supertramp song.

    Excellent.

    Finally, somebody is playing some decent music.

    Then you hear the station call sign.

    Hippy Radio, playing your favourite golden oldies.

    I’m sorry. What?

    Apparently, while I was busy raising children, moving countries, paying bills and generally getting on with life, somebody moved the definition of “oldies.”

    Nobody consulted me.

    In my head, oldies are still songs from some distant historical period involving enormous wooden stereos, orange dining chairs and greenish carpet.

    I know this because we actually had the orange dining chairs and greenish carpet.

    But that’s beside the point.

    Supertramp is not oldies.

    At least it wasn’t until the radio informed me otherwise.

    Retro 1970s living room with wood paneling, plaid sofa, orange curtains and green shag carpet.
    In my head, this is still what the oldies station is supposed to look like.

    The strange thing about being 52 is that I don’t wander around feeling 52.

    I’m not entirely sure what 52 is supposed to feel like, but presumably this is it.

    Most mornings I still feel fundamentally like the same person I’ve always been. There isn’t some older bloke occupying my body and issuing instructions.

    Then the outside world provides evidence.

    Music is particularly ruthless about this.

    Songs you remember being released start appearing on classic stations. Albums from your youth have anniversary editions commemorating numbers of years that seem mathematically impossible.

    Eventually you hear a song and think, “I remember when this came out.”

    That sentence alone should probably come with reading glasses.

    The unsettling part isn’t really getting older.

    It’s watching things that still feel contemporary in your memory become nostalgia for everybody else.

    There is a difference.

    I don’t hear the music of my younger years and think, “Ah yes, a fascinating artifact from another era.”

    I hear it and think, “Turn it up.”

    The historical artifact, apparently, is me.


    Having young children was supposed to protect me

    So I thought I’d found a loophole.

    I have two young daughters, Georgia and Brianna, which means contemporary culture arrives in our house whether I request it or not.

    I know who Olivia Rodrigo and Ariana Grande are. You can even hear me occasionally playing some of their songs on piano or guitar while the girls sing.

    For brief periods, this creates the reassuring illusion that I remain culturally current.

    Then they start talking about Squishies.

    If you haven’t encountered Squishies, congratulations.

    They’re soft foam objects that you squeeze.

    Then you watch them slowly return to their original shape.

    That’s essentially the business model.

    Naturally, one Squishy is never enough. They appear to multiply around the house when nobody is looking.

    There are Squishies shaped like hamburgers, hot dogs and various other foods.

    There are even sticks of butter.

    Yep, a foam stick of butter.

    Thousands of years of human civilization brought us agriculture, democracy, antibiotics, air travel and the internet, eventually allowing us to reach our ultimate destination:

    squeezable butter that cannot be eaten.

    My daughters love them.

    This is one of the interesting things about being a parent at this age. You don’t completely lose touch with youth culture because youth culture keeps being dumped on your kitchen counter.

    You simply become an observer rather than a participant, or the one that pays for it each time you walk past Five Below.

    Colorful Squishy toys, including a stick of butter, hamburger, hot dog and other food shapes, arranged on a kitchen table.
    Thousands of years of human civilization, and somehow we arrived at a foam stick of butter.

    Then your childhood becomes ancient history

    The girls delivered another reminder recently when I decided to introduce them to Home and Away.

    For Americans unfamiliar with it, Home and Away is one of those Australian television programs that doesn’t really require an introduction if you grew up there.

    It began in 1988.

    When I was growing up, it was simply part of the landscape.

    Summer Bay. Alf Stewart. Teenagers experiencing an extraordinary number of personal crises for people living beside such a beautiful beach.

    It was there after school.

    It was there year after year.

    More importantly, it is still on television.

    So I thought I’d introduce my American daughters to this important piece of Australian culture.

    They weren’t impressed.

    It was, I was informed, “too old.”

    Too old?

    It’s still on!

    I wasn’t asking them to sit through a flickering black and white newsreel while somebody played a piano in the corner.

    This is a television show that is currently being made.

    Unfortunately, there is a flaw in my argument.

    When your father introduces you to a television program that began 38 years ago, you are entitled to ask questions.

    I don’t particularly care for that mathematics, but I acknowledge its existence.

    There’s something fascinating about showing your children the culture you grew up with.

    You’re not merely showing them a television program or playing them a song.

    You’re handing them a tiny piece of your own history.

    This mattered to me.

    This made me laugh.

    This was normal in my house.

    This is what Australia looked and sounded like when I was growing up.

    Then your child looks at it with absolutely none of the nostalgia attached and effectively says:

    “Yeah. Bit old.”

    Children are excellent at historical perspective.

    Home and Away title over an aerial view of an Australian beach and ocean.
    Home and Away has been on Australian television since 1988. Apparently that makes it “too old” for my daughters.

    Famous children should not be allowed to become adults

    There is another particularly aggressive way the universe reminds you how much time has passed.

    Children you remember from television become adults.

    I recently discovered Honey Boo Boo had turned 21.

    She can legally walk into a bar in America and order a drink.

    This is just not on!

    Certain people from television are supposed to remain permanently frozen at whatever age they were when we first encountered them.

    Macaulay Culkin should still be defending his house from burglars.

    Kevin Arnold should still be trying to work out what Winnie Cooper thinks of him.

    Honey Boo Boo should definitely not be old enough to order a cocktail.

    The problem isn’t that these people age.

    It’s what their aging reveals about us.

    If the child you remember watching on television is now a fully grown adult, all those years happened to you as well.

    Celebrity birthdays therefore become less like entertainment news and more like unsolicited medical information.

    I have decided not to investigate this phenomenon any further.


    Then I saw the other side of getting older

    Eventually, I arrived at the haircut that had started this entire crisis.

    Since moving to America, I’ve generally had my hair cut at Sport Clips.

    Even after eight years in the United States, I still appreciate how simply American the entire concept is.

    You get a haircut.

    You watch sport.

    Why should these activities have ever been separate?

    The only obvious flaw in the business model is the absence of a bar.

    At the location I visited, roughly a dozen televisions were showing sport, but none of them provided the main entertainment that afternoon.

    A young boy was having an absolutely spectacular tantrum because he did not want his hair cut.

    Not mild resistance.

    This child had taken a position.

    There would be no haircut.

    Negotiations had failed.

    Diplomatic relations had broken down.

    Scissors had apparently become an instrument of oppression.

    His poor grandmother was attempting something every parent eventually attempts: reasoning with a small person who has absolutely no interest in reason.

    I remember those years.

    You can present a three year old with a seven point argument, supporting documentation, photographic evidence and independent witnesses.

    They will listen carefully to the entire presentation.

    “No.”

    Watching this unfold, something occurred to me.

    My girls are past that stage.

    I don’t have to wrestle somebody into a haircut chair anymore.

    There’s no carrying a screaming child out of a shop while avoiding eye contact with everyone watching.

    I don’t have to cut food into precisely the correct shape only to discover that today’s correct shape is different from yesterday’s correct shape.

    I don’t have to negotiate with tiny terrorists over shoes.

    Suddenly, getting older didn’t seem quite so terrible.

    Georgia and Brianna posing in front of rockets at the U.S. Space & Rocket Center in Huntsville, Alabama.
    My girls are well past the haircut tantrum stage. These days, life with them looks a little more like this.

    Maybe we’re asking the wrong question about getting older

    We spend an extraordinary amount of energy trying not to get old.

    Buying products promising to make us look younger.

    Celebrating people who somehow don’t appear to age.

    We joke about aching backs, grey hair and needing to make the font bigger on our phones.

    I understand all of it.

    But sitting in that barber shop, watching a grandmother conduct peace negotiations over a haircut, I wondered whether we’ve made aging sound like something that simply takes things away.

    It gives you things too.

    Perspective is one of them.

    At 52, I know myself considerably better than I did at 22.

    I care much less about impressing people who aren’t particularly important to me.

    I’ve had different careers. Moved countries. Raised children. I’ve made good decisions and spectacularly questionable ones.

    I’ve accumulated enough life to know that many things that seem catastrophic while you’re living through them eventually become stories.

    Some even become funny stories.

    You also begin to understand how temporary the stages of life really are.

    When your children are tiny, it feels permanent.

    The sleepless nights feel permanent.

    The tantrums feel permanent.

    The toys covering the floor feel permanent.

    Then one afternoon you’re sitting in a barber shop watching somebody else negotiate with a screaming child and realize that part of your own life quietly ended without you noticing.

    There wasn’t a ceremony for that either.

    That’s the strange thing about getting older.

    We notice the things we’re losing because they’re obvious.

    The grey hair.

    The younger face.

    The ability to stand up from the floor without making a noise.

    We don’t always notice what we’re gaining at the same time.


    I don’t actually want to be 22 again

    This may be the greatest revelation of all.

    I’m not particularly interested in being young again.

    There are certainly things I’d happily borrow from my younger self. His metabolism would be useful.

    His knees wouldn’t hurt.

    He also had considerably less white hair.

    But would I actually trade places with him?

    Probably not.

    He hadn’t met my daughters.

    Hadn’t lived in America.

    He hadn’t experienced most of the things that eventually made him me.

    Getting older isn’t something happening instead of life.

    It is life.

    Perhaps the trick isn’t desperately trying to remain young.

    Perhaps it’s remaining interested.

    Keep listening to new music even if you still think the old stuff is better.

    Let your children explain whatever bizarre thing their generation has decided is important.

    Try new things.

    Pay attention.

    Keep being surprised.

    Keep finding things funny.

    Just don’t become the person who decides everything worthwhile happened during the twenty years when they happened to be young.

    I’ll accept 52.

    Even the white hair.

    I’ll accept that Home and Away began 38 years ago, although I reserve the right to complain about it.

    But Supertramp being classified as golden oldies?

    No.

    There are limits.

    If somebody wants to send me an official notification that I’m old, that’s fine.

    Just make sure they include the cardigan.

    I’ll probably need it.


    Prefer watching instead? This entire identity crisis began with a perfectly innocent drive to get a haircut.


    If you enjoy these stories about an Australian slowly trying to make sense of America, parenthood, getting older and whatever else life decides to throw at me, you can support From Down Under to Down South through Buy Me a Coffee. It helps keep the videos, articles and podcast coming, and I genuinely appreciate everyone who helps make this little corner of the internet possible.