Yes, it is quite a hard job for an European migrant to get accustomed to the ways and habits of Australians.

Many things here are very different from what he was used to in Europe and what he considered as being normal and right. So it is inevitable that an European migrant at first feels like a white crow in Australia and often is regarded by Australians as a kind of queer or stupid person.

It was even more so after the end of World War II when the first large contingents of European migrants began arriving in Australia. Since then, no doubt, the local scene has changed to not a small extent, and it is much easier now for a migrant to reorientate himself here than it was when my Lithuanian friend Jonas Lazoraitis arrived here in 1949.

Listen to how much trouble he had here while he made his first steps in this country and before he was accepted by local boys as an equal among equals.

During his first walk in an Australian town he moved, of course, along the right side of the sidewalk, as he used to do in Lithuania or Germany, where there is, as in most countries of the world, right hand traffic. As in Australia there is left hand traffic, it was only a matter of a few minutes before he would collide with somebody hurrying in the opposite direction. So he soon ran into a local fellow of athletic appearance. The fellow stopped and his face turned red.

"Are you blind?" shouted he.

"No, I am a migrant," answered Jonas.

"If a migrant, then certainly a mad or, at least, a drunken one!" said the fellow and rushed away.

After that incident Jonas did his best to move very carefully, but as all people, coming from the opposite direction, moved (he did not understand why) along the same side as himself, there soon was another collision, — this time with a nice elderly lady with heavy make-up. She wore a blue fancy hat adorned with a whole garden of lovely multicoloured artificial flowers. Under the impact of the collision her beautiful hat fell down, was immediately seized by a naughty wind and carried to the middle of the street where it was almost instantly smashed by the wheels of a passing car.

It goes without saying that although Jonas apologized most politely, he was, at the same time, all too eager to point out that the deplorable incident in question was possible only because the lady was moving along the wrong side of the sidewalk. She, however, was not inclined to listen to his excuses and explanations.

"I never saw such a ruffian in my life before!" she sizzled angrily. "I wish it were you, not my expensive hat, that perished under the wheels!"

She quickly left the scene, disappearing like a bad dream, while Jonas stayed with his mouth wide open in the middle of a small crowd which gathered around him.

A man touched his shoulder bringing him back to reality.

"Tell me," he asked, "where you came from?"

"I? I came from the Immigration Department," he answered shyly.

"More likely from the Bottle Department," suggested somebody from the crowd.

"I mean from what country did you cone?", said the first man. "But it doesn't actually matter, I see that you are a migrant and do not know that we have left hand traffic in this country."

That was how Jonas learned about left hand traffic.

A few days passed and during the course of them he made some acquaintances among Australians. One of them he met every morning on the way to his factory. While meeting him he always lifted his hat as he was used to do in Europe, and he had no idea that it would lead to another misunderstanding.

One evening somebody knocked on his door. He opened and saw a stranger with a large kitbag in his hand.

"Hello, feller," said the stranger and came in without being invited to do so. "Let's start with the job right now."

"Which job?" Jonas couldn't understand.

"Shearing," said the stranger.

"Shearing what?"

"Your crop," elaborated the stranger.

"Which crop?" asked still puzzled Jonas.

"This one," said the visitor pointing at his head. "It looks quite overgrown indeed." he added.

"I do not understand what you mean," said Jonas in despair.

"You do not understand?" marvelled the stranger. "Well, then I will make it clear to you in plain words. I am a hairdresser, you see, and have been instructed to cut your hair. Understand now?"

"Who has instructed you?" wondered Jonas. "Mr. Brown did," answered the hairdresser.

Mr. Brown, by the way, was the same Australian acquaintance, whom Jonas met every morning.

"Mr. Brown?" wondered Jonas. "Why did he do that?"

"I don't know why," said the hairdresser. "But don't be afraid, it will cost you nothing," he added seeing the anxiety of his client. "Mr. Brown has already paid me for the job."

When next morning Jonas met Mr. Brown, he asked him why he had sent the hairdresser to him.

Mr. Brown lifted his bushy eyebrows. "But why on earth did you lift your hat every time we met?"

"I greeted you," Jonas explained in confusion.

"What a strange manner of greeting," said Mr. Brown. "I tried to work out what did this regular lifting of hat meant, and as you didn't look to be out of your senses, but seemed to be quite a reasonable chap, I concluded that your hair needed a cut and that you expected my financial assistance for this undertaking."

Thereafter Jonas never greeted anybody by lifting his hat. He would just say "hello". And when he wished to be particularly polite he would simply move his chin or lift his finger and say: "How're you going?"

His working career in Australia began with a misunderstanding too.

In Lithuania he was accustomed to being named by his own name. But the very first day he began working in the factory, to which he was directed by the authorities for the length of his contract time, his foreman addressed him as "Jack".

"My name is not Jack, but Jonas. Jonas Lazoraitis," he explained.

"Never mind," said the foreman. "In this country everybody is either Jack or Charlie. OK, Jack?"

He understood, and when the foreman came again and, after having given him some instructions, asked "OK, Jack," Jonas answered "OK, Charlie!"

"What did you call me?" asked the foreman in astonishment.

"Charlie," answered Jonas. "But if you dislike to be called Charlie, I shall address you as Jack."

"I am neither Jack nor Charlie. My name is Vincent John CARROT' said the foreman in a sharp manner. "Understand, Jack?"

"Never mind, Charlie, never mind," replied Jonas. "In this country everybody is either Jack or Charlie. OK, Charlie?"

Before long, Jonas was ordered to the personnel office and reproached that he had insulted his foreman by calling him Charlie. It was explained to him that no person of any importance could be addressed as either Jack or Charlie and that only workers, especially migrant labourers, could be called in such a way.

The next misunderstanding was even worse. In Lithuania they like to drink sour milk and consider it a healthy food. So did Jonas. But one day, when he took a bottle of sour milk to his factory and his fellow workers saw what kind of lunch he had, an ambulance was immediately ordered by telephone and he was forced in and taken to hospital. In the hospital doctors treated him as if he were suffering from poisoning.

He did, of course, everything possible to escape such treatment, but nobody was prepared to believe that sour milk was no poison.

Afterwards he was accused by the Employment Office that he had intended to break his two year bond by attempting to commit suicide through drinking a poisonous liquid.

After such troubles he understood that he couldn't go on sticking to his European habits. It became clear to him that he had to forget them and try to be like an average Australian. And he did his best.

He became addicted to strong tea; every day on his way home he went to a pub and had a good few beers; going to work he carried his sandwiches in an enormous kitbag; he learned to sing "Waltzing Matilda" and insisted that this song should replace the existing National Anthem; all his Saturdays he spent at horseraces and football matches; he started putting blame on Mr. Menzies and his Government even for his headaches; he began showing an extraordinary interest in cricket; he did everything to be like an average Australian chap, but all in vain. He was still very much of a white crow among them. They still treated him as if he were a person from another planet, and an invisible, but impenetrable wall remained between them. He couldn't understand why.

At first he thought that his fellow workers did not accept him as one of them because they knew that he was an educated man, for he was imprudent enough to tell them that he was a teacher in his country. But then he noticed that they showed the same attitude even towards those of his fellow migrants who couldn't claim any better education than they themselves had. So the reason must have been somewhere else.

He told his trouble to one of his mates, Les Goodenough, who was friendly towards him.

"All the troubles of you people come from your poor English. You can't express yourselves properly in this language," decided Goodenough.

"But I can speak English better than many others," argued Jonas. "As matter of fact, quite fluently."

"Your pronunciation is no good," said Goodenough. "You must learn better pronunciation."

"How could I learn it? It is so hard!" wondered Jonas.

"You can learn it very easily if you only know how," said Goodenough. "As a matter of fact I can teach you in just a few minutes how to pronounce English word in a correct way, if you like. And I will charge you nothing for my instructions."

"O, teach me now!" exclaimed Jonas.

"Well," said Goodenough. "Just as you wish! Listen then. You just stay in front of a mirror and spell words. Take at first a short word and spell: c-o-w, c-o-w, c-o-w. Then say: caw, caw, caw! Then you take a little longer word and spell: c-o-l-d, c-o-l-d, c-o-l-d. Then say: cawld, cawld, cawld! Do it every day for half an hour and before long you will have good pronunciation. The main trick is that you do it before a mirror."

But this advice from Goodenough didn't seem good enough to Jonas. Such a pronunciation was not an ideal to which he would like to strive. As, however, it occured to him that his accent could be one of the main reasons for all his troubles, he joined classes of English and made every effort to improve his pronunciation. Soon he really improved it considerably, but better English did not bring any change to unsatisfactory state of affairs. In spite of much better English, he was still a stranger among strangers.

In his despair he went to the President of Good Neighbour Council and asked for his advice.

"You never be treated like a real Australian chap unless you become like a real Australian chap," declared the President.

"But I did everything to become one of them," said Jonas. "I even go to the races and discuss cricket."

"Well, but what about swearing?" asked the President. "Do you swear while speaking English?"

"O, no! Why should I?" protested Jonas.

"It seems to me that you have disregarded the most important thing," the President said thoughtfully. "To be like a real Australian you must swear like a real Australian. Start swearing and see what effect it will have on your mates."

Jonas decided to follow the advice of the President. Next day, while sitting at lunch time among his Australian mates, he loudly used a swearing expression. As until that day nobody had heard a single indecent word from him, his action produced the effect of an atom bomb explosion.

His mates stopped eating and talking; all eyes turned towards him in bewilderment. A silence arose which was so deep that he could hear the beating of his heart. Taking advantage of that silence he swore again, this time in the worst way he knew.

You cannot imagine what happened then. Silence suddenly broke. His mates jumped on their feet, burst out applauding, started shaking hands with him. His foreman, who once called him Jack, even kissed him. Jonas wished that this foreman were a beautiful girl.

"Hurray! Hurray!" cried his mates enthusiastically. Jonas swears like a dinkum Aussie! Jonas has become one of us! He is a true Australian now!"

And they sang with great zeal "For he is a jolly good fellow" in his honour.

Since that memorable day he was treated by his Australian mates as an equal among equals. They were all now very kind towards him. He was, of course, very pleased and happy. But, to tell the truth, he would have been even happier if they were, from the swearing point of view, less Australians than they really were.