I'm Australian. Kind of. My mum is. As kids, we spent holidays watching cricket from the old stands of the Adelaide Oval and braving the sharky waters off Glenelg Beach.
Sometimes, we'd visit my great uncle's farm up near Port Arthur. I remember riding around dusty paddocks in the tray of his ute, games of knucklebones with real knucklebones, and a story about a kangaroo getting stuck in a barbed wire fence.
These days, I'd be lying if I said I identify particularly strongly with my Aussieness.
I'm happier with my transtasman blend than Barnaby Joyce is, but I don't feel any more Australian than I do British (My Dad is originally from the UK). Crank the Fat Freddies and get Piri on the field because I'm Kiwi-as, bro.
Nonetheless, I think many of us felt an especially keen sense of willing and attachment as Australia excruciatingly drew out its same-sex marriage debate.