by Alice Pung
Unfortunately, I didn’t quite grasp the significance of these lessons as a bratty kid who just wanted to muck around on weekends.
While I was supposed to be committing to memory the intricate characters and sounds for words such as ‘snow’ and ‘blood,’ I’d be staring out the kitchen window, looking at the gum trees swaying around the tiled rooftops, wishing I was white or Aussie (the two were interchangeable to me) and doing Little Athletics or watching TV; anything other than Chinese lessons on a lazy Saturday morning. Many lessons I spent sulking, glaring at Dad, the readers, the faded blue grid-lines of the exercise books. I fantasised about having parents who spoke perfect English, who knew what was really going on during the confusing montage of images on the six o’clock news, who would be able to talk to teachers and other parents instead of always standing awkwardly to one side, smiling, at school functions.
As a student progressed, she could change to different coloured books, in which the squares would correspondingly shrink, until she could write small and neat characters. I never graduated beyond the huge boxes, which barely contained my scratchy, stubbornly clumsy characters. I couldn’t understand why I had to learn Chinese when everyone around us seemed to speak, think, dream, do in English. Why did I have to waste my time? And why, I wondered as I grew older, did Dad waste his time on us?
I always envied my two older sisters and was always trailing after them. I couldn’t wait to grow up and be just like them: to go to high school on a bus, to wear their cool clothes, to have braces. This burning desire to be just like my sisters extended to Chinese lessons. I’d seen glimpses of their readers. They always seemed to get exciting and impressive passages – the story of the frog in the well, or the old man and the mountain – while I had to read about children going to school, to parks, to the sea. But slowly I reached those hallowed passages. And they weren’t as great as I expected them to be. The frog in the well was a stupid, tiny amphibian with a gargantuan superiority complex. The old man turned out to be an equally stupid peasant who thought he could make the journey to a market on the other side of the mountains easier by literally digging down the mountain.
As I moved through school, I slowly moved through the readers. But I never fully absorbed the characters, the phrases, the essence. By the time I was in Year Ten and studying from a Grade Seven reader the only characters I knew (as in, could read and write) were elementary ones such as ‘I,’ ‘you,’ ‘them.’ I learnt the character for ‘male’ from a glossy Giorgio Armani perfume ad in Marie Claire. The only sentence I could write entirely was: ‘My name is Ivy Tseng.’ I could speak more, but even then I stumbled and stopped, trying to fill the gaps in my sentences from my near-empty cache of words.
I think Dad realised it wasn’t working. Getting an education, preferably at university level, was another thing close to Dad’s heart. It was a compromise. Jona had to study. Lin stopped in Year Eleven. As usual, I had to wait a little longer. I learnt a few more characters and a bit about Chinese culture. I came to understand its constancy or inflexibility, the passive strength that is the key to its longevity. I became familiar with the emperors and poets and stories. I came to appreciate how a four-character phrase, and even a single character itself, embodies thousands of years of development and knowledge.
*
But then a change occurred.
The lessons began to start later – ten, twenty, even thirty minutes past eleven. Mum was now listening to the SBS Mandarin broadcast on her walkman as she wiped the floors. As the weeks went by without a lesson, I watched Video Hits, sprawled on the creased leather couch, one eye on the clock, the other on the gyrating bodies of scantily clad dancers in a Nelly video clip, relaxing as the clock hands moved away from eleven and towards noon without Dad calling out, ‘IVY!’
Chinese lessons on a Saturday morning became an anomaly, a special event when Dad was in the mood.
‘Do you want to learn Chinese?’ Dad would ask.
Sometimes I said, ‘Yes.’
Most times I played the school card.
‘Maybe next week … I have a lot of homework,’ I’d reply, before going to my room to draw or read or do something that was categorically not homework.
*
I regret not paying closer attention during those Chinese lessons. At my school, there are people from many different cultural and language backgrounds. They shift confidently between English and their parents’ first language, equally fluent in both. If I’d paid more attention, maybe I wouldn’t feel, as I sometimes do during those long silences in the car or at dinner when we’re all watching Neighbours, a tinge of regret. Regret that if only I could speak just a tiny bit more Mandarin …
There are also selfish reasons to be regretful. I could, if I’d been more diligent in my lessons, write on my resume: ‘Speaks fluent Mandarin.’ I could work in a glamorous job, have a career as an interpreter, or a diplomat, jet-setting to countries all over the world. Chinese people are, after all, everywhere. I could eat at a Chinese restaurant, one of those bustling, raucous ones that line the boulevard of Chinatown in Sydney, and order in Mandarin, eavesdropping on Mandarin conversations all around me as I slurp up soft, squidgy noodles, slick from a hot, salty broth. Maybe I’d feel more authentic in some way.
Because every time I look in the mirror to brush my hair, a Chinese face looks back at me. The skin is tanned from the Australian sun. But the blood comes from Taiwan and China. The thick black hair and eyebrows are from a foreign gene pool. Most times, I don’t care. I really don’t. But sometimes there’s a sense of shame, a vague unease. When I open my mouth, I wish streams of Mandarin would tumble out. When I write, I wish neat blocks of characters, with their careful strokes and ordered shapes, would appear on the paper.
I know that there’s more to a person then their cultural background, how they look on the outside – more to me than being Taiwanese-Chinese-Australian. Do I even need those hyphenated, cut-and-paste identities? There are other parts of me.
But
… Maybe I’d feel more authentic?
*
Now, at eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning, I’m bent over exercise books, sheets with black print covering the dining table, scribbling away with a smudgy blue pen.
At eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning, the TV is off. It’s usually only on during mealtimes.
At eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning, the house is quiet. Mum might be washing the floors.
At eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning, the driveway is empty. Dad’s out buying the weekend papers – the Sydney Morning Herald and Sing Tao Daily.
Sometimes, when Dad reads Sing Tao Daily, the paper spread wide over the table, his glasses discarded and his nose centimetres away from the print, I’ll point at a picture. ‘What’s that? What are you looking at?’ I’ll say in Mandarin. Or I’ll read out the single character I can recognise – a simple character for ‘island’ or ‘life.’ These characters float about in my mind, without the other characters and sounds that could join them into a cohesive, glittering sentence, something intelligible to Dad or Mum. Dad will squint at it, and then put his glasses on, straightening up. He’ll answer me, jumping from Mandarin to English to Mandarin. I’ll listen, nodding. I might reply in kind, shifting awkwardly between English and Mandarin, a unique pidgin language called Chinglish.
I’m not interested in what it’s actually about.
I just want to understand my father.
Pioneers
...........................
The Early Settlers
Great-Grandfather arrived
in 1897 to grow corn
cabbage tobacco in Wahgunyah
the early settlers
already entrenched
each a foreign devil
a potential terrorist
the first terrorist
he called a fucking bastard
in his own language.
—KEN CHAU
The Terrorists
&
nbsp; They are everywhere
I wear paranoia
like armour
like stone
like a raincoat
when it rains
when it doesn’t
when smothered
by their attacks
I want to die
I want to kill
the fucking bastards
for making me feel that
being born in Australia
and being an Australian
are not the same.
—KEN CHAU
The Upside-Down Year
Francis Lee
1961: The radios in Hong Kong named it the Upside-Down Year, in reference to the peculiar shape of the numerals, which could be turned on their heads and still read the same. The previous Upside-Down Year had been 1881, a mere eighty years ago, but the next Upside-Down Year would not be until 6009 – a very long time to wait.
To me, a sixteen-year-old Hong Kong schoolboy, the Upside-Down Year seemed nothing out of the ordinary. The second semester had begun after the Chinese New Year holidays and all appeared normal. The boys’ school I attended belonged to the Italian Salesian order of the Catholic Church. We had an earthen soccer field and soccer became our primary love affair. In the mornings, we would throw down our bags and dash over to join one of the many games that were already in progress, provided we could escape the grabbing hands of the duty priest, who wanted to drag us into the chapel. During recess, after lunch and in any few minutes we could spare, we would play soccer. The field was packed with players and balls flew everywhere. We pushed and ducked and yelled and tunnelled our way through, enjoying every moment.
The Salesian boys had a reputation: we would end up as either soccer brutes or atonement monks. I was neither (I preferred the soccer-brute option, but my talent did not match my enthusiasm). That year, thankfully, my studies showed a little improvement. This lessened the pressure at home and I was content to continue my love affair with soccer. However, the Upside-Down Year would not leave me alone.
All of a sudden, a new craze took hold of the families of my father’s friends: their children were heading overseas to study. Australia was one of the favourite destinations.
Australia, we had learned at school, had a high standard of living on account of its rich mineral resources and abundant primary produce. A teacher who had recently returned from a visit to Australia was given the nickname ‘Australian Beef’ for no reason other than his raving about how good Australian meat was on the first day of class.
We had also learned that Australia was an intriguing world of opposites. There, winter became summer. People walked at an oblique, upside-down angle. They kicked a ball in the shape of an olive and threw a stick that came back. Children answered back their parents, whom they addressed by their first names – a real upside-down world. All this sounded both exciting and scary, and I wasn’t sure it was worth trading my soccer games for.
But an Uncle Lam, whom I had never met before (Chinese children address all seniors as Uncle or Aunt) was very persuasive. He explained to Dad and Mum the advantages of studying in Australia: there was a better chance of getting into university; I could find a part-time job to help pay my way; even if I did not make a success at study, I would surely find a better paid job than if I had stayed in Hong Kong.
Uncle Lam had a good relationship with some of the Australian immigration officials and many locals went to him for assistance. He had a son called Ah Sing, who lived in Sydney and who obtained for me an acceptance letter from a registered college. With that, and with Uncle Lam’s connections, my application passed the test.
One day Uncle Lam came to our house with a stack of forms for my parents and me to sign. The four of us sat around the small square multipurpose table in the lounge room. Dad gave him money for all the associated expenses, and an additional two thousand dollars, said to be ‘tea money’ for the immigration officials. Dad and Mum kept thanking Uncle for his assistance, while I sat there quietly. Uncle Lam had a large frame and his hair was loose and thinning. He had a dark complexion and deep eye-sockets, and a pair of golden-framed glasses rested near the tip of his nose. When he spoke, he tilted his head downwards to look over the top of his glasses, and he spoke slowly and croakily. His coat must have had cavernous inner pockets, for he was able to put all the documents and cash into them.
When all was completed, and after Dad and Mum had walked away, Uncle Lam suddenly turned to me and rumbled:
‘Fai (my Chinese name), your opportunity has come. When you get to Australia you must study hard. You understand?’
‘Understand.’ I replied.
‘After you settle in, find yourself some work. Send some money back to your parents and brothers and sisters for their yum cha.’
‘Umm …’
‘And don’t fool around with Aussie girls!’
‘Why not?’ I was curious.
Uncle Lam opened his eyes wide and stared at me intensely. His voice sharpened. ‘What did you say?’
‘I mean, what’s the difference between Aussie girls and Chinese girls?’ I scrambled to clarify my question.
‘Go ask Ah Sing!’ Uncle Lam bellowed impatiently, ‘He will meet you at the Sydney wharf.’
*
At that time, nearly all Hong Kong students came to Australia by ship. It was cheaper than air travel, and the luggage limit was more generous. People heading overseas would ensure they were well stocked with provisions, down to items such as soap and electric irons. There was a general belief that everything was much dearer in the Western world – or not available at all. The direct journey took thirteen days. I was booked on a Dutch ship, the Tjiluwah.
I left Hong Kong on 15 April 1961, a fine day. Dad was full of energy. He got up early and saw to it that a wooden crate containing the bulk of my luggage was safely transferred to the ship. Mother, however, seemed a bit lost and uncharacteristically lethargic. In the morning she sat on the sofa and gazed at the large bag which contained my immediate needs. Our radio was turned off, which added to the silence, in spite of the inescapable background noise of Hong Kong.
Mum turned to me as we were ready to leave home. ‘You will write home often, won’t you?’
‘Yes, I will! I will!’ I replied.
Mum took me to a small restaurant near the wharf for lunch and ordered sweet corn, fish fillet and rice, a dish I had not eaten many times before. She said, ‘Eat a bit more, for we don’t know when you will eat your dinner.’
To be sure, I did not know when I would have such a nice meal again. Going overseas was a major and expensive event. Some people we knew had gone for over ten years and never returned. Moreover, my board and lodging plans in Australia were still a bit vague. Dad had a distant cousin in Sydney whom I called Uncle Tat. He was about thirty years old, not married, and had just completed a wireless course. When we had last met him, I was still in primary school. Uncle Tat had agreed to be named as my guardian in my visa application. He was renting a room and had written to tell us that I could rent a room next to his for a few days before making other plans.
Mum was reticent throughout the whole meal, saying only, ‘Go for three or five years, then make a trip back to see us! Okay?’
After lunch, we walked to the wharf. Friends and relatives had already gathered there, as well as several of my schoolmates. All of them followed me onto the ship. To most of us, whose experience of ships went no further than the harbour ferries, the Tjilwah was big. We made our way through the maze of passages and located my cabin, which housed two double-decker beds and a small, round, sealed window. Then we ventured into the dining room and back onto the upper deck, which was fitted with deck chairs, a ping-pong table and a small swimming pool. From there we could see a large chimney and some suspended lifeboats, and there were ducts and fastenings in inexplicable places. My two small brothers were especially excited at the novel experience, while their two older sisters tried hard to keep them in check.
We continue
d to look around and take photos until a siren rang out. Then all the visitors were ushered to the wharf below to await the ship’s departure. I jammed in amid the crowd of passengers by the ship’s railing, clutching a number of paper streamers in my hands. The other ends of the streamers were held by people standing on the wharf, not necessarily people I knew. I spotted my friends and relatives. My family were gazing at me, all except Mum, who was staring at the floor. I held back tears and put on a cheerful smile.
I don’t recall anything more until long after the ship had left the wharf. I was sitting on something on a deserted deck and could no longer control my tears. I don’t remember ever crying harder than that before, and I have hardly cried again since, even to this day.
Years later, on those rare occasions when we met again, Mum would tell me that every time she heard the siren of a ship her heart would jerk. In quiet moments she would ask herself whether she had done the right thing letting me go overseas at such a young age.
*
Like most of the ship’s passengers, I travelled in second class. There were Chinese people, Australian people and people of other nationalities, including some South Africans who were on their way home via Australia. Apart from the children who travelled with their families, all the passengers were older than I. I did not know who travelled in first class, which was out of bounds for us. We were allowed to wander into the third-class area but we seldom did. There, tent-like structures housed Russian refugees from China. This was the first time I had come into contact with such a diverse group of people. Everyone treated me with courtesy and I felt as if I was suddenly thrust into adulthood.
The ocean put on a different mask everyday. In the first two days it seemed to boil over and I became very sick. Then it merely simmered. I struggled up to the deck and watched the froth left in the ship’s wake. I sensed the enormity of the transformation in my life. The sea reminded me of the scene from the rear balcony of our rented apartment in Hong Kong, only now I was lost in the scene somewhere, drifting further and further away, not knowing when I would see my family again.
