Growing Up Asian in Australia

by Alice Pung

  Amma and Acha were at either end of the kitchen in their dressing gowns.

  ‘Why do you do this? So unfriendly sometimes! Always showing a sad face whenever I ask anyone to come here!’ said Acha. He was muttering to himself as he poured boiled milk into the small metal jug that he used for morning offerings at the altar. ‘Soon nobody will want to come here at all!’

  ‘What do you expect? I have no time to cook dinner parties with end of term so near. All my marking. All the cleaning and washing. Why don’t you ask me before you invite people for dinner?’ Amma replied to herself, dropping a couple of Weetbix into a bowl.

  I walked over to the sink to get some water. Acha turned towards me.

  ‘Why do you sleep wearing sports clothes? You are jogging at night? Why don’t you wear a pyjama?’

  At that moment, low down in my peripheral vision, I saw a small scurrying form. I jumped.

  It was the mouse. It now stood frozen against the skirting, a metre from the open pantry door, clutching in its mouth a large corner of a SAO cracker still scrupulously covered with peanut paste. It was healthy looking, plump – almost muscular. I wondered just how long Amma had been leaving snacks on a saucer in the pantry.

  Acha was the first to move. He lunged towards the mouse as if to stomp on it with a slipper-shod foot. Instead he reached over and slammed shut the pantry door. The mouse abandoned the Sao and bolted between Acha’s feet. In an instant it had darted behind the stove. Acha grabbed a broom and with the handle began to poke violently behind the cooker. It sounded like he was banging pots and pans. I thought that at any moment the gas pipe would be ruptured, causing a major emergency.

  After a minute the barrage of prodding seemed to work. The mouse shot out and raced along the skirting back towards the pantry. Startled, I jumped again and grabbed the first thing I saw, a plastic colander, from the dish rack by the sink. Acha attempted to swat the mouse with his broom handle, flailing a trail of cobwebs and sooty dust. The mouse changed course in the only way it could – towards me. I let out a yap and involuntarily flung the colander down in front of me in the direction of the advancing rodent.

  My aim was precise to a degree, my timing exact to the millisecond. The colander landed horizontally and base-up, completely enclosing the little creature. The utensil and its captive skidded half a metre before coming to rest in the centre of the linoleum floor.

  There was a moment of silence and then the colander started to gently jiggle this way and that as the mouse attempted to escape.

  ‘He’s all right,’ I said. I was astounded. ‘I think he … or she … is all right.’

  ‘The end result is that it was a very good shot,’ said Acha. ‘But why were you so frightened by a little mouse? In any case, now we have to get rid of it. At least this way we can eradicate him in a more hygienic way.’

  I wasn’t sure how he intended to despatch it. Would he gas it in the stove or perhaps quickly break its neck? Whatever he had in mind, I had no intention of witnessing it. I started to leave the kitchen.

  ‘NO!’ said Amma, who had been silent throughout the marvel of the capture. ‘We will collect him and let him go outside. We will not kill him. Poor thing.’

  Standing there with her bowl of Weetbix and glaring into Acha’s eyes, she looked as resolute as I had ever seen her in my life.

  It appeared Acha thought so too. After a small hesitation he said, ‘You do what you want. Just get rid of it, that’s all. I must go light the lamp.’ He picked up the tray containing the milk jug and some fruit and went into the study-cum-prayer-room, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Can you take a placement from the dining room and bring it here?’ asked Amma.

  ‘Placemat, Amma, placemat,’ I said.

  I went and got her one of the cork-backed placemats that carried a picture of Ayers Rock. She knelt down and gently prised it under the edge of the colander and then slid it across, providing a floor for the cage. She carefully lifted it and placed it on the counter. We had a look inside. The mouse was dashing around in panic, twitching and blinking in terror and confusion. There were already several droppings in the blue sky over Ayers Rock.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Amma said. ‘It’s best if you go live outside now. But what will prevent you from sneaking back and returning to our pantry?’

  ‘I might know a good place to release a mouse,’ I said.

  It was cold in the backyard. We stood by the gap under the fence where Bronchi had apparently made his exit from our lives. Amma held the placemat-cage on the palm of one hand like a small, rotund waiter about to serve a delicacy in a fancy restaurant.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said. I stooped down and quickly tucked my tracksuit pants into my socks. ‘Just in case. Okay, you can let him, or her, go now.’

  Amma bent down.

  ‘Be a good mouse,’ she said. ‘We hope you have a better life next door, or wherever you may choose to settle.’

  She squatted and gently placed the colander against the gap and slid out the placemat. From where I stood I could not see the mouse through the tiny openings of the colander.

  ‘He is gone. He ran straight through the opening,’ said Amma, rising.

  ‘I’ll fill it up.’ I crouched down and dug into the moist ground with my hands. The dirt was rich and dark and there were a few small earthworms, which I was careful not to crush. I soon filled the little depression under the fence and firmly patted down the earth. There was no longer a gap.

  ‘Okay, that’s that,’ I said and stood up.

  I looked at Amma’s face. Her lips were flat against each other, and she was looking back at the house, four parts mournful and one part morose, it seemed. With arms crossed she held the empty colander, the placemat and herself. For a few seconds she said nothing.

  ‘Okay, that’s that,’ she finally repeated and began slowly walking back towards the concrete path and the verandah steps.

  Conversations with My Parents

  Oanh Thi Tran

  Conversations with my parents are not especially long.

  Before I left Brisbane, my father fell sick again. I ditched appointments and farewell lunches with friends to sit in hospital with him, listening to him regaling me with stories of his childhood.

  Many years ago when Ba fell very sick the first time, and we had not been talking for ages because of what he saw as my wayward behaviour (I moved out of home before I was married – gasp!), I sat in hospital with him until the wee hours, when the nurses would regretfully kick me out. Some of his hospital time coincided with my exams, so I took my books into his hospital room and sat beside him, studying my exciting law texts while he slept. Once, he shook me awake – I had slumped over my textbooks, resting on his tea tray – and told me to go home.

  His first illness was the turning-point in our relationship. I liked being in the hospital with him because it was one of the few ways I could express that I was a dutiful daughter, even though my values were not his. We did not talk much, initially. Then I began to ask questions about his life in Vietnam, questions I’d never really asked before. He would talk and talk at me, but only when we were in the hospital room together. I would go home and scribble frantic notes.

  During his most recent bout of hospital time, I sat listening to him tell me about how much he liked school when he was younger.

  He paused and said, ‘When you are in England, you must telephone your Um and me every three weeks. Promise?’

  I was bemused by the precision of the instruction, and said, ‘Yes, okay. Every three weeks.’

  *

  I have not quite kept the every-three-weeks rule: I am a bit absentminded and time slips away from me. My first conversation with my parents was very brief.

  Me: Hello, Um. It’s me, Oanh. (Actually what I say is: ‘It’s your child.’ I don’t always say my name, which seems silly given how many children my parents have, but they always know it’s me. I wonder what my siblings say to identify themselves?)

  Um:
Is that you, child? (aside) Old Man! Your daughter is on the phone!

  Me: Yes.

  Ba: Oanh?

  Me: (Not knowing who I am speaking to anymore.) Yes. Are you well?

  Ba: What time is it there?

  Me: (I tell them the time.) What about you? What time is it there?

  Ba: (He tells me the time. I don’t tell them that I have worked it out.) Are you cold? Is it cold there?

  Me: Yes. It’s cold. Are you well?

  Ba: Where are you calling from? A phone box?

  Me: Yes. We are still staying in a hotel.

  Ba: Well, this phone call must be costing you a lot of money. Are you well?

  Me: Yes. Don’t worry about it. It is not costing very much at all. And you? Are you well?

  Ba: Yes. I am well. Your Um is also well. Is there anything else? Are you okay? Your partner, is he okay?

  Me: Yes.

  Um: I am well. Are you cold?

  Me: No. Not really. It is cold here.

  Ba: Well, goodbye then. Call again.

  The phone dies before I even say goodbye. I stand shocked in the phone box, staring at the receiver in my hand.

  My next three conversations with my parents follow exactly this pattern. I find it somewhat funny. I never get the opportunity to tell my parents I miss them (in Vietnamese, the word for miss is the same as the word for remember) or that I love them. I am not even sure exactly what words I should use to tell my parents I love them in Vietnamese. I have never told them. This worries me, because I am so far away now. I feel I should tell them, but I don’t know how.

  *

  I had the following conversation with one of my nieces. She is starting to talk in complete sentences:

  Me: Hi! How are you?

  Niece: Good. I ate pasta today, so I get to have some special (dessert).

  Me: Hey, lucky you! Do you miss me?

  Niece: No. Oh. Mummy is telling me to say yes. Should I say yes?

  Me: (laughing) No. You don’t have to miss me. What did you do today?

  Niece: Well, I was playing with my cousin until Mummy told me to come talk to you.

  Me: Oh. Well, why don’t you go play with your cousin again?

  Niece: Okay. Bye!

  My family does not waste time on sentiment.

  *

  My mother is currently grilling me about how I obtain Vietnamese groceries. She lists what the family has been eating, and how she remembers me at every meal, particularly when she cooks my favourite dishes. ‘We had crab the other day,’ she says. ‘We all missed you.’ Then she says, ‘This weekend, I am cooking banh xeo. You like to eat banh xeo so much. We will remember you.’

  *

  I had the longest telephone conversation with my parents ever this morning: about ten minutes. The ritual is completed first: time, weather, health. I half expect my father to harangue my mother to hang up but I get in first and tell them that we have a telephone deal where it only costs me about six Australian cents per minute of chatter with them. I then plough on and tell them that I hope my sister is showing them my photos, which I have posted to a website. My mother says no.

  Then she remembers something: ‘Your sister says you have been walking a lot.’

  I have to agree to this. I do walk a lot. My mother tells me not to. I try to tell her that I am walking for fun, but then I just let her lecture me and I make listening noises. She then tells me about her weekend, how great Bunnings hardware store is. I listen.

  Then she says, ‘Is that all? Do you want to say anything else?’

  Here’s my chance! I think about which words to use, how to tell her I love her without sounding too formal or ponderous.

  ‘No? Okay, call again. Bye.’

  And she has hung up, and I have missed my opportunity. In another three weeks, I shall try again.

  The Year of the Rooster

  Bon-Wai Chou

  My father grew up in the country. When he discovered he had terminal cancer his one wish was to return from Australia to his home village in China. It was a futile wish because the cancer had destroyed the bone at the base of his spine; he could not bend and when he sat he suffered intense pain, so flying was out of the question.

  As compensation, he bought three silky chickens to remind him of his childhood. The silkies were fluffy, beautiful young things. They occupied my father. He smiled at them, petted them, carried them in his arms like newborn babes. When he put them on the grass they followed him trustingly like gentle innocents, tended with magic.

  But it was not long before two of the silkies picked up a bacterial infection and they died within days of each other. They were replaced. My father gave the new chickens his full attention. They grew in strength. One of them even started laying eggs, delivering one each day under the hydrangea.

  One morning my mother accompanied my father to his chemotherapy appointment. When they returned home the silkies had disappeared. A trail of feathers suggested the predator was a fox or a large cat. Then we found a cigarette butt near the chicken pen. Dunhill brand. None of us smoked. My father was in a state of shock. Why would anyone want to steal a chicken? We bought more chickens as a mark of defiance.

  A year passed. Visitors came from all over the world to see my father. They came to reminisce and to reconnect but inevitably the subject turned to his health. They told him he must rest and recuperate. They gave him Chinese herbal medicine. They advised him on new types of pain management.

  My father was losing weight rapidly, losing his vitality. He dozed in front of the television, his legs stretched out like logs, his feet bloated with fluid. He struggled to get out of his chair and then he would rely heavily on his walking stick. He walked short distances with enormous effort. The cancer in his lungs was depriving him of oxygen. Depriving him of interest. He gave up on things that used to matter. He grew his hair out and looked like Einstein. One day he looked at his fingernails, gnarled and blackened by the radiation treatment, and he said to me:

  ‘They’re getting better, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The bad parts are growing out.’

  We were all stretching hope. My father knew it was only a matter of time. He knew the enemy well because he was a pathologist.

  Omens of sacrifice were warning us from every direction. I saw the signs in the mug that slipped from his hand one day, shattering as an exclamation mark. His favourite mug of thirty years, smashed, just like that. Then his much-prized Omega watch, which he had worn since he was a young medical student, stopped dead one afternoon, just as the hands came together on the half-hour. My mother tried to get it fixed in Hong Kong. The jeweller told her it was a superb watch, but they didn’t make parts for them any more.

  It was all proving prophetic. I saw the signs in the front garden when the pump for the fishpond stopped working. The water thickened overnight like soup. Dead goldfish floated to the surface.

  We had one of the worst storms ever. Lightning had struck the oldest tree in my parents’ garden, splitting it right down the middle, like an axe had fallen through it. Murder, I shouted in my head, as I looked at the ravaged trunk.

  Then a chicken went missing again. My mother admitted liability.

  ‘I forgot to lock the pen,’ she said as we watched the two remaining silkies, traumatised by their ordeal, hop cautiously about the lawn. ‘It’s terrible how forgetful I’m becoming.’

  ‘When were they taken?’

  ‘I heard a loud squawking at four in the morning.’

  I stifled a gasp. That dreadful Chinese symbol of death, the number four …

  Drugged by morphine, my father was now nauseous virtually every hour of the day. He ate little and vomited up everything, even water. He was as thin as a skeleton and his clothes hung baggily over his shrivelled limbs.

  One afternoon he beckoned me lightly and I went up to him.

  ‘What do you think of this?’ he asked and pulled out a pad containing two fine sketches.

  ‘My dream
kitchen,’ he explained proudly. ‘This is the bird’s-eye view. And this is how it would look from the living room.’

  My heart raced with a mixture of admiration and emotion. My father was a wonderful cook but in all the years of raising his three children he had not seen the need to spoil himself with a kitchen he deserved, preferring to make do with what he had.

  ‘What’s this door?’ I asked.

  ‘The door to the cellar.’

  I smiled in spite of myself. With our spirits considerably brightened, we decided to go downstairs and measure up the space for the proposed renovations. We took with us tape, pencil, paper and calculator and spent a good while with the measurements. My father marvelled at the closeness of his mental calculations. When he got back upstairs to his favourite chair, he was breathing hard but his face was exuberant. His dream was going to be realised after all. He could never have predicted it would turn out like this. He sat up all night refining his sketches.

  A week later, he was taken to hospital.

  ‘A mild dose of pneumonia,’ said the doctor, when he had fin-ished the examination and settled himself next to my mother. The sombre note reverberated in the room for a while before he leaned in and spoke again.

  ‘The cancer has spread to the liver. I’m sorry. Terribly sorry.’

  Some little time later it was Christmas. A warm, still day. The birds chirped in the trees and my father took a seat at the edge of the patio to look out at the garden he so loved. It was when he was picking quietly at his plate of food and all around him the voices were eddying and the glasses were clinking that his true nature came back to me. Hating to hurt others, he had spent his whole life holding back information.

  He was brought up by his mother and his grandmother. He hardly knew his father, who was away in the army. One of his sisters was married out as a child and another sister had died in childbirth. He had two younger brothers and a cousin who lived with them but her true identity was concealed for twenty years. She was my father’s half-sister.

  At the onset of the civil war in China, people in my father’s village began vanishing. Fearful rumours were circulating but the villagers sealed their mouths, as a rash word or a hasty act could be followed by annihilation. Troubled by the sinister developments, my father’s mother secretly arranged papers for an escape. But only one person would be able to leave. As the eldest son, my father was chosen. He was then thirteen years old. He never laid eyes on his mother again. She was killed in the Cultural Revolution, shot in the back of the head with a single bullet. Days before, her second son was beaten to death by the Red Guards. She was caught when she tried to help him. They made an example of her by strapping her to a board and parading her through the streets for all to see with a dunce’s cap slapped on her head. When she could walk no more, they forced her to kneel on broken glass before shooting her.