Growing Up Asian in Australia

by Alice Pung

  An Australian friend of mine used to speak about his experiences growing up as an only child. He lived with his mother and father in a middle-class suburb. His parents had a troubled marriage, often fighting and arguing. Feeling alone and miserable, he would set off on his bike, seeking refuge at the house of his grandmother, his only other relative. Hearing these stories made me realise that I would never be so isolated. Despite the chaotic and dysfunctional nature of my family, and the conflicts between my parents’ generation and mine, loneliness was never a problem. We could always go and eat shrimp noodles at Aunty Hoang’s place, or hang out with Aunty Thuy and her kids, or pester Unce Kiet to buy us icy poles. On Vo Street, life was far from dull.

  Quarrel

  Ken Chan

  The children have bedded down, are edging into sleep in the cramped bedroom that they share with their parents. The older boy, Siu-Wing, doesn’t know anyone else who lives like they do, overspilt in every direction. All his young life, he can only remember sleeping in the one room with his parents and his brother. There are two beds wedged side by side, two wardrobes and a dressing table. A narrow canal runs between the beds and the other furniture.

  Voices, angry and confronting, pierce the closed door. Siu-Wing can identify his yeh-yeh and his mah, the two grandparents. There are other voices too, a backcloth of babble, an undefinable chorus, but it’s hard to sift any meaning from them. The strident bellows of the grandparents block out any other words. They snap at each other in their Taishan dialect, that village vernacular that the Cantonese, in their odysseys, have carried halfway across the world. Siu-Wing likes its sound, its tones and cadences. It seems inappropriate that such a flowing dialect should be used to wound and scar.

  ‘Don’t give me your fistful of coins. You think that’s enough?’

  ‘What’s wrong with my money? I earned every penny. It’s honest cash.’

  ‘You call what you do honest? Don’t give me that rubbish. All those years I sweated to keep the family together, where was your honest then? Where was it when we needed it so badly, eh?’

  ‘I always did the best that I could. Times were hard. I always sent you what I had.’

  ‘Once every six or seven months. How did that help us?’

  ‘Take the coins. I want you to have them.’

  ‘No, never. They’re no use now.’

  Fully awake now, Siu-Wing climbs down from his bed and scampers to the door, turns the handle gently, pushes and stares into the lit hallway, sees an ensemble of his parents, aunts, uncles trying, futilely, to soothe the shouting couple. At the feet of the warring grandparents are scattered seven gold coins, English sovereigns. Siu-Wing wonders if they were knocked out of his yeh’s hand or thrown aside by his mah in her anger. He looks at his mah. She is on the brink of tears.

  ‘If you weren’t so sick I’d throw you out of the house right this minute.’

  ‘You think I need to recover here? Put up with your sneering all the time?’

  ‘Where would you go? In the chill you’d collapse in five seconds.’

  ‘I don’t need to listen to this nonsense.’

  *

  Each Friday, his yeh comes to the small house in Maroubra for dinner. He arrives around six o’clock and at seven-fifteen everyone is seated around the table, which always seems to contract when confronted with so many adults. His yeh eats quietly and rarely injects his voice into the conversation. His children, all adults now, are tolerant but not deferential. He has not been a part of their day-to-day lives for such a long time that he long ago lost his position of authority within the family.

  His contribution to the meal is generally some Chinese vegetables, gai choy or bak choy, together with a pound or so of roast meat – char siu or siu yuk or chu tow. There is little variation to the food he brings. He enters the house wearing his sagging dark-blue suit and plain-coloured tie, a felt hat covering his almost completely bald head. He is slightly built, though there is a kind of wiry strength to him. Before dinner he smokes a cigarette that he carefully rolls himself and reads a newspaper, usually the Daily Mirror, while Siu-Wing’s mother and his mah prepare dinner. After dinner the family gathers round the radio and listens to the comic antics of Roy Rene’s character Mo. Except the grand parents, who don’t understand a word of the quickfire repartee.

  *

  The house is orange brick, postwar suburban Sydney. It sits in a small block in a row of similar constructions with only minor variations in the colour of the bricks or the size. The family doesn’t even own the house. It belongs to friends who have stayed in Darwin and prospered.

  To Siu-Wing, the house is small; it feels as if the adults, all eight of them, fill every millimetre of space, so that there is never even a tiny nook that the kids can claim as their own. The logic of squeezing so many people into a minuscule three-bedroom suburban house is beyond him. Why don’t his parents shift out? Some days he thinks it must be because of their poverty, but he has never known a day when they were not well fed. He and his brother have adequate clothes. They have never had to go to school in worn-out shoes like his friend Barry, whose shirt and pants are crisscrossed with patching and wafer-thin at the knees and elbows. Barry says that there are nights when his family doesn’t eat and, at school, he’s always happy to accept sandwiches others give him.

  ‘So you’ve got eight grown-ups in your house? Where’s everybody sleep?’

  ‘The first bedroom, facing the street, is the largest. My mah, that’s what we call my grandmother, and three aunts have that one. Then my mum and dad and me and my brother have the next bedroom and my two uncles have the third one.’

  ‘You don’t have a room you can share with your brother?’

  ‘No, Barry, the house is too small.’

  ‘Is it any fun living with all your relatives?’

  ‘No, it’s like having too many parents. We’re always being yelled at. Especially in the mornings when you’re washing your face and taking a leak. They’re all banging and screaming at the door. How about at your place?’

  ‘Well, we almost never see my old man. Mum says he’s driving trucks but my sister told me she saw Dad with another sheila one day. I reckon he’s shacked up in another place. Usually there’s just us four kids and Mum. Can I have that sandwich if you don’t want it?’

  ‘Sure, if you don’t mind stir-fried beef and capsicum.’

  ‘I’ve never tried one of those. Are they good?’

  ‘No. I hate Chinese leftovers on bread.’

  Wednesday afternoons are for sport. Siu-Wing plays soccer with the other kids and usually walks home by himself. On this particular Wednesday he is surprised to see his yeh in the house. He’s wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown and is propped up on the sofa in the living room. His face is drawn and he is wheezing in between severe bouts of coughing. Siu-Wing’s mother is ministering to the old man.

  ‘Would you like to lie down? Would that make you more comfortable?’

  ‘No, I’ll just sit here. That’s fine. When did the doctor say he’d come?’

  ‘In half an hour. Do you want some more water?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  When his grandmother comes home from shopping she hustles angrily into the living room. Siu-Wing has never seen her like this. Her rage threatens to shake apart the walls of the house.

  ‘Who gave him permission to stay here? This is my house and I won’t share it with that good-for-nothing.’

  ‘He’s not well, Mum, he’s come down with a bad cold. Just let him rest here for a few days. He’ll recover soon. Then he can go back to his own place. Right now he can’t manage on his own.’

  Siu-Wing tries but fails to match the purpling grandmother with the one who, from time to time, calmly and humorously tells him stories, like the legend of the swallow.

  *

  ‘There was once a kindly man who came upon an injured swallow. The bird’s wings had been damaged and it was struggling on the ground, no longer able to fly. The man took
the bird into his house and nurtured it back to good health. To show its appreciation, the swallow gave the man a seed. When planted it produced cucumbers that were the sweetest the man had ever eaten. But, more than this, each cucumber contained gold and silver and the man became wealthy. A neighbour, learning what had happened, hoped to do the same thing but could not find an injured swallow. One day he came upon a nest of swallows, took one and struck it hard. He nursed this bird back to health and was given a seed in return. The neighbour planted it eagerly but it never produced any cucumber. Instead its vine grew very quickly until it touched the moon. The man climbed and climbed expecting to get to the gold and silver at the end of the vine. When his feet touched the moon the vine vanished and he was left alone forever in the cold of the night.’

  ‘Was there any gold or silver for him?’

  ‘No, only the moon’s surface.’

  ‘What does the story mean?’

  ‘That some forms of wealth are not ours to have.’

  ‘I think it means that kindness is always rewarded. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe, Siu-Wing, maybe.’

  *

  The doctor’s booming, hearty voice cuts through the tension in the house.

  ‘Hello, blossoms, what’s happening with Grandpa? You’ve been smoking too much. I know it. Let’s have a look. Take a deep breath. Good. Again. Again.’

  Diligently, he prods and probes. He taps the sick man’s chest in half-a-dozen places, then does the same on his back, listens with his stethoscope, checks himself, then listens again.

  ‘You have severe pneumonia. I want you in bed immediately, resting. Here is a prescription for what you should take.’

  It is one of the few times the two boys have had the company of their grandfather for a long period. Generally, when he comes on Fridays, he says a quick hello to them but that’s about all. Now he sleeps in the bedroom normally occupied by his two sons, who have temporarily moved out of the house. Siu-Wing doesn’t know for sure, but he assumes that they have gone to his yeh’s place, a small apartment in the city.

  ‘Are you getting better, Yeh-Yeh?’

  ‘Slowly, Siu-Wing, slowly. The last time I was this sick was when I was working in Bendigo. In the market gardens there. The winters were so cold I never felt warm from morning to night.’

  ‘Why did you go to Bendigo?’

  ‘It was during the worst of the Depression. I tried to find work in Sydney but had no success. An acquaintance said there were jobs in Melbourne, in the markets selling fruit and vegetables, but that only lasted a few months. So I spent a lot of time chasing work: Stawell, Holbrook, Geelong, Ballarat. I’d go like a dog chasing his tail. Finally I ended up in Bendigo, on a small farm run by a couple who had lived in the district for many years. We grew bak choy and gailan and fu gwah. Sales were always slow. No one had much cash in those years. Meat was scarce and expensive. I was practically a vegetarian for five or six years.

  ‘When I came back to Sydney, just before the war, I scratched around for a while selling vegetables at Haymarket. But it was hard making a living from that. One day a man came by who looked like he’d never done a day’s work in his life. He wore expensive clothes, silk shirt, brocade tie, highly polished black shoes. He smoked a cigarette on a holder. A bit of a dandy. He wanted a selection of Chinese vegetables for a big dinner.

  ‘“How long have you been working at the markets, Ah Bark?” he said.

  ‘“Maybe a year and a half,” I replied. “Why?”

  ‘“I want an honest man to work in my business.”

  ‘“What business is that?”

  ‘“It’s something in Dixon Street. Here’s the address. Come and see me if you’re interested.”’

  ‘Did you go?’

  ‘Yes. I made some enquiries and learnt he wasn’t a gangster or anything like that and I went to see him. He had a grocery store at the top end of Dixon Street, the Goulburn Street end, and behind the shopfront he ran a gambling establishment. He wanted me to be a stakeholder. He promised me a regular wage. It’s been the steadiest job I’ve ever had. I’ve even been able to save a bit. Let me show you something. See these coins? Almost solid gold. Genuine English sovereigns. On this side you can see the profile of Queen Victoria. I bought them from a dealer.’

  ‘I have gold coins, too. Want to see?’

  ‘Those are fake, Siu-Wing.’

  ‘No they’re not. There’s chocolate inside.’

  *

  Gradually Siu-Wing’s grandfather gets better. By the end of the second week he has recovered enough to sit in the backyard on sunny afternoons and to resume eating solid foods. But he still tires easily and the wheezing has not disappeared. Barely a word is exchanged between him and Siu-Wing’s grandmother. Siu-Wing is conscious of the arid atmosphere that has invaded the house. At night, when everyone has gone to their rooms, his mah can be heard reciting to her daughters her catechism of grievances.

  ‘Could we have stayed in Alice Springs? Not after he gambled away most of our earnings from the shop. There was no money to pay for new supplies. We were in debt to so many people. Did he care? No, he went on gambling like the fool that he was, saying he’d win it back. In the end we had to sell up and leave. By the time we settled our debts around town we were no better off than beggars. I said we should go to Brisbane or Broome to make a new start. They were warm like Alice Springs and we knew a few families that had done all right there. Did he listen? Ever? No, he insisted we head to Sydney because he had brothers and cousins there. What a lot of no-hopers they were. Always dropping in to our place around dinnertime. He went off to Victoria to find work. Hah! He was like a hawker without anything to sell. What did he know how to do? He could barely speak English. He had no training. Never sent us enough to get by and now, here he is, in my house. Sponging.’

  *

  The Sunday of the quarrel begins in a promising fashion. As often happens, there is a large gathering of family and friends. Siu-Wing’s grandmother enjoys company and frequently has an open house. People begin to arrive just before lunchtime. By mid-afternoon the house is ringing with laughter, the shouts of kids playing and the clack of tiles from several mahjong games. A team, mainly women, prepares food in the kitchen, chopping, stirring and washing. A car pulls up and Siu-Wing’s uncles and several of their friends spill out wearing tennis whites and clutching their racquets.

  When does the argument between the grandparents start? There is some sense of strain during dinner but Siu-Wing does not know its cause. He can see that his mah is displeased about something. Perhaps she is irritated because she has been losing at Russian poker, a game she loves to play. All he remembers, before he goes to bed, is his grandmother glaring across the room at his grandfather. Whether his yeh is aware of the stern looks Siu-Wing doesn’t know. His grandfather doesn’t gamble himself, is merely a bemused onlooker.

  *

  ‘I’ve had enough of this. You don’t want the coins. Fine. Leave them there. I’m going.’

  ‘Always the fool. In your condition you’re mad to step outside.’

  His daughters try to dissuade him, but there is little vigour in their protests. And anyway, SiuWing’s grandfather is determined. He disappears into the bedroom and emerges some twenty-five minutes later wearing his familiar blue suit, his hat and an overcoat. He shuffles slowly past everyone without a word, opens the front door and steps into the bleakness of the winter cold. The wind seems to threaten to blow him back into the room. Perhaps it’s only a pause as he steels himself for the lonely walk.

  Siu-Wing wants to call out, to coax him back, but his voice, like that of everyone else in the house, is seized by silence. He slides back into his bedroom, glances across to his brother who has slept peacefully through the fracas. His grandmother’s tale comes into his head. His grandfather is gingerly scaling the vine, on his way to the moon.

  Ginseng Tea and a Pair of Thongs

  HaiHa Le

  Anh: Elder brother; also used by wi
ves to address their husbands.

  Em: Younger sister or younger brother; also used by husbands to address their wives.

  Con: Child.

  The Anh lamented the loss of his chicken farm to the communists and planned its revival in the backyard of their new Hoppers Crossing home.

  He raised his head and glanced pensively over the packed boxes scattered around their $140-a-week government house.

  ‘I came to this country not owning one thing but a pair of thongs and the clothes on my back.’

  His Em was not coping well with pollen that season; in fact, she was a devout consumer of Sinex nose sprays and had been so since her arrival in this country. Her dull eyes, the white no longer white, the black lined with yellow, surveyed the cumulation of fourteen years, now crammed into big and small brown boxes.

  ‘Now we have many things.’

  Those many things had moved many times.

  49 Corrigan Rd, rented from an elderly woman, was so dilapidated it was ordered by the council to be demolished the week after they moved out.

  68 Millers Drive belonged to an alcoholic friend of the Anh whose young family remained in Vietnam. He drank to his loneliness and drank to his celibacy. The Anh was concerned for his Em. They decamped.

  7 Athol Rd neighboured the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses and was leased out on condition of membership of their organisation. The Anh and his Em met the criteria. 7 Athol Rd was where Middle Con was conceived. When he was born, the Em was overjoyed to find that in Australia, hospitals allowed each mother a separate bed and provided enough food for her visiting family.

  Youngest Con arrived at 10 Leunig Place. He was unplanned and unwanted for his first six months. They peered at him in his wooden cage, a living bundle of accident. But in time he grew on them like cancer and ate into their core, deep into their system.