Growing Up Asian in Australia

by Alice Pung

  The man on the floor reached up the wicker armchair. The owner struck down again on the foreman’s shoulders. Air rushed through the bamboo stick, making a shrieking, whistling sound.

  It wasn’t so much the money, it was the betrayal and the foreman’s boasting. The owner could call on his underlings, his dan em, to do the job, but this was more of a humiliation.

  Still on the floor, the foreman could hear a hint of perfume. Slowly he could make out her long black hair, her dark, horrified eyes in the doorway watching the two men.

  *

  It was the first time he did this. Trung left the house abruptly, without saying to his parents, ‘Father, mother, I’m going.’ Trung’s mother was shocked and looked at Diep accusingly.

  Diep ran after him. Trung was already in the car, and reached over to open the door for her from the driver’s seat. They drove away from his parents’ white, tiered wedding-cake home. Trung and Diep sat with their silent, separate inheritances of fear and guilt.

  Diep sat back into the leather seat. They were protected by moulded plastic and the plushness of the car interior. Diep closed her eyes and dreamt of kissing the boy in the fish sauce.

  The Embarrassments of the Gods

  Xerxes Matza

  Philandering is the sin of the Gonzales men. This, and their obsession with their penises. After years of attending these obligatory family Christmas parties, listening to their jokes, I can now rattle off each uncle’s pet name for his penis as surely as I can recite the Ten Commandments. My father, Enrico Gonzales, Chairman of G Freights, calls his thing Junior, or sometimes Humpty Dumpty, a nickname that offends the sensibilities of his new wife, Katie, a kindergarten teacher.

  Uncle Christopher calls his thing Pipo, or, most of the time, ‘My Pipo.’ Although he only has one name for it, he himself has gone through several name changes. His given name was Benjamin Christopher and everyone used to call him Benjie. Discovering in his late teens that Benjie was the name of two granduncles, and always wanting to be original, he insisted on being called Christopher. He also made us drop the Tio, Tio being ‘a product of the old world.’ ‘We’re all Aussies now, so call me Uncle,’ he corrected me once on our way to a footy match. I was nine then, newly arrived in Australia. My father had sponsored me to come after my mum died in Manila. New country, new expressions, I thought then. But same old values where the Gonzales blokes are concerned, I would come to realise. By deed poll Uncle Chris dropped Benjamin and added James, making him James Christopher Gonzales. ‘James for James Bond,’ Katie informed me conspiratorially years later. That explained the extensive 007 memorabilia and complete DVD collection of Bond movies in his lounge room. Uncle Chris claims that Connery and Brosnan are the best Bonds because they can epitomise male coolness simply by slicking back their hair, a style he often imitates. He even talks in a well-modulated voice and smiles the Bond smile – moving only one side of his mouth, simultaneously half-raising an eyebrow.

  As if those aliases were not enough for my multi-handled uncle, his American wife Barbara, whom he met while doing his masters at Harvard Business School, calls him Thopie, one of those silly pet names couples call each other. But when she calls him Thopie, I suspect she’s wanting Pipo. Vanessa, Chris’s grownup daughter from his first marriage, confirmed this while playing Scrabble with me one summer night when all the cousins rented a cottage at Ulladulla. ‘That blonde is a nympho, let me tell you, Cous. Thopie-this and Thopie-that and Dad is under her spell. And you know what? She’s a screamer. It’s so embarrassing when Alfie spends the night. I can’t compete.’ We sniggered as we finished off the chardonnay.

  ‘You behave down there, Patrick. Finish your food,’ Barbara commands her seven-year-old, who is holding a drumstick in one hand and is about to bowl a cricket ball with the other to Alfred, Dad’s eldest by Katie. Barbara’s massive breasts are on display while she breastfeeds baby Thaddeus on the terrace.

  ‘Let them have fun, Barbara,’ snaps Uncle Terence, youngest of my father’s siblings. I’ve heard that Uncle Terence has finally cured his smelly feet. The women in his life left him over those feet, or so I was told. But a relative of a relative said it was his gambling that drove Auntie Laura and Auntie Bessie away.

  ‘Your wife is still in very good shape for her age, Chris.’

  ‘Exercise, diet and a good root keep your missus young, Terry.’

  ‘Teddy agrees with that, brother. Cheers.’ They lift their beers in a toast.

  Terence, an accountant who makes a lot of money financing porn sites on the web, calls his thing Teddy, while his son Benedict calls his Kiko. Benedict, who hadn’t yet had a love-child with his then girlfriend, Alicia, wasn’t included in the conversation last year. Now that he’s a father at seventeen, he is an official member of the dick club.

  ‘Dios mio, these men have nothing better to do,’ quips Auntie Amanda, who is sitting next to me.

  ‘My new girlfriend always makes my Teddy red,’ boasts Terence to no one in particular.

  ‘Por Dios, por Santo, Terence, I hope it isn’t as red as it was when I used to clean it after you were circumcised,’ my favourite aunt interrupts.

  ‘Not quite, Até. Teddy experiences a different kind of sore now.’ The men roll with laughter.

  ‘I’m sure. Richard, go and play with Patrick and Alfred. And stay away from your uncles,’ she calls to her six-year-old adopted son, who is standing by and looking inquiringly at his uncles. Auntie Amanda is a director of an IT company. She carries her bossy, do-it-now tone everywhere – even at home as she feeds her cat or when talking to Richard. ‘So where were we, Emilio … Oh, your thesis. How’s it going?’

  ‘Progressing.’

  ‘Oh good. Glad to hear– Richard, no! Put that down. It’s an antique from India, Grandma will be mad at you. What is it about, Emil?’

  ‘Semiotics in Nick Cave’s lyrics. But my tutor suggested I write a childhood account instead, then apply semiotics.’

  ‘So which is it to be? Richard, don’t make me get up. God, I seriously need a nanny for this boy! But babysitters are hard to find in this city now. The memoir sounds good, but if you’ve started the other one, stick with it. Don’t waste time. Prove to your father that your course is as valuable as a business course. You know how this family measures success – how much money you make, how many brats you produce. One more time, Richard, and–’

  The vase crashes. Auntie stands and barks at Richard. The boy cries.

  ‘Our sister needs a new husband,’ I hear my old man say from the next table.

  ‘No I don’t, Enrico. I don’t need hombre, purisima, you know that,’ she snaps back and carries the bawling Richard into the lounge room. ‘Emil, we’ll talk later, sweetie.’ I smile at her. She’s pushing fifty yet looks at least ten years younger. She entered a Jenny Craig program after her husband of twenty years left her for – cliché of clichés – his secretary, two years ago. Uncle Ron, as I recall, calls his thing Ronron. He used to be a part of my father’s and uncles’ conversation circle at family parties. Despite divorcing Auntie Amanda, he’s still my father’s best mate and solicitor, and one of the directors of the family firm.

  ‘Emil, hijo, where’s your girlfriend?’

  ‘I don’t have one at the moment, Uncle Chris,’ I reply without looking at them.

  ‘Boy, you’ve got to have fun sometimes. All work and no play makes my Pipo decay,’ he says, laughing at his own joke.

  ‘Shut up down there, Thopie,’ teases Barbara from the terrace, still breastfeeding.

  ‘Leave him alone, Chris. Emilio needs time to finish his thesis … so he can graduate,’ my father says dryly. He told me once that my degree would not put food on the table. He said I should be studying business management and was critical of my bar work. He criticises my foreign-film-going and even my flat in New-town, which I share with an often-unemployed filmmaker.

  ‘Look who’s here,’ Uncle Terence says excitedly, as if seeing a movie star. ‘Muy guwapito, Migueli
to.’

  Uncle Chris pauses from lighting his cigar then exclaims, ‘Our big boy Miguel and his muse.’

  My father stands and opens his arms to Miguelito, my half-brother, born on the feast day of Archangel Michael. ‘Ah, Miguelito, how are you, champion?’

  ‘Good, Dad. How are you playboys?’ He is shaking hands and hugging my uncles and Benedict. ‘Everyone, this is Charmaine.’ The Gonzales men, in mock chivalry, take turns kissing the girl’s hand.

  ‘Make yourself at home, hija,’ says Uncle Chris, flashing his 007 smile.

  ‘Emil, good to see you, bro,’ Miguelito says. I shake his hand. ‘Charmaine, this is my big brother.’

  ‘Hi,’ I say. Charmaine smiles and stands awkwardly, wondering whether I’m going to give her a hug or kiss her hand too. I finally offer my hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Charmaine.’ She nods silently. She looks familiar.

  ‘Have something to eat,’ my father offers, directing them to the long buffet table full of greasy meat dishes.

  As he returns to the group he says, ‘What a boy. Let’s ask him later how Charmaine takes care of his titi.’ The men laugh in unison once more as I wolf down my food, trying to block out my father’s joke.

  My brother is going from table to table, introducing Char-maine to the aunties and other relatives. As usual, Miguel is a bit overdressed for the occasion, not to mention the season. He’s wearing a suit, probably by Cerruti. His heels, loud as gunfire on the stone floor, proclaim ‘shoes by Bally.’ Miguel drives a dark-blue BMW which he bought with his own money when he was just twenty-three, another achievement to make our already-proud father prouder still.

  Although I am my father’s first and so-called legitimate child, which places me in a very crucial position as a jeredero in the Gonzales clan, I feel I’m the bastard son, a distant second to Miguelito, two years younger than me but with significant financial achievements under his belt already.

  He made my father proud the day he became captain of the school football team, and even more so when he impregnated his girlfriend in Year 11. My father raved to his brothers that Miguelito was following in his footsteps. When Dad was losing money on the stock market, Miguelito, newly graduated from uni and starting out as a broker, advised him to invest more in blue chip shares and sell off his ordinaries (whatever that means), which turned around Dad’s fortunes. When G Freights was collapsing, he developed a ‘brilliant’ marketing strategy (overpricing goods and services) that saved our father from bankruptcy and humiliation. Dad told me all this over the phone while I was in Europe, staying in a smelly backpackers’ hostel and biting him for a loan. Why didn’t I come home soon and finish uni instead of waiting tables to stretch out my travel? he barked down the line. My brother was doing very well in his career, he reiterated, the gospel for the day. And now, at the family reunion, an occasion for discussing penises and careers, my brother parades his new girlfriend (underdressed in her designer outfit), proving once again that he is worthy of the clan name. This must be what he means by a win-win situation, jargon I hear him use quite often. He will complete his all-important MBA next year.

  ‘Did you see that dress, Emil?’ asks Vanessa. ‘Shocker. And the metallic nail polish is just appalling, doesn’t even match the dress. Pretty sure my father was in awe. By the way, Cous, Maxine, my yoga instructor, needs a date on the twenty-eighth. Are you free?’

  ‘Nope, I’m going to a buck’s night,’ I lie.

  ‘Bugger. Maybe I’ll ask Miguelito to take her. Maxine definitely has a better fashion sense than this one.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I’ve seen Charmaine’s face somewhere, Vanessa.’

  ‘A face and a dress like that belong up the Cross. Who’s getting married, anyway? Oh shit, here come Nan and the ladies. Charmaine, Charmaine …’ She leaves the table. A woman of contradictions!

  Grandma’s chihuahua greets me first, circling and licking, wanting to be picked up. I nudge it with my foot. I’m a cat person. Nan grimaces. My grandmother’s excessive affection for her dog could be compared to her sons’ extreme regard for their dicks. Nan Diling, the great Doña Delilah to generations of corn-harvesters in the old country, Lilah to her Eastern Suburbs and North Shore friends, has names for the little bitch: Henri, short for Henrietta, or sometimes Little Treasure; or, when she’s drunk, Putang aso – the translation is close to the ‘c’ word.

  ‘And this is Enrico’s son Emilio. Hijo, you’ve met Mrs Cutler and Lady Bray, haven’t you?’

  ‘Of course, Nan.’ I stand and shake their hands. Their aroma, a mixture of antiseptic and old perfume, makes me think of ancient film sirens.

  ‘You have your father’s handsome smile, Emilio,’ compliments Mrs Cutler, whose hip-replacement surgery was all over the social pages a couple of months ago. It almost got more column inches than the privatisation of Telstra.

  ‘He is a scholar at the university,’ my grandma brags through her permanent smile, a result of lip surgery. Every time she introduces me to people she emphasises the word scholar, the way Chris stresses ‘my’ in ‘my Pipo.’ Being a scholar I guess is what makes me worthy of the Gonzales name. ‘Emil’s going to be a writer and help me with my biography.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Lilah,’ says Lady Bray, whose philanthropy probably makes her worthier of a biography. ‘Your eyes twinkle like your father’s, young man.’

  ‘Thanks, Lady Bray,’ I chuckle self-consciously. This pair must have the hots for Dad. I wonder if knowing that would get his Junior excited.

  ‘Hu-llo, Grandma,’ my brother embraces Grandma from behind, then kisses her on the cheek.

  ‘Oh stop it, Miguelito, you’re tickling me,’ Lilah laughs like a giggly schoolgirl. ‘Ladies, you remember Miguelito, don’t you? Faye, he made your assistant cry once when he lifted her skirt, remember?’

  ‘Oh yes, the naughty child!’ Lady Bray is all smiles. Miguelito gives both women a European kiss – the old biddies offering both cheeks indulgently to the football hero. ‘And who is this beautiful young lady?’ Charmaine smiles and tosses her hair seductively, a familiar gesture. Now I know where I’ve seen her face. A shampoo commercial.

  My brother introduces his girlfriend. In Miguel’s presence, I become as invisible as an unlighted post on a freeway; even with my father’s ‘twinkling eyes,’ I can’t compete with my brother’s oily charm. I make my way through the lounge room as the ladies hang off Miguelito’s update on the redecoration of his Rushcutters Bay penthouse.

  The lounge room is full of familiar faces – relatives who are dressed to kill, my cousin’s mates from Cranbrook (Double Bay wankers), Lady Bray’s entourage, Father Charlie and some of the local nuns, and Mrs Cummings from next door, already drunk, staring blankly at the unlit fireplace. Little cousins are running around everywhere. Someone cries. Henri chases one of the nuns. An occasional ‘Hello’ interrupts my progress to the Red Room.

  As I pour whisky at the bar, I spot the Virgin Mary in the corner. I have never understood this Filipino thing for altars and life-sized statues of saints. The richer they are the bigger the statues in their homes. My father was opposed to paying costly freight to bring the Virgin from overseas. Upon hearing this, Grandma signed a blank cheque to cover the transport costs and had her solicitor personally deliver it to my father’s office. Lilah didn’t speak to him until the statue was delivered and installed. Now the Virgin stands, largely ignored, between Grandma’s portrait and the white baby grand, a mute eavesdropper on the Gonzales men’s annual penis conversation.

  The whisky tastes good after all that oily food. I pour another as I stare at Grandma’s portrait by a famous Filipino artist with whom she had a torrid affair. She looks regal in her nineteenth-century Spanish-style gown; her eyes sparkle as brightly as her gems, her head tilts slightly to the right like Ava Gardner in a movie pose. She smiles radiantly, the high-profile widow of a political crony of the former dictator. A renowned concert pianist, Grandma was a society matron in the old country, friends with the flamb
oyant former First Lady. Her affair with the artist, who was young enough to be her son, had scandalised the strongly Catholic nation. In that and the subsequent rumoured affairs, Doña Delilah Gonzales easily matched her philandering late husband, who had fathered children the length and breadth of the country. Her sons Enrico, Christopher and Terence Gonzales at this very moment are discussing their penises and their own philandering. They have always excluded me from their conversation because I have yet to demonstrate any prowess with either dick or dollars.

  I gulp down my drink. Guess I have to be controversial, too. I’m a Gonzales, after all. I reach for the mobile in my pocket and dial Craig’s number. He’s on his way here now but I’ll tell him not to come. Not today. He’ll be pissed off, I’m sure. I’ll just tease him about his Craigee. Then, I hope, everything will be fine.

  My First Kiss

  Lian Low

  Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, 1991. When I was growing up, I never saw people share mouth-to-mouth kisses. Malaysia’s censorship laws snipped out tongue kisses, homosexuals, anti-government sentiment and anything else it deemed offensive. There were no explicit laws against non-Muslim Malaysians kissing and hugging romantically in public, but local by-laws forbidding ‘indecent behaviour’ could be interpreted to include public displays of affection. For queers the repercussions were even worse: homosexuality is still a criminal offence in Malaysia.

  Maybe it’s every other little girl’s dream to grow up and have breasts so that they can fill out their frocks. Not me. I envied my father’s flat chest and how he could go topless without being self-conscious. Becoming more ‘womanly,’ I suddenly lost footing in my tomboy world. The dynamics of my friendships with my male playmates changed. I retreated into my own private attic, literally and symbolically; this space existed at the top of my house, away from everyone else. In the first two years of high school, I would spend most of my lunchtime in the library, nose in a book, away from the chatter and gossip in the canteen. I was the quiet type who was part of the school chess team, who read The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings trilogy all in one go. I didn’t contribute to the ‘Oh, he’s sooo hot!’ conversations about New Kids on the Block, Jason Priestley and Luke Perry. Instead, I fancied Mary Stuart Masterson and fantasised about flying like Superman so that I could whisk away the popular girl I had a crush on.