When I mentioned to Father that Elder Brother did not have to learn the printed Chinese word he told me that was correct but that learning some of the characters would make it easier for me when I go to China.
I want to learn more about the Chinese life and culture. I want to be more Chinese so I should learn, but will Chinese people see me as Chinese? Boys at school like Mee Sing do not. Elder Brother tells of no problems in China but he is number one son. He did not get in fights at school either. I still do not want to go to China. Maybe if I show that this is very hard and that I can’t do this reading then he will let me stay. But probably not.
Monday, 28 September
I thought last night about what Elizabeth said—you Chinese, as if I am Chinese. I am Chinese only by ancestry, by my Father’s blood but I am only part Chinese. I don’t look like Chinese boys at school. We only eat Chinese food on the nights when Father cooks. I am Australian. I was born here, just like her, just like most of the boys at school. I even sound a lot like them. I just don’t look like they do.
Maybe I should cut my hair but I can’t. I like wearing a queue just like Father. This is my heritage, my ancestral roots I keep telling them all, but mostly I just wear it because I like it. I will wear this queue so that it just doesn’t show.
Tuesday, 29 September
And now today the boys say I am not Australian either. If I am not Chinese and I am not Australian then what am I?
We were talking in class about being Australian, not being in separate colonies like Australia was last century. I wasn’t listening well until Patrick said ‘Ya must look Australian too.’
The teacher asked him what that means and he jumped up—’Like me,’ he hollered pointing to himself and smiling, ‘with hair and skin and clothes. Not different like.’ The teacher demanded that he sit down. He received a black mark for that behaviour. I didn’t hear anything else after that.
And Chinese boys like Mee Sing tell me that I am not really Chinese because I don’t look Chinese? My eyes aren’t right and I can’t speak Chinese.
I don’t look Australian. I don’t look Chinese. So where do I fit in?
Wednesday, 30 September
I talked with Mother about Elizabeth and her family. She says that if she did not understand all the Chinese customs or Chinese understandings after being married to Father then there is no way that Elizabeth would understand them. She is like many people who think Chinese ways are strange ways. It will take some time I think before they accept us all as equals. ‘You have to be patient with Elizabeth. She will learn. She is your blood after all.’ Just half my blood I thought … and the half I would give away!
I begged Mother to tell me some of the stories that Father told her about how he was treated on the goldfields, but Sister interrupted. Father does not talk to me much about his early days here. I do know from what he has told me about the riots and the way the Chinese miners and traders were treated that it is surprising any of them stayed here after mining enough gold.
I watched the boys play cricket today. I told one of them that I can bowl a bit. I did at my old school. They just laughed and pushed me away.
Thursday, 1 October
Why is it that people, in the street, the boys at school, and my cousin, are questioning me and telling me I am not an Australian because I don’t look like they do with my hair and my eyes and my skin?
What does an Australian look like? Is it the clothes they wear? Is it the colour of their skin? My family says it is what is inside that counts, not what people look like. ‘What makes an orange an orange?’
So if I am not Australian then I must be Chinese. But I don’t even speak Chinese, I wasn’t born there and I don’t look like Mr Lee or like Father. I have never even been and I don’t want to go to China.
Friday, 2 October
‘We cannot go on this way,’ Mother was telling Father this afternoon as I walked through the door after school. I was not being sneaky. I am sure I made the usual noises like scraping my shoes before I entered but they kept on talking. I did not mean to eavesdrop on their conversation but they kept talking, they are worried that the business will suffer if Father keeps attending to other people’s needs but that is all I heard. They realised I was there.
Then Mother realised that the girls were still at school. ‘Now look,’ she exclaimed. ‘Edward is here.’ She was out the door and running to collect the girls.
Father asked me to watch the store. It wasn’t a request. It was a statement. He returned to his office. So I sat at the counter on the stool and wondered what I had just witnessed. Were my parents arguing? They never argue. I played with Father’s abacus and imagined doing his calculations.
As usual Father kissed and hugged Mother tonight after dinner. Whatever they were discussing when I came home has been settled. All is normal.
Sunday, 4 October
We attended church and Elizabeth came too. I wish she did not meet us. And I would swear on a stack of bibles that I heard my cousin call me Johnny Chinaman. I am sure she did but when I stopped and glared at her and stared and said ‘What did you say?’ in a very high-pitched voice. She turned her twisted face into that innocent look of I don’t know what you are talking about.
‘Don’t yell at me Eddie. Now beg your pardon Eddie,’ she replied. I really do despise her. I did not yell or even raise my voice even though I should have done so. ‘No-one calls me Eddie. Eddie is a dog’s name.’
‘Well Edward,’ she glared at me, ‘If the shoe fits …’ (just like I heard at school) and then very softly ‘… Eddie.’
I cannot tell Mother or Father. They would not believe that Elizabeth said Johnny Chinaman. They like Elizabeth.
Monday, 5 October
It is the 15th day of the eighth lunar month and that means moon cakes. My stomach is full … I have a huge burp inside that wants to be set free!
The moon is full tonight, and I know that not because I can see the moon clearly in the sky but because we have been feasting on moon cakes. Mother rouses on me, in a pleasant kind of way, because I eat so many cakes I cannot eat dinner. Moon cakes are lovely foods. Sons and daughters are supposed to return to their parent’s house this night but Elder Brother and Sister can not. Mother has prepared a package to send to them. I hope that the cake does not spoil before they get to eat such treasures. What a waste that would be.
I adore the Moon Festival—not because we can go and stare at the moon, that is what some Chinese do, but because of the moon cakes … a sweet delicacy. Father made a special journey to the markets early this morning to buy the freshest moon cakes. He was back before I went to school, arms filled with the packets.
He had an ample supply for visiting customers. I think we had very many customers judging by the few remaining cakes. After our evening meal we should have walked to the nearest mountain, that’s the tradition in China. Instead of the mountain we headed to the observatory next to school for the most wonderful views, but my sisters are not well. We only made it to the street corner. The moon was there, bright and shining and smiling at us all. At the observatory we would have been able to see the twinkling lights too.
This year it was my turn to tell the tale about the moon cakes being baked centuries ago, given to family members to send messages to overthrow a tyrannical ruler. Father and Mother clapped and gave me kisses. ‘How many marriages will be prepared by the old man in the moon tonight I wonder,’ said Mother.
‘All over the world,’ whispered Father, ‘Chinese lovers will be out tonight holding hands and staring at the moon.’
Yuk.
Tuesday, 6 October
It is the right thing to do. I offered Elizabeth a moon cake when she surprised us with a visit this afternoon—delivering a parcel from her mother. She ate it and then she asked ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why did you give me the cake?’
‘Because I should. Moon cakes are given to family and friends, and,’ I paused, ‘you are
family.’ I told tell her about the man in the moon and the secret messages. I should not have told her. She laughed. It wasn’t a giggle, but a loud, embarrassing laugh.
‘Such strange beliefs you Chinese have,’ is what she told me in between her gasps for air. ‘I wouldn’t have eaten that if I knew that it had so much superstition sewn into it.’
Just a little rain today.
Saturday, 10 October
Father told me today as I was repacking the jars that he needs more help to manage the store. I was pleased. Father told me that he will hire an assistant. I was not pleased.
Sunday, 11 October
‘Hey Eddie, have you any more moon cakes? I would love to eat one. Maybe the moon-man will prepare someone for me.’ That is what Elizabeth said on our way home from church today. Of course no-one else heard her.
Horrible cousin. Surely she could not be related to us. Elizabeth has been here too much.
What is the word that I have heard the sailors and some of the traders say about some of the white people—Gweilo, foreign devil? That is what my cousin is. She is one of those. Father would be furious if he knew my thoughts about my cousin. She is nasty yet still my Father and Mother persist in allowing her to visit. When they are near she is courteous and pleasant, when they are not she is nasty. I should tell them. This would make life easier but it would be hurtful for them too. I do not know what to do.
Monday, 12 October
Mr Lee and his brother have been at the store since late this afternoon. I did not know that he had a brother. He can only stay for 30 days and Mr Lee had to pay money to have him stay, otherwise he would probably be in jail. Then he has to go back. It is evil what has happened.
He arrived on a boat to help Mr Lee and live here. This is good, especially for me. I won’t have to help him in his laundry anymore. Mr Lee had all the right papers. But when his brother disembarked the government men made him do a dictation test. He had to spell words.
We have word tests at school and sometimes they are fun. The teacher reads out the word and then we write down the word with correct spelling—in English. That is a good test—I nearly always spell my words correctly.
But this dictation test that the immigration official does is evil. When they realised that Mr Lee can speak English (even better than his brother) the test was changed, immediately. They made him spell 50 words in another language that he didn’t know. Then he had to sign his name on a blank sheet of paper. He failed the test.
If the immigration man does not like the look of the Chinese man he sees or if he has been insulted by a Chinese man in the morning or if he has spilt his coffee on his clothes and is having a bad day, then for sure he picks a language that the Chinaman could not know like French or German or Hungarian or any of those other strange languages.
Funny how they could tell Mr Lee’s brother that this test is to see if he will fit in with the Australian culture and he understood what they were saying. Elizabeth can not speak any of those foreign languages. I cannot either so do we fit into this culture?
How would Australians who want to live in China go if they were asked to sit for a Chinese dictation test? I have trouble writing Chinese words and I have been practising with Father, so imagine what would happen to them.
‘Listen to the word that I say—“Moon”. Now you write it in Chinese.’ How successful would they be?
Father and Mr Lee and his brother did not even join us for dinner tonight. I asked Mother why this was happening. She says that it is unjust. But she did tell me that I should not worry, that I had nothing to be concerned about because I am an Australian, just like she is Australian.
‘All of us will always be permitted to come and go into this country or any other country of the British Empire, for our family are all subjects of the British Empire.’ That’s what Mother said.
‘I know this is unfair, the ways that people are treated, but it will change, it must,’ that’s what Father and Mother say. But I keep wondering why are people divided into groups? How can one group be better than another just because of where they come from? Men like Father are trying to change the way other people think but how can they against people like my uncle? It is ringing in my ears again, the words of Father, ‘It is you, you who will be the bridge of change.’
People like Uncle would like this test. They would enjoy seeing this happen. This is horrible; too many people do not want the Chinese coming here.
Tuesday, 13 October
I tossed and turned in the bed all night thinking about this evil dictation test. And Father had already left the store so I could not ask him. I know Father would not think that this is fair and I do know that all the Chinese merchants will be writing letters to the government.
At school today I tried out my own test of the dictation test—to see just how well the people at my school fit in culturally.
At the gates I asked Patrick. He failed miserably. He only knows English and the Latin words we learn in class. During class break I asked some of the other students. Not one boy could write words in Chinese and like everyone they were stuck when I asked them how to write the words in Hungarian.
I even asked Mr Horan to try the dictation test. I know that he knows French but he doesn’t know Chinese. He is a fun teacher, even though he threatened me with the switcher, although now, after my questions today, I do not know how much fun tomorrow will be. I think that I will like doing languages all the time with him when I enter senior school. He says French phrases that none of us understand when he is patrolling the grounds.
I knew that he would like to show his command of the language. ‘Mr Horan, sir, how do you write sun in French,’ I asked him as he walked by. He quickly showed me, scratching out the word in the dirt with his cane.
‘Simple,’ he exclaimed in a French accent.
‘Now Mr Horan, sir, what about the word mother.’ Again he scratched the word in the dirt.
‘Mr Horan sir,’ this was fun, ‘how do you write the word monstrous …’ I paused ever so slightly, ‘in Chinese?’
He started to scratch the word in French and then he looked at me. ‘Pardon, s’il vous plaît’ he questioned. I know what that French phrase means.
So I asked him again. ‘What are you trying, young … Edward is it? Fighting boy. Is this some sort of test?’ he queried with a glint in his eyes.
He remembered me. ‘Well yes sir, and no sir,’ I replied, sheepishly. I did not want to upset him and end up going to his office to face the switch again. ‘I am just seeing how culturally aware people are, sir.’
‘Hmmm, I must admit young Edward that I do not know how that word is written in Chinese. I would like to learn that myself. So how do you write it in Chinese … young man?’
And there I stumbled for I do not know how to write the word monstrous in Chinese.
‘You are having trouble, young Edward? It is never a good idea to ask a question for which you do not know the answer. I know what to do. Question your father and ask him to show you how to write the word, and then tomorrow you can come and show me how well you know to write that word. About lunchtime, yes that would be a good time to meet. In my office. Just you and me. And we shall have a Chinese writing lesson and then you can teach me. That will be all now. On your way.’
I shuffled away as fast as I could, embarrassed, but I knew that I had proved my point, at least to me. Many of these people do not fit in culturally to Australia and most would fail the immigration test.
Wednesday, 14 October
I spent ALL lunchtime today with Mr Horan. I had to write the word monstrous in English AND French AND Chinese 100 times. I think Mr Horan is monstrous and I do not think that I will like his classes if I ever attend them.
Mr Goh visited this afternoon. I heard everything because they didn’t go into Father’s office. He stood there in the store telling Father and crying. He has received a letter from the government. He completed all the correct forms but he has been informed that he cannot
re-enter the country if he goes to China. He complained and told the immigration men that he is a naturalised Australian. They told him to prove it. He has no proof of this. He was attacked on the goldfields, all his possessions destroyed. Father knows him from those days and will accompany him to the offices next week and verify this. Father thinks that he should be all right.
Thursday, 15 October
Today, alone with Father I asked why this was happening.
‘Many of the people who live here are threatened by the industrious Chinese man,’ he told me. I know Chinese men worked hard on the goldfields successfully mining lots of gold. But travellers to any foreign country work hard and try to be successful. People like my uncle are afraid that if more and more Chinese are here that Australia will become a Chinese country.
Father showed me photos that he keeps locked away in his office, photos from gold-digging days. There was a photo of Father beside a herbalist’s tent and photos of some of the Chinese mines … they had lots of men mining together. But there were other photos too—of Chinese storekeepers selling goods to English miners and other big noses (that’s what they were called), and gardeners next to men gold mining. One photo showed a gardener ladling water onto the vegetables … I know where that ‘water’ came from. These vegetables fed the miners of all countries and skin colour, not just the Chinese. And just like Father looks after money for people there was a photo of a storekeeper receiving gold from a miner—and he wasn’t Chinese.
The Melting Pot Page 4
