by Alice Pung
*
“Come on, up you get. You have to get ready for school now,” comes the unwelcome sound of my mother’s voice in my ear. All I want to do is sleep for a little while longer but I force myself out of bed and get dressed into the second-hand pinafore uniform hanging on my door handle. After eating a piece of bread and a serving of Indian-style vegetables, I’m soon out the door and heading down my unexpectedly quiet street on my way to school.
Faster than you can say the word knife, the nerves building up inside of me skyrocket as the looming iron gates with the engraved crest of Queenwood College for Girls stand before me. Through the wrought-iron bars that mimic the confinement of jail cells, I can see girls walking and laughing in small groups everywhere, all with beautiful long blonde hair. Soon questions like, How am I ever going to fit in? What will they think of me? Will I be teased? clog my mind, in rhythm with the heavy pounding of my heart. Taking a big gulp, I take my first step into this new, Westernised, foreign world.
“Hello, how can I help you?” asks a friendly voice.
“My name is Shalini Patel. I am starting school today.”
“Oh, okay. Are you from India?”
“Yes, I am.”
As if it isn’t easy enough to tell from my bushy black hair and brown skin, the secretary in the front office has just asked me if I’m Indian. When speaking with my thick Indian accent in front of these foreign people, it suddenly dawns on me how different I really am.
Handing me my timetable the secretary instructs, “Your first class is down this hallway to the left and your locker is on the other side of the campus. If you need help, feel free to see me.”
Mumbling under my breath to conceal my accent, I reply, “Thank you”.
Heading down the hallway I walk into my first class realising that I’m five minutes late. I stop abruptly at the door. As if I am some rare species that has never been seen before, every eye in the classroom has turned to look at me; like a pack of hungry wolves, they stare.
“Ah hello, Miss Patel, please take a seat right here.”
According to my timetable, this teacher is named Mr Williams. Awkwardly taking my place at the desk situated at the front of the class, I take out my English books and hope and pray that Mr Williams will begin speaking again so that everyone will stop watching me. Do they think that I’m stupid? I can hear the whispers floating from ear to ear and can practically see every judgemental thought bouncing around the classroom.
Getting stuck into the work isn’t difficult but I struggle with understanding the Australian accent, as it is just so unfamiliar to me. Throughout the day, it is hard finding my classes and people treat me as though I am invisible, never stopping to ask if I want help. At one point, as I’m crossing the hall I hear a girl call out, “Hey you, curry girl!” Everyone giggles as I fight the tears welling up in my eyes. I do not want to appear weak to these horrible people.
As lunch approaches at one p.m., I’m ready to escape the confines of these school hallways. Just as I’m removing my lunch box from my locker a girl who looks vaguely familiar, with brown hair tied high on top of her head, approaches me. “Hey, I’m Amy. You’re Shalini, right? I saw you in maths class. Would you like to sit with us at lunch?” Finally! Someone talking to me, even asking me to sit with her at lunch! Walking over with Amy and her two other friends, we cross the large grassy playground and sit under a tree. By now I am so hungry that I tuck straight into my container, packed with rice and some curry Mummy has made for me. As I look up and chew on a morsel, I see Amy and her friends watching me.
“Is that Indian food? Rice and curry?” they ask.
I nod in response. My classmates then begin to whisper in each other’s ears and do not talk to me for the rest of the lunchbreak.
I am like an outcast in my new school, as lonely as a fish that has lost its way from its shoal and is so small and insignificant in the expanse of the ocean. In that moment it dawns on me that no matter how hard I attempt to fit in, I will never be accepted. I do not have fair skin, light hair and blue eyes; I have dark brown skin, black hair and an Indian accent, and will forever be viewed as different in this society. Just as my parents go out into the world and work hard, I will go to school. We will all come home, shrug off our office clothes and uniforms like disguises. We will sit on the floor, eat with our fingers and sing tunes from the old country, like every newly arrived immigrant before us. We have to manage a supreme cultural juggling act: to belong without being erased, to hold on to those aspects of our mother culture that nourished us, but to discard those that are irrelevant in this new country.
And with that, I stand up when the bell rings and go to my last class for the day.
THE ART OF WATER POURING
Ysabel Dungca
I was frightened. Having been used to the comfort of my parents protecting me wherever I went, I was now being left alone in a sea of strangers, and it terrified me.
My nerves weren’t eased during the ride to school. The mode of transport didn’t help: my uncle’s tricycle, the Philippines’ cheaper alternative to a taxi. It was quite a rocky ride. The roads had varying degrees of fissures, which acted as separators between the left and right lanes. There was debris everywhere: rocks, garbage, the odd sock or two. The tricycle had a tendency to squeak whenever my uncle tried to dodge a large rock or braked to avoid crashing into another tricycle. Plus the tricycle’s carrier was quite small. It couldn’t accommodate both my mother and me so, to compensate for the lack of space, I sat precariously near the edge, close to the road.
I come from a family of five, composed of parents, two older sisters and myself. My sisters shared a bond that was never extended to me, so I kept to myself – and still do. This led to my personality developing as the quietest of the three daughters, because I didn’t enjoy the company of others and failed to express myself effectively.
We had lived in a small house a few kilometres from Manila before moving to a quiet village significantly further away from the city, as my mother had found work in a nearby law firm. The families within the neighbourhood were tight-knit; everyone knew one another, and they celebrated each other’s successes, birthdays and milestones. This formed relationships that transcended community borders.
When it came to school, there was tremendous pressure on me to succeed and do better than my sisters, and they’d set high expectations. This made the first day of school significantly more stressful than it already was. After a perilous ten-minute journey through the dark turns and noise of a ruined town, we finally arrived at the school that I attended for the rest of my time in the Philippines. It was huge, even more so considering my small stature. The concrete buildings were ancient, containing a history that echoed in the long hallways and was ingrained in the walls.
In kindergarten, the art of water pouring was apparently a vital skill that one must learn and master. The Philippines viewed water as a precious commodity because the country was in a perpetual state of drought. Any wastage of water was considered a travesty. My teacher, with her hair in a neat bun and her eyes of steel, stressed the importance of such a skill and the value of water, in a flurry of English and Tagalog words that my five-year-old self found totally incomprehensible.
Already quite distressed and scared, it didn’t help that my clothes were a size too big (in the hope that I would grow into them, I recall my mother saying), adding additional stress as I worried over whether I looked presentable to the teacher. Was my obnoxiously blue bowtie neat and sitting perfectly under my collar? Was my white blouse free of wrinkles? Was my navy-blue skirt the right length? Such thoughts persisted until the teacher placed cups in front of everyone, and then commanded us all to stand up behind our desks.
My teacher gave the class a demonstration as to the proper technique of pouring water into a cup. Hold the handle with one hand. Support the body of the jug with the other. Tilt the jug and pour close to the cup to avoid spillage. Simple enough. Any five-year-old child should be able
to do that.
Unfortunately, I had greatly overestimated my capability of performing such a task. As I stood and watched my classmates, whose names I have forgotten, pour water effortlessly into coloured cups without wasting a drop, I felt increasingly anxious and began to shake, as if I wasn’t in 35-degree heat. What if I mess up? What will my teacher say? Would she tell my parents? What will they say?
It was my first experience of the anxiety that continued to permeate my school years. It was the first conjuring up of doubts that would create a chain reaction, generating painful, and unlikely, scenarios of whatever consequences might befall me.
I had already created a novel of such possible scenarios before my teacher stood in front of me.
Needless to say that my pouring of water was a total disaster; puddles appeared everywhere, except in the right spot.
At the time it mattered so much, but when I look back now I find it so trivial that my inability to pour water correctly was considered more important than my inept English.
The irony of the whole situation is that I’m now able to write in English about my terrible water pouring.
CAMP LETTERS
PATRIOS-LUNDUSISM
Noa Abrahams
Hi Mum!
Camp’s going great! Today we went rock climbing and yesterday Ella stole our leader’s sunnies, which was pretty funny. She hasn’t given them back yet. The sunrise at Buller was breathtaking!
I think I’ve worked out why I love my school so much. These past three weeks have helped me really work it out. My most recent new word is patrios-lundusism. According to answers. com, lundus means “elementary educational institution”. I feel a sense of pride for my school, for the tiny Jewish community we have become.
Remember in primary school when we would make matzah to celebrate Pesach, and when we’d dip apples in honey to celebrate Rosh Hashanah? Well, nothing’s changed. On camp, we sing songs and light candles on Shabbat. We do the prayers for eating before every meal and the prayers for learning something new after important first experiences. I had to chuck my cup in the bin because I put milk in it when everyone else was eating meat. Even I laugh at the joke, “How do you know someone’s a vegetarian? Don’t worry, they’ll tell you.” After cringing and recognising its blunt truth for a considerable amount of time, I must admit that my dietary choices are relevant in this case. Even though I hadn’t eaten any meat, my cup was not to be exposed to anything that goes against traditional Jewish law, something I don’t actually follow.
While I completely understand, and, in fact, enjoy Jewish culture being encouraged and exposed to us as students at a Jewish day school, imposing specific laws and beliefs upon us is another story. Yesterday, my ultimate image of the perfect school I belong to was slightly shaken. The wall that it hung on warped a little, leaving the beautiful picture slightly skewed. It was the first time, the first time I saw my school through a tinted lens. What happened was this: it was a Saturday morning. By coincidence, it was two years since my Bat Mitzvah, and one year since my friend’s. Our year level was seated in a circle on the deck of our camp site, looking out to the natural beauty of early morning Australia. What was less beautiful was the look on all of our faces. Unfortunately, my year level is hard to please when it comes to services and general cultural participation. But the school rabbi was determined to put smiles on our faces. She (for we are a progressive school) tried unique activities to get us involved, and I respected her for that. However, there was one aspect of her that I disliked, and that was when she tried to extract the private and raw beliefs that all of us have.
They’re not “discussion content”, or ingredients to “get our creative juices flowing”, our private beliefs. You can’t pull them out of someone like a carrot from the ground. So when the rabbi said, “Put your hand up if you think you have a soul,” there was not a speck of me that was surprised that three, maybe four people out of our fifty-five-person cohort put their hands up, half-heartedly and hesitantly. But she didn’t stop there. She then said, “Okay, put your hand up if you don’t think you have a soul.” I put my hand up. I don’t know if anyone else did. I was too focused on beating the deck at a glaring contest. But when the rabbi went on to joke, “Well, you guys should go see a doctor!” I snapped.
I’ve discovered from this experience how I treat people with respect. If I respect someone, I’ll follow their every move, drinking in their knowledge. If I don’t respect someone, I’ll look at the ground, still listening, and find every flaw I can in what they’re saying. Up until that point, I’d looked straight at our rabbi with respect and interest. But after this, I looked at her shoes, gradually moving on to the ground below me.
After the service, the rabbi came up to me and asked, “Are you okay, Noa?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
No. I walked away, staring at the ground.
*
From that encounter, Mum, it may look like I now hold very little respect for my school, and that my new term patrios-lundusism can go and collect dust for a while. What I’d like to point out is that before this incident, I had very few issues with my school. Sure, my brother has refused to wear a kippah and has walked out of weekly services or discussions because he was sickened by the idea that he should be forced to bless God just because others want to. I agree with him. But at the same time, I feel empowered and enriched by aspects of Jewish culture other than praying to God. And my school usually recognises that. Usually, our school is well known for its progressive and open-minded stances on issues. Usually, it welcomes everyone, no matter where they come from or what they believe.
Hopefully this hiccup is just that, and will not be a recurring theme in the final years of my schooling. Hopefully, I can come back to feeling a sense of pride for my school, knowing I won’t be diagnosed as having a medical issue because of my opposing beliefs by a staff member whose qualifications do not include medicine. While my patrios-lundusism for my school is gradually coming back, I hope it will never suffer in this way again. I am Jewish. And I am an atheist. I respect my school and its beliefs, but will refuse to be told what to believe. Perhaps those who are representing the school’s values and beliefs should think about the high responsibility they have been given, before telling the twisted version out loud to a group of bored Year Nines. And maybe they should realise that not everyone who is looking down is bored. Perhaps they no longer hold respect for what you are saying.
A LASTING LESSON
Coco Xiaoge Huang
Why do I hesitate when I say I love my granddaughter? I’m sure the feeling is mutual. Why else would she lovingly remain by my side day after day, and listen with such affection to my advice? Perhaps her mother had something to do with her startling kindness, which at first I accepted with suspicion. Her sudden partiality for Saturday morning red-tags and steaming dim sims initially struck me as feigned; but then I wondered if she was genuinely interested in adding spice to her Australianised character. Or perhaps she just wanted to amuse an old woman she hadn’t seen in three years. As much as I delighted in her undivided attention, I was unsettled by its almost mocking sincerity, as though something lay concealed beneath the flawless smile, smirking at my ignorance.
She jolted in surprise as I brushed against her shoulder, and removed her headphones that had muffled my approaching footsteps. I admired her fingers that returned to their default position – aligned perfectly on her laptop’s keyboard. She had, as per usual, anticipated what I wanted and wordlessly handed me her smartphone. A sort of pride warmed my cheeks at her intimacy, but before I could respond, she had turned back to her tapping. It was fluid and rhythmic, of an enviable velocity that I dared not disturb. I picked up the device and firmly depressed the only button at the bottom – what was the use of a phone with one button? Technology these days had definitely regressed.
Then it lit up in swirls of colour.
I was so fascinated by
this display of luminescence that I was startled when it suddenly vanished. I jabbed down hard on the button, but once again the exhibition concluded after a few seconds. Frustrated, I prodded the button repeatedly, to no avail.
*
I prodded him persistently. He didn’t notice the hot little prints on his bare, sweaty back. The waves of heat had not yet receded with the fading light, which brought pleasant relief from the sun that torched our backs as we worked in the fields. Minh, the eldest, was the exception; in a few days, he would sit in the corner of a small dusty room filled with scores of rice-boys from neighbouring villages, contending for that one chance of freedom from labour and hunger and poverty. His brow dripped with sweat from the intensity of his concentration as he continued writing with one hand and reached to tickle me with the other. Giggling, I darted past and flung myself onto him, wrapping my browned arms around his slippery neck.
Mother emerged furiously from the open-fire kitchen and brandished her knife. “Stop distracting your brother, Girl, or I’ll slice the tops off your ears.”
Minh laughed. “Yes, we’ll boil them for dinner!”
*
“Swipe it. Like this.”
I snapped to attention. The tempo of the tapping halved as she “swiped” the air with one hand. I thrust my finger on the button, then quickly imitated her motion. The lights changed.
“Now look for the green phone button.”
It was easier said than done. Her tapping spurred me on as I scrutinised every icon. They were all uniquely shaped and coloured, like her fingernails that blurred back into obscurity.
*
One year, Minh had brought back a large box of deluxe fireworks from the city. We could barely wait until night fell, and through the day we squabbled over which one we would light. There were eight of us, and I was the second youngest, thus traditionally the second-last with the matchbox. By then, my parents were impatient from the noise and the smoke. To them, I was a trivial daughter; too young to be married, too old to be sold. With shaking hands, I struck my first match. It failed to light. So did the second. Everyone tensed – if I failed to light my third, it would be a bad omen, especially on New Year’s Eve.
