Escaping runs in my family.
I am three-parts Chinese and one-part Vietnamese, but born in Perth. The legacy of this convoluted family tree comes in the form of emancipation that transcend three generations and would span over 60 years.
My grandfather who has pure Chinese blood running through his veins fled 1940s China on foot with his three brothers. Their parents died of starvation some months prior, and the imminent Communist rule was not something they wanted to stick around for. My grandfather was only 15 at the time, but the bloodshed and the carnage he had already witnessed first-hand painted memories a lifetime could not erase.
Growing up, no one in my family was ever allowed to wear red clothing around my grandfather - even to this day. My mother says the colour reminds him of the bloodshed associated with war-torn China.
My grandfather saw Vietnam as a safe-haven. Still under French-rule, the smaller but densely populated country offered him a new start and perhaps more prosperity than they were used to. But they were determined to start afresh, because nothing could be worse than what they have seen. Watching their destitute parents deteriorate before their eyes inspired them to build a new life someplace else.
My grandfather eventually reached the province of Cantho, a few hours south of Saigon. It was the 1950s where arrangements were made for him to marry a tall, slim lady with short curly hair, high cheekbones and a beautiful smile. My grandmother was born in Vietnam but part-Chinese herself. My grandfather charmed her in fluent Chinese, and from that day forward, they were to bring up their children and grandchildren speaking a smattering of Teo Chew, Mandarin, Cantonese and Vietnamese.
Many, many years ago, I had a rather sad conversation with my late grandmother. I discovered that she had to give up her first child because they simply could not afford to look after her. A couple of years later, her second child died due to complications at birth. Her third child was later to develop a mental disorder that eventually drove my grandmother to a stroke. Her fourth child - my mother - was to become the strongest and most beautiful woman I know. My mother was later to have another brother and sister - all of whom have had a deeply profound influence in my life.
I never really felt like I fit in anywhere. Based on looks alone, I could easily pass as Japanese. However I get an absolute kick out of throwing people off with my perfectly-pronounced Australian English. My broken Vietnamese - spoken only when I have to - is peppered with a Chinese accent, whilst my basic Teo Chew carries the jarring but melodic undertones of Vietnamese.
My high-bridge nose, fair skin and kittenish features attract questions of being Eurasian more so than Vietnamese. I've lost count of how many times Vietnamese people would stand right before me, and talk about me, presuming I cannot understand their snide, critical comments.
I rather eat fettuccine than pho. I am obsessed with Singstar but I can't stand karaoke.
I have adopted the Australian sense of humour in 'taking the piss' but am still fiercely loyal to my family and our roots.
I am essentially three parts of one whole, but Australian is what I am the most.
Talking to my mother tonight about our family's humble beginnings, I am so blessed for the leap of faith my parents made for us. In 1979, my mother and father, and my mother's side of the family, fled Vietnam. 1976 saw the Viet Cong infamously bust through those gates in Saigon, stripping the locals of their hard-earned livelihood. My mother's family ran a successful tobacco store in Cantho, but this too, was taken away by the Communists. Their reasoning was that the rich were only rich because they stole from the poor.
So with an armful of gold, my family got the hell out of there. Only the wealthy could afford the dowry in order to escape, which meant that my parents were leaving behind their childhood friends, their home, their past and a huge part of themselves. They didn't even know if they'd revisit this place ever again.
The vessel was large, but cramped all the same, stinking of urine and panic and desperation. Women, babies, grandfathers, uncles, and loners: these were the kind of people who crammed themselves into a rickety boat, sleeping and huddling on wet timber planks and embarking on a two-week journey to Indonesia. Dysentery, starvation, dehydration and sea sickness were rife as they navigated the treacherous South China Sea. People were weighed down by the arsenal of gold they were wearing, but they soon became severely deprived of bread and water.
My brother, 18 months old at the time, was mostly cared for by my grandfather. My mother was often too weak or distressed to attend to my brother's cries in the night. The sacrifices they made were extraordinary. My grandfather begged fellow passengers for water, offering the last of the family's gold in exchange, just to keep my brother alive. It was the ultimate sacrifice and it's sad that our generation will never know just how much.
During the escape, the boat was ransacked by pirates twice. Each time, gold was ripped from people's necks and girls raped.
I tenderly ask my mother if she was spared - and thankfully, she was. But I notice a long silence ensuing as my mother spaces into a dark corner of my room, recalling this horrific moment with such sad brilliance.
I try to perk her up by asking her what happened once they arrived in Indonesia. They were detained in an asylum centre for nine months until one day the Australian government, at the time, allowed my family to migrate to Perth. Some of the refugees opted for Canada or the United States, but my family were Australia-bound. To this day, my father votes Liberal election after election in tribute to their generosity and hospitality during this fateful year of 1980.
Their elation was indescribable. They were finally getting out of there. A new life awaited them and it was theirs for the taking. Australia was brimming with opportunities and offered them spacious land, an abundance of resources and, most importantly, democracy and freedom.
A telling reminder of how much freedom was stripped from my father in Vietnam is the fact that his right foot only has three toes. He deliberately sawed off his big toe and the toe next to it in an attempt to be declared medically unfit for war. When I was younger, I remember thinking to myself that perhaps a shark bit those toes off. In hindsight, I didn't understand the incomprehensible sacrifices pertaining to this act of courage. All I can conclude now is that my father is stronger and wiser than I will ever know.
So when the time came, my family were promptly transferred to Graylands Hostel - many years before it was branded a mental institution - and for 18 months, they took English classes, drank Coca Cola for the very first time and ate all sorts of strange things like pizza and mashed potato.
For the next 30 years, my family would build a life based on honesty, traditional values and unconditional love. I was never short of cousins to play with on the weekends and my grandmother treated us to McDonalds and Chicken Treat whenever we asked for it. Chinese New Year would be spent counting how many ang baos (red packets) we received from my aunties and uncles, and I used to watch with great interest the intricacies of making steamed pork buns and wontons in my grandparents' kitchen. I climbed apple trees in the backyard and swung off the branches, however my brother says I spent most of my time writing, reading, and drawing in a little corner I called my own.
My parents have been overseas less times than they could count on one calloused hand, simply to afford our private school fees and perhaps one day have the luxury to drive a BMW. Owning a BMW was the pinnacle of success for every Vietnamese family. These days, as I get off the bus at the end of each day and trudge back home, I see the brand new house my parents built with their brutally honest money. My parents will leave two legacies in this world: their children and their property. Nothing else defines them, and nothing else will give them a greater sense of achievement.
My parents taught me how to be humble and down to earth. My parents never flaunt their wealth, or what little they have of it. The money they make is good and it's honest and they have passed down their incredibly devoted work ethic to me. My sister is halfway through a nursing degree and my brother, now a teacher, spend the better part of six years writing front page stories for The West Australian. He was one of the very few Asian journalists in Perth - pretty amazing stuff coming from a refugee. My siblings and I didn't become doctors or lawyers but we have carved our own unique destiny driven by the integrity we inherited from our parents.
It was hardly a conventional upbringing though. I have never received a birthday present from my parents. My parents have never told me that they love me. My mother has never wished me luck for an exam. My father doesn't say hello to me when I get home from work each day. We don't have dinner together as a family anymore. Sometimes I am too scared to speak to my father in case I am to come under his short-tempered wrath.
And nothing is ever spoken of the drunken beatings my mother would receive from my father before I was born. All I know is that my brother, five years old at the time, would hide each time he heard my father come home with an unmistakable intoxicated swagger, and then have his legs yanked from underneath the bed and be beaten black and blue. In addition to his chain-smoking and alcoholism, my grandparents have never forgiven my father for this. My little sister and I were spared of the domestic violence and since then, my father has mellowed with each year he turns.
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