Small Bamboo (20 page)

As soon as we arrived at a gathering, we youngsters had to greet all the elders properly, by folding our arms and bowing to them as we said, ‘
Thua Bac
’.
Thua
, a word denoting respect, is used before the person’s title, which in some cases is
Bac
. For example, I call all of my uncles who are older than Dad
Bac
to acknowledge that they are the older siblings. The Vietnamese language can be quite confusing at times and I still have to think twice before greeting a person I’ve just met.

At these Vietnamese gatherings, the men sit either at one end of the table or in a completely different area. Here, it’s all men’s business, called
Nhau
, which means eat, drink and talk. And that’s what the men would do for hours and hours. Most of the time, they would drink beer, although Dad’s drink of choice is cognac. The Vo men are all cognac drinkers. They’d accompany the beer and chatter with snacks such as jellyfish or Vietnamese poached chicken, a type of coleslaw dressed with diluted fish sauce, dried shrimp, beef jerky and pickles. When dinner was finally served, there would be dishes and dishes of goodness on the dining tables, such as lemon- and basil-cured beef salads;
banh xue
, Vietnamese pancakes filled with mince, bean sprouts, mung beans and herbs;
bun bo hue
, a spicy beef noodle soup; or
pho
, Vietnam’s famous rice noodle soup.

The easiest dish to make for big groups is
lau
, or steamboat, which can be made with different kinds of stock. Mum likes to make a satay-based stock, but one of my favourites is a vinegar-based stock called
bo nhung giam
. We would cook plates of raw beef, chicken or seafood and vegetables in the steamboat and accompany it with rice or noodles. Some of my friends who recently experienced
lau
described it as ‘interactive eating’.

Food is a huge part of Vietnamese culture. For a one-year-old’s birthday, it is a tradition for families to buy whole suckling pigs to celebrate. My brother and I each had one, although we were too young to eat any of the delicious meat. The eating sessions last for hours. It is typical to sit through several rounds of dishes, with the length of the meal depending on how much food you’re able to fit into your stomach. But even if there are a dozen rounds, there’s always a week’s worth of food left over.

When I was a child these feasts were a normal Saturday night for us. If we didn’t go over to a friend’s house for dinner, Trevor and I would think it was quite odd, and we’d nag Mum and Dad about why we weren’t heading out.

As we got older we would do more things with the adults. I loved playing Vietnamese bingo. It was fun, probably because I usually went home with winnings! There were other board games too, such as
Bau
,
Cua
,
Ca
,
Cop
, or Squash, Crab, Fish, Tiger, a Vietnamese game that features a mat with six pictures—a fish, a prawn, a crab, a rooster, a squash or bottle gourd, and a stag. There are three dice with the same pictures, one on each side of the cube, and you bet money on which picture will show up on each die. First we shake the dice in a bowl, then reveal them. If one die shows your picture, you double your winnings. If all three dice come up, you triple it. It’s a loud game. I can still hear the clanging of the dice in the bowl and the constant yelling of ‘Crab!’ ‘Rooster!’ ‘Fish!’. I remember laughing until my stomach was sore and tears streamed down my face.

In the background there’d always be Vietnamese music blaring from the stereo; sometimes it was music video clips played over and over again, or karaoke, or Vietnamese opera, called
Cai Luong
. This is an acquired taste, and quite depressing to listen to; the words are sad and the melodies have sombre tones. It’s certainly not my kind of music but the oldies love it! The operas are usually a love story set during wartime, with a man and woman singing to each other, longing to be together, but separated by war. I guess that’s why my parents’ generation loved them—they could relate to these songs and the story line. Some stories were so poignant that people would start crying as they watched them.

Tet, the Vietnamese name for Chinese New Year, was always a huge celebration for us, a time when the youngsters were allowed to stay up late and—here’s the best part—be given lots of money. It is the biggest celebration for our culture. Trevor and I would become so excited. We wanted to visit all of Mum and Dad’s Vietnamese friends so we could get
Li Xi
, the red envelopes containing money. Red means luck, so everything is red during Chinese New Year. We’d run into their homes yelling ‘
Chuc Mung Nam Moi!
’, or ‘Happy New Year!’, grab our red envelopes and scurry off to the next family. One year, when I was eight years old, I remember collecting about $800. It was the best day.

Then, late at night, Dad would take us to a Buddhist temple to watch the lion dancing, which we call
Mua Lan
. Trevor and I loved it all—the drums, the bells, the symbols, the colours, the costumes and the acrobatics. We’d watch in silence as the lion showed off its skills and tried to pluck vegetables, mainly lettuce, hung from the ceiling or tied to a large elevated stick. The harder the challenge, the bigger the reward, which, of course, came in the form of a red envelope with lots of cash. Fire crackers, always exciting, were used to fend off evil spirits and also bring in a new and joyful year. They were so loud that you never wanted to get too close. We’d then go home, where Mum would have set up a table in the front yard to make offerings to the gods and Buddha. I remember seeing a lot of watermelons during Chinese New Year; most offerings were made with watermelons because they are red inside.

What I loved most about these family gatherings and celebrations was how much I learned about my heritage, and that we were able to bring our culture right into our backyards. I was born in Perth and lived in an all-white neighbourhood. It would have been quite an experience for Australians to see a home packed full of Vietnamese people, cooking in their backyards, all speaking their language (the only hint of English was from the children), with Vietnamese music playing in the background. These family occasions were really important to me and I feel lucky to have had those experiences and plenty of happy memories from them.

As we were the only members of our family in Perth, our friends became our adopted family. One family I grew extremely close to is ‘The Other Vos’. I’ve been friends with the three sisters—Diem, Trang and Trinh—since I was a toddler. I call their parents Aunty and Uncle, or
Bac Chanh
. We had an instant connection and growing up with them was a very special time for me. We seemed to understand each other. Whether it was to do with school, friends, boys or parents, we were always on the same wavelength. In particular Trinh, the youngest, has played a big role in my life. She’s always been by my side; she can always make me laugh and pick me up when I’m feeling sad. Today I still call the other Vo girls my cousins because in my heart they are family.

My family were lucky compared to many other Vietnamese refugees; most of my father’s relations got out of the country safely. In 1984 Mum and Dad sponsored his parents to Australia. It was a long process: it had taken three years for their application to be approved. They had to give the immigration department a reason for the sponsorship. Dad wrote that his parents were getting old and he wanted to reunite the family. My grandparents, in their mid-seventies by the time they arrived in Perth, stayed with us for a few months. I don’t remember much as I was only a year old, but I remember being held by my grandfather a lot. I felt very safe in his arms. They then moved to Melbourne a short time later to join their sons and daughters who were living there, as it was easier for them to live where they had more support. It was great having my grandparents in Australia. I came to appreciate what my dad and my aunties and uncles saw in their parents.

By 1998, all of Dad’s brothers and sisters had left Vietnam. The Vo family had scattered across the world, from the United States and Canada to Melbourne and Perth. But Melbourne seemed to be the main hub—because my grandparents and most of their children lived there, all the other siblings would flock from across the world to see them.

Our family would visit Melbourne almost every year. Spending time with my grandparents, aunties, uncles and cousins was really special. It was important for my parents to see their brothers and sisters as much as possible. When they reunited, they would talk about old times, but also about their futures. They would be surprised at how quickly their children were growing up. My aunties and uncles were always ecstatic to see Trevor and me, and would comment on how we had changed since the previous holiday. They made us feel special.

Our trips to Melbourne were never long enough. We would have the same large family gatherings, with lots of food and drink, at Aunt Five’s house. All the men would sit at the main dining table, swirling their cognacs and catching up. When my uncles visited from the United States and Canada, we made sure we were in Melbourne to see them. I loved having so many relatives from different parts of the world.

Most of all, we cherished every moment we had with my grandparents, who were in their mid-eighties by then. I would greet them with the utmost respect, folding my arms and bowing, saying, ‘
Thua Ba Noi. Thua Ong Noi.
’
Noi
is the word used for paternal grandparents.

One special moment for me was at a party at Uncle Tinh’s house, where my grandparents were living at the time. They were sitting in the backyard in their wheelchairs, watching everyone talk and laugh with one another. My Uncle Four had travelled from America for a holiday. Suddenly he started singing the classic Cuban song ‘Guantanamera’ to my grandparents. Then his younger brothers—Uncle Tinh, Uncle Ut and my father—joined in. The Vo men have great voices, and when they feel like it they’ll just burst into song. Uncle Four hadn’t seen his parents for a while so he just wanted to sing for them. They didn’t have a guitar, so Uncle Tinh improvised and played the spoons. Eventually my aunties and Mum joined in. It was such a touching moment. I remember my grandfather’s face, so happy. His children and grandchildren were gathered together and having a great time. There was a lot of love in that backyard.

I don’t think my grandfather had ever imagined his descendants’ lives would turn out the way they did. All of his children had landed on their feet. They were all working, had their own homes and most had children. They were living comfortable, free lives—unlike in Vietnam where it would have been more restricted. He couldn’t have asked for anything more. I was still quite young, but I knew how deeply moved my grandparents were at that moment.

I remember my grandfather as a wonderful man. He was always so calm, with such a sincere and soft face. He was also a wise and humble man, and I was never scared of him.

On the other hand, I was terrified of my grandmother. She always had something to say. I remember staying with them some nights and how my grandma would be yacking away about a
Cai Luong
story, while my grandpa just sat there, listening to her in silence. She would never yell, but she was very opinionated and said things without thinking about the consequences. She always, without fail, commented on my appearance and weight. I was either too skinny, or getting a bit chubby, and oh, I was getting too skinny again. One day we were heading out somewhere and I bent down to put on my shoes in front of Grandma. A bad move.

‘Oh no, Truc, your bum is getting bigger!’ my grandmother said.

All I could do was laugh. ‘Thanks, Grandma.’

She did make me laugh. I didn’t mind her comments. It was just Grandma and that was the way she was.

One of the last times I saw my grandparents was in the year 2000, at the Vo family reunion. For the first time since the Vietnam War ended in 1975, the whole family was together again. It was a significant day, one none of us will ever forget. I was seventeen and meeting some of my uncles, aunts and cousins for the first time.

One of the first things Uncle Seven said to his nephews and nieces, in that heavy Canadian accent, was: ‘You know, we got a lot to talk about!’ It was his catchphrase for the trip. My cousin Rob would impersonate Uncle Seven, which we all found hilarious.

That day I really appreciated my big, crazy family and learned a lot about their history. It is such a rich history, one I didn’t appreciate when I was younger. I had great chats with my uncles, who captivated me with their stories of Vietnam and their experiences during the Vietnam War.

I loved listening to Uncle Three speak; I could listen to him for hours! As I mentioned earlier, he is the Godfather of the family, and I remember saying to my mum, ‘I love Uncle Three so much. I think he’s my favourite.’ I didn’t want to choose a favourite but I felt especially at ease with him and his wife.

Uncle Three has suffered a lot of heartache. His first wife died of breast cancer and his second of a heart attack. I never knew those aunties. His third wife is one of the loveliest and classiest ladies I know. She is always so warm towards me. I feel very spoilt to have so many people I love, love me back. There are still some cousins I haven’t made contact with. It’s quite bizarre having such a huge family spread across the world. Even though we’re connected by blood, some of us are still strangers.