Small Bamboo (21 page)

A year after that Vo family reunion, my grandfather passed away. It was as if seeing all his sons and daughters, all twelve of them, together one last time, had completed his journey in life.

My Uncle Seven recalled the final conversation he had with his father when he visited Melbourne:

At the final moment of the visit, he said to me in French, ‘I am very happy and very satisfied after ten days talking with you.’ Then after a short pause he continued. ‘Tuan, this is the most significant ten days of my life. I want to ask you only one thing.’ Another pause and he continued, ‘If suddenly I leave this world, you don’t have to come far away from Montreal to Melbourne for my funeral. You have to work and you have to take care of your family. The last ten days I spent with you, talking with you about so many things, are so precious to me. It’s more than enough for me. It is a waste of time for you to come here, simply because we can’t see each other, we can’t talk to each other. Please, it is the first time I ask you to obey me.’ Then he held my hand and said, ‘Au revoir, Tuan.’

Tracy, I have learned so many good things from my father. He was a clairvoyant, his sagacity, his thoughtfulness, his responsibility, his unselfishness and his humbleness. What I liked in all of that is he has his own good way to make me do a lot of thinking, leading to the discovery of the depth of valuable spiritual thoughts.

Dad, you not only brought me into this world, but you also made my life. Thank you, Dad. Thank you very much, OUR FATHER.

My grandfather lived to ninety-one. His life was rich in adventure, ups and downs, challenges and triumphs but, most of all, love. At the funeral, I got to hold my grandfather’s hand one last time.

My grandmother spoke to her husband before his casket was closed. She said, ‘
Cac con cac chau ve day du. Thoi ong an tam ma di.
All your children and grandchildren are here with you now. Now go with ease and in peace.’

Three years later my grandmother also passed away. She had been diagnosed with diabetes at eighty-two and found it difficult to manage. She was also ninety-one, the same age as my grandfather, when she died. She is buried next to her husband in Melbourne.

I was also fortunate to spend time with my maternal grandparents. They had struggled for over a decade in Vietnam. Money was very tight for them. In 1990, Mum and Dad sponsored my mother’s parents and her sister and brother to come to Perth, where they lived with us for about six months but it felt like years because I learnt so much. I would greet my mum’s parents every day with
‘Thua Ba Ngoai. Thua Ong Ngoai’
;
Ngoai
was the appropriate salutation for the maternal side. It was special having all this culture in my own home. My Vietnamese was better during those months because I spent so much time with my grandparents. I remember walking with my grandma to the shopping centre, where she would buy me hot chips. She was always smiling and giggling, just like my Mum. I know where I get my laugh from.

My grandfather was quite the handyman. He could fix anything and would make things from all kinds of scrap material, something he always did in Cambodia and Vietnam. One of my most precious memories of Grandpa is sitting with him in a hammock that he had made in our backyard. We would swing back and forth together for hours while he read the Vietnamese newspaper and I sang, played with dolls or fell asleep next to him.

My mum’s parents died when I was in my early twenties. Grandma had been in a wheelchair for ten years, after suffering a stroke. She died in 2007, aged eighty. Grandpa decided to take her body back to Vietnam, where she was cremated and her ashes held in a Buddhist temple. Grandpa didn’t come back to Australia. He didn’t want to leave his wife. I didn’t get to see my grandmother before she passed away because I was living interstate at the time. It wasn’t until 2008, during a family holiday to Vietnam, that I was able to pay my respects to Grandma and say goodbye. By that stage, Grandpa was terribly ill after suffering two strokes. He was cared for by Mum’s two sisters, who still live in Ho Chi Minh City. He was so frail I almost didn’t recognise him.

Mum was strong. She is always strong. I wasn’t, and I started to cry. Mum turned to me. ‘Maybe you should say goodbye now. He won’t last long.’

And he didn’t. Three days after we arrived back home from our holiday, Grandpa died. He was only seventy-six. His ashes are right beside Grandma’s, in a Buddhist temple in Ho Chi Minh City. I don’t want to remember them being sick; I prefer to think about my happy grandma and the walks we had, and my grandfather for his loud voice and those times we spent together, swinging in a hammock in the sun.

The family holiday to Vietnam was a significant trip for us. It was not only a chance to pay our respects to Grandma and see Grandpa for the last time, it was also our first trip to Vietnam as a family. And it was my brother’s first visit to Vietnam. My mum had taken me when I was nine years old.

At that age I regarded it as a wasted holiday, really; I didn’t appreciate it as much as I did when I was older. But I do remember the conditions my aunties were forced to live in at the time of my first visit. Mum’s eldest sister and her family lived in this shoebox of a place, about 4 metres by 2 metres, behind some kind of kiosk. There was hardly enough room for all of us to fit. The kitchen was also their lounge room, dining room and bedroom. There was a small space for a tiny elevated bed that could accommodate only one person. It was all quite overwhelming for me, and I felt sorry for my aunties and their family. But they never complained; in fact they were always smiling and happy.

But on my second trip to Vietnam I knew what to expect and I embraced my parents’ home country. We lived like locals and didn’t do any of the touristy things. Our main priority was to spend time with my mum’s sisters and their children. One of my cousins was an aspiring fashion designer and Mum would always comment on how we were both twenty-five years old but led such different lives. For my cousin studying was difficult because his life was about survival; he needed to work, but even that paid very little. I felt a bit guilty that my life was so much easier than his. My two aunts who still live there never had the opportunity to leave. That trip to Vietnam was an insight into how my life could have turned out if my parents hadn’t escaped; it made me appreciate what I had.

14
UGLY SKIN

A few years after moving into their home in the 1980s, my parents couldn’t believe how lucky they were. Their life in Australia was blossoming and the focus had shifted to their children. They had so many hopes and dreams for us, but also many fears. One fear was racism. It was a little tough for my parents to comprehend that their children could become victims of prejudice. They hadn’t experienced any when they first arrived in Australia and have never really copped any grief since. They say they’re quite lucky because they were protected by their friends. I, on the other hand, would experience racism from a very young age.

I was only six years old, in my first year of primary school, when I was told I was different. Starting school is always tough—you’re trying to find new friends and fit in. Also, I didn’t speak any English until I attended kindergarten, as we only spoke Vietnamese at home, and I was a little behind the other kids. My brother and I attended a Catholic primary school, Our Lady of Lourdes, in the suburb of Nollamara. This was another hurdle because my family is Buddhist, which meant we were excluded from certain religious classes. I remember feeling a little strange that I wasn’t allowed to attend those classes. Instead I was left alone in another classroom with an Anglican girl to work on school assignments.

Trying to make friends in primary school was extremely difficult. I don’t have the fondest memories of those years. I was studious and well behaved in class but I was branded as different and bullied quite a bit. And the teachers liked me, which didn’t help. Other students teased me for being teacher’s pet. I felt out of place. I was a misfit. I was shy. I had no confidence whatsoever and I really did feel ugly. It’s one thing to feel like that but it’s another entirely when someone calls you ugly. Whatever miniscule amount of self-esteem you may have is completely shot.

During one lunch break in that first year at school I was playing on the oval with a group of other girls. I thought I had finally made friends, and I was enjoying my peanut butter sandwich. For some reason the others started talking about the colour of our skins. I can’t remember how or why. I didn’t say anything because it just didn’t occur to me that I was any different.

But then one girl singled me out. ‘Look at Tracy’s skin. You’re not like us at all. You’re so dark!’

All the girls just pointed and laughed at me. And if that wasn’t enough, she had one more dig: ‘You have ugly skin!’

The girls shrieked with laughter. I was crushed.

I didn’t understand the situation. It seemed bizarre to me. The girl judging me was from Argentina; she had beautiful olive skin
and
it was darker than my complexion. Maybe it was because I was the only Asian girl in the group and my features were different. I guess I was just the odd one out. I was so embarrassed. I didn’t know what to say, so I just burst into tears and ran away. The girls stopped laughing. I bolted into a toilet cubicle and shut the door. I was sobbing and struggling to breathe.

The school’s Grade 2 teacher must have seen me running and crying and came after me. She had taught my brother so she knew who I was.

‘Tracy, sweetheart. Open the door,’ the teacher said. ‘Talk to me.’

Her voice was soft and warm. I opened the door.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

I was crying uncontrollably and couldn’t properly explain. The teacher wiped away my tears and tried to calm me down. ‘Come on. Let’s go to my classroom and we can talk.’

She walked with me to her room and sat down with me. ‘Now tell me what happened,’ she said.

‘Miss, that girl said I had ugly skin. She said it was dark and that I wasn’t like everyone else. Miss, am I really different?’

The teacher looked like she wanted to cry for me.

The group of girls followed us to the classroom to see what was wrong with me. I don’t think they realised the impact of that one comment.

The teacher was furious. ‘Get out of here, you horrible little girl!’ she said to the one who’d made the comment about my ugly skin.

There was a deafening silence. I’m not sure why the teacher was so fired up, and she probably shouldn’t have said that to a child, but I felt protected. The other girl just stood there. The teacher quickly calmed down.

‘Just wait outside and I will come out to talk to you in a moment,’ she said to the girls. Then she turned back to me. ‘Tracy, ignore everything those girls said to you. You don’t have ugly skin. You are a beautiful girl. Never let the nasty things that people say upset you.’

She looked at me with a sincere and sympathetic expression in her eyes then walked out and spoke quietly to the other girl. I watched them through the window. Meanwhile the other girls came back into the classroom and started apologising to me.

‘Tracy, we’re sorry.’

‘We didn’t want to upset you.’

‘She didn’t know what she was saying and we don’t know why we laughed at you.’

I just sat there. I didn’t know how to respond. We were only six years old, after all.

Eventually the girl who’d said I had ugly skin came into the classroom and apologised too.

That incident affected me. I went home that day and tried to scrub my arms to see if I could make them lighter. It was so ridiculous—I thought I could rub the colour off my skin! I continued to do this for a few more days until I realised nothing was going to change my skin colour.

I didn’t tell my parents about my ordeal at school. I didn’t want to worry or burden them. I guess the teacher had talked some sense into the girl because a couple of weeks later she came up to me in the playground and put her arm next to mine.

‘Hi, Tracy. We’re exactly the same.’ She smiled at me.