The Happiest Refugee: A Memoir

Anh Do nearly didn't make it to Australia. His entire family came close to losing their lives on the sea as they escaped from war-torn Vietnam in an overcrowded boat. But nothing -- not murderous pirates, nor the imminent threat of death by hunger, disease or dehydration as they drifted for days -- could quench their desire to make a better life in the country they had dreamed about.Life in Australia was hard, an endless succession of back-breaking work, crowded rooms, ruthless landlords and make-do everything. But there was a loving extended family, and always friends and play and something to laugh about for Anh, his brother Khoa and their sister Tram. Things got harder when their father left home when Anh was thirteen -- they felt his loss very deeply and their mother struggled to support the family on her own. His mother's sacrifice was an inspiration to Anh and he worked hard during his teenage years to help her make ends meet, also managing to graduate high school and then university. Another inspiration was the comedian Anh met when he was about to sign on for a 60-hour a week corporate job. Anh asked how many hours he worked. 'Four,' the answer came back, and that was it. He was going to be a comedian! The Happiest Refugee tells the incredible, uplifting and inspiring life story of one of our favourite personalities. Tragedy, humour, heartache and unswerving determination -- a big life with big dreams. Anh's story will move and amuse all who read it.

Praise for The Happiest Refugee

‘This really is a page-turner of laughter and tears.’

The Courier-Mail

‘Funny and moving, it tells the story of our times.’

The Age

‘Had me up all night reading … it is a ripper.’

Leon Compton, ABC Radio

‘The work of a truly gifted storyteller and one of the most enjoyable books I’ve read this year.’

Alex Miller, Miles Franklin Award winner

‘I laughed, I cried … such an inspiring book.’

David Koch,
Sunrise

‘Anh’s story is truly remarkable.’

Melissa Doyle,
Sunrise

‘The way Do approaches his story is witty, charming and heartwarming… just when you think you’re about to die from laughter, he wrenches your heartstrings so hard that within an instant you’re on the brink of crying.’

Bookseller+Publisher

‘It’s like a Vietnamese
Angela’s Ashes
.’

Simon Beaumont, 6PR Radio

‘A truly lovely memoir … great pathos and humour, and a straight-talking style.’

The Daily Telegraph

‘The most surprising and inspiring read I have had in years.’

Russell Crowe

Some names have been changed to protect people’s privacy. The author holds copyright to all photographs, unless otherwise stated.

This edition published in 2011

First published in 2010

Copyright © Anh Do 2010, 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian
Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

Sydney, Melbourne, Auckland, London

83 Alexander Street

Crows Nest NSW 2065

Australia

Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218

Email: [email protected]

Web:
www.allenandunwin.com

Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia www.trove.nla.gov.au

ISBN 978 1 74237 930 2

Internal design by Brittany Britten

Set in 12/16 pt Bembo by
Midland Typesetters
, Australia

For my mother and father.

And for Suzanne, my wife, my love.

I’m flying down the Hume Highway at 130 kilometres an hour. I’ve lost control a few times but the
brrrrrr
of those white guide things on the side of the road keeps me on track. A steering wheel wet from tears is a very slippery object. I am sobbing uncontrollably.

Will he even recognise me?
If he doesn’t, I’m going to just turn around and walk the other way.

I haven’t seen my father in nine years. Since I was thirteen in fact. I watched him walk out the door one night and haven’t seen or heard from him since, except for one strange phone call late at night on my eighteenth birthday. He was drunk and I hung up. I hated him when he was drunk… I feared him even.

Now, here I am at the age of twenty-two rushing headlong to see him. I’m quite a lot taller than when he left. And, more importantly, stronger. I can take him now… easy. I’m torn between fantasies of a happy reunion with this guy and beating him up.

I’m considering the different ways I could headbutt the little Vietnamese prick. As soon as he opens the door—
Bang!
Try and get him before he has a chance to do anything. Blood would pour from his nose and he’d be sorry. I’d make him pay for everything. For pissing off. For forcing Mum to look after three kids on an illiterate Vietnamese migrant’s wages of less than ten bucks an hour. But I also miss him dearly.

I remember him as funny and charming, and he taught me that I could do anything. He used to tell me, ‘If you find the right woman, don’t muck around and waste any time. Marry her. You’ll be happy for the rest of your life. Just look at me and your mum.’

That’s what he taught me. What a hypocrite.

I turn into his street and the first thing I notice is the excessive amount of graffiti in the area. It’s housing commission, and the lower-end kind. Broken fences, kids running around who need a bath and front yards that haven’t been mowed in a year.

I look down at the address scribbled on the back of a shop-a-docket. Number four slash fifty-two. I get out of my car and look back at my hub caps, wondering if I’m going to see them again. In front of me is a dirty looking unit that is falling apart. I check that my eyes are dry and take one enormous sniff to clear my nostrils, immediately gagging at the stench of cat piss. As I knock tentatively I can hear a baby screaming.

The grey door opens and there’s a woman. She looks about twenty-five. A part of me thinks that maybe I’ve got the wrong place, but a part of me knows she probably has something to do with him. She looks me up and down nervously.

‘Tam!’ she calls out. Then he appears.

My father. Just as I remember him. Almost exactly the same. Skinny little face, slightly wonky teeth and those dark eyes that can make you know you’re loved and make you shit yourself at the same time.

He grabs my neck. ‘Anh! Son!’ He is beaming a huge smile.

‘Son!’

He starts to slap me round the head. ‘Look how big you are! Look how tall you are!’ He laughs hysterically. ‘My god, he’s huge,’ he squeaks to the woman.

He grabs the back of my head and pulls me inside.

A million things are going on in my mind.
Is this baby his kid? Who the hell’s this woman? What a shitty place. Something stinks. Aren’t I supposed to headbutt this guy?

‘You hungry?’ he says.

You hungry?
He always used to say that. He’d pick me up from school and the first thing he’d ask is, ‘You hungry?’ He’d stop the car and we’d buy a kebab on the way home. A wave of familiarity and comfort hits me like a punch in the face.

‘Go fetch a beer,’ he says to the woman. ‘And some food.’

‘I’m all right,’ I mutter.

‘You’re huge!’ he screams. He reaches across the plastic table and slaps me on the face. Just toyingly, but hard. He always used to slap me on the face out of affection, but always too hard.

She comes back with two beers. It’s 9.30 in the morning.

Bugger it
,
I need a bloody beer.

So we start drinking and he’s acting like nothing ever happened. He’s acting like I’ve been away for a jolly backpacking year overseas and have just arrived home.

I put on a façade of conversation, even intermittently laughing and feigning enjoyment. Or am I feigning? I’m not sure. What I do know is that I am wrestling inside with confusion and seething with anger and hatred and violence.

I also notice that something is not a hundred per cent. My father’s bravado is there, and he is smiling and laughing and as loud as ever, but something is not quite right. His speech is slightly off. Every now and then he pauses a little too long. It’s not long before I learn that my father has a tumour in his head.

Just perfect. Just what I need. A baby half-brother, a stepmum who’s around my age and a self-destructive dickhead of an ex-dad who might die soon. This is too much to deal with, and I figure I’ll visit just this once and then let the whole thing go, like a bad dream that never happened.

I ask Dad, ‘So, what’s the kid’s name?’

‘His name is Anh. I named him after you.’