The Happiest Refugee: A Memoir (14 page)

We didn’t see my dad for about six months and then one day my mother announced, ‘I have just heard that your dad is back in the country. I have told him I don’t want to see him again. I can’t have him being violent towards you kids.’

I didn’t say anything. The penny dropped. I understood. Instinctively, I steeled myself to protect Mum and my siblings from my father’s potential response to this act of rejection. I found myself lying awake in bed at night, thinking about how I would defend my family.

If he lays a finger on Mum, I will kill him
, I said to myself. I took the largest kitchen knife I could find and stuck it under my bed. I was thirteen and at least as heavy as my dad, if not as tall. I figured I might stand a chance if I had a weapon.

It’s hard to describe how strange it feels when you cross that line. When you break through having a fear of your father and decide that you’re ready and willing to hurt him. Fear and adrenaline mix like a bubbling poison that eventually explodes and you find yourself scarred and distorted, and you can never go back. You lose respect for him, for authority in general. Then all the things that he represents, all the principles, start to crumble and you ultimately lose respect for yourself.

One night my mum came into my bedroom. The terror on her face was obvious—she was as pale as a sheet and had been crying.

‘Your father’s coming.’

I locked up my little brother and sister in the toilet and answered the door. A drunken man stood in front of me.

‘Where’s your mum?’

‘Inside.’

‘Get her out here.’

‘No.’
No, you stupid fool. You no longer have the right to order anyone around. And if you try and force your way in, I will kill you.

My mum came running out.

‘What do you want?’ she asked him through tears. She pushed me back and even through her palpable terror she put herself in a position to defend me. I went back inside to get my knife.

I returned to the door and my father was sobbing. I was shocked. I had never seen him like this before. Ever. He turned and walked away, and I didn’t see him again for the rest of my childhood.

St Aloysius was a great school. But what caused a lot of discomfort for Khoa and me was the socio-economic mismatch of private school expenses versus our single mum’s wages. We were on half scholarships, which helped, but even with fifty per cent off the fees, it was a massive struggle.

Mum found it difficult to buy a jacket that fitted Khoa, who was a big and overweight kid at sixty kilograms when we first started at the school. He was short and stumpy, so a jacket that fitted his shoulders and back would have sleeves that were way too long. As alterations were expensive, Mum worked out a cheap solution: she simply lopped off the ten centimetres of excess sleeve.

During the six years I spent at St Aloysius I never quite had the right fitting uniform either. In Year 7 Mum bought me a jacket that was a little bit bigger to make sure it would last as long as possible. It lasted me till Year 9. By Year 10 the jacket was too small. Khoa’s old jacket fitted me perfectly around the body, but the sleeves only went halfway down my forearms! As Mum had thrown out the original material three years earlier she searched high and low at every fabric shop from Marrickville to Bankstown, but just couldn’t find a match for the grey of the jacket. So she bought the closest grey possible and used it to lengthen my sleeves. I walked around with a jacket that was one colour of grey down to just past the elbow, and then a totally different shade of grey to the cuffs. Being a boy’s school I don’t think the other kids ever noticed, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t paranoid about it.

These are photos Grandma brought over to Australia when she arrived
years after our boat trip.

In this photo I am two years old. It’s just a few months before our boat trip. (L to r) Dad, Auntie Ten, me, Khoa, Mum.

Mum and Dad at their wedding ceremony. The local kids made sure they got into the photo. One of them managed to only get his foot in (lower left).

Mum and Dad at their wedding reception. The family all chipped in so they could enjoy a happy wedding banquet, albeit in a modest restaurant.

A Vietnamese refugee boat being towed, courtesy of the UN. Our boat was crowded much like this one. (UNHCR/K. Gaugler)

Shortly after we arrived in Australia. The clothes we are wearing were given to us by St Vincent de Paul nuns. The little one in the white dress is my brother Khoa. Back Row (l to r): Uncle Thanh, Auntie Huong, Mum, Dad, Uncle Dai, Uncle Khanh, Uncle Dung. Front row: Khoa, me.

Khoa and me. When the nuns gave us clothes, the only apparel that would fit Khoa were girls’ clothes. Hahahahaha.

Khoa (left) eventually turned back into a boy.

Tram’s christening outside St Brigid’s Church, Marrickville. Uncle Two (far right) is the one with the missing finger and Uncle Eight (second from right) is the one who swallowed the jewellery.