Small Bamboo

by Tracy Vo

  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.

  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.