Small Bamboo

by Tracy Vo

  One day I was sitting in my English class. The desks were formed into groups of four and I was sitting with three other girls whom I didn’t know well. That’s when I met Pia. This girl was so beautiful and all the boys loved her. At first, I was a little intimidated by her. I thought she would be a bit of a snob because she was very popular. But my assumption was quickly squashed. She turned out to be one of the most gorgeous people I’ve ever met.

  We chatted during class and it just rolled on from there. We quickly formed a strong bond. She started inviting me to parties, to go shopping or just hang out. It was so easy with Pia; she was so funny and made me laugh, and I felt happy when I was around her. We understood each other and had similar personalities, and before long we were inseparable. It was always ‘Pia and Trace’. I would stay at Pia’s house on weekends. I have plenty of lovely memories of her family’s home on Henry Street, Shenton Park, a place where I could be myself and have fun. Pia and her family had welcomed me with open arms and I was so grateful to them for making me feel at home. I must credit Pia for building up my confidence during my teenage years.

  That year I felt I finally belonged somewhere. But it would be the beginning of a tense relationship between me and my parents. We butted heads frequently! It was the year the two cultures clashed. By this stage, all my classmates were going to parties, drinking alcohol and dating boys. For Mum and Dad, that was not acceptable behaviour for their fourteen-year-old daughter. It was difficult trying to keep up with friends when you have parents who are constantly breathing down your neck and checking up on you. I would always be in a foul mood at home. I didn’t want to be there; I wanted to be out, having the freedom to do all the things the other kids did. I wanted my folks to be more carefree. Of course, they were worried that my studies would fall behind. My schoolwork was their main priority, and that was understandable. But I didn’t get it at the time.

  For about two years, I didn’t get along with Mum and Dad. We clashed over a lot of things. They didn’t like some of my friends and blamed them for my behaviour, though it was no fault of my friends. I was going to parties and telling my parents that I was staying at a friend’s house. Mum and Dad trusted what I was saying so they never checked exactly where I was going. I was smoking and drinking. It was difficult to lie to Mum and Dad but after a while I just didn’t care anymore. I was the rebel child.

  Until something happened that caused so much pain, shame and embarrassment that I was stopped in my tracks.

  In August 1997 I was part of the backstage team taking part in the Rock Eisteddfod dance competition, so I would stay back after school for rehearsals with my friends. One afternoon, during a break, some of the gang headed across to Karrakatta Cemetery for a cigarette. I followed them. About fifteen minutes later we were called back to school, but instead of running around a low fence, I followed some of the guys and tried to climb over it. I was in such a rush I wasn’t concentrating on what I was doing. I had one leg over the fence when I got my other leg caught in the chain mesh. I tripped and lost my footing, fell and smashed my face on a sharp rock. The pain was excruciating. I cradled my stinging, throbbing face in my hands, but I thought it would be just a bad bruise and some scrapes.

  My friends gathered around me but I only heard their voices, blurry but urgent.

  ‘Trace, what happened?’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Someone told me to look up and as soon as I did, their expressions said it all. This wasn’t good. I looked down at the blood all over my hands. I couldn’t believe it. Was that real blood? My blood? I shut my eyes tight, then opened them again. I could feel warm sticky liquid running down my face.

  My friends rushed me back to school, where the teachers tried to clean me up. Then a senior student who had a car drove me to Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital. By this time I was numb and in shock. But then all these thoughts started to run through my head. I was worried about explaining to my parents what I was doing at the cemetery. Then I thought about my face. I had sliced open the skin between my eyes and on my left cheek. I hadn’t seen the damage and didn’t know what I looked like. But I noticed that other people in the hospital, strangers, were looking at me then quickly turning away. So I knew my face must have looked horrible.

  My parents arrived at the hospital just as I was being transferred from the waiting room to a treatment bed. The look on my mum’s face when she saw mine was terrifying. It was only for a moment, though, and then she appeared so calm. She just stood next to my bed and held my hand.

  The doctor came in and worked quickly, assuring me that I’d be fine—they were clean cuts and they could stitch them up. But when he applied the antiseptic to my face and it soaked into the raw flesh, I screamed and cried from the pain. I think my mum cried at that point too. I squeezed her hand as hard as I could. I can still hear myself screaming and crying out for my mum.

  I ended up with eight stitches between my eyes and ten on my left cheek. The doctor said I was extremely lucky that I didn’t damage my eyes or crack my skull. I was so relieved I hadn’t worn my glasses that afternoon.

  The car ride home was silent. Mum and Dad didn’t ask why I was climbing a fence or why I was at the cemetery, and I didn’t tell them. I think they realised how awful I felt and didn’t want to make matters worse. At home I went straight to the bathroom and finally had a look in the mirror. The entire left side of my faced was puffed up and bruised. I was almost unrecognisable. It was surreal. And hideous. Mum helped me shower and get into bed. My parents looked at me so gently as they were switching off the light, I started to cry.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Dad asked.

  ‘I’m so ashamed by what happened,’ I sobbed. ‘I was being stupid. Now I’m so ugly and I deserve it.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Mum said. ‘Your face will heal and you’ll be as beautiful as ever. Don’t worry, con.’ Con means child.

  They turned off the light and left me to sleep. I had nightmares that night.

  I must say I believe someone from above was looking after me. My injuries could have been so much worse—as a teenager I was worried about how I looked (weren’t we all!) but I could easily have lost my eyesight. I was very lucky. I also healed quickly and after a couple of weeks my stitches were removed. The scars still looked pretty bad, but the plastic surgeon gave me some silicone sheets to place over them, explaining the silicone would flatten the scars and help them to fade. He also advised me to rub vitamin E cream into them. I didn’t think any of this was going to work. But after a couple of months, following his directions, the scarring improved significantly. You can still see it, but it’s not as noticeable.

  My parents were amazing during this time. I was anxious and becoming depressed, even more difficult to live with! But they remained calm and supportive, always encouraging me and telling me the scars would go away. I am still embarrassed when I tell this story—because I was such a silly teenager, so self-centred and foolish—but it was the kick up the bum I really needed. It was time for me to show my parents more respect.

  Our relationship was much better after the accident. There were still a couple of hurdles, but it was just the usual parent-versus-teenage-daughter stuff that all families have to deal with. I think as my parents met more and more of my school friends they felt more comfortable. They absolutely adored Pia. She was always friendly and happy, and gave my parents so much respect. My parents knew she was my dearest friend so they loved that I had her support. There were a lot of guys in the group so my parents had to get used to me having male friends. Even though my mother had plenty of male friends during her younger years in Vietnam, she was a little bit hypocritical when it came to my life. My mother explained that it was a different culture and she wasn’t sure how these boys would treat me. At first they were suspicious if I said I was going to have coffee with my mate Jeremy; it was quite funny trying to explain that he was just a friend, but eventually Mum and Dad could see that my male friends respected me.

  In
Year 10, I met my other closest girlfriend, Nichola, who had moved to Hollywood from another school. As a teenager Nichola was carefree, perky and always positive. We instantly became close. And there was another girlfriend of ours, Jen, who is as loyal as can be. So then there were four of us—Nichola, Jen, Pia and me—in a solid crew, and for the first time in my young life I felt I belonged.

  All of these friends helped me become the person I am today. Pia and Nichola remain my closest girlfriends, but I’m still in contact with most of the mates I made at Hollywood Senior High School. I am so grateful my parents didn’t listen to me when I begged them to move me to another school. We were the last class to graduate from Hollywood before it closed. The class of 2000. The final day was sad but I felt kind of special to be among the school’s last students.

  I treasure my high school journal where many of my friends have written their thoughts about me. Reading through it now still makes me smile. Here are some of my favourite comments:

  Pia: ‘You’ve been with me through the hard times and right by my side for the good times. YOU ARE MY GOOD TIMES! . . . Imagining you in times ahead is so easy for me because I feel I’ve never known someone like you. We are like two peas in a pod!’

  Nichola: ‘You always know how to have fun and you never sulk. Through bad times Trace you always come out the other side being cheery and glowing.’

  Jen: ‘You were the person who dragged me out of my downward spiral and lifted me up to see the sky. For that I am extremely grateful.’

  Jeremy: ‘School is finished but our friendship hasn’t and we’ll keep raging to our older years.’

  It’s ironic, I think, when I read back through some of the messages. I was at my lowest point when I entered high school and was trying to find people who would help me out of the darkness. As it turns out, they were also looking for the same thing and I was able to help them too—we’re so lucky we found each other. It’s been a while since we left high school, but I still love them today as I did back then. And as Jeremy predicted, we’re still raging in our thirties.

  16

  THE JOURNO

  I always wanted to be a flight attendant. I loved flying and I wanted to travel the world and see different places. I first went on a plane when I was two years old and then throughout my childhood my family travelled often. My parents took Trevor and me to Asia, including Hong Kong, Singapore and Vietnam. Of course, we took all those flights to Melbourne to visit the family as well. When the plane landed I didn’t want to get off. I wanted to be in the air all the time.

  By the time I reached high school that ambition had started to fade, but I didn’t know what else I wanted to do. I was determined, though, to work out what I was passionate about. Towards the end of Year 8, I wrote down a list of my subjects and started weighing up what I was good at. My grades were good in English, but I wasn’t doing well in mathematics and science. That at least ruled out the likes of medicine and commerce.

  Surprisingly, I enjoyed my drama classes. Not surprisingly, I hated the subject at first because I didn’t like being in front of an audience. But I pushed myself. I knew it would help me. My time in those drama classes, with the other students and a positive teacher, really gave me the confidence boost I needed. I became a much more outgoing person. For a little while there, I even toyed with the idea of becoming an actor and enrolled in an acting course based in West Perth. But I was never committed to it; the passion just wasn’t there.

  My parents’ love of television meant we watched a lot of it when I was younger. The nightly news was guaranteed. It was the era of Terry Willesee and Tina Altieri. Every Sunday night we tuned into 60 Minutes and watched Mike Munro and Richard Carleton. I was in awe of the journalists. They were sent into some dangerous situations but were still calm and composed as they reported the story.

  ‘Dad, I think I want to become a journalist,’ I announced on one of these Sunday evenings at the end of Year 8. ‘I watch the news and it really excites me. I want to do what they do.’

  My father was taken aback. He’d never thought one of his children might become a journalist. The profession had never crossed his mind. Many Asian parents in those days pushed for their child to become a doctor or pharmacist or accountant or lawyer. I know several of our family friends who have gone down that path, but they are a hell of a lot smarter than I am. I think my parents just assumed I would follow what they considered the ‘traditional’ careers. Of course, they were very supportive about my choice, though my dad did have some valid concerns. He realised it was a very difficult industry to get into, there weren’t a lot of jobs available, and I wouldn’t have many options if I didn’t make it. When I was in Year 10, he relayed his concerns to my English teacher during a parent–teacher meeting.

  ‘Tracy wants to become a journalist,’ he told her. ‘To be honest with you, I don’t know how she’ll go. I’m a little worried. What do you think?’

  ‘It would be a great career for her, Mr Vo,’ my teacher replied. She acknowledged that job opportunities would be limited, but she believed I would be prepared to work hard. ‘Her grades in English are very good and she has the right attitude. I think she’ll be okay.’

  That year, as part of the school curriculum, I got the opportunity to do three days of work experience at Channel Nine in Perth. It was daunting walking into the newsroom for the first time, but so exciting. I met all the journalists who hadn’t been sent out on the road yet. I sat at a desk and read the newspaper before I was eventually sent out with the court reporter; I can’t remember her name. I followed her and her cameraman for the day and it was busy. I didn’t realise how much time was spent in a car, driving from one location to the next. After a few hours in court, we were sent to a house fire and then the reporter had to pick up a couple of interviews for other journalists. I must admit I didn’t know what a journalist actually did every day. The reporter explained that journalists were always out on the road; sitting in the newsroom was rare unless you were producing the bulletin. One day was never the same as the next. You could be at a crime scene one day and interviewing a movie star the next. You had to be flexible too, she said, and be able to deal with all kinds of people. I thought, How exciting to have a different experience every day! There’s no other job like this!

  Day two at Channel Nine was a little quieter so I spent some time sitting beside the chief of staff. This is probably the toughest job in a newsroom. The person in this position is in charge of all the journalists, camera crews, producers and logistics. They’re the first people in the newsroom, the ones who set up the day. I watched the chief of staff work the phones, which rang nonstop. Then the sports presenter, Michael Thomson, was about to head out for an interview and the chief of staff asked him if I could tag along.

  Thommo was lovely and took time out to answer my questions and make sure I understood everything. But the highlight of the day was the interview he was doing—with Peter Matera, a West Coast Eagles player and highly regarded wingman. I was a huge Eagles supporter and I still am. I went home that day, starstruck and thinking, ‘What a cool day! This is what I want to do!’

  After my three days at Channel Nine, I had to do another two days of work experience elsewhere, so I chose a family friend’s travel agency. Here, I sat at a desk all day. There was a lot of paperwork and the time went by so slowly. I remember constantly looking at the clock. The three days at Channel Nine had felt like a few hours, while the two days at the travel agency felt like a week. It further cemented my decision that I wanted to be a journalist. No office job for me, thanks.

  Through my last two years in high school, I got as much work experience in the media as I could. I took any job as long as I was in the vicinity of journalists or a newsroom. I answered phones as a volunteer at 94.5FM. I returned to Channel Nine several times for work experience and followed journalists around. But despite volunteering for all these broadcast media outlets, I wanted to get into print. I wanted to write. I read the newspapers every day. I
got excited if I saw a story with a by-line by someone of Vietnamese background.

  My relatives, however, thought being a journalist meant being on television, so from the time my parents told them about my career choice, it became a bit of a family joke. In Melbourne, Uncle Five nicknamed me Lee Lin Chin—he loved watching SBS World News Australia and hoped that one day I would work for them. Uncle Ut would parody the nightly sign-off in his best newsreader voice—‘Tracy Vo, National Nine News’—which was hilarious at the time but seems quite prophetic now.

  But during these fun times I also discovered that my interest in journalism runs in the family. All my uncles and aunts kept abreast of the news, both locally and worldwide, a trait they probably inherited from my grandfather. In an email many years later, Uncle Seven spoke about my grandfather’s interest in the media:

  Your grandfather happened to ask me about life and about politics in Canada, and especially in politics, incidentally I did mention the TV series W5. He expressed a lot of pleasure and interest about the title W5, which refers to the Five ‘Ws’ of journalism: Who, What, Where, When and Why. It is the longest-running news magazine/documentary program in North America and the most-watched program of its type in Canada. Writing this email will certainly make him smile up there, showing his amusement as well as his happiness, because his granddaughter just happens to be a successful journalist in Australia.

  Whenever I think about how proud my grandfather would be, his smile, I know I made the right choice.