Growing Up Asian in Australia

by Alice Pung

  Not only was it disorienting in the wider world, it was also confusing inside our family. Differences between my parents were often put down to cultural factors. Dad valued education, had business sense, was calm and hard-working – because he was Chinese. Mum was sociable and creative, an idealist, easy with money – because she was Anglo-Australian. Dad was the only Chinese person I knew for a long time, so I thought everything he did must be Chinese. His bargain-hunting, his work ethic and his expectations that we should top the class. His shyness, his bad jokes, his Labor politics, his love of peanut butter and his morning ablutions. It wasn’t until I grew up and met lots of other Chinese people that I realised a lot of ‘Chinese’ things were just Dad things. And that actually Dad was not stereotypically Chinese at all, that in moving away from his origins, he had evolved into his own peculiar species. But at the time, these racial characteristics seemed absolute. I applied them to myself as well: when I was being thrifty and studious I was being Chinese; when I played games and left food on my plate I was being Australian.

  We were half-half, and for a long time we didn’t belong anywhere. But in our third year in the country we found somewhere that felt a bit like home. A place that was as half-half, as kooky and contradictory, as we were. Just when we were getting used to feeling mostly Australian while looking somewhat exotic, we met the blue-eyed Tans and brown-haired Wongs from the Bendigo Chinese Association. It was like climbing onto a made-in-Australia dragon-shaped life-raft in a sea of cultural contradictions.

  The Chinese Association was left over from the gold-rush days, when migrants flocked to central Victoria to seek their fortune. Most of them went home to China after the gold rush, leaving faded silk costumes and joss houses. A few stayed and married locals, and their descendants still lived in Bendigo. No one had spoken Mandarin for generations, but there was still a proud affiliation with the Chinese Association and its hall of relics. Anyone with Chinese ancestry, however distant, could join. Every year the association marched in the Bendigo Easter procession, following bagpipe bands and monster trucks with lion dancers, lantern-bearers, costumed children on ponies and finally the star of the procession: Sun Loong, the longest dragon in the southern hemisphere.

  We joined the association, and my sister and I put our names down to learn ‘Chinese dancing.’ We were soon practising steps choreographed by a local ballet teacher, who wasn’t even remotely Chinese, but had lots of ideas about what oriental dancing was. We twirled ribbons and fluttered fans, and sashayed back and forth with parasols and lanterns to Asian-sounding music. When we performed at Easter we were dressed in fake silk costumes and had slanted oriental eyes drawn boldly onto our faces with black eyeliner. We were a hit. We performed in RSL clubs in nearby drought-stricken towns; prawn crackers were served before the performance to set the atmosphere. We danced in windy car parks, in school halls, and even in front of Prime Minister Bob Hawke. We instinctively affected a mysterious Eastern reserve during the performance, which fell away the moment we stepped backstage and could run off and find a pie before getting back on the bus. We weren’t all friends, but when we stepped out together to the music we were a tribe. It wasn’t something any of us could articulate then, but everyone in the group knew what it was like to suffer under a Chinky surname, to look a little different, and perhaps to have a Chinese parent who would stay too long at parent–teacher night discussing our marks. And we knew how good it felt to have these differences go from being liabilities to being assets, reasons to go on stage, to dress up and dance and be applauded.

  We marched each year in the procession, surrounded by drums and dancing lions, fire crackers and silk banners covered in characters none of us could read. My little brother, dressed in his pyjamas from Malaysia, rode in the children’s float, waving at the crowd. One year I rode a horse and wore the gold silk Chinese princess costume with its embroidered flags and heavy crown. I smiled magnanimously and myopically at the crowd (having left my glasses with Mum in an effort to look beautiful), not able to see anyone’s face but sure all the pink blurs were cheering me on.

  We did Chinese dancing and walked in the procession for years. It was glorious to march before the cheering city, to smile and wave like royalty, to dance and be applauded by classmates – all for being Chinese. Most importantly, for being the kind of Chinese that we really were – not Asian waifs, but Australian Chinese, half-halfs; part-Chinese but mostly Australian, same and different, just a little bit special.

  Tall Poppies

  ............................

  Quan Yeomans

  Quan Yeomans was born in Sydney in 1972 to a Vietnamese mum and an Australian dad. He is well known as the lead singer and guitarist for the Australian rock band Regurgitator. Regurgitator has been a major contributor to the indie pop scene in Australia since the release of their debut album, Tu Plang, in 1996. The band is also well known for their 3D animated videos, most of which were created by Quan himself. Quan is currently based in Hong Kong working on solo projects.

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  What did you want to be when you were growing up?

  I can’t remember ever being that interested in any type of career at any particular age. Profession seemed to destroy family relationships as far as I could tell. I recall more wanting to be in love. Perhaps I had innate leanings towards being a fireman or an astronaut but I’m sure it was only because those jobs seemed wreathed in the romance of fire and the stars.

  How did you end up becoming a musician?

  I never studied music academically with any conviction but I loved trying to play like Hendrix, Jimmy Page and Slash. My passion for the guitar came from a hatred of the piano, which my mother had tried to get me into at the age of seven. She finally gave up and bought me an acoustic guitar at thirteen. Fortunately I was terribly bored at art school. Fine art was completely the wrong choice for me. I should have taken up graphic arts but it was just before computers had become indispensable in the field and I was far too messy a draftsman. It took music show me the dumb, ‘Fuck you’ beauty of punk, pop and sweaty hands.

  What were the first days on the job like?

  They were like taking my id to an ego-Disneyland everyday and making it ride the biggest rollercoaster in the park.

  How has your family responded to what you do?

  Despite my mother and father’s completely disparate personalities they were, as most good parents are, two perfect halves of the one brilliant, dirty beast. My mother was the giant dumb heart and my father the perfect self-possessed brain. Mum had a bit more of an intimate relationship with my music in the sense that in the early days she would have to pick it out of her hair on a regular basis. Her tolerance for it still astounds me to this day. When the band first started becoming quite well known, I knew the mouth on me was a cause of some dismay. Admitting to being the source from which this river of profanity seemed to flow made her question her skills momentarily, but I think she loved a challenge. She was an independent Asian woman floating in an Occidental ocean and I was yet another strange twist in the cocktail. I remember going to the Women’s Museum in Hanoi, staring up at a statue of a woman staring defiantly into the skies with a rifle under one arm and a baby in the other and thinking – this is my mother’s bloodline. She still attends every one of my concerts in her hometown and charms my friends and embarrasses me in front of them in equal amounts.

  My father was the planter of seeds. He showed me how to step back and watch how the world worked, and made me interested enough in its hypocrisies and inequities to want to write irreverent shit about it. He taught me to be proud of my unique ethnicity and encouraged me to dabble and fuse other musics and instruments into what I was doing with the rock band. He was at the very first Regurgitator show. I remember him smiling. He’s still the most intellectually interesting and truly eccentric man I have ever known. He taught me about the profundity of the absurd and the absurdity of the profound and that ‘a job worth doing is worth doing badly,’ which is perfect advi
ce for an artist whose job is to continually fail and keep smiling.

  I think they were both relieved that I turned out almost, if not quite, as odd as them.

  Who is your inspiration?

  Einstein. Apparently he said something like, ‘The secret to creativity is knowing how to hide your sources.’ So I’ll refuse to elaborate on that question on the grounds that I may reveal my inadequacy.

  Can you tell us one important lesson that has changed your life?

  I’ve said this before but in the end sometimes the only thing left in the whole world that can make you smile is blowing gas out of your arse. I learnt that from my father when he was high on morphine dying from cancer.

  One memorable person who has changed your life?

  Everyone I meet changes my life. I couldn’t really narrow it down. It doesn’t seem fair.

  Khoa Do

  Khoa Do is a film-director, screenwriter and teacher who has worked extensively with disadvantaged youth. In 2003, he directed and produced The Finished People, which was nominated for three AfiAwards, three Film Critics’ Circle Awards and an Australian Writers’ Guild Award. His most recent feature film is Footy Legends, starring Claudia Karvan and Anh Do. He was Young Australian of the Year in 2005.

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  What did you want to be when you were growing up?

  I wanted to be a vet. I used to love animals when I was a kid. At lunchtimes, I used to catch grasshoppers, praying mantises and spiders rather than play handball. At home, we kept birds, dogs, fish, mice and even a blue-tongued lizard once. But then one day, I noticed that every animal I kept either got sick, ran away, died or just didn’t like me. That’s when I realised that perhaps I shouldn’t become a vet.

  How did you end up becoming a film director?

  I’ve always loved telling stories. When I was in Year 5, my primary school teacher got us all to come up to the front of the class and tell everyone what we did on our weekends. I got up and told the class about being chased by a Rottweiler. The whole class laughed. My teacher said it was the best story anyone had ever made up about their weekend. I said, ‘But it’s true!’ They said, ‘Yeah, good one!’ From then on, he made me come up every Monday to tell everyone about my weekend. I’ve never told anyone this, but seriously – apart from the weekend where I got locked up inside a supermarket freezer and had to eat frozen fish fingers to survive, everything else was heaps true.

  Since then, I’ve always loved telling stories. When I was at university, I found myself sitting in a commerce lecture about the law of diminishing returns, realising that my life would follow the law of diminishing returns if I didn’t follow my true calling. That winter, I auditioned for a part in a local community theatre show called Running in Circles, won the part, and have been in film and theatre ever since.

  What were the first days on the job like?

  Before working as a writer and director, I worked as an actor. One of my first roles in a feature film was on the set of The Quiet American, acting opposite Michael Caine. I was cast in the opening scene of the film. The scene involved me arresting Michael Caine, speaking French. I had to intimidate and arrest one of the world’s best actors, speaking a language that I had failed at school.

  The first day started off really badly. Apparently I spoke French with an Australian accent. In between takes, a little French lady kept running up to tell me that my French was incomprehensible. To make matters worse, the cinematographer kept telling me I was falling out of the frame (I wanted to say to him – why don’t you move the camera, then?), and the director kept yelling, ‘Louder!’

  Later on, I discovered that I was cut out of the film completely. That’s when I realised that perhaps I was better off behind the camera than in front of it.

  Can you recall one memorable or funny incident in your career?

  In my career as a writer and film-director, there have been many memorable moments. It’s because I have to constantly make decisions. Sometimes you get it totally right – and sometimes, you get it totally wrong. Sometimes they’re small decisions (the colour of the curtains in the hospital scene should be green rather than blue), and sometimes they’re massive decisions (should we go for Julia Roberts or Cate Blanchett for our film? Okay, I’m kidding, I’ve never had to make that decision). But sometimes, they are life-and-death decisions. I’ll give you one example.

  A few years ago, I made a film with a group of young people from at-risk backgrounds. With few resources, we were trying to make a feature film. I was directing it. One day, a few weeks before our film shoot begins, I get a phone call from the girlfriend of one of our actors.

  ‘Khoa,’ she says, ‘I think Eddie is going to kill someone today. Everyone’s tried to talk him out of it, but he won’t listen. Can you talk to him?’

  Now, this is the type of phone call you dread the most. Let me tell you a bit about Eddie. Eddie was on parole at the time, he was charged with slashing someone’s arm during an armed robbery, in a stolen car.

  When he was fifteen, he went out to the corner store to buy some lollies and he came back – to find out that his best friend had been shot and was lying in intensive care.

  So when Cathy told me that Eddie was going to kill someone, I believed her. Eddie was capable of anything.

  Now, I had the task of trying to talk him out of it. But what do you say to someone who’s so volatile, so angry, that he won’t listen to all those who are closest to him?

  So I get in the car and I drive out to meet him. And as I’m driving, I think to myself – should I even be doing this? I’m just a writer, a film-director – what do I know? Maybe I should call the police?

  As I drive past Kmart, I think to myself – does Kmart sell bulletproof vests?

  Should I ring my brother now to tell him that just in case something happens to me, he can have my stamp collection?

  But then I realise that in the past few weeks, I had become his friend and I knew he trusted me – as his director, his mentor and teacher. And I knew that deep inside, Eddie was a good person, who had lost his way.

  So I meet up with him, and there he is – fired up and angry. He had planned it out – how he was going to slash Terry with a samurai sword, because Terry was telling everyone all these bad things about him.

  So I sit in front of Eddie, and I think – what am I going to say?

  Never have I had to choose my words more carefully – I say the wrong thing and anything can happen.

  So at first, I try fear as a tactic – the fear of losing your freedom if you’re locked up. I tell him, ‘Eddie, if you do this, you’re going to get life in jail, man.’ But he doesn’t care. See, to Eddie, life is a prison already.

  I then tell him, ‘Eddie, if you do this, you’re never going to see the beach or the Opera House again.’ I don’t know why, but there’s something really nostalgic about the Opera House that I thought might just work.

  ‘I don’t care, Khoa,’ he says. ‘I’ve seen enough.’

  I then tell him, ‘Look man, if you go to jail, they’re going to rape you.’

  He then tells me, ‘Khoa, you think anyone’s going to touch me in jail?’ Good point.

  Eddie then looks at me and says, ‘I’m gonna kill him. I don’t want to do this, but I have to.’

  By now, I’m out of solutions. I mean, what else is there left to say? I’ve said everything. So I rack my brains … and nothing comes out.

  Eventually, I just look at him and I say, ‘Eddie, if you get locked up for life, who’s going to replace you in the movie we’re making?

  You’re the only person who knows this role. You were made for it … and we need you. If you get locked up – all this hard work, all this preparation, it’s all going to go to waste because we’re going to have to cancel our film.’ I pause for a moment, then I say, ‘Eddie, we need to make this film to show people the truth. We can change people’s lives if they watch this film.’

  I see him begin to light up slowly, and I say, ‘You can ch
ange their lives, with your performance and your story. Making this film is my dream. Help me realise my dream, man. I need you.’

  Eddie takes a moment. He looks up, he looks left, he looks right. Then, he looks at me. And finally he says, ‘All right, I’m not going to kill him. But just for you, man.’

  Two years later, Eddie is nominated for an AfiAward and walks the red carpet for his work in the film.

  He’s been in several films since then, and has a bright future ahead of him.

  That’s when I realised the power of creativity to change lives.

  How has your family responded to what you do?

  They ask me when I’m going to apply to study pharmacy.

  Can you tell us one important lesson that has changed your life?

  Everything always works out in the end.

  Hoa Pham

  Hoa Pham is a psychologist, mentor and award-winning author. Her children’s books include 49 Ghosts and No One Like Me, and her novels include Vixen and Quicksilver. In 2001, she won the Sydney Morning Herald’s Young Writer of the Year Award. She also writes for theatre and film, and is the founding editor of Peril, an online journal focusing specifically on Asian-Australian issues.

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  What did you want to be when you were growing up?

  A writer! I became a writer because my parents forbade me to write creatively when I was in high school. So I hid it under the blankets when I was a teenager and started sending things to magazines and journals when I was twenty-one.