Turning Point

When I was 9 years old I burnt my hands on an oven tray, and dropped all the sausages onto the floor. Dad came rushing in after hearing the commotion and started hurriedly picking them up with his hands and putting them back on the tray. He looked angry but also panicked, frustrated, and unenthused, all at once. But I remember his most prominent expression was sadness, he looked as if seconds from crying. I knew he had had a tough day. We all knew. When he has a tough day, everyone is made to know. That day was a tough, rough, day. So when he asked me to turn the sausages for him, I leaped at the opportunity. I wanted to be of use so badly, to be useful to him - because, despite everything, known and unknown to me, I still looked up to him. I looked up to him and I dropped his fucking sausages. I was a little boy.

And, as he angrily picked up these sausages I stood motionless besides him. Like a sad puppy. I was well trained and I knew I had to wait, like a dog drooling at the toll of a bell. Except, instead of treats, I was drooling for violence. By 9, I had learned a valuable lesson: sometimes, despite effort, bad things just happen to you. I had bought into my parents’ ecosystem, that regardless of the outcome, blame would inevitably fall at my feet. I believed it wholeheartedly, I didn’t know I had any other choice. I was a little boy.

***

The occasional sick day from school, a rare treat, meant a day of television. For a young kid growing up in the 90’s television was it, the pinnacle of entertainment, and of course education. All of my alternate learning came from television, whether I wanted it or not. I was at the mercy of TV guides and station timings. The Magic school bus taught me about science and anatomy. Daria taught me about being a cool cynical teenager and gave me my first crush. Rugrats taught me that with the power of friendship and a strong leader, anything was possible. Kim Possible taught me that, with seemingly infinite money and a friend who is a world class hacker, I’d still have to deal with teenage highschool drama, it also gave me my 2nd and 3rd crush, I will not elaborate. Johnson and Friends: scared me. New Mcdonalds farm also kind of scared me. Cyberchase taught me maths. Sitting Ducks taught me about racism in the weirdest possible way. The Wild Thornberrys taught about the heart of adventure, and gave me my 4th Crush. But these were just childrens cartoons. The real prize? Daytime Television.

Judge Judy taught me right from wrong. Oprah taught me generosity. And, somewhere between the Bold and the Beautiful and Passions - with Timmy the Creepy Doll - Dr Phil taught me that; despite how they act or how they show it, my parents just love me and want what’s best for me. And for all of my life, up until the summer of 9 years old, I believed him. I had hope, wonder, and love in return. So much to reciprocate, up until the summer of 9 years old. I was a little boy.

***

So he’s picking up these sausages, and I’m standing there, useless, and I’m trying to explain in a rushed mess that I had accidentally touched the metal when I grabbed the tray. A slip of the finger was all it took. I was trying to explain, in my limited vocabulary, every second or third word, an apology. He wasn’t shouting, he was mumbling, it was unusual, he was mumbling and I couldn’t understand what was being said, which scared me. He wasn’t acknowledging my presence there, simply mumbling about me as if I wasn’t standing 20-30 centimetres away from him. I panic, I instinctively swap to my secret weapon, Vietnamese.

Both Mum and Dad have a soft spot for Vietnamese, they are, after all, vietnamese. When we spoke Vietnamese to them they smiled at us, they smiled and looked at us like we were the children they wanted, not the children they got. Children that they knew and loved and recognised from the slums of Cam Ranh, khánh hòa, Central Vietnam. Mischievous children, fun-loving, but ultimately obedient children, filial children. My Parents missed home; the traffic is fast and unpredictable, but life in Vietnam is slow and relaxing. You work hard in the mornings and sleep in the afternoons, then work a little less hard in the evenings. You could do things you’re passionate about; create services you enjoy. And it didn’t take much doing to earn a livable income.

By 18 my dad was an accomplished solo fisherman, boatsmans, a shaolin master, and local casanova. So strong was his legacy in his harbour town that, when I visited as a teenager, strangers would stop me in the street. They’d tell me about how much I looked like him, except of course for how fat I was. The Vietnamese have an innate sense of bluntness about appearance, it’s cultural, I took it in stride my whole life, my sister did not, but that’s a different story. These strangers would tell me wild tales about how my dad travelled solo by basket boat or a Thuyền thúng, down the coast of Vietnam, around the southern tip, and up, passing Cambodia, and eventually landing in the southeast coast of Thailand. Before promptly realising that being Vietnamese in this region during the late 80’s was not the smartest decision and turned tail to escape. Strangers and extended family validated my dad’s stories, stories he’d tell years earlier, stories that fell on sarcastic ears. “Yeah right dad”, “whatever dad”, “how come you’re a baker if you’re so good at fishing?”.

My Dad tried, in vain, to mythologise himself to his children, and we mocked him for it. I remember him telling us that in 1991, he, my heavily pregnant mum, multiple relatives, and many many strangers, overloaded a fishing boat, 80+ people on a fishing trawler designed to hold 20 at most. And set sail for the P.Galang Refugee camp in Indonesia, a 9 day trip in good weather. It was not good weather. 2 days in, the small crew of the boat jumped overboard with what little life saving gear was on board, and what little water, they had sailed into a massive storm and bailed. Dad doesn’t believe they did it on purpose, they were simply in over their heads. My dad, at only 20 years old, sailed that boat to Indonesia, it took them 14 days, and over 30 people died. When they landed, they weren’t met with aid, but with guns. 2 months later my mum gave birth to my sister in a tent hospital. It’s a wonderfully fantastic story, a yeah right story. Sure dad. Then, I go to Vietnam as a teenager, and every, single, one, of the relatives/family friends who were on board told it exactly as he did; almost as if it were rehearsed. And honestly I would have been so impressed. So proud of him. If only I had not dropped a tray of sausages in the summer of 2002, I was a little boy.

My Vietnamese was by no means good, a child of the same age in Vietnam could have talked circles around me. But here in the south west of Sydney, Australia, I was king. My Vietnamese was leagues above my sister, and my cousins, who were all older. I was proud of it but I was 9, and panicking. “I’m sorry dad, it was an accident you have to believe me, I didn’t mean to” that’s how they get you. When things go wrong, when you do wrong, it’s not just blame, it’s not just your fault, but you have to admit ill intent. You wanted to act out you wanted to fuck up, I was 9. Say it, you wanted to mess that up, you’re trying to make me angry! It’s so obvious, why else would you do this? You wanted to ruin my day, ADMIT IT! I was a little boy. So my apologies had to defend myself, it was an accident, I didn’t mean it, I wasn’t planning this.

The Vietnamese broke the timbre of his mumbling. He stopped, and I froze, my muscles tensed, an involuntary reaction. I was getting ready for a raised fist or raised hand, or worse still raised, anything, he was always so creative with his beatings, animalistic, a broken guitar, a broken fan, nothing was off limits. But he finished picking up the sausages and didn’t get up. He looked me in the eyes, his face a sad resignation, and he said: “you are so useless, if you’re so useless, you should just go die”. I didn’t speak to him for weeks. And haven't looked up to him since. I was a little boy.

Fin.