My Colouring Book

Christina Cheng

Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing Year 7 Winner

I would once draw with textas and colour outside the lines. I would scribble meaningless swirls, that looked like twisted vines.

I would use the brightest colours that stood out from the crowd. I would paint pink and green hair, feeling visible and proud.

Now I draw with a pencil and colour inside the lines. Now I trace squares and circles, no stickers or glitter that shines.

Now I use the dullest colours, monochromatic and faded. Now I paint a plain self-portrait, wait – what happened to me?

I see myself but not the same, there’s only greys and white.

I see no colour, the life is gone, like a sunset, no more light.

As I look outside my room

I see a bright blue bird fly. The dirt is brown, the grass is green, there’s colours in the sky.

A name is a curious thing.

Sure, it’s how people refer to you, but does it not mean more than that? Names cannot be chosen, and yet, it’s how everyone refers to you. Whoever names you will play an enormous role in how you are perceived socially for the rest of your life. Some love their names, and what they represent, some don’t. What’s more curious is what a name makes you unconsciously assume, even before you meet them.

Today started like any other day. I woke up, sleepily made breakfast and trudged over to the kitchen table, where, like any other day, I stubbed my toe into the leg, and grouched as I sat down. As I was fighting to stay awake, my parents were fighting over something different. Most of their fights went the same way; my stepdad making a comment offhandedly, then my mother taking it too seriously, and then three minutes of arguing before they both give up.

‘Surely, we should talk to Jack before he marries Mary. He has a right to know,’ My stepdad was saying, and I perked up. A right to know what?

‘What does he have a right to know?’ I replied, as my mum rolled her eyes, walking off to go get dressed. I pressed on, and finally my stepdad snapped.

‘He has a right to know how psychotic her family can get with their expectations.’

‘Derrick!’ I heard echoing from down the hallway. Obviously, his comments had upset her. Her family has always been on the peculiar side, not that I would ever admit it. They were fervent Christians who went to church three times a week. They’re all nice people, of course, but their ideologies are simply conservative. My great grandmother, the matriarch of our family, has the right to voice any viewpoints she chooses, and we must pay attention to what she has to say. No matter what she says, you must adhere to her exact instructions. She told my parents what to name me, as she had told my grandparents what to name my mother, and so on. Neveah was her choice.

Not a usual name, is it? Heaven spelt backwards – in case you were wondering.

Sophie Kenafacke

Today continued like any other day. I got dressed, brushed my teeth, and then walked to school, where, as usual, I rushed to my first class, shoved my books on the table where I wanted to sit, and slumped down in my seat as the teacher began taking the roll. I numbly sat through a class on the history of Europe and, as I sat, I thought more about my family. What crazy expectations had my stepdad been talking about before? Before I could fully flesh out a thought, I was jolted back to the real world.

‘Nevaeh!’

I saw my friend Chelsea waltzing into the room, casually fifteen minutes late, but who cares? She’s the most popular girl in school, and probably my best friend, but I would estimate that she has at least four people who come before me. Queen bee, top of the food chain, essentially forms the social hierarchy, whatever you want to say. It’s lucky she came, otherwise I might have had to sit alone. Our friendship is formed on a mutual understanding that I will do most of our group work and submit it with both of our names on it, and she will talk to me. Eventually, class ends. I head off to my next class and she heads to hers, until we meet again.

This was when today no longer continued like any other day, as I found Chelsea, and by extension, a group of two loyal followers, waiting for me at my locker. Obviously, she wanted me to do an individual assignment for her, but I wasn’t going to simply hand her the satisfaction of asking what I could do for her. I had to at least string her along a little bit, pretend to engage in some petty conversation about her uncreatively named dog, Goldilocks. Take a stab at what breed it is.

We were walking from the classroom to the seats that were designated for us, because I was sitting with Chelsea, and no one dared to challenge her.

‘How’s Goldilocks doing?’ I asked, not out of any true curiosity but to break up the silence.

‘Great, actually. We’re thinking about adopting another one, she’s just been so awesome.’

The Chelsea followers audibly gasped, either genuinely excited or devastated that she wasn’t directly talking to them when she said it for the first time.

‘What are you going to name it?’ I asked.

‘Nala or Simba.’ she replied, completely disregarding the fact that lions and golden retrievers were different animals, not even in the same family.

‘You know, while I’ve been naming things, it’s been making me think about why things have their specific names, you know what I mean?’

‘I guess I think about that too’ I got out before Chelsea cut me off again.

‘Like your name… where does that come from?’ she inquired.

‘My grandma named me, it’s heaven spelt backwards.’

‘That’s interesting.’ She muttered, before quickly dismissing what I had said.

‘I’ve always thought it sounded funny, and why is it heaven backwards? You don’t even care about religion.’

Three Ways To Stand Out

As A ChineseAustralian Girl

madiSon hong-lee

Isobelle Carmody Award

I was astonished that nobody else celebrated my favourite holiday of the year: Chinese New Year. Every year, my cousins and I would gather at a large round table and try to grab as many xiãpiàn , prawn crackers, as we could fit on our plates. I pranced around like a princess, wearing my traditional, bright red dress with embroidered flowers. I felt rather special receiving shiny red pockets filled with money, however I knew it would be tucked away in my mother’s jewellery box.

‘For later,’ she would say as I begged her for ten dollars to spend at the canteen.

‘Vivian, you know you are only seven, I’m saving it for when you grow up.’

Growing up; the irreversible and unchangeable effect of life. Those were the good memories of being different, however the immaturity and ignorance of children didn’t fail to create unwanted memories when I was growing up. Year 2 orientation day was the first time I had experienced undeniable racism when slurs were being yelled to my face. From that young age, I began to feel alienated, and it formed an insecurity that haunted me for years. As the years went on, I collected many examples of times when I felt distanced from both Australian and Chinese people. So, here are three simple ways to stand out as a Chinese-Australian girl:

1. Look different, dress-up

Like all adolescents, I wanted to fit in. In fact, I hated being different. My hair resembled the darkness of a midnight sky, but my eyes didn’t reflect a calm and glistening ocean; you could barely distinguish the difference between the pupil and iris of my eye. I vividly recall the shame as my friends stared at my face in confusion as we compared the colours of our eyes. I didn’t understand the concept of race and how my genetics affected my appearance, I simply thought I had horrible luck.

During the peak of my love for Disney, Book Week crept up on me. No elegant princess or courageous adventurer looked like me. So, while other girls in my class embraced Pippi Longstocking or Snow White , I sat in the back of the room on the verge of tears. Like all young Chinese girls, Mulan felt like my only option. I showed up the next day with a costume that my mother and I had thrown together and to my dismay, no one knew who I was. No costume shop supplied Mulan outfits, they had Belle , Cinderella , plenty of options for my Australian friends but not one for me. My makeshift costume caused me to spend the day being laughed at and constantly questioned,

‘Wait, who are you actually supposed to be?’

I had to clarify who I was, which usually ended in being ridiculed.

‘Vivian, you do know that you look nothing like her?’

I didn’t have any other options; Mulan was the only character who was actually Chinese. Every Book Week, Halloween, and dress-up party always ended in misery and embarrassment. I wished I looked like my friends with fair skin, blond hair and beautiful coloured eyes; I wanted to look Australian. I would stare into the mirror and pull at my skin to make my eyes larger and my face less round. I had lived in Australia all my life and yet I didn’t belong amongst Australians.

2. Fail to learn Chinese, meaningless words

‘Arghh’, I would groan every Sunday morning as I rolled out of my bed. My eyes were barely open as I stumbled out of my room for breakfast, a warm piece of sourdough toast covered in salty and indulgent butter. I savoured each bite as it was the only food that would get me through the next two hours of misery, Chinese lessons. Every Sunday at 8am I drove through the quiet streets of Box Hill to a place that I dreaded. I wasn’t ahead of the class, like I was at school and this discouraged me and caused me to despise it. I wanted to be like my friends who were probably at the footy or cricket with their families, doing Australian things. From the age of five until I was nine, I endured Chinese lessons however at the end of four years I could barely string two sentences together. I genuinely did want to learn Chinese but no matter how hard I tried I could never retain any knowledge. Chinese lessons just became teachers throwing meaningless words at me.

‘5D, I have a surprise for you!’

A timid Chinese boy entered through the door. I avoided all eye contact when he was forced to awkwardly stand at the front of the classroom.

‘Please welcome Thomas, he immigrated from China three months ago.’

My teacher purposely sat him on the desk next to me expecting me to translate his fluent Chinese. Instead, I froze and didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t understand him. I had to raise my hand and

Three Ways To Stand Out As A ChineseAustralian Girl

Three Ways To Stand Out As A ChineseAustralian Girl

embarrassingly announce that I couldn’t speak Chinese. Everyone always assumed I could speak Chinese, it got tiring when teachers, relatives and even strangers would assume this. I realised that I was different, not only from Australians but from people of my own race. I didn’t belong amongst Australian people or Chinese people. I didn’t belong anywhere.

3. Embrace it, the dress and the dragon

Belonging: the feeling I desired all throughout my primary school years. I was too Australian for my relatives and too Chinese for my friends. Nobody was like me, so I began to push away my culture by never bringing the mouth-watering food to school or explaining my rich heritage to those who were curious. When Chinese New Year came around once again, I didn’t feel the bursts of excitement and joy like my six-year-old self, instead, I dreaded the anticipated day.

I opened my wardrobe to see an untouched red dress waiting for me to wear, it was a gift from my parents. I considered putting it on, but I simply couldn’t. I was enraged as I looked in the mirror. Why was my face round like a panda, why were my eyes shaped like those of a fox? Why could I not learn my language like a typical Chinese girl? Nobody else got called hateful slurs and none of my friends ate smelly food. Why was it always me? Overwhelmed by my emotions I grabbed the dress and picked up my scissors. I cut off the collar, I could no longer suffocate in the racism and hatred I had experienced, I cut off the sleeves, my arms needed freedom from carrying the weight of pleasing my family and living up to all expectations. Finally, I cut it in half. I was Chinese-Australian, my identity was constantly questioned. Half of me wanted to belong like an ordinary Australian girl and the other half desired to learn about Chinese roots. I didn’t know how to embrace both; I didn’t know who I was anymore. My identity felt lost.

Three succinct knocks on my door were enough to fill the silence of my room. I sat on my bed, sinking into the mattress, drowning in my own regret and guilt. My mother entered the room as tears rolled down my cheeks. I could see her open her mouth to shout at me but hesitated and instead sighed and hugged me.

‘It’s okay Vivian, don’t worry. Put on one of your other dresses, Amma won’t mind if we are late.’

As I entered the restaurant, chatter filled the room and the xiãpiàn [prawn crackers] had already been scoffed down by my cousins. I sat down next to my six-year-old cousin, Ivy, her smile dominated her face and she was a ball of excitement. She turned to me and exclaimed,

‘Vivian, we need to hand red packets to the dragon first, this is very important!’.

I was amused by the authority expressed by someone half my age, but I played along, I wanted her to enjoy the celebration while she could.

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG.

I had forgotten how loud and boisterous the Chinese New Year dragon was. Drums, cymbals and chanting echoed throughout the room. Ivy’s face lit up, she laughed and clapped with joy. She handed me a small red packet, but I was too anxious that whoever was under the dragon costume would begin to speak Chinese, I couldn’t bear more embarrassment. However, my feisty younger cousin shoved it into my hand and pushed me right in front of the dragon. I hesitantly handed the money through the dragon’s mouth and was prepared for complete humiliation but instead, the man inside the costume remarked:

‘Thanks mate, I like your dress.’

He was wearing an Australian youth community t-shirt and I walked away shocked, surprised that he had such a thick Australian accent. I felt a rush of realisation come over me, an understanding that the man still could connect with his culture and the life of an Australian.

I finally recognised that it wasn’t my lack of knowledge of Chinese alienating me from my culture, it was the fact that I was pushing it away. I wished to be like my friends and their Australian families despite the fact that I was Australian, proudly ChineseAustralian. In fact, I understood that I did stand out and I made my biggest insecurity into a spectacular part of my identity. No matter what I did, I would always be different, all I needed to do was embrace it. To love my eyes, share my knowledge and take every opportunity to learn more about my culture. So, these are three ways on how to stand out as a Chinese-Australian girl and it’s a blessing, it is what makes me, me.