Race, Class, Gender, Minions - One
This banana remembers. I pass the pile of envelopes to Sue, explaining what she'll need to do with them, what needs to be entered into the spreadsheet. She listens, offers suggestions, asks questions. And the smallest part of myself wonders, "What am I doing telling this, nice, middle-aged white lady what to do?"
Big, grown-up me know this is just Part Of The Job. But inside there's a black-haired, purple bunny-clutching 5 year old that's AMAZED I'm allowed to tell the classy white lady to do stuff.
For me.
People are lots of different colours and have different accents at New Work. Names range from Rassoul to Ruth. There's a new girl in Communications, Dawn. I not-so-secretly want to congratulate her being Chinese and NOT being an accountant, programmer or banker.
She probably has an Arts degree. Rebel.
I met her at my induction, where surnames ranged from Chan to Fung to Reynolds to Harvey to Archibald.
It is strange, meeting people that look like me but don't want to judge me. I am used to having The Conversation, "Where are you from? You speak?"
I would shake my head, face burning shamefully (when younger) or reply "No," staring them down (as I grew older). Banana. ABC. Yellow on the outside, white on the inside. Like 'Oreo' or 'Coconut' if you're black. 'ABC' is a more specific reference - Australian or American Born Chinese.
But I wasn't born here. I first came to shiny Oz when I was eight.
At St Gabriel's primary school I attached myself to Loan, the first girl I saw who looked like me. Never mind that my best friend wound up being the blonde with the foul mouth.
For the first few weeks I clung to Loan. She was from Vietnam, I was from Malaysia and we had nothing in common.
She wasn't scary, wasn't Anglo and glamourous (Mum and I watched Dynasty back in Kuala Lumpur, weren't white folks like the Carringtons?) or European and intimidating (where did these mouthy Greek and Italian kids come from?).
Finally, after watching me gaze across netball court for too long, she said, "You can go and play with Frances if you want."
Years later, Frances and I would dream about forming a metal band with hair to rival Lita Ford. We would have tumultous marriages with members of Motley Crue. Or Skid Row.
At twelve, we wore identical tight black jeans and band t-shirts; Poison for me, Guns n' Roses for her. Saturday night sleepovers mainly involved us jumping on my big metal desk, air-guitaring to 'Dr Feelgood'.
So I didn't make friends with people that looked like me. People that looked like me were those I had to know, not wanted to. My Dad's aunt in Box Hill, with the no-good son and gossip-tainted mouth. My second cousins Winsome and Felicity who were good girls.
Every time we visited Mum would whine, without fail, "Why can't you be good like them? Why are you so naughty?"
I was bad, shit at Math and my best friend and I were going to run away to LA.
I'd change my last name to something not-Chinese and dye my hair blonde. I'd already forged a caramel-coloured streak with some evil-smelling Clairol product. I was determined the peroxide should win against the deep brunette.
Nothing I liked resembled me; my mother's cooking was an embarassment. "This soup is clear and funny. You don't have soup WITH main course."
Main course? Doesn't it all arrive on the table at once on huge noisy platters, cellophane noodles, pork and eggplant, stir-fried cabbage, small bowls of broth with floaty bits?
Well. Don't talk to ME about cabbage. When Mum died two of her sisters flew in, Aunty Lucy and Aunty Anna. NICE relatives for a change. They cooked cabbage after Mum's funeral, the same way she made it, the same way my grandmother made it.
Something in thirteen-year-old me broke when I ate it, tears landing onto the Formica dining table with the ugly lavender chairs, groaning with food.
I hated it when Mum cooked it, but I'd never have the chance to hate it again.
Big, grown-up me know this is just Part Of The Job. But inside there's a black-haired, purple bunny-clutching 5 year old that's AMAZED I'm allowed to tell the classy white lady to do stuff.
For me.
People are lots of different colours and have different accents at New Work. Names range from Rassoul to Ruth. There's a new girl in Communications, Dawn. I not-so-secretly want to congratulate her being Chinese and NOT being an accountant, programmer or banker.
She probably has an Arts degree. Rebel.
I met her at my induction, where surnames ranged from Chan to Fung to Reynolds to Harvey to Archibald.
It is strange, meeting people that look like me but don't want to judge me. I am used to having The Conversation, "Where are you from? You speak?"
I would shake my head, face burning shamefully (when younger) or reply "No," staring them down (as I grew older). Banana. ABC. Yellow on the outside, white on the inside. Like 'Oreo' or 'Coconut' if you're black. 'ABC' is a more specific reference - Australian or American Born Chinese.
But I wasn't born here. I first came to shiny Oz when I was eight.
At St Gabriel's primary school I attached myself to Loan, the first girl I saw who looked like me. Never mind that my best friend wound up being the blonde with the foul mouth.
For the first few weeks I clung to Loan. She was from Vietnam, I was from Malaysia and we had nothing in common.
She wasn't scary, wasn't Anglo and glamourous (Mum and I watched Dynasty back in Kuala Lumpur, weren't white folks like the Carringtons?) or European and intimidating (where did these mouthy Greek and Italian kids come from?).
Finally, after watching me gaze across netball court for too long, she said, "You can go and play with Frances if you want."
Years later, Frances and I would dream about forming a metal band with hair to rival Lita Ford. We would have tumultous marriages with members of Motley Crue. Or Skid Row.
At twelve, we wore identical tight black jeans and band t-shirts; Poison for me, Guns n' Roses for her. Saturday night sleepovers mainly involved us jumping on my big metal desk, air-guitaring to 'Dr Feelgood'.
So I didn't make friends with people that looked like me. People that looked like me were those I had to know, not wanted to. My Dad's aunt in Box Hill, with the no-good son and gossip-tainted mouth. My second cousins Winsome and Felicity who were good girls.
Every time we visited Mum would whine, without fail, "Why can't you be good like them? Why are you so naughty?"
I was bad, shit at Math and my best friend and I were going to run away to LA.
I'd change my last name to something not-Chinese and dye my hair blonde. I'd already forged a caramel-coloured streak with some evil-smelling Clairol product. I was determined the peroxide should win against the deep brunette.
Nothing I liked resembled me; my mother's cooking was an embarassment. "This soup is clear and funny. You don't have soup WITH main course."
Main course? Doesn't it all arrive on the table at once on huge noisy platters, cellophane noodles, pork and eggplant, stir-fried cabbage, small bowls of broth with floaty bits?
Well. Don't talk to ME about cabbage. When Mum died two of her sisters flew in, Aunty Lucy and Aunty Anna. NICE relatives for a change. They cooked cabbage after Mum's funeral, the same way she made it, the same way my grandmother made it.
Something in thirteen-year-old me broke when I ate it, tears landing onto the Formica dining table with the ugly lavender chairs, groaning with food.
I hated it when Mum cooked it, but I'd never have the chance to hate it again.