Small Bamboo (19 page)

When I describe my family to people, the one thing that always gets a laugh are our names. The response is always a variation of this: ‘So your parents named their kids Trev and Trace? That’s so Aussie! They may as well have called you Bazza and Shazza.’

Before we were born Mum and Dad had already decided to give their children both Vietnamese and English names. They wanted us to fit in and they also thought it would be easier for Australians to call us by our English names. I just can’t imagine my mates calling me by my Vietnamese name, which is difficult to pronounce!

Mum and Dad wanted names beginning with ‘Tr’. They had already chosen a Vietnamese name for Trevor. Dad had listed all his brothers’ names and they all started with ‘T’. He wrote down ones that weren’t yet taken and liked Toan, which in Vietnamese means complete and perfect. While Mum was pregnant with my brother, one of Dad’s colleagues at an old bistro where he used to work asked if he had chosen a name for their baby yet. By this stage, Mum and Dad already knew they were having a boy.

‘We have a Vietnamese name, but we’re still trying to choose an English name,’ Dad said. ‘Do you have any suggestions?’

‘Why don’t you name your son Trevor?’

This man’s name was also Trevor.

Dad liked the name and he also liked Trevor’s personality. He was hard working, fast, funny and generous with his time.

‘Okay, why not!’

So that’s how Trevor got his name.

My Vietnamese name came from my grandfather. While Mum was pregnant with me, Dad wrote a letter to his father in Vietnam, asking him to suggest Vietnamese names for a girl. Grandpa sent him a list of about a dozen and beside each name he wrote what it meant. Close to the top of the list was Truc, the Vietnamese name for a small bamboo. The plant is fine and thin, but very strong and flexible. It’s nice to know Grandpa suggested the name for me. I’ve always thought the name suits me in stature as I’m quite short, but my dad tells me now that he thinks it’s the perfect name for me because he believes I have grown into a strong and resilient person, who has a flexible personality and can roll with the punches. I almost cried when he told me that. It made me feel very proud.

It took Mum and Dad a little while to come up with the name Tracy. In keeping with the ‘Tr’ theme, they searched for any English names beginning with those letters, even looking through baby name books. When they first arrived in Australia, Mum and Dad watched a lot of television; they loved it. Mum kept hearing the name Tracy on TV shows. She really liked it and felt it was the right name to give her daughter. She says it’s quite ironic that she chose a name she heard on television back in the 1980s and now she gets to hear it every day on the news.

In many ways we certainly had the stereotypical Aussie childhood my parents wanted for us. As a kid, though, I was very much one of the boys. There weren’t many girls my age in the neighbourhood, so I just hung out with my brother and his friends. We rode bikes together, played cricket at the park behind our home and basketball in the backyard. If Trevor had had his way, though, he would have ventured off on his own and left me at home with Mum. He didn’t like his baby sister tagging along; he was embarrassed to even be seen with me.

One afternoon, when I was very young, no more than six years old, Trevor and I were riding our bikes down to the park, but my brother sped off without me. I couldn’t keep up and stopped in the middle of the footpath.

‘Trevor! Stop! Why are you going so fast?’ My voice was shrill with panic. ‘Trevor, please! Wait for me!’

But he just kept going. I started to cry. I didn’t like being alone and if I lost him, I wouldn’t know how to get home. After sobbing for a while I decided to turn around and figure out the way back to our house. Trevor came riding back then.

‘You’re too slow,’ he groaned.

One of the neighbours, who had obviously heard me crying, came running up her driveway, yelling at Trevor. ‘What kind of older brother are you?’ she said. ‘You should never leave your baby sister alone like that!’

Suitably chastened, Trevor quickly returned to my side. He apologised to the neighbour and to me. I felt pretty chuffed; this woman had stood up for me.

When we were kids, Trevor would never have come close to winning an award for Best Older Brother—he thought he was too cool to play with his younger sister. But I kept hanging out with him because his friends didn’t seem to mind having me around. At times they would stand up for me too.

One day we were playing cricket in our backyard. I was never a good bowler but I thought I was pretty good at batting. Of course Trevor didn’t want me to play but one of his mates asked me to be his batting partner. I was stoked but Trevor rolled his eyes. He was bowling and wanted to get me out straight away. We stared each other down; there was much rivalry between us. Trevor swung his arm and the ball flew towards me. I swung the bat and smashed it over the neighbour’s back fence.
Six!
My batting partner jumped high in the air, cheering me on.
Woohoo!
I was so proud. Even Trevor’s fielders were cheering and congratulating me.

‘Wow, Trace! That was great.’

‘You’re such a good batter.’

‘I knew I chose right when I picked you,’ said my partner as he patted me on the back.

I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face. Trevor walked off in shame. I was only nine years old and I thought it was one of the best days ever.

As we got older, though, our bond would grow, leaving those days of childish sibling rivalry behind us. I always loved my brother, even if he was always trying to get away from me! I remember going to the shopping centre together as teens but Trevor would always tell me to walk metres behind him. Eventually he just had to get over the fact that it was okay to hang out with his sister. And now we are very close.

Trevor’s mates in those early years had a huge influence on us. Even though we were the only Asian children in that group, we never felt out of place. Our skin colour was never mentioned, never an issue. We both felt like any other Aussie kid. Trevor and I would model ourselves on what his mates did and said. My brother’s best mate lived just a short walk behind our house and Trevor spent a lot of time with his family. I reckon that’s where Trevor picked up his thick Aussie drawl. My friends are always surprised when they first meet him.

‘G’day. How’s it goin’?’ he’ll say.

I’m always amused by their reaction. They stare at him for a moment then it clicks and they start laughing. ‘Trace, your brother’s accent is hilarious!’ and ‘He’s so Aussie!’ they’ll say. I must admit, though, that Trev’s accent is so heavy that it surprises even me on occasions.

Over the phone, it’s even more deceptive. I remember once listening on speakerphone while Trevor had a conversation with a sales rep for a mobile phone company. The person on the other end went through the usual drill.

‘Okay, Trevor. I can try and help you out with that inquiry. What’s your surname?’

‘It’s Vo, V-O.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Vo. V-O.’

‘Vo? What’s your nationality?’

My brother laughed, knowing full well that the phone operator was confused by his accent.

‘I’m Vietnamese, mate.’

‘Really? Um, oh, I’m sorry, but you sound so Australian . . .’

‘No worries, mate,’ Trevor said. ‘I get it all the time.’

Confusion over nationality was something I experienced too. People raised their eyebrows when I spoke and I would receive the same response as my brother: ‘Wow, you’re so Aussie.’ But it was never offensive. We both found it hilarious. We were never precious about it because we knew people weren’t judging us. On one occasion I was introduced to a friend’s boyfriend who had just moved to Perth from New Zealand. They were giving me a lift from my house to a party.

‘Hi, I’m Tracy,’ I said as I jumped into the car. ‘Thanks for picking me up, ay!’

He just looked at me.

‘Bloody hell! I wasn’t expecting that,’ he said and laughed.

I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. ‘Expecting what?’

‘Sorry. Your accent. It’s so Aussie!’

Now it was my turn to laugh. ‘You reckon I’m bad, you should speak to my brother.’

A big grin spread across on his face. ‘Now you’re deliberately spinning me out. Can you say something else?’

In some ways, my accent was a great ice-breaker. I’d always try and have a laugh with people about it. I guess I didn’t see it as a problem and, especially when I was younger, I enjoyed the effect I had on people just by speaking.

13
VIETNAM DOWN UNDER

When I was little, I remember my folks working hard, every day. Dad would always be up at the crack of dawn. My parents had started their own catering business in 1988—my mother baked the cakes and my father made everything from salads and quiches to spring rolls and chocolate fudge. Mum’s cake-making venture began when she made a cake for Trevor’s first birthday. It was a vanilla sponge covered in butter cream and highly decorated with butter cream flowers. Her friends were so impressed that they started paying Mum to make cakes for them and, as the years went on, she received more and more orders from other people. She reached the point where she couldn’t keep up with the demand in a small home kitchen, and that’s when she and Dad decided to start their own business.

Mum’s cakes were beautiful, and she made them for all occasions. Nothing was too challenging for her. I would tag along with Mum and Dad when they had to set up wedding cakes. Some orders were quite elaborate—there would be tier upon tier, decorated with flowers and fountains. The biggest cake Mum has ever made was a six-tier wedding cake surrounded by fifteen smaller cakes. Her attention to detail was incredible—every cake featured hand-crafted butter cream flowers she had made herself.

My cousin’s engagement cake, just two tiers surrounded by eighty flowers in different sizes, was one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. At the party, my cousin’s fiancé watched Mum as she started cutting slices for guests.

He put his hands to his head. ‘No. It’s too beautiful to cut. All that hard work!’

Mum laughed. ‘Chai, people need to eat the cake. We can’t just let it sit there!’

Of course, every year Mum created an extra special birthday cake each for Trevor and me. I felt pretty lucky having a mum who made cakes.

Mum and Dad’s first clients were Diane and Pascoe, and they worked hard to build their business from the beginning. Occasionally they’d hire a casual kitchenhand, but the two of them did most of the work. We were at the shop every day. Most days my parents worked quite late into the night or early morning so they set up a mattress in the delivery van for Trevor and me. The sounds I would hear daily as a child were Dad chopping vegetables and Mum’s industrial cake mixer.

It was tough having parents who worked so much—if there was a school event during the day, they couldn’t make it—but I never resented them for it; I knew it was what they had to do to make a living. I think this hard-work ethic is very common among Vietnamese families. I’ve asked my parents whether they planned for Trevor or me to take over their business one day. When I was growing up many Vietnamese families had their own businesses, such as delis, lunch bars or bakeries, and the children would tell me they would take over when their parents retired. I just thought it was normal and part of Vietnamese culture, but that wasn’t the case. My parents always replied, ‘No!’ They never wanted us to have to work that hard; they wanted us to find something we loved to do.

But Mum and Dad did pass their passion for food onto us. Trevor and I love food, and we will give anything a try once. We both love to cook as well. I find time in the kitchen therapeutic and am always searching for new recipes to try out. I’d say I’m a pretty good cook, but only because of my parents. I’m grateful I inherited some of their skills as well as their enthusiasm for food.

It wasn’t all work and no play for my family though. During my childhood we spent a lot of time with several other Vietnamese families. There were two families in particular whom we saw every weekend. Gosh, they were fun days and nights. We would gather at each other’s houses and enjoy huge feasts. I remember tables full of chopsticks, bowls, glasses, pots and pans. And the smells as soon as you walked into a Vietnamese home! Aromatic stocks on the boil, delicious meats frying, rice steaming and fresh fragrant herbs being washed. These large gatherings with lots of food and drink, noise and laughter are ingrained in Vietnamese culture and tradition. Some occasions were so big that backyards and driveways were filled with dining tables to accommodate all the guests.