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Yingers - my mum did the whole red eggs thing too!
ARTICLE:
Yesterday I had to drive to Bondi Beach and so I thought to myself ‘What’s the best way to get there?’
The answer is that there are many ways to Bondi. From where I live, I headed towards the Eastern Suburbs via the Sydney Harbour tunnel, continuing through the Eastern Distributor and exiting at Moore Park Road. I continued travelling along Oxford Street then headed over Syd Einfield Drive until I arrived at Bondi Road where I enjoyed the crawl down to the beachfront on Campbell Parade. But there are many other routes I could have taken that would have led me to that part of Sydney as well. If I had asked myself ‘What’s the best way to Bondi?’ 70 years ago, I would probably have taken a ride on the iconic tram that would have avoided the congestion along Oxford Street. I would have taken the tram that reached Bondi via Curlewis Street. Trying to imagine what such a journey on a tram would have been like – the sights, the sounds, the rhythm of the tramcar – is a difficult one. I guess I could have asked granny what it’s like, as the last Bondi tram ‘shot through’ in February 1960, five years before I was born.
Bondi is a significant place for me. Besides being the Sydney suburb where I grew up, I have come to realise that Bondi is also a state of mind, it has shaped my perceptions of what being ‘Australian’ means. ‘Bondi’ is an aboriginal word that means ‘noise of water on breaking rocks’. Their description is indeed an accurate one as the noise of crashing waves could be heard from my paternal grandfather’s fruit and vegetable business in Hall Street, Bondi Beach.
Here’s the story of how Jenny Quan got to Bondi and was then able to find and fashion her own ‘Bondi’.
Grandpa Quan arrived in Australia in the 1890s from the southern Chinese province of Guangzhou, he was just seventeen and full of hope as any immigrant is. His ‘Bondi’ was very different to the Bondi the rest of my family would experience. My father adapted well into the Bondi way of life, while my Burmese-born, Chinese mother got her first experience of Bondi after marrying my father and agreeing to settle in Sydney to start their life together. My mother’s family – the Wongs grew up in Burma just before that country gained independence from the British in 1948. The Wong family were enormously proud of their Chinese heritage, they lived by Buddhist teachings, conversed in Cantonese and boiled herbal soups. My mother persevered with English – going to night school to sort out her ‘l’s and ‘r’s so she could confidently get her tongue around another Aboriginal word, ‘Woollahra’ – the suburb where her children were going to start school.
My brother Andrew and I attended a Catholic school in Woollahra. During my days at Holy Cross, I was treated like any of the other girls. I was well-liked and accepted and was able to mix readily with the other kids. I also had my share of the usual adolescent crises – being out of favour with the ‘in-group’ because I didn’t watch the television program ‘Charlies Angels’! I was growing up with a typical Western mindset, had a classic Chinese appearance and I was comfortable in my skin. There was no-one to compare myself to, as I was the only Chinese girl in my class until Year 9.
I recall times when I was made aware of my ‘Chinese-ness’ – the first occasion was at school in Year 9. A new girl, Veronica started in my year, she was from Singapore. My teacher thought that I would be the ideal person to befriend Veronica and help her settle in. It was a disaster almost sparking an international incident. Our teacher made the wrong choice, she did not realise that the only things Veronica and I had in common were skin deep – jet-black hair, big brown eyes and olive skin.
After finishing school, I was eager to earn money so I could start sampling some of the finer things in life that I had heard about as a child. During my nursing training at Royal North Shore Hospital in Sydney in the 1980s, I was one of three Chinese nursing students. Our royal blue nursing uniform, our white starched nurses caps, slate grey stockings and regulation black Halls-nursing shoes signified us as all belonging to the same group, as any uniform does. As nursing students we were all petrified of being shouted at by the head nurse of paediatrics and dreaded working on the spinal unit.
Another incident where my Chinese-ness surfaced was during my nursing training. I was invited to attend the Yass picnic races where I was really looking forward to sipping lots of champagne and enjoying country hospitality. There was much fun and fanfare associated with the races. The first mandatory engagement – was to enjoy drinks at the Allambie Club (a club for ladies and gentlemen). I was surprised when a friend told me I was the first Chinese person to be a guest at this club. I remember thinking to myself that I wasn’t really sure of the difference my friend was trying to highlight because I didn’t feel any different to others who had gathered to party.
What I realise now is that during those years I was part of a minority group in the sense of a physical basis yet I felt very much like the majority in my own headspace. I was nudged about being Chinese while I lived in Sydney but my first experience of feeling ‘Chinese’ and being different occurred during the next phase of my life in 1994 when I was living in Singapore.
I arrived in Singapore as a bright-eyed expatriate employed as a journalist in the newsroom of Singapore Broadcasting Corporation, the local television station. My classic Chinese looks contributed to me securing the job; that coupled with my broad Australian accent became the talking point of the newsroom.
One day a Singaporean journalist bravely asked me ‘What is your nationality?’ Without hesitation I confidently replied, ‘Australian’. From the vexed and blank expression on my colleague’s face, it was immediately obvious that the answer I gave was not what she was expecting. This in turn left me very confused and I tapped into every available brain cell to understand what I was being asked. Suddenly the penny dropped. My colleague was inquiring about my racial origins. I quickly changed my answer and more demurely replied, ‘Chinese’, whatever that meant! From the knowing expression on my colleague’s face – this was the reply she wanted to hear. This got me thinking about why I was asked this question.
That was one of the most disconcerting questions I had ever been asked. I realised I was living in a country where my experience in an Australian home had been reversed. I sported the appearance of the majority yet felt part of a minority. I was only three weeks into a three-year contract and decided I would find the meaning behind what it means to BE Chinese.
It was in Singapore that I had a yearning to understand and appreciate how to be Chinese. My journey started as I embarked on my Chinese language studying with a private tutor. I moved out of my expatriate comfort zone and expanded my social network by making friends with Chinese Singaporeans. It was these friends who gave me the best lessons on ‘how to think like a Chinese person’.
I found myself asking lots of questions ï€ questions where the answers were not immediately apparent. I scrutinised every facet of life. For Chinese New Year, I wondered why people cleaned their homes before Chinese New Year, why they have their hair cut before rather than after the New Year and why people are so religious about settling their debts before New Year’s Day. With Chinese weddings, I wanted to know why is it usually best to give money instead of a gift, how much money I should give, how I should give the money and the types of notes that are to be given. With every day living, I wanted to find out why the number 8 is considered lucky and why Chinese people don’t like living on the 4th floor. There were many questions and few answers. There was no ‘Guide to Being Chinese for Dummies’. I no longer felt comfortable hiding behind the term ‘being a banana’ – someone who is yellow (Chinese) on the outside and white (Western mindset) inside.
In Singapore my Chinese appearance ensured I looked like those around me yet my inability to deeply embrace my ‘Chinese-ness’ increasingly made me feel like I was peering through a window into a new culture.
So how does this all tie back into my trip to Bondi? Human identity is very complex. It is affected by things such as your racial background, your looks, your experience growing up, how people act and react to you and the things you see in the world around you. Bondi will always be there as a physical location, but my own memories and construction of Bondi are unique, as it is for everyone who grew up there.
Having grown up in Sydney and having lived in Singapore, I have now found my own way to ‘Bondi’ – I have inherited bits of Chinese traditions handed down and learnt from a Chinese past and used them in an Australian context. These selected fragments and new insights have been used to build my identity – one I now understand and feel comfortable with. Now I can really appreciate the richness of a ‘floating life’ – living with ease between two cultures.