Content Warnings (click to reveal)
Discussed: Racism, body image
It Was Always A Choice
The sunlight streaming through the window glinted against the hairbrush in my hand. I smiled as I ran it through my daughter’s hair, as silky and as beautiful as the day she was born. The past eight years hadn’t dulled its lustre – none of the stubborn frizz mine had at that age.
“There,” I said, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. In the mirror, I watched my reflection grinning at her. “You are so beautiful, Makayla.”
“Thanks, Mummy,” she whispered back, donning a toothy smile.
She had lost a tooth the week before. A timely reminder to fuss over whether her teeth would be overcrowded like mine were, or full of gaps, like my husband’s were. At any rate, braces seemed to be on the cards. I’d budgeted for it.
My orthodontics cost Mami and Papi more than they would ever dream to spend on themselves. How much of a difference could straight teeth make, anyway? I had thought. It wouldn’t give me the fair skin tone, nor the double eye-lids, nor the longer lashes the pretty girls had.
All of that was still true today. But now, as a mother, I could never pass up the opportunity to give my daughter every advantage she could have. I couldn’t have her feeling how I once felt, standing in front of the class on the first day of Year 7, comparing myself to all those bright-eyed girls, my lips stretched unsmiling over the braces I was trying to hide.
“Our new classmate’s name is Tessie,” Mrs Goodman had said, before pausing and looking down at me. “L-I-E, is that pronounced ‘lie’ or ‘lee’?”
Neither sounded right.
But I answered, “The second one, Ma’am.”
There was no point in telling them the correct pronunciation. I would have hated for them to think I was being difficult.
“Tessie Lee,” she’d repeated to the class.
At least Makayla would never have to face that choice. She had only ever heard her surname pronounced the Aussie way. In fact, when her grandparents pronounced it properly, she thought they were being funny.
“Mama,” Makayla said, twirling on the spot and looking up at me with wide eyes, “I am so excited for Sophie’s party!”
“Oh, you are, are you?” I chuckled. “I had no idea! You should have mentioned it.”
She elbowed me, grinning. “Mu–um!”
Sarcasm. What a joy to be able to use this form of humour with my own daughter!
I love that we were both laughing. I remember when Elaine Galanis in my Year 8 English class called out, “Love the black headband, T!” in passing. “It really contrasts against your hair and brings out the eyes!”
By the time I understood she had meant ‘T’, a shortened version of my name, rather than ‘tea’, and puzzled over the mismatch of her words and her tone, she and her giggling friends had already walked off.
I scoffed silently. Here I was, joking around with my daughter some twenty years later, but working hard to squash down that familiar sinking feeling which returned at the thought of Elaine Galanis. The body certainly kept score, even if the mind should know better.
“And guess what, Mum!” Makayla squealed. “She said there’d be a surprise for the guests! Do you think a real unicorn will visit?”
“Well–”
“I know there’s no such thing as a unicorn, Mum! But I mean, like…a real horse, with horns and stuff!”
I tilted my head. “I mean–”
“You know, actually, don’t tell me”–she put her palms up in front of her–“I want it to be a real surprise!”
Pride welled in my chest. I shook off any remaining feelings brought upon by Elaine Galanis, and chose to beam at my daughter in wonder instead. Here she was, articulate, intelligent, outspoken and confident. She had a bright future ahead of her.
The door clicked open. Jimmy popped his head in. “Are you guys ready?”
“Daddy!” Makayla raced towards him and was swooped into his arms in an instant.
“There’s my gorgeous lady!” he huffed.
And there’s my man! Fifteen years later, and still as handsome and as stable as that first day.
I was lucky to have met him at university, considering I was always in and out quickly. I was never one to hang around the quadrangle, strolling around the grounds, buying lunch on campus. I scheduled all my classes into as few days as possible, to save on bus fares. Plus, Mami would always remind me, “there’s food at home.”
Accounting and finance were the logical choice of majors. Every company needed an accountant – did they not? Every company dealt with finance – did they not? But I stared at the formulas on the board, wondering why I would willingly quench the life and creativity of my brain. I spent many hours in lecture theatres daydreaming about my wedding instead.
Jimmy was also Chinese-Indonesian, which was perhaps the only prerequisite. Very few things defied biology. Plus, he was a second-generation migrant, which was close enough.
“I am so ready!” Makayla announced loudly.
* * *
Jimmy dropped Makayla and I off at Sophie’s and drove on to run some errands. I took a deep breath and put on what I hoped was an elegant smile.
There were two ponies in the eight-year-old’s backyard. The buntings and crepe-paper pom-poms matched in complementary shades of pink. A surround-sound stereo blasted party music. A tower of profiteroles adorned with rainbow coloured fairy floss and pearly sweets claimed the centre of the room.
Without a backward glance at me, Makayla ran towards the dressed-up ponies. I could hardly believe she was right about the unicorn appearance. Two of them, no less!
My accounting degree, as well as Jimmy’s, had served us well enough. We were able to afford Makayla’s tuition at the local private school, but only just. Education was worth it, though. Our parents taught us so. Ponies, however, were nowhere near our budget.
I turned on my heel and saw the ladies – oh, the ladies. Blonde, brunette and ginger-haired. They wore make-up and jewellery that to me might be more fitting for a wedding. Thinking it best to try and make conversation, I approached the closest brunette.
“Hi!” the woman said with a polite smile. She gestured for me to join in the circle of women but kept her gaze on the blonde addressing the group.
She wore a tight-fitting satin dress and high-heeled wedges. Very appropriate for a leisurely Saturday afternoon at a friend’s place. How’s that for sarcasm?
She droned on about how her golden retriever, who was on anti-anxiety meds, had given their dog-sitter such grief over the weekend that the sitter would no longer mind the dog in July during their snow holiday. She was now in desperate search of another pet-sitter on short notice, willing to pay up to a hundred dollars a night. She went on to say she had always grown up with dogs, and that though they were costly, they were worth every dollar.
I pursed my lip. One hundred dollars a day for pet accommodation? These women and I were worlds apart. I had a childhood neighbour who had a little turtle in her backyard back in Indonesia. I think it ate moss from the pond. That was about as pet-obsessed as we were ever going to get.
It was interesting. The blonde reminded me a lot of Elaine Galanis, actually, the way she ended each sentence with a slight chuckle.
A flurry of movement in my periphery. Some of these ladies were headed for the drinks table. Was I supposed to follow them? Oops.
Forget it.
I muttered a vague excuse about being needed elsewhere, waved goodbye to Makayla from a distance and hurried away.
But as I stepped onto the sidewalk, I realised I had nowhere to go. There wasn’t a parked car I could hide in for the next hour and forty-five minutes. Loitering around the property would risk everyone finding out that I in fact had nowhere to be.
Although… Did I impose this upon myself? It was my own choice, after all. But surely those socialites would be glad to be rid of the awkward Asian woman… Right?
Whose fault was it, really?
I exhaled. Frustrated at a question for which there was no answer.
I shook my head, feigned purpose, chose a direction and walked.
Eventually, my breathing slowed. I remembered how much I loved walking.
I loved the soft autumn breeze against my cheeks. I loved the crunch of the leaves under my shoes. I took a deep breath, as slow as I could, letting the clean air around me fill my lungs to their fullest.
This type of air was a rare commodity in my childhood. I grew up about an hour’s drive away from Jakarta – one of the most polluted cities in the world. The air there was insanely hot and humid. It smelled of cigarettes, gas, smoke, and sweat.
My mind’s eye wandered back to Year 10 Geography, where old Mrs Dorris began the class by Blu-Tac-ing various photographs of slums from around the world. There was the Philippines, India, and of course, Jakarta – Indonesia. She spoke about the climate of these places, the socio-economic factors that led to these unfortunate conditions, and some Westernised suggestions on what their options were, politically and economically speaking.
I shifted in my seat and looked over at my Indonesian buddy, Sylvia. She was pulling at split ends. She caught my eye and gave me a half-shrug. I figured she might have felt the same way that I did – but thinking there was nothing to be done about it. And she was right.
Mrs Dorris wasn’t a bad teacher. It was just jarring to be taught about your own country by someone who had never set foot in it – and unlikely to ever do so in the future.
How could she have told the class about how some of these men would sell rice cakes from dawn ‘till night, only to come home to his wife and crying baby, bringing the equivalent of a few Australian dollars. And yet, he does it again the next day. And the next day. Because survival was necessary. And his family mattered more to him than his own life.
How would Mrs Dorris have known that the Indonesian slum women were probably the most joyful women on the planet? Rising early in the morning to do their laundry by the river – albeit contaminated and brown – but able to share the ‘load’ with other women. Raising their kids alongside others in the community. Laughing together. Disciplining together. Eating together. Fellowshipping together.
How would Mrs Dorris have highlighted the fact that these kids – who have never owned iPads – haven’t ever been bored before? Because their brothers, sisters, neighbours and friends were always within reach. The concrete was their blackboard, and the stones their chalk. The rocky planes their mud kitchen, and the grass their potion ingredients.
Sure, hunger was a constant. But the emptiness they felt in their stomachs, they made up for in the fullness of their hearts.
Mrs Dorris’ ignorance wasn’t her fault, really. She would have had no clue where to even begin to learn about these things.
And then… There was Mr Davidson, the Head of Maths.
I smiled at the memory of the wrinkly man with dark-rimmed glasses hanging loosely off the bridge of his nose. Mr Davidson was perplexed when he found I was right and he was wrong about a differentiation problem. He beamed at me, though. He was one of the good ones. Strict, funny, but humble, too.
He made sure I had a real chance at the NSW Maths Comp. I gave it a good crack. Our school didn’t win, but it did connect me to – how should I put it – like-minded students. And maybe like-haired, and like-faced, too. The same black eyes, and none of us were big fans of sarcasm. They had accents, too.
We were a funny bunch. As it turned out, sarcasm wasn’t the only form of humour that was allowed to exist here in Sydney.
“Here’s my Oma,” Penny Xu said one recess, pointing to a photograph of a grey-haired lady, inside a locket keychain hanging off her bag. “She was always telling me to put Tiger balm on at night.”
“Oh, my gosh!” I slapped my cheeks. “Tiger balm. I can’t believe I forgot about that! How I miss it.”
“You miss it?” Penny gaped. “I’d hate for the smell to follow me around. Imagine that, here!”
The grin on my face remained through my sigh. “I know what you mean. But it reminds me of home.”
Speaking of home… I gasped and glanced at my watch. I needed to turn back now if I was to pick Makayla up on time.
* * *
Sophie’s backyard was a mess. There were scraps of broken down piñata, pink and gold confetti, and scrunched up serviettes interspersed throughout the perfectly mowed grass. One of the handlers was unclipping the saddle off the grey ‘unicorn’. The other handler was busy removing ribbons and flowers from all over the brown pony’s body. I wondered which of the two animals had a worse time – probably the one who was forced to have twenty eight-year-old girls plait its mane and tail.
I had just missed the cutting of the birthday cake, it seemed, as I spotted Makayla finishing off a slice.
My heart dropped. There were two party tables. She was sitting at the one on the right. Along with her, two other Asian girls.
The table on the left seated seven girls. Seven white girls. There was room for more. I flushed, my shoulders tensing. Is this some kind of joke? Did they do this on purpose?
I muttered a quick thanks to God that Makayla had her back toward me, so I had time to regain composure. I took two steadying breaths before approaching her and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Mummy!” her eyes lit up when she turned to see who it was. I hugged my sweet, pure girl.
“Darling,” I sighed.
* * *
Walking in the direction where Jimmy said he was parked, I couldn’t hold it in.
“Baby, can I ask you something?” I said, tightening the grip I had on her hand.
Makayla turned her angelic face up. “What is it, Mummy?”
“I wanted to ask…” I paused, closing my eyes. “Who seated you at that table?”
My daughter was quiet for a few moments. I took a deep breath to prepare myself.
But when her voice broke the silence, she sounded puzzled. “What table?”
“The table where you sat to eat your cake.” I explained. “Was it Sophie’s mum?” I kept my tone neutral, hiding my judgement.
“No.” She shook her head slowly. “We got to choose our own seats.”
“Oh,” I said.
The breeze was quite warm against our faces at this time of year. A lock of my fringe escaped my ear, and I used my free hand to tuck it back behind.
“So…” I started again, unable to let go. “So why did you sit there?”
She shrugged her little shoulders. “I wanted to.”
I was at a loss. I decided then to ask the only question that truly mattered to me, even if my eyes stung for fear of the answer.
“Are you happy, sweetie?” I asked softly. Except – how could she be? Would she ever feel accepted, having a background so different to her peers? Would she ever be accepted? Could she ever get to a place I was never going to attain?
Then her tiny voice broke through my growing panic. “Yeah! It was cool to be invited. I was a bit scared of Sophie when I first met her, but I’m glad we started playing together.”
I shook my head. She didn’t understand what I was asking. “But I mean… not just today. But every day. Are you happy every day?”
Makayla was silent for quite a while. I thought she’d forgotten the question.
Just when I decided it was best not to push it, she turned her head up at me. Her eyes were deep and kind.
Then slowly, she nodded.
My brows furrowed together. It was my turn to not understand. “You’re happy?”
She nodded some more.
“But…” I paused. “Tell me. What makes you happy, sweetheart?”
She cocked her precious head, putting a pinky on her chin. A sight so cute the heart throbbing in my chest swelled.
“I’m not always happy,” Makayla said. “But I think… there’s a lot I can be happy about.”
She twirled on the spot, grinning, and grabbed my hand, gently tugging me ahead.
I resumed my steps, my lips unmoving. I stared at the top of my daughter’s head.
When she spoke again, it was barely audible alongside the sound of the swirling breeze around us. “Are you happy Mummy?”
A lump formed in my throat. I couldn’t speak for what felt like a long time.
My mind flicked through the past three decades of pain and confusion.
But finally– finally, I had an answer for her.
“You know what, sweetheart?” I said. I brought her little hand to my lips. “I think I will have to learn to be.”
Kezia Tan is an Australian-Indonesian artist and writer who lives in Sydney with her husband, four young kids and crazy beaglier. She writes about life, motherhood and her Christian faith on keziatan.substack.com and has appeared on publications like Her View From Home and Risen Motherhood. She loves to dabble in fiction, and is currently working on a sci-fi upper-middle-grade novel which she hopes would be ready by the time her kids are old enough to read it.
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