Guest post by Terry Reilly: @terryreilly24
My mother was Malaysian Chinese and my father, Anglo Indian. We left Malaysia because of the May 13 race riots in 1969. My parents decided we had no future if we stayed.
We arrived in Australia on January 4, 1970. Our first home was in Fremantle. It was an old double storey home. We slept on the floor. Life was hard at first. But it wasn’t all bad. There were these strange shops called ‘milk bars’ which sold sweets and other stuff. I couldn’t wait to visit. I finally got permission from my mother who sent me on an errand to buy some sweets and provisions. On the way there, I saw some children my age. Their blonde hair, white skin, freckles and light coloured eyes reflected in the bright warm January sun. It drew my attention. What a change from the usual black hair, brown eyes and olive skin that surrounded me for the last thirteen years of my young life. I walked past hoping for a vapour of friendship. I looked, they stared. Suddenly strange gurgling sounds raped my ears? “Ching Chong China”exploded from the cavities of their white teeth. It broke the rhythm of my slow and once confident walking pace. Shattered. Their looks of hate and disgust forever imprinted in my mind. Afraid, I rushed into the shop, mumbled what I needed to the man and quickly made my way home. Welcome to Australia!
Later that year we escaped Fremantle and moved to a suburb in Perth. I went to a local high school. I was dreading it but convinced myself it would be fine. I was wrong. This is where I had my second of many encounters with a foe. His name: racism.
I was confronted by one of the school bullies who told me he’d like to give me a black eye but couldn’t. Innocently I asked why. “Because you’re already black!” came the reply. Unaware of the threat that stood before me, I naively replied “But I’m not black; I’m actually olive. Black is the colour of my hair, not my skin”. I always had an eye for detail. The loud voice quickly turned gravelly, “Don’t get smart with me or I’ll punch ya in the face!” I got my cue to leave and searched for friendlier pastures of the playground.
My family name is Reilly. You’d think that would be one redeeming factor in my engagement with white Australia. Not at all. If anything, it built up expectations that I’d be white. I was greeted with looks of bewilderment when I took my Asian face and jet black hair to job interviews. The uncomfortable shuffling of body posture and the clearing of throats was a dead giveaway they were not expecting an Asian.
An Australian friend of mine had a run in with three soldiers. I intervened to deescalate the situation. The ultimate mistake. What turned out to be a bit of tit for tat suddenly turned ugly when my Asian voice entered the arena. One of the soldiers turned to me and swore with the choicest of words, but the barb that hurt most was when I was told I shouldn’t get involved because I didn’t belong to this country. Silly me – I’d forgotten my place.
I weathered through many more encounters of racism; some less traumatic than others. I learnt this foe wore many faces; he can be in your face or wear an invisible cloak. He can be your boss, police officer, student, colleague, doctor, therapist, patient, priest, nurse, teacher, green grocer, celebrity, butcher, flight attendant – the list goes on. Sometimes he can take you by surprise, like the time I was asked by someone who seemed friendly at first, where I learnt to use my knife and fork so well. They laughed hysterically assuming I’d only ever used chopsticks. I failed to see the joke.
My point here is don’t become complacent. Make no assumptions about anything or anyone. This foe, racism, he’s out there, so be astute but more importantly be resilient. He may not see you for what you truly are but rest assured you need see him for what he truly is.
