The round marble table in our kitchen was the most precious thing in my parents’ home, cool and smooth as an ice rink. We ate dinner there every night, and piled our plates, bowls and chopsticks on top of cork coasters of all shapes and sizes from Kmart. Ba even took off his watch and Mẹ took off her jade bangle before sitting at the table. Anything to avoid scratching that perfect, glossy surface.
I invited Ba, Mẹ and Cousin Đức to the table. I had an important announcement to make. Earlier, I had cleared away the bowl of kiwi fruit and the napkin dispenser, as well as the matching cork coasters. Just in case things became physical. I thought I was being strategic by arranging our meeting at this particular location. The fossil table was Ba’s prized possession. He had swapped out our old kitchen table from Vinnies with the plastic cover after he got a promotion at work. When his cousin from France came to stay with us, he spent thirty minutes explaining to her that the table was forty thousand years old and watched as she traced her fingers over the little crustaceans that had curled up and died in the slabs of beige stone.
Ba, Mẹ and Cousin Đức followed me to the table.
I looked to Cousin Đức. His eyes read, Is this dumbass pregnant?
The announcement came out like this: “Dad, Mum, Anh Đức, I’ve been thinking a lot about my future. I’ve decided to drop out of my law degree to concentrate on becoming a writer.”
Shirley Le, author of 'Funny Ethnics'. Source: Sweatshop
Different things started happening at the same time.
Ba sighed and dropped his liver-spotted head into his liver-spotted hands. Mẹ decided it was a good time to communicate to Buddha. “Trời ơi, trời ơi.”
Cousin Đức leaned back, ran his fingers through his jarhead cut and said, “I don’t have time for this crap.” He scooped up his BlackBerry and left Ba, Mẹ and me sitting there.
I should’ve known that Cousin Đức wouldn’t get it. He was a Birrong Boy who could go through his school photos and point out who’d been “bashed, stabbed or shot”, and was now a banker who walked along Kent Street in his real leather Hugo Boss jacket that cost $1800. Why wouldn’t his cousin, educated at a prestigious selective girls’ school, be able to stick it through law school?
“You want to know why no Vietnamese people become artists? Because we’re not idiots!” Ba scoffed across the table.
*
Mẹ woke me up in the middle of the night.
“Ba’s been bleeding for hours. Nothing will stop it.”
Ba was crouched on the floor beside the bed. Deep ribbons of blood streamed from his nostrils and through his fingertips.
Mẹ wanted me to call an ambulance and our cousin Anh Cường, who was a GP.
Anh Cường arrived at our house at the same time as the ambos. Mẹ went with Ba in the back of the ambo to the Bankstown Hospital ER. I went with Anh Cường in his $400 bomb-of-a-vehicle.
We trailed behind the ambo on Church Road. I didn’t understand why the sirens were going when the only thing on the street was a smoky blue haze from the doughnuts the local bros had been doing. As Anh Cường’s car swerved onto the roundabout on Auburn Road, he said, “Don’t worry, one of Uncle’s major blood vessels must’ve popped. That’s why there’s so much blood. Might be due to stress. Did anything major happen in the last twenty-four hours?”
I chewed on the insides of my cheeks before responding. “Ah, yeah, I told him and Mẹ I’m dropping law.” I propped an elbow up on the car window and glanced at Anh Cường. He pressed an old Nike shoe against the brake and the car rolled to a stop at a traffic light.
“I didn’t want to be a doctor,” he said. “I wanted to be a professional chess player.” I believed him. He had the haircut for it.
'Funny Ethnics' by Shirley Le. Source: Supplied
He continued, “I hated every single goddamn day of that med degree, but let me tell you something: when I became a GP, I realised it’s not about the money” – Cường paused and I waited for him to tell me it was about helping people – “it’s about the respect. You know how hard it is for us to get some respect ’round here? I know you’re a smart kid who likes to read and your arts degree probably teaches you to have a lot of opinions, but no one’s going to listen to you if you’re not doing something decent with your life. Our community doesn’t need artists just as much as we don’t need drug dealers. We need lawyers, we need doctors, we need a bit of respect. When you feel respected, you feel human.”
He eased into a parking spot inside the hospital gates. I watched Ba being wheeled into the ER on a stretcher. Mẹ followed behind, clutching tissues soaked in blood.
Anh Cường clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be selfish, okay? Growing up is about taking responsibility and sometimes doing stuff you don’t like, kiddo.”
