Oi! ching chong china man! Go back to your bloody country!
I’m fortunate to have only experienced racism firsthand once in my life. I was in grade 8 and living on my step-grandfather’s farm in Melbourne, Australia. I still remember the 30 min walk from the farm house to the main road where I’d catch the school bus. I would talk with my friend, John, on the 40 min bus ride to school. There was an older kid in grade 10 who would come on the bus and tease me, taunting, “Hey, ching chong china man! Go back to your bloody country!” Hands raised to his cheeks, he would mock an Asian slanty-eyed expression. A fairly quiet and passive kid, I chose to ignore him. Actually, at first I was slightly amused and confused because I didn’t even consider myself to look Asian. To be honest, I never looked particularly Asian or white. I am half Chinese, half Scottish, but people often mistook me for Italian, Spanish, South American or Hawaiian, but never Asian. I was shocked that he could even tell I was Chinese – well, half. While I had chosen to ignore his taunts, two weeks passed, and one day on the bus ride back home, the emotions inside took me over. Getting on the bus at school, he did his usual ching chong china man routine. Inside I became incredibly angry. Although I must have done a very good job at hiding my anger because the whole bus ride to my bus stop I was chatting away normally with my friend, John. As John and I started to walk down the bus aisle to the exit, I stopped right in front of the bully, and without a word, unloaded a few punches to his face. I then walked quietly off the bus. John was ahead of me so he never knew what happened. Actually, it all happened in a matter of seconds, so I don’t think anybody on the bus caught the flurry. I remember as we were walking away from the bus stop, I looked back at the bus as it drove away and saw it stop suddenly in the middle of the road, but I didn’t take much notice of this at the time. By the time I walked from the main road to the farm house, my step-mum, Ricki, was waiting for me. She told me she had been on the phone with the police and that apparently I had broken the kid’s nose and blood had stained the entire bus seat. I was a very sensitive kid so I immediately broke down in tears. The only thing I kept thinking was that I would be sent away to this island prison surrounded by the killer sharks (I had visited this prison on a tour the previous summer), where I’d eventually die and be buried with all the other old dead inmates. I had a wild imagination. My step-mum was furious with me. Luckily, the police said the family wasn’t going to press charges but my school did suspend me for two weeks. On my last day of class before my suspension, I had to ask all my teachers to sign the suspension form. I still remember my english teacher looking at me with a surprised look on his face when I passed him the suspension form. In a puzzled voice, he said, “Jack, what on earth are you being suspended for? This must be a mistake, mate. You’re such a great student.” I told him what had happened. Nodding his head, he told me in the straightest voice, “Good on ya, mate” and then signed the suspension form. My Dad and everybody on Ricki’s side of the family, except Ricki, all said I did the right thing for standing up for myself. I don’t regret it. That bully never spoke a word or even glanced in my direction ever again.
That is my only encounter with the ugly truth that is racism. While I did live on the outskirts of the city, far remote from metropolitan Melbourne, I was still shocked by this experience. This was 1997, not Rosa Parks circa 1955. I can’t even imagine the outcome if I was of a much more visible minority. Would I have been strung up and lynched? Would the school board thought better to expel me? The issue of race certainly seemed to be swept swiftly under the rug in the meeting room when they decided my troubling, violent actions warranted a two week suspension. They dismissed my protests that I had been racially harassed, and instead focused on my “uncivilized” response. I’m sorry. Was I being uncivil when I retaliated against the boy who cussed me with racial slurs? Perhaps quipping back with some racial slurs of my own would have been more civil of me. True, raising my fists was perhaps not the best form of conflict resolution but it certainly did the job. A harassment complaint would have probably given me further ridicule from the bully – and perhaps even more from those who learned I had tattled. I should be thankful that my racial pedigree went largely unnoticed in that school. As unsettling as it was, this encounter with racism remains one of the oddest experiences – I am tempted to call it an anomaly – of my childhood. I just never considered myself to look Asian nor be teased for it. While I still love Australia and still believe Australians have a great outlook towards life, I’m still disappointed that a significant proportion of Australians remain quite prejudiced.
