At two years old, I was floating in the middle of the Indian Ocean in a dank, urine-filled boat, a refugee of the Vietnam War. Separated from my parents, I was clinging to my grandmother, our bodies atop at least 50 other desperate people, not knowing where the boat would take us nor if we would live.
At 17 years old, a fire decimated our family home. It was the final year of school before my exams. I now count my lucky stars to have escaped with my life, yet that perspective was lost on a high-achieving teenager who suddenly seemed to have come to a full stop with her future—ironic, isn’t it?
As a migrant in the 80s and 90s Australia, navigating language and cultural barriers challenged the Eastern values my siblings and I were forced to adhere to at home and the Western culture of the outside world that we had to leave at our doorsteps. It caused friction with my parents, who were clearly suffering from PTSD, but the sense of compassion was lost on a teenager who vehemently rejected her identity. It was easier for me to speak with perfect ‘Ocker’, become a Shakespeare-loving high school English educator, and change my birth name to something that would keep the name-calling at bay.
However, on reflection, these ‘hard knocks’ days were character building. It allowed sentences to be written, paragraphs to be penned, and ultimately, stories to unfold, marking my life as one lived with no full stops.
Christine Wan
