White April
nonfiction by Stephen Pham
It took me 15 minutes to get through John Street once. Cabramatta’s notorious for having no parking. People double-park, either winding down their windows to yell conversations at the uncle of the tenant of their granny flats or to make shopping trips while their cars’ hazard lights flash. Only reason I managed to get through was cos a cop car at the entrance blasted its siren. Wait. There’s public transport in Tamarama, right? Probs don’t drive. Meet at the station.
My bad—I shoulda told you to turn left at the top of the ramp. You’re on the Cambo side now. Wait. I’m close by, I’ll come meet you.
Knee-hao. Here’s Cab. Don’t look, but those HKs across the road are staring at you cos you look like Russell Coight. Or Crowe. Bro, what? Huge difference. One spat on Azealia Banks. HKs. You know, hard kunts.
I didn’t know you had Birkenstocks. And a mullet, too? Uh, okay. I dunno, man, they’re prolly sussing out your vibe, hey. Uncle sandals, nephew haircut. You just look like art school to me though. Are you doing that thing where white people dress like slobs in countries pillaged by colonialism because you won’t be seen by anyone that counts? I’m kidding. You just caught a train from Bondi. We’re still in Australia
The sign that says ‘Stardust Hotel’? On the left is Iron Chef, fancy Chinese restaurant. The whole building was a strip club back in the day. This reminds me. My childhood friend, Truong, a chubby kid with Fred Flintstone hair, his mum was driving us in her gold Toyota Echo. We were six. Going past the Stardust Hotel, Truong looked up at the banners of topless women wearing white cowboy boots, gold asterisks on their nipples, and said in English, “When I grow up, my dream is to go in there.” We reconnected on MSN during high school. His email was hornytru93@hotmail.com. ‘Horny’ is a performative utterance; it describes as it flagellates. Can you picture yourself sincerely telling someone that you’re horny? That’s what happens when you never leave this suburb: you can’t see yourself. I left and came back. What’s that say about me?
Anyway. Is this helpful at all? I don’t really know what to say about Cabramatta. Back when I was on the radio and got asked to describe this place, I said it was the first place in Australia where people got fined for spitting. Cos Asians spit so much. The Mekong River flows with my ancestors’ phlegm. Agent Orange, too, I guess. Should we head to the other side? Just around this corner is Brescia Furniture. I’ve never been in there but I remember seeing ads for it on Channel 10 when I was a kid. Then one morning, while we were driving past, I realised they were the same thing. That’s the closest I ever got to something famous. No, wait. My girlfriend’s ’rents ran a toy store, and it got a shout-out on Cheez TV. North Shore, obvs. Nothing nice happens here.
Watch out! That’s spit, don’t step in it. Yeah, it is gross. But I’m pretty sure pigs just use it as an excuse to book people. There was a huge heroin thing here in the ’90s. People came from all over Sydney for dope. That’s why Pauline Hanson said Asians form ghettos in ’96. See how the signs are in Vietnamese, Chinese, Khmer? That’s why she said we don’t assimilate. Pauline Hanson started out in Ipswich, but she was made in Cabramatta.
Look, I reckon One Nation is why they pumped up the pigs here. But the dickheads don’t need any more power. Fines don’t end up punishing the people who can afford them. Once, I was on the Bankstown line, sitting up top, watching this cop harass a guy on the mezzanine about not tapping on. Most white pigs are fat shits but this one was in shape, had his big-dick vest with taser on. The guy was Viet, ducktail flaring from under his cap. Said his name was Toan. Pig smirked, “Nah, you’re Brucey. Pass us ya wallet. Where ya going with all this money, Brucey?” The pig’s laugh rang through the compartment as he shuffled through the wallet. “A little present for me, Brucey? You shouldn’t have!” He held up a bud in a baggie. Toan was looking at the floor between his feet, fists digging into his lap. Pig pocketed the cash, gave Toan his wallet back and said, “See ya next time, Brucey,” and fucked off to the next carriage. Toan turned around, cracked his neck, then stretched out. Glanced at me. I looked away.
“Coppers, coppers, punch ’em in the face.” Why’s that familiar? Right, gotcha, it’s ‘Trent from Punchy’. That was a weird video. A skip playing derro cos he thinks Punchbowl is just made up of people from housing who pimp their mum for five bucks. I’ve never even seen Aussies around those parts. Same guy did Bondi Hipsters. Made fun of rich people who won’t touch gluten but do shitloads of coke on the weekends. Big diff though. But that’s your culture. You pretend to be poor till there’s more money to be made. I’m serious. How much were those? Unbelievable. Hundred dollars for sandals. I’d rather you wear those than TNs though. You know how many clean-faced inner-westie cunts rock Air Maxes so they can pretend they get chased by the cops? You have no idea. Kids at Cabra High are saving up their pay from Hungry Jack’s for Gucci.
Let’s cross. The cars won’t hit you if you do it right. Now. What school’d you go to? I thought you were eastern suburbs. Your family bought another house so you could go to Newtown Performing Arts? And now you’re braving the Western Sydney badlands. That’s why you can’t jaywalk—you got too much money.
That’s the Cabramatta Inn on the corner. I’ve never been in that pub. It was part of the set in this movie called Little Fish, about heroin. Cate Blanchett and Hugo Weaving. How are you gonna set a movie in Cab and have only one Viet in the main cast though? 80 per cent Asian here, including Chinese and Cambos. Dustin Nguyen. Flew him in from America. He was the dealer. Pretty much all the white people were addicts. Victims. Like this shit didn’t tear us apart as well. A family friend, Quan, owed some bad people money. She was in our living room asking for help. I was four at the time. I remember Dad offering to drive her down to Footscray and hide out. Mum told me to say bye. I just watched him go into the black night. They got hit by a semitrailer on the Hume. He died. Quan ended up in a wheelchair, couldn’t speak. Passed away two years ago. The last person to see Dad and I couldn’t even talk to her about it. I was too young to know either of them before it all. Mum said Quan’s suffering is over, but I’m glad she had family to take care of her when she was still here. I hope she felt loved. The ’90s were ages ago, but we’re still feeling what we lost.
I used to live up the road. That sign that says ‘Lucky Dragon’? Couple doors down from that was Mum’s shop. Videos. We lived in the back. Got a 24-hour notice for eviction, so we packed what we could. There was no shower there. It was a shithole, but I miss it. I remember, on Wednesdays at like 8pm, these four old white mates from the pub used to hang out in front of our shop and rotate a joint. Flannel and greasy hair, old rock dogs. Another time, I saw a bogan couple 69ing in the tray of their ute. Is ‘bogan’ really a slur? You’re asking me. I thought it was like that ‘millennial’ shit: white people trying to play identity politics.
Here we go. This is the pharmacy I applied to do work experience at but never followed through, so I don’t make eye contact with them whenever I walk past. And here we have the bakery that I used to go to with my brother after school. I got chicken rolls, no salad. Just straight up margarine, chicken and soy sauce. There’s a reason I don’t talk about him.
See those egg tarts in the window? Right under that is where I first saw someone overdose. Not sure, actually. People were slumped against walls all the time. I always thought they were sleeping. But this time an ambulance pulled up onto the kerb. No shit it’s ‘hectic’. That door right next to it is where my brother and I used to go English tutoring. They put in the intercom to lock the junkies out. Tutor’s name was Benj—this big white guy, hair slicked like wet shredded newspaper clinging to the back of his head, popped blood vessels around his grey eyes. Smelt like peanut brittle. Whistled every s sound. When I was bored in those classes, I tried to copy that whistle, saying, “Selfish shellfish,” under my breath. The desks were arranged like a horseshoe, piles of yellowing paper stacked on top. When he taught, he stood in the middle, stacks of paper up to his chest, like he was a soldier in a sandbag trench. Was he any good? I have no idea, to be honest. The class was year one to year six, all in the same room. He’s Aussie so our parents were like, he’s gotta be good at English. I actually met up with a friend a while back and they said Benj just copied and read out James Bond books. He was always mad about junkies. Hated them. One time, old Benj found out one had gotten in and was lying on the floor just around the corner from our classroom. He went outside and screamed, “Get out, there are children here!” Kicked the living shit outta him. I don’t remember the junkie making any noise. But I don’t remember much of my childhood, to be honest.
Another thing about Benj was he was scared of germs. If you dropped a pen or a book, even your jacket, Benj would stop mid-sentence to say, “Don’t pick that up! Germs.” Then he would pop into the room next door, which was dark and had piles of paper on the threadbare brown carpet, and take out a bottle of Windex. He picked up whatever you dropped, sprayed it till it was soaked and chucked it onto your lap. I just threw it away after.
Was that a cat or your stomach growling? Sure, how about Tuong Lai? It’s not fancy. It’s pretty much one of the few restaurants in Cab that still caters to working-class people cos it’s so cheap. I know what you mean, but I think ‘authentic’ is a white word. Okay, we can argue, but the thing about Chinese Noodle Restaurant is you see the canopy of grapes hanging from the ceiling and the Dutch tapestries on the wall and you think it’s chinks trying to play decorator and they should just stick to food. But they’re repping north-western China, which is famous for its vineyards. It’s on purpose.
Anyway. I guess this is the town square. The hot chips at this Red Lea used to be $1.20. I don’t really eat chips anymore. If I so much as look at a chip now, I break out. Over where the Bau Truong is used to be a KFC. Closed down in 1999, I think. I miss having a KFC within walking distance. I’d hit it up after gym. The council banned fast food here, so Viets would stop selling drugs and start pushing spring rolls. What’s that? Mm-hmm, many grandmas and aunties here grow produce in their backyard. Dude, no, don’t touch it. That’s bitter melon. That’s turmeric. Good for inflammation. When my mum fell and grazed her face, she rubbed it on her wounds. First time I saw it, I thought it was a grub egg. See, it’s the scaly, concentrated circles. I was inconsolable when I found out. Hey, that auntie’s got blue eyes, too—you’re not so special.
Oh, look, this is where everyone gets their thongs. Next time you wanna spend $100 on sandals, come here.
Okay, here we are. Tuong Lai. It’s crowded. Honestly, they’ve cleaned up a lot. It used to be these nasty phlegm tiles and the paint was peeling off the walls. The tables had this brown wood veneer and people had broken bits off it, showing the gross green-yellow chipboard underneath. The texture’s so gross to me. Like sponges. We should go in, I think the people sitting outside are waiting for their takeaway orders.
The guy said five minutes, but that just means he doesn’t want to lose us. That hairdresser across the road there has messed up my hair so many times. There’s another woman who works there, she’s got one of those really round faces—like, her nose, cheeks, chin, they could each fit a dinner plate snugly inside. One time, I went in there and asked her for an undercut—leave the top—and she said, “No.” Then she trimmed it! I never went back. What? Yeah, the men at that other café are looking. That’s just what they do. It is creepy. I’m like, finish your damn coffee and go home. Your kid needs a father.
That was five minutes. Don’t put your bag on the floor. Yep. I’m getting this udon that comes in this lemony broth. Comes with shrimp paste and pork. It’s my favourite thing. Won’t find this in Bondi. Not even Newtown, bro. The menus are on the wall. They have pho here. I don’t know if it’s any good. No, order for yourself—they enjoy practising English.
Here it is. It ended up taking ten minutes. Still beats the half-hour wait at your inner-west cafés. Do you want to try some of mine? It’s good. Is it because the shrimp paste looks like peach turds? Well, here’s your pho. Yeah, I saw that video, too. Why would you trust something that said pho is the new ramen? That white guy said don’t add sauce, eat the noodles first. I don’t care either way. You could avoid this headache if you just ate the food.
You good to walk? I’ve never seen someone rub their belly like you.
This is Industrie8, where all the twelvies get their first piercings and pretend they’re grown. You know that Lao couple on My Kitchen Rules? The chick Betty used to hang around here. Legit. Good pork rolls down in that arcade. You know how when the bread’s so hard, it cuts the roof of your mouth? This one’s more like crispy—soon as you bite into it, it crackles and breaks up and it’s fluffy inside. Wait. I thought you said you were full. You’re welcome.
Down that way was a place called Melon. It sold bubble tea and Naruto sandals. I went there with my bro heaps after school. It closed down after he finished high school. Fine, I’ll tell you. My brother bleaches his skin and lives in Mosman. It’s gross. You mean you didn’t know? I thought I told you. Viets mostly wanna look K-pop, but him, he wants to look white. Yeah, they’re both pale, but there’s a difference between bright and pasty. Alright, you got me. The real reason is that when Mum and I were evicted, I reached out to him and he replied, “That sucks.” Then fucked off to South Korea for shopping.
There’s a 22-hour bakery further up, and they do fresh pandan and coconut waffles. I know you just ate. We can come back later if you want. It used to be 24 hours. My mum was driving past last year when she saw people fighting and throwing pork rolls at each other and she called the police. Now it’s closed from 1.30 to 3.30am. I agree. They had a nice thing going on.
Oh, here’s The Best Fruit Market. If you wanted a fruit shake, this is where you can get it. No, no, soursop’s the one with the spikes and custard apple’s the one with the scales. Hand it over. See, just a light squeeze. If there’s some give, it’s good to eat. It’s the same word in Vietnamese but they’re very different. I like the name ‘The Best Fruit Market’ as well, but it’s not true.
Hold your breath before we go out. Walk carefully and don’t fall. The road’s slimy and green. Just the garbage juice and the melted ice from the fish market and the public toilet smell. I told you to hold your breath! It’s bad. Those uncles are playing Chinese chess. Nah, I don’t think those grandpas standing around are waiting for their turn. They just like to watch.
Valentine’s Day 2007, I got a rose here. Not a red one, though, I wanted to be indie. I got white. Gave it to my valentine. She messaged me on MSN after. Her dad had seen it and asked, “Where’s the funeral?” That’s when I learned that white is the colour of death in Asian cultures. 30 April was the Fall of Saigon, or Reunification Day, depending on your perspective. It should really be called ‘White April’, but we say ‘Black April’ because the West doesn’t understand how white could ever be bad.
Sure, we can go sit. There’s benches near the Red Lea. No pigeons? Cool. This one’s clean. If you wanted to be true-Cab, you’d take off that sandal before you cross your ankle over your leg. That’s right. Oh-mi-goh, relax. I was joking. You know you’re supposed to clean Birkies, right? Now that’s a first—I thought white people didn’t wash below the knee.
Are you okay? Sure. You feel like I’m attacking you every time I say “white people”. I feel the same way when I hear women talk about men. It’s fine. I feel like it’s better to identify with it and hurt a little than assume it can never be you and then you go on to hurt people in big ways. You know, when I was 15, I went with my high school friends to see the New Year fireworks at Milsons Point. We didn’t drink then—we were there for a genuine laugh. The walk back to the station was crowded. We jumped the fence separating the inflow from the outflow of the crowd. I remember a pink-faced woman in her 20s ducking down, blond hair swinging, giving me a whiff of super-sweet Garnier Fructis, and she had shouted, “Is it true Asians have small dicks?” Her friends screamed with laughter and they all walked on. People do this shit because they’re Anglo and feel safe enough in this country to yell about kids’ dicks. People, because they are white, make money off dressing like us and telling us how to eat our food. People, because they are white, ignore our names, give us new ones and think we’re voiceless, even though they’re the ones silencing us.
Fair. Take your time. Sure is A Lot.
Mm. That’s one of the first pho restaurants that opened in Cabramatta. What? Nah, most pho restaurants are just ‘Pho’ followed by two random numbers. No way, this one opened in 1954. Did you not pay attention in high school history? Viets hadn’t been invented yet. That’s probably referring to the year a bunch of refugees fled communism in the north to the south. Like my dad. Hang on, I actually never thought of that before. The turtle statue? Prolly some bullshit about enduring the three c’s. Wait, really? Say ’em again. South China … Banda … Arafura … huh, there you go. There really are three seas. You’re not hearing what I’m saying, though, bro—my joke was that the three c’s are colonialism, communism, and Caucasians. Yours is deep but, might tax that one. It might be the reason for the turtle, actually. I’ll head over and see what it says on the tablet. Be right back. Okay, it says something about a beautification project. Sometimes a turtle’s just a turtle.
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Stephen Pham is a Vietnamese-Australian writer from Cabramatta. He has been published in Meanjin, Sydney Review of Books, and Griffith Review.
