Winston

Winston

Every morning at 5.45am exactly she wakes me with the same routine.  She taps me on my cheek, pulls on my elbow and kisses me just above the eye. Wake up Winston, wake up, time to get ready.  She then lays my uniform, freshly ironed at the foot of my bed and goes to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

I rise slowly and feel the outside world beginning to make its way into my thoughts. I can hear the roar of trucks and utility vans already thundering down Canterbury Rd outside and to calm myself from the violence of the sound I attempt to transport myself to the quiet peace of the giant oak tree I like to sit under at lunch-time.  It feels like a thousand miles away from this inferno.  Calm, safe, peaceful and removed.

I begin to put my uniform on.  Every piece of it feels stiff and pointed.  Ironed to pointy little peaks on the shirt sleeves and rigid lines on the legs. My mother is fastidious about the appearance of my uniform. I loosely drape the tie around my neck, knowing that no matter how I tie it she will do it again anyway and begin pulling my socks on, counting the centimetres as I fold the tops of them down.  I know 5cm so well now, even in the dim morning light of my bedroom.  I place my feet into my shoes and rub them quickly with the cloth my mother has left for this purpose.

Making my way to the kitchen counter I sit at the place where my mother has already placed a bowl of hot pho for me.  The steam from it rises and twists its way towards the gap in the window.  It smells intoxicating this early in the morning and for a moment I forget the noise of the trucks, forget the pressure of the starched uniform on my body and forget the fact I must soon walk through the dank wetness of the streets amidst the traffic feeling like some exotic, misplaced alien in my uniform. I am somewhere else.  Somewhere beyond my understanding, beyond my experience yet, somewhere so familiar to me I feel if I dissolved into a puddle every droplet of me would find its way into this landscape and be completely at peace.
Winston! Hurry, eat, eat, we can’t be late, my mother says in Vietnamese whilst hastily pulling my tie to knot it and straighten it.  The landscape of my ancestors evaporates just as quickly.

I sit and eat my pho and notice the bite of the chilli as it works its way onto my tongue and down my throat.  I slowly take in the room that surrounds us while I eat.  One room.  A small kitchen counter to eat at, a couch to sit on, a low table to rest my school bag on and a book case packed with books. A small gold Buddha sits on one of the book case shelves, the one concession to any kind of personal effects. The room is sparse, the furniture slightly shabby yet there is a pride about it that almost borders on defiance. Everything that makes up this room, including my mother and I, feels like it is there in spite of something.  I feel a sudden glow of tenderness towards my mother and in that moment I am at one with her ambition and her dreams and her battle for something better because I know, without any doubt that the pride that drives it all is me.

My mother is gathering my bag, my hat and my blazer and beckoning to me. I finish my pho and make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth, wipe my face over and comb my hair.  I stare at my face in the mirror and am momentarily lost within the accusatory gaze of my eyes staring back at me.  There is a contradiction, or is it an irony they observe me with? I turn my back on them and walk out turning off the light.

My mother is standing at the front door.  She helps me put my blazer on and turns me around for one last examination, tucking in a shirt piece here, straightening my tie there. She kisses my head once complete and we walk out together, hands tightly clasped. Proud and defiant.