Joining a Storytelling Circle

Prompt: It was there that I found my voice

Im 12 years old, sitting in my room, listening to a singer songwriter share with the radio host - writing songs was cathartic. I thought to myself, Im not a singer songwriter but I can write. 

I began writing about my paternal grandparents. My maternal grandmother lived with us and helped raise us. I felt close to her and connected to her and I felt safe with her. I missed her dearly. She had gone on a holiday, I thought to myself what life would be like to to get to know my paternal grandparents. I ask my mum and dad about them but they're short with me. Your grandmother passed away when your sister was a baby and your grandfather passed away when you were a baby.

I looked at family photos we had scattered around the house and I tried to imagine what life was like for them. Trying to read the lines on their faces and on their hands. I looked at their eyes and saw love.

I run out of things to write. Fast forward, Im 27 before I pick up a pen to write more about them.

I wake up one morning with a deep epiphany about my grandparents, When I was younger, I used to write to my aunts and uncles encouraged by my dad to keep in touch with them but the secret task he set for himself was to ensure I felt confident in my ability to write. It was like homework he had set, without being homework. He was a clever man.

I dont know what it was that came over me but it was a wave of emotions, rushing towards me. That day, I realised I was connected to my grandparents by virtue of being my dad's daughter.

I could speak to my dad and ask him questions, 

I could write to my aunts and uncles and invite them to write to me about my grandparents. I invited my dad to do the same.

Day by day, I received letters from them and as I opened each letter, I began to cry. I was transported back to moments created by the memories they had shared with me, I felt like I was there with them.

I decide to compile a book of these letters to honour my grandparents and to share the messages of my aunts and uncles with one another but also with their children and their grandchildren.

I discover my purpose: the sacrifices and struggles of my ancestors, are now my honour and privilege.

It stays with me and guides me in all that I do.

It doesnt matter the roadblock in front of me, I always ask myself, what would my grandparents do? How would my grandparents navigate this? It didnt matter the barrier or block I faced, I just thought of them.

My grandmother travelled six months in a boat and arrived to Australia during the White Australia Policy.

My grandfather was born in Darwin and had already established himself. Before my grandmother arrived in Australia, he had met with his connections to ensure her safe arrival. 

They raised ten children and moved from Queensland, and Maryborough, where my father was born, to New South Wales. All the while they continued on their search for a viable family business to sustain and support the family.

They had a cafe in Ascot - when the soldiers walked by they gave my uncle chewing gum, "thanks for the chewing gum, mate" and taught my grandparents how to make steak sandwiches and also  what we now call burgers.

 They had a sore and cart fruit business but that didnt turn out as the fruit was damaged by the time it arrived and grandfather was dealing with raised fruits. 

After travelling in a train from Brisbane to Sydney, my dad, his brothers and sisters were all refuged in a Chines temple in Retreat Street, with elderly Chinese men, who use to smoke Opium out the window. My dad said he and others suffered from asthma and the smoking really didnt help matters. 

My grandmother saw a sign fish and chip shop for sale and directed my grandfather to buy the shop. After much negotiations, they secured the shop. After a few years, they bought the residence above the shop and a few more years, the mixed business behind the fish and chip shop. Ten children. 3 rooms. 1 bathroom. The kitchen within the residence was smaller than the kitchens in both shops, but I remember my grandmother standing in the kitchen or maybe it's a photo memory. She was small, and petite and her hands were crooked and twisted, a sign of the many years of her hard work to sustain and support her family.

I remember my grandfather's grandfather clocks throughout the house, tick tick tick tick tick tick click clock click clock click clock. A commanding tower of a clock and other smaller ones that sat on the mantel, all ticking in their own rhythm.

I imagined my grandfather sitting on a stool, a little wooden stool refurbished by his own hands, daydreaming through the fish and chip shop kitchen windows. He is waiting patiently for the next tick of the clock, satisfied with surrendering to the silence.