Small Bamboo (23 page)

‘Wow, that’s a huge backpack! Why did you buy one so big?’ he said.

I had this purple Rip Curl backpack which I thought was cool. It was rather large, though, and even after I put all my books in it, there was still so much space I could have chucked other students’ books and bags in there as well.

The kid kept going. ‘Seriously,
you
could fit in that backpack!’

The other students surrounded my desk, wanting to check out the ridiculous backpack this short Asian girl was carrying. There were a lot more jokes, and for the rest of the day my classmates kept asking if they could put their books into my bag and laughing. I was mortified. As soon as I got home, I asked Mum to take me to the shops to buy a new (smaller) one. Though I never got rid of that purple backpack. I still use it for storage!

That first day pretty much set the theme for my first year of high school—it was tough. I didn’t make any friends I felt completely at ease with. I found it difficult to spend time with classmates outside school hours because I lived so far away. I was anxious I wasn’t going to make close friends. I dreaded the next five years; it seemed like forever. Once again I begged my parents to send me to another school, closer to home. But Mum and Dad didn’t budge. They wanted me to stay at Hollywood; they said it would be good for my future, they wanted me to focus on my studies and nothing else. I don’t think they really understood the torment a teenager goes through in high school when they don’t have any close friends.

I was bullied almost every day in my first year. It was just the usual schoolyard teasing, not physically violent or racial, but belittling nonetheless. I would go home and cry myself to sleep at night. Somehow, though, I managed to survive Year 8. The summer holidays couldn’t come fast enough and gave me time to reflect and also to have a break from the daily strain of having to be somewhere I hated. I kept telling myself that Hollywood wasn’t that bad, compared to what I’d experienced in primary school. There was more diversity at Hollywood, with students from all sorts of backgrounds. But I was still very conscious of what I looked like and of my nationality. Thinking about it now, I can’t put my finger on it. Why was I so paranoid? Certainly no one in high school had fuelled this paranoia. I think my past experiences affected me so much that I just talked myself into this negative state. It was all in my head.

When Year 9 came along, I felt a little more confident and not quite so apprehensive about school. I was making some friends, but continued to struggle to find a group in which I felt accepted. I went from one bunch of friends to another but, because I was a nerd, I always had that urge to be part of the ‘cool group’. My experience in primary school really rocked me so I guess I was constantly trying to claw my way in somewhere. However, I quickly realised that cool isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be and friendships are formed through trust and having the freedom to be yourself.

One day I was sitting in my English class. The desks were formed into groups of four and I was sitting with three other girls whom I didn’t know well. That’s when I met Pia. This girl was so beautiful and all the boys loved her. At first, I was a little intimidated by her. I thought she would be a bit of a snob because she was very popular. But my assumption was quickly squashed. She turned out to be one of the most gorgeous people I’ve ever met.

We chatted during class and it just rolled on from there. We quickly formed a strong bond. She started inviting me to parties, to go shopping or just hang out. It was so easy with Pia; she was so funny and made me laugh, and I felt happy when I was around her. We understood each other and had similar personalities, and before long we were inseparable. It was always ‘Pia and Trace’. I would stay at Pia’s house on weekends. I have plenty of lovely memories of her family’s home on Henry Street, Shenton Park, a place where I could be myself and have fun. Pia and her family had welcomed me with open arms and I was so grateful to them for making me feel at home. I must credit Pia for building up my confidence during my teenage years.

That year I felt I finally belonged somewhere. But it would be the beginning of a tense relationship between me and my parents. We butted heads frequently! It was the year the two cultures clashed. By this stage, all my classmates were going to parties, drinking alcohol and dating boys. For Mum and Dad, that was not acceptable behaviour for their fourteen-year-old daughter. It was difficult trying to keep up with friends when you have parents who are constantly breathing down your neck and checking up on you. I would always be in a foul mood at home. I didn’t want to be there; I wanted to be out, having the freedom to do all the things the other kids did. I wanted my folks to be more carefree. Of course, they were worried that my studies would fall behind. My schoolwork was their main priority, and that was understandable. But I didn’t get it at the time.

For about two years, I didn’t get along with Mum and Dad. We clashed over a lot of things. They didn’t like some of my friends and blamed them for my behaviour, though it was no fault of my friends. I was going to parties and telling my parents that I was staying at a friend’s house. Mum and Dad trusted what I was saying so they never checked exactly where I was going. I was smoking and drinking. It was difficult to lie to Mum and Dad but after a while I just didn’t care anymore. I was the rebel child.

Until something happened that caused so much pain, shame and embarrassment that I was stopped in my tracks.

In August 1997 I was part of the backstage team taking part in the Rock Eisteddfod dance competition, so I would stay back after school for rehearsals with my friends. One afternoon, during a break, some of the gang headed across to Karrakatta Cemetery for a cigarette. I followed them. About fifteen minutes later we were called back to school, but instead of running around a low fence, I followed some of the guys and tried to climb over it. I was in such a rush I wasn’t concentrating on what I was doing. I had one leg over the fence when I got my other leg caught in the chain mesh. I tripped and lost my footing, fell and smashed my face on a sharp rock. The pain was excruciating. I cradled my stinging, throbbing face in my hands, but I thought it would be just a bad bruise and some scrapes.

My friends gathered around me but I only heard their voices, blurry but urgent.

‘Trace, what happened?’

‘Are you okay?’

Someone told me to look up and as soon as I did, their expressions said it all. This wasn’t good. I looked down at the blood all over my hands. I couldn’t believe it. Was that real blood? My blood? I shut my eyes tight, then opened them again. I could feel warm sticky liquid running down my face.

My friends rushed me back to school, where the teachers tried to clean me up. Then a senior student who had a car drove me to Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital. By this time I was numb and in shock. But then all these thoughts started to run through my head. I was worried about explaining to my parents what I was doing at the cemetery. Then I thought about my face. I had sliced open the skin between my eyes and on my left cheek. I hadn’t seen the damage and didn’t know what I looked like. But I noticed that other people in the hospital, strangers, were looking at me then quickly turning away. So I knew my face must have looked horrible.

My parents arrived at the hospital just as I was being transferred from the waiting room to a treatment bed. The look on my mum’s face when she saw mine was terrifying. It was only for a moment, though, and then she appeared so calm. She just stood next to my bed and held my hand.

The doctor came in and worked quickly, assuring me that I’d be fine—they were clean cuts and they could stitch them up. But when he applied the antiseptic to my face and it soaked into the raw flesh, I screamed and cried from the pain. I think my mum cried at that point too. I squeezed her hand as hard as I could. I can still hear myself screaming and crying out for my mum.

I ended up with eight stitches between my eyes and ten on my left cheek. The doctor said I was extremely lucky that I didn’t damage my eyes or crack my skull. I was so relieved I hadn’t worn my glasses that afternoon.

The car ride home was silent. Mum and Dad didn’t ask why I was climbing a fence or why I was at the cemetery, and I didn’t tell them. I think they realised how awful I felt and didn’t want to make matters worse. At home I went straight to the bathroom and finally had a look in the mirror. The entire left side of my faced was puffed up and bruised. I was almost unrecognisable. It was surreal. And hideous. Mum helped me shower and get into bed. My parents looked at me so gently as they were switching off the light, I started to cry.

‘What’s wrong?’ Dad asked.

‘I’m so ashamed by what happened,’ I sobbed. ‘I was being stupid. Now I’m so ugly and I deserve it.’

‘No, you’re not,’ Mum said. ‘Your face will heal and you’ll be as beautiful as ever. Don’t worry,
con
.’
Con
means child.

They turned off the light and left me to sleep. I had nightmares that night.

I must say I believe someone from above was looking after me. My injuries could have been so much worse—as a teenager I was worried about how I looked (weren’t we all!) but I could easily have lost my eyesight. I was very lucky. I also healed quickly and after a couple of weeks my stitches were removed. The scars still looked pretty bad, but the plastic surgeon gave me some silicone sheets to place over them, explaining the silicone would flatten the scars and help them to fade. He also advised me to rub vitamin E cream into them. I didn’t think any of this was going to work. But after a couple of months, following his directions, the scarring improved significantly. You can still see it, but it’s not as noticeable.

My parents were amazing during this time. I was anxious and becoming depressed, even more difficult to live with! But they remained calm and supportive, always encouraging me and telling me the scars would go away. I am still embarrassed when I tell this story—because I was such a silly teenager, so self-centred and foolish—but it was the kick up the bum I really needed. It was time for me to show my parents more respect.

Our relationship was much better after the accident. There were still a couple of hurdles, but it was just the usual parent-versus-teenage-daughter stuff that all families have to deal with. I think as my parents met more and more of my school friends they felt more comfortable. They absolutely adored Pia. She was always friendly and happy, and gave my parents so much respect. My parents knew she was my dearest friend so they loved that I had her support. There were a lot of guys in the group so my parents had to get used to me having male friends. Even though my mother had plenty of male friends during her younger years in Vietnam, she was a little bit hypocritical when it came to my life. My mother explained that it was a different culture and she wasn’t sure how these boys would treat me. At first they were suspicious if I said I was going to have coffee with my mate Jeremy; it was quite funny trying to explain that he was just a friend, but eventually Mum and Dad could see that my male friends respected me.

In Year 10, I met my other closest girlfriend, Nichola, who had moved to Hollywood from another school. As a teenager Nichola was carefree, perky and always positive. We instantly became close. And there was another girlfriend of ours, Jen, who is as loyal as can be. So then there were four of us—Nichola, Jen, Pia and me—in a solid crew, and for the first time in my young life I felt I belonged.