Growing Up Asian in Australia Creative Story

I am a first generation Asian American and my life began when my father was 18 years old. From China with basically the clothes on his back, he traveled across the sea to the United States, the dreamland, all in the hope of a better future. He worked endlessly with few days off to provide for his family and continue to do so today, which only allowed me to see him one day a week at the most. He told me that's the burden he has to bear so I can have an easier life, working in a job I like. My mother's life story doesn't differ much from my father's with the only major distinction being that it centered around my life. She wake up 5 in the morning to cook my lunch for school and to become my personal chauffeur. If I need her, she is there. Since

I remember the first day I walked into my kindergarten class, I clenched my mother’s hand with all my might to prevent her from letting go. The kids around me, whom I supposed were my classmates, had long let go of their mother’s had and were playing together, and even as a five year old, at that point I felt like an outsider. I pleaded my mom to not leave but my attempts failed as I found myself alone yet surrounded by complete strangers. As I stood in the center of the room while pushing back my tears and eyeing my mother make her way out the door, I heard the teacher call my name. I timidly walked towards the spot on the yellow carpet she was signaling at for me to sit on. I heard Mrs. Ross’s soothing voice but no matter how much I concentrated

Growing up as an East Asian in America meant expectations and stereotypes. Facing the judging looks on the faces of the people around me was torture. I turned away and tried to run from them. I built an invisible wall, a barrier of sorts. In front of the wall was what I wanted people to see and what people expected to see; yet, behind the wall comprised of things I wanted to do and how I truly felt.

“Okay, but if your grades start slipping you’re dropping out of one or both sports.”

Imagine, if you will, a brisk night wind coming fast across a lake carrying a pungent smell, something you can’t quite identify, but is nonetheless familiar enough to send a shiver up your spine. As it hits the trees, they creak out a somber call in the still night air. Or was that groan something more…human? You notice, for the first time, the absence of tires humming on pavement and you wonder if it’s that late, or maybe just a slow night. The soft tapping of your shoes on the sidewalk is the only accompaniment your slow breathing has as you move towards the warmth of your home, holding thoughts of a warm bed in the palm of your hand to keep the chill away. You don’t notice at first, perhaps because the reality of what you’re hearing is

Later we headed home and as I headed towards my room my mom said, "Wait." I turned around with anger written all over my face.

I am a girl with two heads. At home, I wear my Chinese head, in school I wear my English head. Being an Asian, or Chinese, as it is commonly referred to, my culture plays a key role in the development of who I am and what I do, my personal identity. An identity is the distinguishing character or personality of an individual. Parents are often one of the key factors of this culturally developed personal identity.

All I wanted was moments with my mom when I was nine; I did not get it. What about age ten, eleven, and twelve? My whole childhood was snatched out from under me, and I had to grow up way to fast. Don’t worry, I did not blame you. I blamed myself until I was fifteen. It was my fault my mother tried to drown my sisters and me. I saw signs and clues. I could tell she was not acting herself, but I said nothing. I didn’t go and ask another grownup for help. I put my sisters’ lives in danger, because I didn’t protect them.

“Good. Now I’m sorry for yelling at you but I just need to focus on driving someti—.”

A morbid melancholy stole over me. Anxiety gnawed at my heart. I was a living corpse. There was a feeling of chill in the air every day as I felt. I faked illness so as not to go to school. Despair hangs heavy in the stifling air. It was a dreary day for me , cold and without sunshine. I dread people and always avoid people. The door was locked from the inside. A cold grey light crept under the curtains. The windows were secured with locks and bars. The room felt cold and sterile.The flowers faded for want of water. A single lamp was suspended from the ceiling. The clock ticked louder and louder in a quiet room. I regarded the room as a refuge from the outside

“I can’t believe it! You never let me do anything. I hate you, and I hate being here!”

Past, on the eve of July 25th A little mixed Asian baby boy was born, on the island of Hawaii. That little Asian kids name was Takeo, an only child till the age of three until he was gifted with another rampaging monster he could wreck house with. The two grew together Corroborating on their Meticulous destruction, terrorizing their parents. Then the other monster had gotten into an accident that took the ultimate price, at the time I didn't understand because I was too young. As time went on so did life, and with it came hardships that most people work through and become better stronger people.

The cool autumn trees blew into the wind and my feet took me slowly to place i didn't want to be. My mothers house.

Every night, as I sat on the table with my younger brothers assisting them with their homework, I hear a familiar sound at the door. As she walks her heels click, and I can hear her searching her bag for her keys, the next thing I know the keys are in the lock and as it turns me and my younger brothers’ jump. We run to the door and indeed we scream in unison “Mommy’s home”, one by one she gives us a hug and a kiss. My mother asks us how our day was, and if we finished our homework, she then looks to me and said “did you cook and assist your younger ones with their homework”; I replied “yes mom”. As I warm the food, I take my mother’s purse, jacket, and shoes put them away and prepare the table for her to eat dinner. As I glance at the

It was early one summer afternoon, shortly after lunchtime, when I heard my mom scramble towards the door. There was little noise, besides her loud stomps and faint cries through the drywall. The wind whistled faintly through my slightly open windows. Suddenly, the air conditioning kicked in startling me. It sounded as if it was a faint boat in the distance. I could make out the sound of the air conditioning through my vents. My brother’s television powered on, as well as my dad’s. They whispered silently through the insulation. Eventually, it all turned off and once again there was my mom’s loud stomps and faint cries.