Having A Sense Of Being Different Makes It Difficult To Belong

• Anthony Hurst, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2011

The traffic lights…
Green. Amber. Red.
Green. Amber. Red.
They changed harmoniously, I observed on my way to Sofi’s house after school.
The cars…
Accelerate. Brake.
Accelerate. Brake.
Their movements correlated perfectly, and there was I – walking alone, on my way from home from school. Perhaps the deafening difference was not as noticeable to the sea of drivers flooding the road beside me.
I rushed around the corner into my street of residence, passing my house and entering the gate to Sofi’s property. The white porcelain sculptures guarding her porch loomed tall and proud - seeming to judge me as I climbed the stairs. As always, before I reached the top Sofi came pooring out the front door. Meading my cheeks like dough, her affection for me was clear.
“Kalimera Sofi”, I greeted her – she loved it when I made an effort to speak Greek with her. Almost all of what she said went over my head, except one time were Sofi’s daughter Maria was over.
“What is she saying?” I asked kindly.
“She is saying, ‘my child’” Maria recited back, smiling.
My child? Though the sentiment warmed my heart, it seemed obvious my almond shaped eyes would never have originated from Sofi’s gene pool. Though I feel I must make it clear: It wasn’t being Asian that bothered me – it was that being Asian meant being different.
I entered the humble Greek Palace, finally finding refuge. I was treated like a prince each and every night after school – my Mother didn’t like me being home alone and I genuinely enjoyed my time with Sofi, so I waited at her house until Mum returned home from work. I spent a lot of time watching television, especially the bloody and gory trauma shows. My favourite episodes were when patients needed to get transplants – much to my surprise, most of the patient’s bodies accepted the foreign organs as their own and didn’t retort with an immune response. Although the grisly and gruesome sights slightly deterred my appetite, never had it rushed back quicker than when Sofi would bring me some afternoon snacks. I couldn’t help but engulf the mouth-watering lamb, pita and baklava, depending on what she had made on the day. The aromas spread throughout the house, and even the neighbourhood; Sofi was not shy, but rather opened windows to share whiffs of her creations with the rest of the street.
By the time I had finished eating, Mum had usually got home and stopped by to pick me up. We would go home just as the Sun was coming down, the end of a chapter. Worked for me – less people watching.
*
It wasn’t until many years later I began to realise my fear of ostracism and exclusion – perhaps due to my own Mother’s negative experiences of Growing Up Asian In Australia she frequently described to me – caused much of the difference I felt in and from society for a large portion of my life.
Retrospectively, Australia was a much more homogenous population than I gave it credit for. Where I once felt like the only constant in a world of variables, a man alone, I now feel embraced and no different to the Sudanese family that moved in last week down the street. Those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it, and knowing this I endeavoured to make a change.
I’m pleased to say that to this day Sofi’s Greek sculptures guarding her palace still loomed tall and proud - though rather than judging me, they now admire me.