Personal observations…

I used to go to a local high school in the Inner West region of Sydney, Australia, Tempe High School known for its multiculturalism with almost 74.8% of its students from a Language Background Other Than English. This can be considered a good thing, and a bad thing. Language is the thing that may set individuals apart from each other in the first place, but I want to turn language on its head. I believe that facilitating creative language/cultural exchange workshops within local high schools can be an effective way to strengthen the relationship between international and home students. There is often an emotional push and pull between international and home students, as home students tend to judge international students based on what they’ve heard and peer pressure playing a significant factor. It’s a rather one-dimensional relationship, as neither is able to understand the other properly. Throughout my time in high school, and especially being in a class which was known as the “dumb ESL class” I got a sense of this isolation which international students in high schools tend to face.

For those of you who may start to get confused, let me describe how my school was set up. My high school although being in one building, often used the classrooms of the neighbouring primary school to facilitate some of the high school classes. Now, this was a good and a bad thing because 1. We didn’t have to worry about teachers hawking down on us every five seconds because there were barely any teachers “across the road” and 2. This meant that students could isolate themselves more easily. A majority of the international students had chosen to spend their lunches and recesses “across the road” and as I was friends with a majority of the students, I would often hang out with them during breaks. Below is a short story based on some of those observed experiences, and how I hope to see such change in the future.

ACROSS THE ROAD

“Sully, Sully, uhm…Sully wa-” “ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT I’LL WAKE UP!” I shouted at the top of my lungs briskly unplugging the ear pods snuffed inside. I rubbed my green beer bottled eyes, to the light touch of a bony finger upon my shoulder. “Excuse me…” began Meng dryly clearing his throat…“but you with us”, continued Lingxi. Usually when Meng and Lingxi spoke the two were in an asynchronous harmony. This time everything felt displaced. The two scrabbled for words, eyes rolling inwards as if searching the far reaches of their minds for a translation. As the clock struck ten to twelve, I heard the swift fastening of zippers against the echo of Ms Peterson’s voice. It was lunch time for everybody else, except Meng and Lingxi. The pair supposedly spent lunches quizzing each other across the road, brushing up on their already immaculate Chinese skills.

“Well, what are you waiting for!” Clara berated while kicking against my shin. I grabbed my shin to ease the pain and whispered to Clara — the kind of whisper you want everyone to hear. “Oh noting….I was just thinking about those two loser imports in my assignment group”. Clara chuckled. Clara Henderson hated Meng Chen and Lingxi Fen. Clara’s sister said imports are contaminating the country with their nonsense chatter, they should speak English and get accustomed to the Australian way of life. “Fresh bananas ARE better than rotten ones after all”, Clara would often voice to the juniors. White on the inside, yellow on the outside was how they liked it.

Meng and Lingxi’s life became misery. Seated across them in the playground, the bright yellow rays of the sun seeped through their complexion. Their flaws were ever more than visible in the light of day. Silver lining faded against Lingxi’s black curtained hair, she sat shrivelled like an old sock pecking through clumps of rice from her Hello Kitty lunch box. Meng seated next to her, looking just as appropriate like he’d eaten a distasteful soup, cheekbones sucked in, nose wrinkled in, his crescent shaped eyes weren’t smiling. Meng Chen and Lingxi Fen were ageing from living the “Australian dream”.

That lunchtime Lingxi looked anxious, twirling her chopsticks while reciting a note to Meng. Her cheeks had become a ruddy undertone from the sun’s rays, her bangs plastered to her face by the sweat droplets which trickled down. She looked rather like a china doll that’s had its life sucked out of it. “Guess she can’t handle the Aussie sun”, hissed Clara in disapproval. I noticed Lingxi giving me nervous glances every few seconds. Something was up. She approached me, head bowed down and handed me a peach envelope. Inside, the note she’d recited to Meng. Clara looked over, I read aloud.

Clara laughed, and repeated the content of the note to the tittering tenth graders seated around us. I scrunched the note, tossing it across the barbed fence, never to be seen again. Probably Lingxi hadn’t known the tale of Little Red Riding Hood, that giving up her innocent self to the big bad wolf would only put her in more danger. Translucent droplets began to form around the hollows of her eyes, travelling, slowly, silently, into the collar of her stained shirt, re-emerging as a gleam on top of her glossy black shoes.

Life changed when I decided to go back and grab the scrunched paper. I reread the note, Lingxi’s words repeating in my mind. “But you with us…”…”We are friends…?” As much as my life was complicated, Meng and Lingxi were mysterious creatures I wanted to take on. Shoulders perched high, I walked stridently past Clara and the rest, on a journey to the other side of the world — across the road.

I observed through the peephole of the main door, and saw Meng and Lingxi enthusiastically greeted by a bunch of other international students. Lingxi quietly slumped into the warmth of a plum leather beanbag, while Meng scurried across to a circular teak table.

“Teacher good morning”, recited the group. I immediately ducked down. But where was Ms Peterson? She was nowhere to be seen. Lingxi gave a soft smile, bits of seaweed peaked through the gaps of her slightly crooked teeth. She motioned me to come in with her nervous wafer fingers. I flushed a bright red, hand placed behind my head and walked in.

I limply sat down on a butterscotch coloured beanbag in the corner of the room. Lingxi tells the story of her Aunt Jingfei and her times in traditional China — bound by lotus slippers and the pleasantly sickening coldness of silks touch. She looked rather proud as she unfolded the story, met with a tearful and joyous response from the others. Lingxi like a withered flower, slowly, coming back to life through the touch of limpid beads hitting upon its flimsy surface. Meng on the other side of the room, intricately placing rows of glassy white blocks printed with elegant Chinese designs on the surface. The game, a cross between the Western scrabble and dominos.