GHOST

GHOST by Karen Tay (Winner) The ghost of Thanh’s sister came to stay on the second day of Tet. She took up residence again in the little-girl bedroom that had been locked up since last spring, and could be seen floating down the hallway past the witching hour, small naked feet dripping ghost water on the pristine beige carpet. Thanh had not seen his sister since the day her spirit succumbed to the waves at Piha. He slipped into a feverish twilight world on the evening a fisherman hooked out her body, swollen with salt water, the folds of flesh white and gelatinous from her long soak. The corners of her eyelids, her fingertips and toes were nibbled raw. She had been in the ocean for three sleeps. By the time Thanh recovered enough to sit up and eat some plain hot congee, spooned into his reluctant mouth by one of Ma’s church friends, Phuong was already dressed and buried, with her new next-world name of Sophia. The dead Phuong-Sophia spoke much less now that she was a ghost than she had in life. In fact, she said nothing at all in the first few days, content to just hover in doorways and thresholds. While the adults peeled open banana leaf parcels and dug into square sticky banh chu’ng stuffed with fatty pork and lotus seeds, Thanh and his friends played with sparklers in the backyard. Phuong-Sophia would peek over shoulders or sit cross-legged in silence. In the second week of her stay, Thanh screwed up enough courage to take the rusty iron key from his mother’s dresser drawer and unlock the door to her bedroom. He found her sleeping sideways on the narrow single bed with its lucky red sheets, thumb in mouth. “Phuong,” he hissed at her. Then when she didn’t move: “Sophia”. His sister didn’t blink or yawn. She took her thumb out of her mouth and sat up. “Em trai – little brother” she said in her soft voice. “What time is it? I’m hungry.” Thanh’s Ma slapped him when he tried to tell her about Phuong-Sophia. She thought he was being disrespectful. “Don’t tell me your stupid stories. If you have so much time to waste, you should be opening your books more. Her round arms went up into the air, whapping down on a lump of white dough. A little bowl of sultanas sat nearby, for the scones. Ma was perpetually tired. She was at the bakery from sunup to sundown, causing some of her customers to joke that they must be open 24 hours. The shop closed at around 5pm, but she would surreptitiously sell steamed pork buns and greasy fried ban xeo through the back door to late night drunkards. Thanh’s Ba, who left the raising of children and other household matters to Hung, referred to his wife as ‘the boss’. Besides, he was perenially exhausted himself – working six-day, 12-hour shifts at the plastics factory. All he wanted when he arrived home was a cup of strong, dark Vietnamese coffee, sweetened with condensed milk and accompanied by a few Tim Tams, before washing his feet and hopping into bed. “Mind your mother, son,” he said tiredly to Thanh whenever he tried to complain about her strictness. “She’s a little hard on you, but it’s for your own good.” So Sophia stayed Thanh’s secret. He found that it was easy enough to feed her. Hung would cook dinner the night before and leave instructions on what to heat up to her husband and son in the morning. Thanh’s father usually worked late and would bring his share of dinner to the factory in old cookie tins. Thanh would take his own meal – something simple like fried egg vermicelli (his favourite), or more typically, stir-fried greens and garlic, caramelised pork stew (his least favourite), a small fried fish and always some kind of soup, up to his sister’s room. He’d set the plate down before Sophia and she would put her face next to the food and sniff like a cat, ingesting aroma. When she was done, Thanh would pick up his chopsticks and dig into the meat or fish, drowning his rice in a sea of soup and leaving the leafy yucky greens till last. They played together too. Most of the time it was Monopoly – Sophia had been obsessed with the game before the accident. She always chose the little scottie dog, and Thanh would be the top hat. Or they would pretend to be camping, something Ma never let them do because of the dirt and disease. They would make a fort out of sheets, pitching them up like a tent, hollow and white in the glow of the torch. “What was it like? When you died?” Sophia was in her second year of intermediate when she died. Ma gathered the flowers and teddy bears left by her friends and teacher, secretly burning them so she could scatter the ashes at sea. In the spot where she guessed her daughter might have drowned. Popular. It was a word that applied to pretty, sassy Sophia, who had been her school’s best goalkeep at netball and was so brainy she didn’t need to brown nose anybody. Thanh wished popularity could be inherited, then maybe his sister could pass on hers, like jewellery or toys or something. “I don’t really remember.” Her face scrunched up. “It was real cold in the water and I swam for a long time, but my legs got tired and then heavier and heavier.” Thanh waited, but Sophia didn’t finish her story. Instead, she rattled the dice in the palm of her hand and released. “Sixes. I get to roll again.” A new girl started at Thanh’s school. She was half-Samoan, half-Chinese, with long, dark curly hair, eyes that tipped up at the corners and thin, strong brown legs. Jeanna Ting was a little beauty, but she was also more than that. Within the first week, she had also stood up to the class bully when she was cornered in the girls’ toilet. The bully, a little shit with a stomach as wide as she was tall had demanded that Jeanna hand over her schoolbag for a sticky-fingered inspection. She refused. When the bully howled with rage and reached for her, Jeanna reacted fast. She ducked low, pinched the bully’s knees together with one wiry arm, reached up under her skirt and dug her fingers into the girl’s pubic bone “Touch me again and I’ll break your pelvis,” she said fiercely. Nobody quite knew what a pelvis was, but the bully ran away howling and Jeanna’s star soared. Girls fought to sit next to her. Boys left fake tattoos, chocolate bars and cheap $2 shop trinkets outside her locker. Thanh worshipped Jeanna, whose father was a solicitor and mother owned an art gallery on K’Rd. She always kept a piece of grape Hubba Bubba inside her cheek to chew on when the teacher’s back was turned. Her wild curls, smooth and oiled and kept in a perfectly brushed ponytail with rainbow coloured elastics, smelled like spring rain. And though she had any number of grazed knees, cuts, small bumps and bruises like anyone else, she also had the coolest plasters of superheroes like Wonder Woman, Batman and Iron Man. Her cousins sent them to her all the way from America. “You got a new friend at school, eh?” Thanh was picking at his meal. Fried chicken pieces, julienned green beans fried in egg and rice. Chicken and ginger soup today, thick yellow slices floating on top with the fat and skin. He looked up from his food. Sophia was toying with a hunk of hair, sliding it between her small white teeth like floss. The wet, pointed tip looked like a watercolour brush. “Yeah, I guess. Her name’s Jeanna.” “Oooo Thanh’s got a g-i-r-l-f-r-i-e-n-d!” “Shut up!” He could feel his cheeks grow hot, redden like Ba’s face after he’d had a glass of wine. “Ooooo you l-i-k-e her!” “Not even.” Sophia’s cat-like eyes narrowed, she pursed her lips as if about to blow a bubble. “Well, you better not forget me, em trai.” Thanh looked at her then, really looked at her. He realised something that had been bothering him lately: Sophia was growing more diaphanous. He could see the cream coloured curtains with their little blue flowers straight through her hips. Her face and neck looked normal, solid, but she was definitely dissipating from the feet up. “I won’t,” he mumbled, prodding the top hat forward on the board. “Cause you know what Ma would say, if she found out you were friends with someone like that.” “Who’s gonna tell her then? You’re dead.” Sophia wasn’t upset though. She just stuck her tongue out at him. He could see through the pink to the back of her throat. The students of Room 5 were having a Cultural Exchange Evening. They were paired up – with each couple instructed to write a song, a poem or a story about their culture. “We would love to hear more about Vietnam, Thanh,” said Mrs Harrison. She always pronounced his name as ‘tan-h’, as if she had run out of breath at the end. Most of the kids in class said his name the same way, and he had never bothered correcting them. Ma always said there was no point making a fuss if it wasn’t going to change anything. Mrs Harrison was always careful around Thanh. There were no other Asian children in Room 5 apart from Jeanna, who was only half and Mohammad, but he was Muslim and his parents were from Malaysia. Thanh was polite to her, mainly because he knew he’d have his ears twisted and his legs smacked with a ruler when he got home if he was rude. But he hated her. Once, when he’d been sent to the staff rooom to deliver a note during interval, he overheard her talking to some other teachers. Mrs Harrison was wearing a purple velvet top and matching skirt, looking like a large stuffed grape. “…the boy’s name was Dick Shih! I just about killed myself keeping a straight face. Bloody hell! Of course, he was picked on from day one by the other kids. Poor thing. But I can’t say I blame the children. His parents should have checked first before they named him, but they were you know, fresh off the boat. Oh, hello Thanh.” She had taken the note and read it while waving one hand dismissively at him. It did not come as a surprise to Thanh that when it came to pairing up the students, she put him with Jeanna. There was a slightly nervous moment when it seemed that she would choose Mohammad instead. In the end though, Mohammad went with Cindy Ropati and Thanh got Jeanna all to himself. The night before the cultural performance – they were going to sing a mash-up of the Chinese and Vietnamese national anthems, Thanh came down with the flu. It was the real thing, complete with aching body parts, a high temperature, blocked nose, headache and swollen lymph nodes. If he had been even slightly better, Thanh would have insisted on going to school. But he felt so sick that he didn’t even fuss when Ma dosed him with the strong bitter tea that relatives had brought in especially from Vietnam. He just quietly sipped the scalding brew, brought to him in Ba’s special green Milo mug (free with purchase), grateful that the flu had tamped down his taste buds, then lay back in bed and slept. He dreamed. Oh how he dreamed. He was a baby again, in his mother’s womb. Floating in a warm soothing ocean of amniotic fluid. Then he was a goldfish, his fishy mouth opening and closing in gasps as he swam down the birth canal, gushing out into the world in a flood of red salt. Ba tiptoed into the room at one point. He must have come home early from the factory to check on Thanh. Ba touched his forehead and his hand felt like an icy imprint. There was Ma’s voice, less shrill than usual. She was speaking in Vietnamese, but so fast that Thanh couldn’t follow except for the occasional phrase. All he knew was that he wanted water. Big long gulps of it, so cold that the glass frosted over. He was so thirsty. He was a thirsty bear. Yogi Bear in the desert. How he loved Yogi Bear, with his pert green tie and jaunty little hat. An auntie had dropped off a bundle of her daughter’s old things a couple of years ago. Among the well-worn possessions was a video player and tapes of the hungry bear. Thanh was addicted for a time, watching and rewinding the tapes over and over again. A voice dropped out of the blue sky and boomed at him. “I’m smarter than the average bear!” His tongue darted out again, tasting moisture from an ice cube someone was slowly rubbing between his lips. “My children’s mother.” Ba gently touched Ma’s shoulder. She had been sitting on the hospital bed for far too long. Days. Her body gave off an unwashed smell. He did not like hospitals. Their scent of futility reminded him too much of the crowded Cho Ray Hospital in Saigon, where his mother had been taken after she was run over by a train while crossing the tracks on her motorbike. The train was carrying a load of white tourists to Nha Trang, where they would ride a river boat down the Song Cai and clap their hands as they watched amusing water puppet shows put on by illiterate children who had dropped out of school to earn American dollars. Ba’s mother had died in that place that stunk of disease long before you entered the doorway. They had amputated both her legs, first below the knees, then higher and higher as gangrene set in until the doctors finally admitted defeat. There was too much poison to excise. Her body was nothing but blackness. His wife did not respond. She was too busy telling beads on the rosary. Hail Mary. Our Father. Glory Be. Ba did not know if he believed in the western god – he had been raised Buddhist by his grandmother, who was a practising vegetarian, so devout she would step over an ant on the ground rather than crush it. He knew something about women though. So Ba stayed by his wife’s side, without touching her again, as they both stared at their son’s inert body. As if they could raise him up by the power of love alone. “Em trai.” What a sorrowful little voice! All the cheer leached out of it. “Chi gai – big sister.” He was calling out into a yawning dark cave. Thanh’s eyes were unseeing as a bat’s. His hands and his body curved into a fetal position. He was hanging upside down from the roof. “Where are you, chi gai? I can’t see.” It was a physical impossibility to move his limbs. They were rock-heavy. He had been dreaming of running through the desert again with his friend, Yogi Bear. The bear had called out: “Hey there, Boo Boo!” They leaped over sand dunes, feeling the scorching grains give beneath bare brown feet. But then Yogi had disappeared and a dark and frightening fog spread over the land, blackening everything. “I’m here, over here.” A sliver of light floating through the nightscape like a wedge of silver cake, then Sophia’s face looked oval and shinypale. “Oh. Thanh.” She gummed a hand to her face and sobbed. Tears leaked out noiselessly from between her fingers like small gems and sploshed to the cave floor, leaving a trail of light. “Help me get down.” He was hollering, he realised, but his ears were buzzing so it was hard to tell how loud he was being. Why was she just standing there? Sophia took one step toward him, stopped and shook her head. “I’m so sorry, em trai, I can’t.” “Why not? Don’t be a dick!” If Ma was here, she would have pinched his mouth for that, but Thanh felt he was justified, under the circumstances. “You’re too far gone, my brother,” she said. Her still-liquid eyes were caressing beacons in the black. “I can’t follow you now.” Thanh drew his last breath as the clock stopped at quarter past midnight. His parents and Sophia were there by the bedside when the doctor turned off his life support. Ba and Ma were grey, faded. They had aged 20 years in the three seconds it took for their son to exhale his last breath. He was dead, but not gone. Thanh floated on the ceiling of the hospital, looking down at his body. So small and skinny. Bushy black hair spilling onto the antiseptic pillow. Ba had gone to get cheap filter coffee from the cafeteria. Ma was on the phone outside to her prayer group, informing them that their daily supplications hadn’t worked and Jesus wouldn’t save her son after all. Only Sophia was in the room. She sat silently by his body, holding his steadily cooling hand tenderly in her own. “Thanh.” He wanted to go down to her, but wasn’t sure how to navigate his new body. It was like a cloud, with his head stuck in the middle. “Thanh.” He concentrated hard, again. Then just like that, he figured it out. By squeezing his thoughts into one, he could pull himself together, sparkle down to his sister in her slightly too-big pink sneakers. The toes stuffed with newspaper. Ma always bought shoes a size too big. She said they’d grow into them. “Am I really dead?” Sophia answered by sniffing and wiping her nose on her sleeve, leaving a sticky snot residue. “Cooooool.” He let out a long whistle. It was pretty neat, if you thought about it. There was a twinge of regret about Jeanna Ting. He would have liked to see her grow up, pictured the dark exotic beauty she would become. Thanh thought, no, was sure that he would have liked to go on a date with Jeanna. Steal a kiss at the end of the night. “You think it’s cool, right?” Sophia didn’t seem to be as excited as he was. Perhaps she was jealous. It would be just like his sister to think that she had some kind of first dibs on being dead. Like how she always thought she was smarter because she was older. She took a deep breath, bent her head down and kissed him with trembling lips. On the forehead. Ba walked in at that moment, carrying a half-empty cup. He regarded the scene in the room, and fumbled with the zip of his blue and white polyester parka. “Phuong.” The name sounded crabby in his mouth, washed-out. Phuong looked up just as Thanh realised he’d lost his train of thought and was weightless, back on the ceiling. His father and sister looked like miniature dolls. “Let’s go home, daughter. We have a funeral to prepare.” My little brother Thanh died just after Tet. The doctors said it was bacterial meningitis, the worst kind, or so I heaard. My parents don’t talk about it much. I guess it’s not the Asian thing to do, to share your feelings nonstop. I know Ma blamed herself for thinking it was the flu at first, and making Thanh drink that stupid herbal mix. Death by bitter tea. The night before he slipped away from us, I had the craziest dream. I was swimming in the ocean at Piha, where we had gone for our last family holiday together the previous spring. My arms cut through the water in long, even strokes. When I looked down at my body, I saw that I was wearing a long white ao dai. The colour of mourning. Little fish were swimming around me in a circle, in all shades of the rainbow. There was light shining on the water. I felt safe and protected, as if nothing could hurt me. I stayed in the sea a long time, my feet treading water, the skin of my fingers and toes pruning like the sour lips of an old woman. In our culture, we choose a new name for those entering the next world. Ma might have converted to Catholicism, but she was traditional at heart. She wouldn’t send her son to the afterlife without a way to go on. Come what may. We thought about it a long time, debating over whether to give him a Vietnamese or western death-name. In the end, I was the one who spoke up. The name itself was crystal clear in my head, as if Thanh himself had whispered it in my ear. “Yogi,” I said. http://www.authors.org.nz/webfiles/NZSocietyofAuthors/files/2012_Winner.pdf

A Thousand Toilet Ladies

A Thousand Toilet Ladies by Wai Ho (2nd Place) “Excuse me! These are the Women's toilets”, she instructs, in that too loud tone that white people use when they're talking to someone coloured, as if the darker your skin colour, the worse your hearing. A part of me wants to say “Solly solly, I no Engrish” and push past her. Instead I say “Yeah, I know”. Her whole stance shifts like a computer screen turning pixels into an image, as she takes another look at this pre-pubescent Chinese boy incorrectly in the Women's loos, and sees an masculine looking Chinese girl in her mid teens instead. “Oh oh, I'm so sorry”, she flusters, breaking my gaze. “It's ok”, I assure. This interaction happens to me on a semi regular basis. The toilet door with a blobby stick person wearing a cape, always a gaunlet through which I'm challenged within every few weeks. “Miriam! Why do you like those Samoan boys?! Ai yah! They are so naughty, and not very good at school”, Mum intones, folding the washing and yelling to the kitchen from the lounge, “And you should concentrate on study, not have boyfriend, you are too young!” I roll my eyes at my sister, just before she huffs out the kitchen not bothering to respond to one of my mother's many commentaries on life. “Mum! You can't say those kinds of things, they're just racist stereotypes. You know all the stuff that gets said about Chinese people; Triads, people smuggling, eating cats and dogs, all drive BMWs and good at maths and table tennis”, I say, setting down a cup of Earl Grey next to her neat piles of washing. “And Miriam is 16 Mum, plenty odd enough”. “Wa? You are good at maths, and we like to play table tennis on Sundays. And why can eat chicken and baby lambs but not dog? Silly gwai lo, dog is like steak”. Mum pauses, blowing on her tea “You know Hannah, when we ate food that was too hot, your Paw Paw would blow air in our mouth to cool it down”. She looks thoughtful, then jumps almost without pause to the previous topic. “No 16 too young for boyfriend! Must study harder. Hannah you know, when you marry, you must marry a white man”, she looks at me pointedly, one arm still within a out-turned cardigan. Miriam pulls a quizzical face at me. She's returned to the conversational hub in the lounge, and is ignoring mum, signalled by white earphones in her ears. I know Mum doesn't notice, but I can see those earphones aren't attached to anything. It's a tactic that works though, maybe I should try it.. “And you!”, she says waving a rumpled pair of pants at my brother, who's behind Mum's clothes towers in the hope she won't see him. “You stop always play video game, that's why you are so stupid. Never study. You go study!”. “But I've nearly got 10 000!”, complains my brother still playing, the tinny videogame music joining his protest. “No need 10, 000, what for? Only silly monkeys jumping on crocodile! Go study now!” she orders, pulling the game from my brother and sitting on it. “Ah ahahhaa Muummmm! You killed me!”, yells Caleb waving his arms. He glares at her before stalking out. The sad muffled mechanical death tune from under my Mum's bum, of a monkey being eaten by a crocodile, affirms his proclaimation. “Yes the white man is better than the Chinese. The Chinese is only think about money! And the white man does not hit their wives”, Mum concludes looking satisfied by the way she's snapping a pillow case flat. Pillow cases conform nicely to her structure of how the world should be, “Arrggh!”, yells my sister and stomps out. I think I should suggest earplugs to her, rather than earphones. “Muuuum”, I groan, “You've been watching too many rom coms. White men hit their wives too, that stuff 's chronic in this country within all ethnicities. And I told you anyway, I'm not getting married. I like girls”. “Hmm”, she grunts, “I don't understand you all. My children are like foreigner”. I'm sitting at small formica table with faded geometric shapes that look like they're hiding from me. I'm with Aunty Ida, who isn't really our Aunty. She's a family friend of our parents, and we've always grown up calling all our parents friends Aunty and Uncle so and so. I'm helping her peel the mountain of potatoes and kumaras that will be turned into the carb component of the quinessential pakeha roast. “You know when we first came here from Penang in the 70's, we didn't know what to expect. I thought about hills and sheep and old English buildings like Cambridge or Oxford. I didn't know what to think when we got here, and we were so shocked when all the shops just closed at five o'clock!”, she says, quartering a large kumara. “And they didn't even open on the weekend. What were we meant to eat late at night?! No shops open, no night markets and food stalls. We came here because we think more civilised and progressive, but then we see all the bland colourless food and think, oh dear”. “Well you must have gotton okay with the food Aunty Ida”, I say, dangling my legs from the plastic stool I'm on, “I mean now you have a takeaway shop that sells roast meals”. “Yes yes yes”, Aunty Ida says chuckling, “First we have Chinese takeaway shop because we think our food is more tasty and the Kiwi will like much more than yellow and brown food. But now we have Roast shop because four item on menu much easier than 75! Hahahaha. Actually, Roast is very good, I can see why Kiwi like”. Us kids are bunched close to each other round the dining table. Dad is pacing and glowering as he reads our report cards. It's like an unhappy family dinner, but without the the dinner. Mum is perched on a stool on the other end of the table, on a muttering monologue about how Kiwi teachers are too nice, and they say a child's work is good even when it's not. “How are they to improve if the teacher will not even tell them their work is bad and they have to do better”, she complains to no one in particular. Miriam looks like she's imitating those painted people who busk on Cuba St, pretending to be statues, then they move suddenly and scare you. Well, they scare little kids, not me. Caleb is making tiny scupltures that look like little pointy curly buildings, out of a blob of blu-tack I tried to stick to one of the ends of his dreadlocks without him knowing. He's actually trying to ignore Dad but I can see it's not working. He squashes his whole city of buildings with a clenched fist everytime Dad says something about him. I'm trying to transport myself somewhere else. I fail, so I switch to imagining dark angry cartoon clouds with lightning strikes, over Dad's head. Then comic symbols in a thought bubble, for the swear words he's probably thinking about, upon reading my brothers report card. I offered to change the grades for him using those scratch-on letters you can get from the stationary shop. I doctored many of my friend's School Certificate results to save them from the hidings they'd have gotton otherwise. Works a dream, no one suspects. But my brother thinks it's silly that we're expected to get all A's, when B's are fine. I think so too, but then I did get all A's. “We came here to give you a better life, a better chance, more opportunities,” yells my Dad waving the report card in my brother's face. “And what do you do?!”. I'm about to point out that what my Dad has just asked is a “rhetorical question” : one that isn't really meant to be answered, but is stated moreso to make a point. We learnt that in English last week. But then I think now is probably not the best time. “You waste your time skating and drawing pictures. Pictures!!!”. Dad pauses and stomps round in a semicircle a few times, then stops, planting himself over my brother. “You must study hard, SLAP, get good grades so you can get into university and get a good job. SLAP The Kiwi can waste their time, SLAP draw pictures, SLAP play at each other house, SLAP party all weekend. SLAP You cannot! SLAP SLAP SLAP We are Chinese! we must work harder than them to get the same opportunities!”, Dad yells, punctuating each sentence on my brother's head. Caleb holds himself stiffly trying to ignore the slaps, then shudders, like a dog's pelt when you lightly tickle just one of its hairs. He forcefully stands, his chair toppling backward, and shoves Dad away from us. The blinds make an agitated metallic declaration as Dad flounders onto them. The room inhales into itself and freezes. The colours ping off each other, and the straight lines seem almost too sharp, cutting your eyes. Tense and alert, almost anticipating the reign of rage that will unleash from Dad at my brothers physical defiance. Growth spurts must happen suddenly, as Caleb is now the same height as Dad. I can see my brothers fists clenched as tighly as the words that spit out his mouth, “I don't even want to go to university! That's what you've always wanted. And we're not even really Chinese! We were born here, unlike yous!” Miriam is curled into herself like a shell sitting on the edge of a table, sobbing softly. I put my arm around her, shielding her from the prickliness of Dad's angry hands and shouty eyes. My brother storms out, a vibrating ball of barely controlled fury. Words thump noisily through my arteries, past my ears, and choke making lumps in my throat. “It's different now Dad, we don't just have to make money. We can choose do other stuff. You're suffocating us with your Chinese rules”, I tell the floor. “You say you came here to give us opportunities, but you just want us to make us do whatever you want” , I finish quietly, not meeting his angrily confused eyes. “And you can't hit kids in New Zealand anymore, it's illegal!”, shoots my sister, as quickly as she hunches back into her shell like a poked snail. The blinds are playing a discordant harmony with the furious hum of thick silence. Dad looks strangely about to implode, and at the same time, deflated like a saggy wrinkly balloon. Mum is looking pinched and quiet. The blinds finish their crude song and I take my sister's coiled hand, slowly shuffling her out the room with me. My parents ascending tirade in duet starts up and follows us out, “No respect for elders.. learning bad habits from the Kiwi children... no discipline, teachers should be allowed to hit pupils, too relax, must follow Chinese tradition”. Nothing we all haven't heard so many times before. I pull back the hood of my hoodie as I step inside to a spicy fragrant warmth. Pad Thai, Bee Bung or Pho, so many choices. I see the lady from the toilets. two people ahead of me at the counter. Bah, why does she have to be here. Usually only Asians come here. The hot butch girl, the whole reason I always come to this place even though it's further from the bus stop, saunters out from the kitchen and takes over from the guy at the counter. She has this cute kinda bowlcut, but in an edgey ironic way. And she's real big and solid, strong looking, like she could wrestle bears. If people wrestled bears. This time I really am going to talk to her, not just order my meal. The toilet lady is taking ages.“D o e s t h i s d i s h h a v e M S G ”, she enunciates slowly and loudly, while gesturing wildly at a shiny picture on the menu. “No MSG”, says Hot Butch Girl, cutting the words with her dismissive smirk. “You know you really should have these menus in English”, Toilet Lady says, arching an eyebrow condescendingly, “After all, you are here in New Zealand”. “The English menu's on the otherside”, Hot Butch Girl says, taking the menu from her and turning it over. “And seeing we are in Aotearoa New Zealand”, Hot Butch Girl continues, firmly holding Toilet Lady's nolonger- arched gaze “Exactly how fluent is your Te Reo Maori”. A number of things quickly happen after the language shoot-off. The older guy bustles out the front, rapidfires a bunch of words and arm waves at Hot Butch Girl scolding her, who then, chastened, stalks into the kitchen. And all while Toilet Lady is doing huffing and blowing, and waving her arms too, not like Older Shop Guy was, but kind of like if you were doing a very gentle and timid chicken dance. That kind of arm waving. Toilet Lady orders a beef Pho. I order a Bee Bung from Older Shop Guy, double checking as I always do, that there won't be any coriander in it. Our meals arrive quickly as usual. Steaming happily in their colourful plastic bowls. Toilet Lady is looking around for the soy sauce that is usually on the table along with the chillis and other condiments. I have been trying to be nicer to old people, so I reach over and give her mine. “Oh, thank you”, she says, her smile crinkling her eye corners. “What a polite young man”, she tells the soy sauce being sprinkled into her broth, and glaring in the direction of the kitchen. Toilet Lady doesn't recognise me from earlier. She probably thinks all Asians look the same. I suppose that's kinda ok in a way, I know my Mum thinks lots of white people look the same and can't really tell them apart. Or maybe it's an old people thing, maybe they just stop noticing stuff. I've finished my Bee Bung and am reading, when a voice says to me, “Why don't you like coriander?” It's Hot Butch Girl. I put down my book, but it catches the spoon sticking out of my empty bowl, which then caterpaults out and knocks over the chilli sauce. I flounder around setting things back up while she watches and tries not to laugh. I decide to pretend that wee slapstick incident just didn't happen. “I've never liked it, makes me gag. My dad and brother can't eat it either. I mean I wish I liked it, people seem to like it.” I realise I'm rambling so I stop. It's nerve-wracking trying to think of cool things to say. I can't think of anything. “What are you reading?” she asks, looking at the chilli sauce offending item. “Sandman. I'm up to book three and there's ten I think. Though I think Neil Gaiman is working on a prequel.” She picks it up looking at the pictures. People call them comics because they have pictures but they're actually graphic novels. I take the opportunity to look at her. White plastic smiling crossbones dangle from her ears, and I like how her T-shirt stretches across her shoulders. “Hey I liked what you said to that lady. I wish I could think of quick things to say”. “Yeah, you get a bit of that working here”. The awkward pauses between us. “I better get back to work”, she says glancing over at the kitchen “Before Uncle has another go at me”. “Oh, yeah, choice. Um.. Hey I could lend you the first Sandman if you wanted to read them, they're really cool”. She stops and looks at me, for a few more seconds than people usually look at people. She makes it hard for thoughts to get to my brain. “Sure”, she smiles, “Bring it next time, I usually finish at 9 if you wanted to get a bubble tea somewhere after”. “Oh, ah, yeah cool, that would be awesome”, I tell the apron knot on the back of her waist as she walks away. She waves over her shoulder without turning round. I place my book carefully back into my bag and head out into the raucous weather. The door tinkles shut behind me. People are huddled like shuffling rocks waiting for the bus. A giant grin is plastered over my face even as the wind tries to take my hood off. I don't even care if a thousand toilet ladies think I'm a boy. http://www.authors.org.nz/webfiles/NZSocietyofAuthors/files/2nd_place_2012.pdf

The Red Cardigan

The Red Cardigan by Lee Murray The Red Cardigan Things with Rawiri are getting serious, so I drive out to Lower Hutt to talk to my grandmother. I should’ve rung first, because when I get there Por Por is out - taken the unit to Petone to pick up some wool for her latest knitting project. Only my aunt is home, watching her favourite soaps and eating peanuts. She can’t help me. At 62, I doubt she knows the first thing about men. Worse, she’s in one of her belligerent moods. Katy Yee has been menopausal for the past two decades. I decide to wait anyway and make a pot of tea. From the kitchen bench, I see Katy Yee switch the My Sky to RECORD. Then, carrying her peanuts in a green plastic bowl, she waddles through to join me. ‘If there was a war between New Zealand and China,’ she says, as she manoeuvres herself into the window seat behind the kitchen table, ‘which side would you choose?’ I bristle. She’s being a cow, as usual. She knows I can’t answer that. Whatever I say will be wrong. She pulls the bowl closer and goes on cracking her peanuts, waiting all who-me and innocent for my answer. ‘Which side? New Zealand or China?’ she prompts, popping another nut. She rolls it to the back of her mouth. It cracks when she bites down. ‘The winning side,’ I say, passing her tea across the table. This isn’t the answer she wants, so it annoys her. ‘No, no! You have to choose.’ ‘I can’t.’ The Red Cardigan, Lee Murray 3 ‘You have to!’ Katy Yee insists. ‘There’ll never be a war,’ I say. ‘We’d be crazy to get into a fight with China. There are over a billion people there.’ Katy Yee brushes stray bits of peanut shell off the table into her hand. ‘Yes, but if there was a war. What then? Who would you choose? Would you pick New Zealand or China?’ Any side you’re not on. I hate these kinds of arguments. ‘Let me think about it a bit,’ I say. I get up and rinse my cup, leaving it on the dish rack to dry. Then, I step into the hall. ‘Wei-Ling? Where are you going?’ Not Wendy, but Wei-Ling: my Chinese name. ‘Chee-saw,’ I reply, but I don’t go to the toilet. Instead, I go outside, get into my car and drive away. Better to glare at the road. It’s not that I don’t like the occasional good fight. I do. I’m an occupational therapist: there’s always someone worse off to go into bat for. But Katy Yee’s question was purely rhetorical. As far as my aunt is concerned, there is only one right answer. I’m half-Chinese and when you are Chinese, even the tiniest titre, you are always Chinese first. It’s like the other day. I’m at the fruit-shop, standing at the counter while the fruit-shop lady passes my purchases over the scanner. Inside the paper bag, my apples tumble about, getting bruised. I’m digging for the change in the bottom of my purse when the fruit-shop lady asks: ‘So where are you from?’ ‘From here.’ She looks puzzled. The Red Cardigan, Lee Murray 4 ‘Where?’ ‘Here,’ I say. ‘Wellington.’ The woman scowls now, as if I’m being deliberately obtuse. ‘Yes, but where were you from before?’ I hold out the change, impatient. A week doesn’t go by where someone doesn’t take a look at my flattened nose and the colour of my hair and ask me where I’m from. I stifle an urge to say, ‘Solly, me no speakee English.’ Geez! I should be used to it. In the seventies when I was growing up, my brothers and I were the only Chinese kids at our primary school, so we took a fair bit of ribbing: ‘Hey, you wanna Chinese burn?’ ‘You know Bruce Lee? Yeah, well you better look out aye, ‘cause I’m the Boss!’ ‘Ching-chong chinaman sitting on a rock, along came a nigger and shot him in the cock!’ That one always got a laugh. There’re extra points in it if you can insult two racial groups in a single sentence. And then there’d be someone who’d pretend to be blind like Master Po, who’d stare at me all glassy-eyed and say: ‘Ahh Grasshopper, how is it that you do not see?’ The thing is, people look at me and all they see is this short Chinese woman. Yet on my mother’s side, the Chinese side, I’m a third-generation New Zealander, and on my Dad’s side the family got here even earlier, in the late 1700s. That’s a pretty good Kiwi pedigree. I was your regular Weet-bix kid, raised on fish and chips and L&P. Spending half my life shoeless and wearing boardies. I know about players not The Red Cardigan, Lee Murray 5 releasing the ball, and the off-side rule. Hell, I can even sing the national anthem in Māori. ‘I’m from here. New Zealand,’ I spit back at the fruit shop lady. That accent, I wonder where she’s from and how long she’s been here? Less than five minutes, I shouldn’t wonder. Straight off the bloody boat. Disgusted, I grab my bruised apples and leave. Fruit shops feature largely in the family history. Not surprising really, since by the time my grandfather got here in the early 1940s, Southland’s gold fields had been pretty picked over. My grandfather opened his first fruit shop in Christchurch, got his brother out from China to help him, and for a time the pair of them lived in a shed at the back of the shop. Later, when he’d moved to Wellington and opened a second, bigger fruit shop, my grandfather sent home for a wife, who came out to join him. The brothers are both gone now. Of that generation, only my Por Por is left, and she’s nearly ninety. I don’t go straight home. Instead, I drive around for a while, cooling off, thinking of all the things I wish I’d said to my aunt. I’m no good at thinking on my feet. If the perfect come-back line occurs to me, it’s always hours later. Of course, I’d never have the balls to say anything. Too much Chinese in me. All that respect for your elders crap drilled into us as kids. New Zealand is a meritorious society, but only if your mother isn’t Chinese. In the afternoon, I weed my vegetable patch and dream of Rawiri and me. I turn the soil, breathing in its masculine scent, admiring the curvature of my spade as it The Red Cardigan, Lee Murray 6 slips into the earth. The feathered carrot tops tickle my legs as I pass though the rows, making me laugh. For a time, the regular thud of my spade penetrates the soft drone of the motorway in the distance. My cabbages are almost ready to harvest, their globes of pale green like boulders in a river. I spray them with the hose, leaving a trail of moisture beads. Just before I put my tools away, I turn over an outer stem to discover a lumpy caterpillar hidden in the crevice. Lucky I found him: he’s almost invisible, but by tomorrow, he could’ve devoured the whole cabbage. Later on, Rawiri picks me up in his ute and we head out to his parents’ house in Porirua. Rawiri’s cousin, Julie, just graduated as a nurse so the family is having a party to celebrate. Apart from his mother, who was once my patient, I haven’t met any of Rawiri’s family. I’m like a gawky teenager on a first date. My hands are sweaty. I wipe them on my jeans. Judging from the cars parked on either side of the street, the party is already in full swing. The house is a fifties state house: the rare two-storied sort. I notice the paintwork on the weatherboards is fresh. A bunch of kids’ toys are tidied away to a corner of the yard. We’re met at the door by a thin man with a hooked nose. Rawiri claps him on the back. ‘This is my girlfriend, Wendy. She’s Chinese. New Zealand-born. Wendy’s grandfather was a military strategist for Chang-Kai Chek. Wendy, this is my uncle Angus. My father’s adopted brother. They fished the Kaituna River up at Maketū together as boys. He’s a pretty good fisherman, but not as good as me.’ The Red Cardigan, Lee Murray 7 ‘Nice to meet you Wendy,’ Angus says, taking my coat and hanging it over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Don’t you listen to this cheeky so-and-so, will you? No way, he fishes better than me.’ They’re still laughing when a woman, the same blocky build as Rawiri, rushes at him from the other end of the hall. ‘Vania!’ ‘Hey, you made it!’ She gives his nose a tweak with her fingers. He pushes her away, laughing. ‘Yeah, ‘course. So where’s our graduate?’ ‘My sister - the nurse - is in the kitchen stuffing her face. You’d think nurses would know something about cholesterol, wouldn’t you?’ ‘This is Wendy.’ ‘Hello Wendy. Where are you from?’ I don’t believe it! ‘Here.’ ‘Actually, Wendy’s from Taupō originally,’ Rawiri says. ‘Went to school there, didn’t you Wendy?’ I raise my eyebrows, say nothing. Rawiri goes on. ‘She went to Mount View. Near Tauhara.’ ‘Yeah?’ Vania says. ’You must know the Loughlins? They’re from up there.’ ‘No, sorry I don’t.’ Her face drops. Uncle Angus, still hovering near the door, says. ‘You’re from Taupō? What about the Otenes? Do you know them? Barney and Carole?’ I shake my head. ‘Sorry.’ There’s a shout from upstairs. The Red Cardigan, Lee Murray 8 ‘Hey, Aunty Vania! Darren’s locked himself in the toilet. He won’t come out and I’m bursting!’ Vania and Angus excuse themselves to sort out what’s going on upstairs. When they’re out of earshot, I turn to Rawiri. ‘Why do you always do that?’ I hiss. ‘Do what?’ ‘Introduce me like that. Like you have to make up an entire family tree for me. Hey, meet Wendy, she’s Chinese, but it’s okay because she was born here and guess what, she’s got some famous ancestors. It’s like you have to make a special exception for me.’ ‘Is that what you think?’ ‘No, that’s what you think.’ He drops his voice. ‘Don’t be like that, Wendy, please.’ His lifts his hand to touch my cheek, but I jerk away. ‘Like what? Chinese?’ ‘You’re over-reacting. It’s just our way. You’re my girlfriend, Wendy.’ I nod as if I get it, but I don’t. I feel out of place. Foreign. I slide my coat back off the newel post. Maybe I can slip away later. I’ll walk into town. Get a taxi back to my place. But Rawiri must sense I’m about to make a run for it, because he places his hand in the small of my back and guides me away from the front door, into the living room. The furniture is pushed back to the walls, and the room is heaving with people in various permutations of the chicken dance. We stand together at the edge of the chaos, Rawiri rubbing his thumb over mine, not letting me go. Suddenly, someone The Red Cardigan, Lee Murray 9 starts a chain. There’s a flurry of jostling and shouting. The little ones run to get on the end. Arms reach out, beckoning to anyone not already in line. ‘Come on, Rawiri! Bring your girlfriend! Join in.’ As the line moves past us, a smiling girl grabs me around the waist. My coat is hiffed into a corner. There’s no getting away now, as I’m pulled into the heart of that twisting twirling taniwha. At the front of the beast, like the Pied Piper, Rawiri wends his way through downstairs rooms, a stream of lively whanau following along behind. The next day, Sunday, Por Por phones me. ‘I hear you come to see me, but I not here,’ she says. ‘Yes.’ ‘I here now.’ So I drive out to Lower Hutt again. When I arrive, my aunt glowers at me. Probably miffed that I declined to answer yesterday’s groundbreaking survey. ‘Katy, do the washing, please,’ my grandmother says. Obedient, Katy Yee goes off to do it. She might be the world’s oldest, crankiest virgin, but she’s still a dutiful daughter. I sit on the floor at Por Por’s feet, while she takes up her knitting, already halfway through the back of what will eventually be a tiny red cardigan. She raises her arms slightly, holding up her handicraft for inspection. ‘Cardee-aa,’ she says, putting her Cantonese intonation onto the end of the word. ‘For friend baby,’ she says. She drops her arms again. ‘So what the matter you?’ ‘There’s nothing the matter. Not really.’ The Red Cardigan, Lee Murray 10 My grandmother purses her lips and continues her knitting, the clink of her needles marking time. After a while, we hear the back door open and the crackle of the wicker basket as Katy Yee steps out the back to hang out the washing. Por Por stops her knitting, the needle halfway into the foxhole, and waits for me to speak first. ‘It’s Rawiri,’ I say. ‘Ra-willie?’ she says. ‘The one I see from your work? Come hospital visit his mother?’ ‘Yeah, him.’ ‘Yep,’ Por Por says, her dark eyes twinkling. ‘That one, big trouble.’ She’s making a joke. Rawiri weighs about 130kg. He makes Ma’a Nonu look skinny. ‘It’s getting serious between us.’ You think she’d be like other grannies, drooling in delight, already planning the names she’ll give our future babies. But no, she sits quietly, holding the beginnings of a cardigan in her bony fingers. Then, tilting her head, she asks, ‘You scared after last one?’ She means my marriage to Craig. It didn’t work out. We were young and stupid and we argued a lot. Two years in, he started staying out late after work, which made us argue more. In the end, we split over cultural differences: his allowed cheating on your wife, and mine didn’t. I’m over it now, but it hurt at the time. ‘It’s not that.’ ‘Hmm,’ she says, tapping one of the needles against her teeth. ‘This Ra-Willie, he nice man?’ The Red Cardigan, Lee Murray 11 I nod. ‘Good job?’ ‘Uhuh.’ ‘Nice body aye?’ ‘Por Por!’ She gives a naughty giggle. ‘Okay. I serious now. What matter?’ ‘He’s Māori.’ ‘Aah,’ she breathes. She nods knowingly. ‘Same-same.’ I sigh in relief, feeling the tension in my shoulders dropping away. It’s not that I’m racist. I swear, it’s not like that. I work for the District Health Board. You can’t go two steps in any direction there without coming face-to-face with the Treaty of Waitangi plastered on the wall. I know all about cultural sensitivity. The thing is, if you have the smallest drop of Chinese in you, you’re Chinese. But Māori: sometimes they’re even more Māori than Chinese people are Chinese. I tell her about the party. ‘Hmm,’ my grandmother says. She slides her knitting into the basket beside me. Then she turns to me and places her hand on my head. ‘Let me tell you story, Wei-Ling,’ she says. I lean over and put my head in her lap, the way I always do when she has something special to tell me. The empty washing basket on her hip, Katy Yee passes in the doorway, but then my hair falls over my face and I can’t see her anymore. A moment later the television goes on down the hall. Por Por smoothes the wisps back behind my ear, waiting patiently while I wiggle myself comfortable before beginning her story. The Red Cardigan, Lee Murray 12 It’s a tale from just two weeks ago. In her staccato English, Por Por tells me about a Chinese bakery newly-opened in Lower Hutt, one selling loaves of soft sweet white bread, so light that it bounces back when you squeeze it between your fingers. The Good Luck Bakery, it’s called. Following the scent of almonds and a display of bean curd cakes wrapped in coloured paper, Por Por steps into the store. At the rear, behind the counter, a fat-cheeked baby plays in his high chair. Already he is the boss here, banging his cup against the platter. His mother is younger than I am: in her early thirties. Tired lines around her eyes suggest the cheeky baby is the boss at home, too. Drying her hands on her apron, she calls to her husband. ‘There’s a customer.’ Immediately recognising the rise and fall of her own mother’s tongue, my Por Por orders herself a fresh bean cake in that language. In Hakka. ‘Yuiet baeng, m’goiy.’ The woman’s eyes widen. ‘Come quickly!’ she cries. ‘Come!’ Her husband, his arms dusted in flour, comes running from the back of the bake-house. ‘What is it?’ he says. His wife points at my grandmother, who is munching on her bean cake. ‘She’s one of us.’ They close the store for an hour. Make tea. Tell stories. My grandmother bounces the baby on her knee, sharing cake crumbs with him. I sit up and brush my hair out of my face. The Red Cardigan, Lee Murray 13 ‘They closed the store just because you speak Hakka? But heaps of people speak Hakka.’ ‘Not so many here.’ We’re quiet for a bit, both reminded of the time after the war, when Por Por took Katy Yee and returned to China, where they scoured the Wai-Yeung province looking for her family. My mother says they were gone for a year, searching. Eight brothers and two sisters, all gone. No cousins. No aunties. They found no one. I imagine the pair of them going from place to place, knocking at doors, politely asking people where they came from, asking about grandfathers and uncles and brothers, about wives and cousins and school friends, looking for any small connection, desperate for a clue to the whereabouts of her family. Por Por leans over and pretends to be busy rummaging around in her knitting bag. I take her hand in mine, suddenly surprised by its papery texture and the spidery veins I find there. ‘So you agree with Rawiri then? That I’m over-reacting?’ Por Por shakes her head. ‘Why you always look for reason, Wei-Ling? It just a story,’ my grandmother says. She smiles. ‘You make some tea?’ Then, taking up her knitting needles again, she winds the lucky red wool around her index finger. I watch for a moment as she carries the strand over the needle, making a new stitch, one loop woven into the next. The familiar chatter of her needles follows me through into the kitchen. (ENDS 3066) http://www.authors.org.nz/webfiles/NZSocietyofAuthors/files/The_Red_Cardigan.pdf

The story of New Zealand's first naturalised Chinese migrant

The story of New Zealand's first naturalised Chinese migrant - Karen Slade Karen is a Nelson history writer with nearly 30 years' experience working in newspapers, radio, journalism training and freelance writing. She is a trained journalist who, since 2002, indulged her love of history and concentrated on researching and writing local history. In April 2012 she launched three hard cover volumes of a commissioned family history, her research taking her back to 18th century Scotland and the reasons for the family's migration to New Zealand in the early 20th century. In February 2010, Appo Hocton, New Zealand's First Chinese Immigrant, Nelson 1842-1920, was launched at The Nelson Provincial Museum. During 2008 and 2009 she researched and wrote local history stories for the top of the south history website, The Prow (www.theprow.org.nz)

PRETTY MUCH

PRETTY MUCH By Matthew Ng-Wai Shing I didn’t feel clean. Who doesn’t feel clean after spending freaking 10 minutes in the shower? Most girls probably. What a waste of time those girls are, spending 8 hours a day in the bathroom or whatever. How fussy do they think we are? Sure Lucy was all done up last night. But 8 hours of make up or not, I would have still gone down on her. She’s a slammin’ hottie. My bed was still a mess. I looked down on the storm of sheets as I pulled on clothes. Boxers, trackpants, t-shirt, hoodie. I guess I should probably clean them now – the sheets that is – but how? No way was I gonna use the washer mum gave us. Not for these. She’d ball her eyes out if she knew I’d filthied her second best washing machine with the dead skin cells of a white girl. I don’t know why but I get guilty as sometimes. It’s the craziest thing. Last week, the bus driver gave me too much change. It was only like 30 cents or something. I spent the whole bus ride anxious as. In the end, I was too embarrassed to give it back, so I just left it on the seat for some idiot to find like it was fucking Christmas. How the hell was I gonna get this stuff clean? There were a couple of laundromats around the place. Or maybe I could get it done at Jinny’s mum’s place. God I was hungry. I can’t think to save myself when I’m hungry. I went back into the kitchen hoping to find some food for thought. Liam was still slouched over the dining table, totally submerged in his iPad. “Jackie Chan,” he spouted as I headed to the pantry. Wow, he must have seen my reflection. “Man, are you kidding me? It was like the first one we said.” “Oh yeah.” All morning we’d been trying to think of famous Asian dudes who had got with white girls. But we gave up after Tiger Woods. Now we were just trying to name famous Asian guys. So far we had Jackie Chan, Bruce Lee, Jet Li, Jeremy Lin and that guy from Glee who just dances. “Where’s Jinny?” “On the phone with her mum.” He pointed down the stairs towards a bubbling of Chinese I hadn’t noticed before. Shit, I didn’t know she spoke Chinese. “Shit, I didn’t know she spoke Chinese.” “Yep, and it’s fucking annoying. Speaking of which…” The babble of Chinese got closer and a short Asian girl with long dyed hair appeared at the top of the stairs. The broken stream of Chinese stopped; Jinny swivelled the phone away from her mouth to speak. “Honey?” “What.” Liam took a couple of pokes at the screen to pause it. “How about Genghis Khan?” “Oh yeah he totally counts, that guy was a boss.” I intercepted. “What?” She shot me her confused face. “She’s talking about dinner fuckwit.” Oh. That Genghis Khan. “So?” She pressed. Liam replied with a shrug. She turned to me. “What do you think Nath?” Genghis Khan huh. Man, that guy probably got gangs of chicks. I bet you a million bucks he was a dick in real life though. People like that always are. You can’t have that much shit without being some incredible asshole. Liam gave his screen another poke. “Who’s going?” I asked. “Family dinner.” “Yours or his?” Tilting my head at the re-submerged Liam. “Mine.” “Definitely no. That place is a scam for white people. Like when they serve sweet and sour pork at yum cha.” It really was. “Star Café it is then. I’ll get mum to book for six-thirty ok? And please don’t wear a singlet this time Liam.” Without another peep she turned on the Chinese again and marched back downstairs. Liam was far too engrossed in a video of some kid microwaving an orange to say anything back. I went to the pantry to get food. I was crazy hungry after all that, but there was pretty much nothing on my shelf so I stole a Shrewsbury from Liam’s. He’d never know. I’m a cat-burglar when it comes to stealing biscuits. Mum used to plant stale ones on the top so we’d eat them first, or hid the good chocolate ones in a Tupperware container behind the rice. I learnt to be sneakier. I went back to my room. It was still a trash hole. And I really needed to clean my sheets. You know, I never clean my sheets automatically. And when I say automatically, I don’t mean that I don’t use a washing machine – it’s not the fucking dark ages. I mean like, ever since I’ve started doing my own washing, I’ve always had to remind myself to do it, otherwise I just forget. It’s tragic. Damn, I totally forgot to ask Jinny about washing them at her place. Lucky I had gangs of free minutes left. I got out my crappy brick phone and dialled her. “Hey, what’s up?” “You off the phone?” “Yeah, do you want it?” “Nah, just checking. Hey, are you going back to your mum’s today?” “Not until dinner. Why?” “Oh, I, uh, was wondering if I could do some washing over there, maybe.” “Nah, it’ll be dark by the time I’m there. What’s wrong with the machine your mum got us?” “Nothing. I just don’t feel like it.” “Oh ok. Random.” “Yeah.” “Is that it?” “Yeah.” “Ok, bye.” The phone beeped as she hung up. Damn. I couldn’t use mum’s washer, I really couldn’t. I’d never be able to look at her straight again. Goddamn I’m stubborn sometimes. I guess it’s going to have to be the fucking laundromat. I head-butted my duvet onto the floor, separating it from the top sheet. The bottom sheet was one of those elastic ones so I had to go around and peel back the corners before it unhooked from the mattress properly. I grabbed a rubbish bag from the kitchen and threw my sheets inside, along with whatever was in my washing basket. I didn’t wanna look like some hobo walking down the street, so I stuffed the black rubbish sack inside my Nike gym bag. Once I had got out onto the driveway, I had to work out which one to go to. There were gangs of laundromats around my place. You can always tell how poor a place is by the number of laundromats around. Or the number of fish and chip shops. Man, if you studied it enough, I bet you could work out the price of a house just from the number of fish and chip shops around. You’d probably make the news. The closest laundromat was probably the one by the motorway. But the one at the roundabout had a bakery on the way so it was really a no-brainer. I was about halfway to the bakery when I felt a gang of zizzes in my pocket. I had to switch the bag over to my left hand to check the text. It was good because my right arm was starting to get secretly tired. You won’t believe me, but sheets are heavy as. It was a text from Lucy. Would you look at that. I must be really good in the sack or something. Hey hun hows ur morning goin? C u 2nyt? Xoxo Since when were we hunning each other? I put my phone back in my pocket. This is my secret trick for texting girls. Never text them back straight away. If you make them wait a little bit they’ll start missing you like shit. I didn’t even know if I wanted to see her again tonight. I mean I did, but I’d probably be in trouble if she became anything. My laundry bag had switched hands at least 4 more times by the time I reached the bakery. All this walking in the sun was starting to make me feel sticky and gross. The bakery was sitting directly across the road from a primary school and right next to a fish and chip shop. I saw a gang of chubby brown kids playing coin rugby in the shop window as I walked past. Bastards never had a chance. I could hear a loud banging noise coming from the bakery. It sounded like my Por Por cutting up boiled chicken with her massive cleaver. The sound got louder as I stepped through the string of coloured ribbons that hung in the doorway. A little Chinese boy was standing at the back of the stuffy little shop. He was watching his dad kneading the shit out of a gang of dough. The dad was short, with a white oil-spoiled cap, an itchy looking moustache and a complexion somewhere between pie crust and donut. He was wearing an old, filthy looking navy polar fleece, speckled with all kinds of wonderful shit. Good thing he had gloves on. “Can I howp you?” I got out my wallet. Ten bucks. Better make it count. “G’day mate, can I get a mince and cheese pie, a passionfruit donut, and a pizza bread.” “Any drinks for you?” “No thanks.” I never buy drinks. They’re always so expensive and packed with sugar and shit. And people who buy bottled water are just dumb. I swear to god that every time I see someone buy a bottle of water I die a little bit. “Where you from?” He asked as he pulled my pie from the warmer. God, I hate that question. It’s like, if I tell him I was born here, he’s gonna ask where my ancestors are from or something. But if I say I’m Chinese he’ll go on about how I don’t sound Chinese and all. “Oh, I live just up the road.” “No, where are your parents from?” Fucking hell. I really couldn’t be bothered with this routine. I don’t wanna be disrespectful or anything, but when you’re like me, you’ve had this conversation with a million other idiots. Sometimes you want to go and explain it all to people, but sometimes you just want to go and eat your pie. “Sorry, I’m in a bit of a hurry.” I gave him the best smile I could find. I felt kinda bad for him. The guy was fobby as hell. Goong Goong and Por Por would have been in the same boat when they opened up their fish and chip shop. That kid in the back didn’t know how good he had it, even though he was probably still getting teased a gangload at school. He rang up my stuff on the till. $2.80 – pie. $1.20 – passionfruit donut. Fuck yes. $2.00 – pizza bread. $6.00. Sweet. “Oh, can I also get a giant cookie?” It was a bargain at a dollar. He slipped one into a brown paper bag. “Thanks.” I put my note on the counter and slipped the change into my pocket. “You have very nice day” he smiled. “Cheers mate, have a good one.” I loved wishing people to have a good one. The coloured ribbons washed over me as I went out. The bread thumping started up again, but I didn’t really notice: I was far too focussed on Operation Breakfast Slash Lunch. The roundabout wasn’t too far away now, which was good because my shoulders were slaying me. I skipped across the road so I could walk in the shade of the trees from a golf course that stretched out on that side of the street. The sick thing was that all the houses on the other side of the road were all kind of shit. On one side sits this flash as golf course with brushstrokes of grass, manmade lakes and water fountains. And on the other side lies a gang of tired houses with unkempt lawns and beat up letterboxes. Imagine waking up in the morning, looking across your raggedy as lawn and seeing gangs of old white people strolling through paradise and smacking the shit out of little white balls everywhere. It was enough to break your heart. The pie, donut and half of the pizza bread was history by the time I got to the roundabout, which was absolutely flocked with people. They were all piling into the second hand clothes shop next to the laundromat. There must have been a sale on or something. A board underneath the shop sign read: CLOTHES – CURTAINS – SHEETS – SHOES – $2/kg No way. They were selling clothes by the kilo? Man, that’s cheaper than apples. People were just pulling shit out of mountains of clothes and tossing them on the ground like trash. It was total anarchy. I dragged past, staring like I was at the zoo. I would have stayed longer if I wasn’t feeling so gross from all the walking. Although my shoulders probably would have given up if I had waited any longer before stepping inside the laundromat. An electronic bell announced my intrusion. We used to love going in and out of shop doors when I was a kid. If you didn’t make the buzz go, you were invisible. The place was about the size of a classroom, lined with massive washing machines and dryers. You could see the clothes spinning round and round like wheels on a train, humming away noisily. People had placed their empty plastic baskets outside them to make sure no one else got confused and took their shit. A pair of Polynesian mums were folding their dried stuff on a table in the middle. A Maori lady had commandeered three consecutive heavy duty 22kg machines. She was sorting several rubbish bags of clothes into the three holes with the same efficiency and concentration I had exercised during lunch. The place reeked of steam and clean clothes. I went up to the wiry Indian guy behind the counter. His son was playing with a vacuum cleaner behind him. “What do you want?” “Uh, can I wash my clothes please?” I showed him the rubbish bag I had concealed in my gym bag. “I haven’t been here before.” I added. I always sound like a fucking idiot when I talk to strangers. I have no idea why. “Take number six.” He pointed at one of the smaller machines that no one was using. “Ok, sweet.” “Three dollars.” “Oh, right.” I fished the coins out of my pocket. Three bucks. Perfect change. It was my lucky day. He walked me over to the machine. “Put your clothes here.” He pointed to the hole in the front, before pulling out a small plastic drawer above it. “Put your powder here.” Powder? Shit, I had totally forgotten about powder. “Uh, I don’t have any.” “We have plenty of range here. 90 cents each.” Fuck. I didn’t have any cash left. I knew I’d regret getting that fucking cookie. How am I supposed to wash my sheets if I don’t even have washing stuff for it! Shit, it was way too far to go all the way back home to get some. I was thinking so loud I almost didn’t hear the waifish voice behind me. “I have.” I turned around to find a fragment of a lady, wrinkled like a roast kumara, holding out a Signature Range ice cream container full of white washing powder. “Oh, thank you. That would be awesome.” Another fucking luck out. I should go buy a lotto ticket. And I should get her one too. Except you need money for that. I piled my sheets in, caked with last night’s grime. Ugh. The Indian guy put some special coin in the machine and got it going. “You stay here. 30 minutes ok.” I couldn’t tell if it was a question or not from his accent, so I just nodded. I took a perch by the entrance, next to the lovely grandma who had bailed me out. “Hey, thanks a lot.” “It’s ok, it’s ok,” she smiled. Are you hungry? I’ve got this cookie if you want. “Nah!” She wobbled her head. “Too hard for my teeth.” She pulled back her lips like a chimp to reveal a checker board of silver fillings, tapping on them with her long ivory fingernail. “See?” I laughed. I couldn’t handle it, I really couldn’t. At that moment, it was probably the funniest thing in the world. Her lips moved back into a toothy grin as she leaned back on her chair. I watched a gang of clothes churn round in the machine behind her. For some reason it made me think about molecules, like the ones you see on washing powder ads. Tiny little blue and white balls, kicking out all the evil green ones that are festering in the fabric. Where were all the green balls supposed to go? They obviously can’t go back to where they came from. I suppose they get flushed down into the sewer, pop out at some beach, and poison a dolphin or something. Some of the lucky ones probably manage to cling onto some other poor piece of fabric and resettle, meet a particularly nasty female green ball and make lots of evil green ball babies. And nothing is really properly clean ever again. But what does clean mean anyway? I know me and mum have very different interpretations of the word clean. I guess about 30 minutes later, the wiry Indian guy came up to us. “Washing’s done,” he said, looking at me. “You want dry?” I would’ve loved to, but I was out of coin. And no way was I letting my new friend shout me. “Nah, I’ll just hang it out.” “Ok then. Have a nice day.” “Cheers.” I got up and piled my sheets back into the rubbish bag, which was then potted into my gym bag. I picked out the eyes of the old lady as I headed to the door. I gave her a wave goodbye and got a toothy smile and a hand wobble in return. The walk back wasn’t nearly as hard as I’d feared. In fact, the sheets seemed to be even lighter than before which I know from physics can’t be true. But that’s what it felt like. Maybe it was because I was going downhill. Actually, the strangest thing was that I didn’t feel dirty anymore. You won’t believe me, but the smell of free washing powder will do that to you. Jinny was outside my room when I got back, trying to get something down from the top shelf of the linen cupboard. “Hey.” “Hey.” “You need a hand?” “Nah, almost got it.” “Hey, I didn’t know you spoke Chinese.” “Oh yeah, it’s like my one gift to my parents.” “You taught yourself?” I asked. That shit’s not easy to learn. I’ve thought about trying to learn it at least a million times. “Nah, they taught me.” “Oh. Well, isn’t it more like their gift to you then?” “It’s not like I had a choice. When I was growing up they wouldn’t talk to me if I spoke to them in English. You can’t imagine how much that sucked.” “‘Spose I can’t.” “So, you meeting up with your lady friend tonight?” “What? Oh, you mean Lucy?” “Who else would I be talking about dopey?” She laughed. “Yeah, of course. Yeah… nah, I think I’m gonna head back home tonight. See the fam bam and stuff.” “Ugh, I can’t even talk about my family right now. This dinner’s been driving me up the wall. Ah, there we go.” She pulled down a thick rectangle of baby blue sheets. “So, where have you been all day?” “Ended up going to the laundromat.” “Oh yeah? How was it? I’ve never been to one.” “It was nice.” “Nice,” she smiled as she walked off, clean sheets in hand. I went back into my room and pulled the bag of damp sheets out of my gym bag. I found that cookie lying at the bottom of it. I took it into the kitchen. Liam was still on the iPad. He hadn’t moved an inch. “Hey, I nicked one of your biscuits before so I got you this,” placing the cookie on the dining table. “Shot bro.” He grabbed it and took a meaty gnarl out of the side. “Hey dude, check out this drunk Wizard getting kicked in the nutsack by a Ninja Turtle. It’s fucking hilarious http://www.authors.org.nz/webfiles/NZSocietyofAuthors/files/Asian_short_story_2012.pdf

Appointments to the Chinese Poll Tax Heritage Trust

Ethnic Affairs Minister Hekia Parata has today announced three reappointments and five new appointments as Trustees of the Chinese Poll Tax Heritage Trust. The Trust aims to create a heightened understanding of the Chinese community within New Zealand and to strengthen the unique identity of Chinese New Zealanders. The Minister has reappointed Maureen Leong (Hamilton), George Sue (Levin), and Tony Thackery (Palmerston North) for a second term on the Trust. Their terms commence on April 21, 2011 and expire on April 4, 2014. Peter Chin (Dunedin), Esther Fung (Wellington), Stanley King (Auckland), Justine Kohing (Wellington), and Susan Wong (Auckland) have been appointed for a term of three years, commencing on April 4, 2011 and expiring on April 3, 2014. All eight Trustees will bring involvement in the Chinese and poll tax communities, in addition to a mix of skills and experience in governance, community work, business, finance, directorship, language and market gardening to the work of the Trust. The Minister thanked the outgoing Trustees, Dr James Ng, Ron Hoy Fong, Debbie Sew Hoy, Kai Luey and David Wong Hop, for their significant contribution to the Trust. 28 March 2011 - Hon Hekia Parata

George Sue, Levin

Pair thrilled to be in hall of fame

Hall of fame: Business Kapiti Horowhenua 2012 Hall of Fame laureates George Sue, second left, and Bruce Mansell, with their wives Shirley Sue and Meg Mansell Levin's George Sue has been added to the Kapiti Horowhenua Business Hall of Fame. With a background in market gardening, combined with a strong community and charitable focus, Mr Sue was presented with his Hall of Fame Laureates award at the Electra Kapiti Horowhenua Business Awards in Levin on Friday night. Paraparaumu's Coastlands shopping centre founder Bruce Mansell, who grew up in Levin, was also inducted into the Hall of Fame. Mr Sue said he was "humbled" by the honour. "I've lived in Levin for nearly 70 years and have had good times here and have been only too happy to contribute back to the community, in return for what it has given me," he said. "You certainly don't expect anything for the things you do. It's just to help the area grow and move onwards. "To me, this area is home and the place where we've brought up our family." Born in Otaki in 1940, Mr Sue was schooled in Levin. He said he felt he was not a student who could achieve academically and was more interested in land and animals, which led him to study horticulture. He then had a long career in the market gardening industry, including starting his own vegetable growing business with his wife Shirley in 1967. Mr Sue's background in business and community organisations includes roles as president of the Horowhenua Growers Association for 15 years, a member of the Horowhenua Kapiti Business Development Board for 13 years including four as chairman, and chairman of the JPs' Association. http://www.stuff.co.nz/dominion-post/news/local-papers/horowhenua-mail/7831106/Pair-thrilled-to-be-in-hall-of-fame

1929. NEW ZEALAND. EMPLOYMENT OF MAORIS ON MARKET GARDENS (REPORT OF COMMITTEE ON). Laid on the Table of the House of Representatives by Leave. ORDER OF REFERENCE. Office of the Minister of Native Affairs, Parliament Buildings, Wellington, N.Z., 2nd September, 1929. To Dr. T. Hughes, Messrs. W. Slaughter and Tukere te Anga. You are appointed a Committee to inquire and report to the Minister of Native Affairs upon the following matters (1) In the City of Auckland and its environs and the surrounding district, to what extent are the Maori people employed either as servants or contractors of Chinese and other Asiatics or of Europeans in connection with market-gardening (2) Under what circumstances the Maoris are so employed—as to their payment, housing, and general health and sanitary conditions. (3) To ascertain as far as possible how many female Maoris are living with Chinese or Hindus, whether lawfully married or not. (4) Whether it is in the interests of public morality that the employment of Maori girls and women by Chinese arid Hindus should be permitted to take place. (5) Generally to report such matters affecting the Maori race in any family or other connection with the Chinese or Hindus of -which you think notice should be taken in the interest of the Maori or the public. (6) Tf you are of opinion that the existing conditions require emendation, what remedy would you suggest A. T. Ngata, Native Minister. EMPLOYMENT OF MAORIS ON MARKET GARDENS. Department of Health, District Health Office, Pukcmiro Chambers, 53 Anzac Avenue, Auckland, 11th October, 1929. The Hon. Sir Apirana Ngata, Minister of Native Affairs, Wellington. Sir, The Committee appointed by Cabinet on the 2nd September (consisting of Dr. T. J. Hughes, Medical Officer of Health, Auckland Mr. W. Slaughter, Officer in Charge, Labour Department, Auckland and Mr. Tukere te Anga, Native Department; assisted by Dr. E. P. Ellison, Director of Maori Hygiene, in an advisory capacity) has the honour to present you with its report and findings on the evidence adduced relating to the above question. Your Committee heard evidence and inspected a considerable number of market gardens in Auckland and its environs, Pukekohe, Otaki, Foxton, and Wangamii. A considerable number of Europeans, Asiatics, and Maoris tendered evidence. A copy of this evidence, together with notes on the accommodation provided by market-gardeners for their employees, is attached hereto*. Much valuable information has been obtained, and the Committee is now in a position to submit its findings and make proposals of a concrete nature for your consideration. http://atojs.natlib.govt.nz/cgi-bin/atojs?a=d&d=AJHR1929-I.2.2.6.21&cl=search&srpos=6&e=-------100--1------0chinese--&st=1

Anthony Hoy Fong has appeared on Oprah, judged Coolio's cooking and is going to feed President Barack Obama for a third time. Photo / Steven McNicholl

Kiwi swaps fruit shop for White House lunches

When Anthony Hoy Fong's family sold their fruit and vege business in Silverdale, he took a punt and moved to New York to attend culinary school. Five years later the Auckland Grammar old boy received United States President Barack Obama's thanks after preparing him lunch. "It was really nerve-wracking. It was an incredible experience," says Hoy Fong, who is back in New Zealand for a short break from the celebrity chef circuit in the States. "They do background checks on you before you go in ... the secret service picks you up from the hotel, drives you through the back door." The 35-year-old, who has cooked for Obama twice and will do so again in February, says at the time it wasn't clear he would be allowed to stay in the country. "It was crazy, I was in limbo with my visa, and yet here I was walking through the back door of the White House. "I thought, if I bump into Obama, what do I say? 'Hey, can you hook me up?"' Hoy Fong, who now lives in New York with his wife, was born and grew up in Epsom. Despite a long-held ambition to be a chef, he studied business and science at Auckland University. "You know - traditional Chinese family, Mum and Dad wanted me to go to uni and get my degrees and all of that," he explains. After working in programming for IBM in Wellington for two years, he moved back to Auckland to help set up and run the family business, Fruit World Silverdale. When a buyer came along after three years, Hoy Fong found himself with a bit of money and no commitments. After an intensive six-month course at the French Culinary Institute in New York he did some obligatory hard-yards, for free, in top restaurant Daniel and Peter Gordon's Public, in Soho, London. "It was a lot of hoping and working hard," Hoy Fong recalls, smiling. With little money and an expired working visa, his fortune changed when he met Food Network celebrity chef Tyler Florence, who has been described as the States' answer to Jamie Oliver. After working for Florence for free, Hoy Fong was hired as his sous chef, which enabled him to stay in the country. His role soon changed to culinary director - responsible for everything from helping develop Florence's recipes and helping him manage his restaurants, TV show and other appearances. That has taken him to the set of Oprah, and an appearance with Florence on the long-running cult show Iron Chef. Now, Hoy Fong has started his own business and is working on his brand. A year has been spent developing Top Chef University, an online culinary school based on the Top Chef show, the US version of Master Chef. He is also getting used to playing the critical role of judge on TV shows, and this year he praised the "big, bold flavours" of rapper Coolio's cooking. "Being a New Zealander, you don't really put yourself out there and say bad things. You just keep it to yourself, eh. It took a while to get used to," he says. "I think I'm in a place now where I have got a point of view to share with people, and tell them what my take on food is." By Nicholas Jones Email Nicholas Kiwi swaps fruit shop for White House lunches By Nicholas Jones 5:30 AM Saturday Dec 15, 2012 http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid=10854182

Culture event a bright light in city

here's something magical about seeing thousands of brightly-lit lanterns transform Albert Park into a dream-like setting for the annual Auckland Lantern Festival. Glen Eden resident Becky Ehlers has been involved with erecting the lanterns since the festival first began 14 years ago, and is still taken back by the surreal atmosphere of the glowing lights. "There is something about seeing the park lit up with the lanterns. I love the colour and light," she says. "Decorating and enhancing the park, which is so beautiful anyway, is very rewarding." Ms Ehlers, 39, is production manager of the festival's art department which sees her put up the lanterns and make sure the park reflects the atmosphere of an authentic Chinese New Year. In partnership between Auckland Tourism, Events and Economic Development (ATEED) and Asia New Zealand Foundation, the festival is expecting up to 60,000 people enjoying a range of activities in Albert Park and inner-city streets. The Auckland Lantern Festival is the largest annual Chinese event in the region and brings to a close the traditional fortnight of Chinese New Year celebrations. Each year, the festival focuses around an animal of the Chinese zodiac and 2013 is the year of the snake, which represents wisdom and intuition. Ms Ehlers says there will be an array of lanterns and scenes at the festival which will have a serpent-like feel to them. "This year we have a snake lantern coming from China. There's a traditional Chinese story that involves the snake and we are getting a big scene which portrays that," she says. There will also be scenes depicting a Buddha and swans, to name a few. "That's what I love doing; thinking about what we can do with the lanterns." "I work with Asia New Zealand to make sure the lanterns will add to the scenes and that are appropriate for the year." The lanterns are imported from Singapore and China. Ms Ehlers has seen the festival grow throughout the years she's been involved. "We started off with one 20ft container of lanterns. We now have five 20ft containers and seven 40ft containers." "It's always exciting getting the lanterns out of the containers; it's like Christmas morning, unwrapping them all," she says. Ms Ehlers' favourite part is seeing the lanterns glowing the night before the festival begins. "I love when we turn on the whole park and see we've done a really nice job. That is magical," she says. Ad Feedback Ms Ehlers also organises and erects the lanterns at the Christchurch festival which begins a week after Auckland. The acting general manager of ATEED, Jennah Wootten, says the festival - which received $250,000 from ATEED's major events fund - is a cultural highlight in Auckland. "The region's growing Chinese community has embraced the spirit of the event and introduced its unique culture to other Aucklanders. Albert Park illuminated by beautifully crafted lanterns is a memorable sight," she says. The festival runs from February 22 to 24. Go to aucklandnz.com/lanternfestival for more information. - © Fairfax NZ News MONICA TISCHLER Last updated 08:12 07/12/2012 http://www.stuff.co.nz/auckland/local-news/western-leader/8048934/Culture-event-a-bright-light-in-city

Lanterns to burn bright again

The Auckland Lantern festival may still be a few months away but promoters are getting in early and encouraging people to pencil the dates in on their calendars. The festival has become a an extremely popular event over the years and up to 60,000 people are expected to take part in range of activities centred on Albert Park and inner-city streets. "It sits alongside Pasifika and Diwali festivals as a cornerstone event which celebrates the region's vibrant ethnic diversity," ATEED spokeswoman Jennah Wootten says. "This is the kind of successful annual event which contributes to Auckland's ambition to be the world's most livable city." Auckland Library, Auckland Art Gallery, Lorne St and Khartoum Place will also be key festival sites and Chinese red lanterns will form part of the central city display on Queen Street. Headlining the event is an international line-up from China that includes award-winning folk/rock band Omnipotent Youth Society from Hebei, and Beauty and Melody, a classical music ensemble from Sichuan. Visitors will be able to buy authentic crafts and taste food from more than 100 vendors. Go to aucklandnz.com/lanternfestival for more information. Last updated 08:48 28/11/2012 http://www.stuff.co.nz/auckland/local-news/reviews/entertainment/8007683/Lanterns-to-burn-bright-again

A research project that involved constructing tiny pairs of glasses for chickens has won a schoolgirl a $50,000 prize from John Key

Young researcher wins PM's prize

A research project that involved constructing tiny pairs of glasses for chickens has won a schoolgirl the Prime Minister's Future Scientist Prize worth $50,000. Hannah Ng received her award in Wellington last week. The St Cuthbert's College student received the award for her study into myopia, or shortsightedness, a condition that affects up to 40 per cent of Europeans and 90 per cent of some Asian populations. She began the study after being part of the Liggins Institute mentor programme four years ago. Hannah worked alongside researchers at Auckland University's Myopia Laboratory at age 14. "It was a bit bewildering at first, it was confusing and I felt like I didn't quite fit in, but they were very encouraging," she says. As part of her study Miss Ng built sets of multi-focal lenses, similar to mini goggles that were placed over the eyes of chicks. The goal was to investigate the effects on the birds' vision. "They were quite difficult to make, they were so tricky technically. I had to make a few pairs for myself to try them out first." Principal investigator John Phillips says the study is of the same complexity as those conducted by university students. Mr Phillips says Miss Ng is self-motivated and good at getting things done. "Her ability to see the bigger picture while also being able to focus on the important elements of the problem is an indication of her intellectual maturity." Miss Ng will continue her study at the university lab during the summer before starting a pre-med course next year. She would like to work in Cambodia. The $50,000 prize will go towards her university studies. - © Fairfax NZ News Last updated 05:00 07/12/2012 http://www.stuff.co.nz/auckland/local-news/central-leader/8044286/Young-researcher-wins-PMs-prize/

Shopping at the Chinese Supermart, Tai Ping, New Lynn Posted on August 11, 2012 by kimy Each weekend I would do the shopping with mum in law who does all the cooking. Yes, indeed home cooked meals every day without me lifting a finger. Baby Lissa likes to come along to help carry the goodies. Tai Ping is certainly a very well stocked supermarket with goods coming from all parts of the world. However the products mainly catering towards the asian/chinese flavours. The majority owners are Michael Chan, Peter Chan and Lois Chan. They do involve other minority shareholders in the other stores that they have throughout Auckland. I recall in the early days they operated out of a single store off customs street in Auckland City, the number of Tai Ping stores number at least 10 now throughout the different suburbs in Auckland.http://whatthatman.com/shopping-at-the-chinese-supermart-tai-ping-new-lynn/

Nga Tangata Hou - united by the power of song. Photo / Supplied Series 1, Episode 12 | Hillsborough 08 Jul 12 | 00:28:50 | Classification: G Ruwani Perera introduces her neighbourhood, Hillsborough. She meets an ethnically diverse kapa haka group, http://tvnz.co.nz/neighbourhood/s1-ep12-video-4954904

kapa haka group singing to find themselves.

Weekend leisure: The new seekers By Danielle Wright 5:30 AM Saturday Nov 10, 2012 Danielle Wright meets a kapa haka group singing to find themselves. I'm locked outside the Te Unga Waka Marae, serenaded on an Epsom street by Sidharth Pagad, Lian Wong, and Fabian Low, who started a kapa haka group because he had lived a large part of his life in New Zealand and wanted to get to know the culture on a more intimate level. "I lived in Christchurch and tried to absorb the Kiwi culture. I took to Friday drinks and tried to fit in. It was all good, but after a while I wanted something deeper. The connections I was making weren't that strong," says Low. "The kapa haka group, for me, is about trying to find a community." It's cold on the street, but the group is in high spirits, reassuring Pagad it's okay he forgot to arrange to get the marae key and even offering their own homes nearby as a place to practise for the night. More members arrive, neatly dressed in business suits. Low picks up his beautiful semi-acoustic guitar (he has his own rock band as well), and the group practise Tutira Mai, which translates as a song of togetherness beginning with: "Line up together people / All of us, all of us". There's something special about this impromptu busk of Maori songs sung in the open-air with much feeling by the group, mostly originating from SoutheastAsia. If I was blindfolded, I would swear they were traditional Maori singers. The songs they choose to perform in the group are about unity and inclusiveness. Low explains: "Learning the culture is our form of respect and understanding, to give regard for that. Learning in a meaningful, rather than haphazard, way." There are different forms of kapa haka (meaning "rank and file") including poi, haka (a challenge) and waiata (an offering by means of a song). Nga Tangata Hou ("The New People") is the name of Low's kapa haka group, which has met at the marae every week for the past year to learn waiata. "We come here tired after work but the power of the song, the unifying messages of the waiata and the feeling of singing in a group has a positive effect - it's always uplifting," says Low, whose group has performed at the Auckland Intercultural Festival and the Auckland Central Library. "I joined because I was interested in my identity and where I fit in, as well as New Zealand's identity, because we're still finding one as a country too. It started as a personal thing, but now it's so much more," says Pagad. As we are about to leave, a young Maori man from the marae stops in the street for a chat. He's very supportive of the group saying: "Cool to see youse still going hard, bros." He explains why the marae is locked and gets Pragad off the hook - something to do with the matua being on holiday and changes to the financial structure, not Pragad's fault. From the way the young Maori interacts with the group, it's easy to see the people of this marae may be learning as much from their association with The New People as The New People are learning from them. As I head home, I feel reassured Low and his friends, through kapa haka, may just find what they are searching for. Sing, sing out loud To join the group, contact ngatangatahou@gmail.com or visit ngatangatahou.org - there's no charge to participate, just a willingness to learn. By Danielle Wright http://www.nzherald.co.nz/lifestyle/news/article.cfm?c_id=6&objectid=10846186

THE ADELAIDE ROAD MURDER

THE ADELAIDE ROAD MURDER INQUEST ON WONG WAY CHING KILLED BY AN UNKNOWN ASSAILANT WHAT A BOY SAW The murder of the Chinese fruiterer, Wong Way Ching, at 100 Adelaide Road, on the night of September 11, was the subject of an' inquiry by the Coroner (Mr. D. G. A. Cooper, S.M.) at the, Magistrate's Court yesterday afternoon. Inspeotor Hendrey represented the police. Dr. 0. D. Henry, who was called to the scene of the murder about 2 o'clock on the morning of September 12, gave evidence as to the position in which, he found the body (fully clothed) in a room at the rear of the shop. Death had apparently taken place some 5 or 6 hours previously. He described the wounds on the head of the deceased, and gave it as his opinion that they were of such a nature as might have been caused by the weapon produced, in Court—an iron bar. about 18 inches in length. Dr. w. Kington Pyffe, who made a post-mortem examination of the body of the deceased, described in detail the extensive injuries to the head and face. Both upper jaws were fractured and there was an extensive fracture of the skull. There were altogether seven separate marks on the face and head, some not as serious as others. The cause of death was haemorrhage of tht brain and shock, consequent upon an extensive fracture of the skull, which could only, have been the result of direct violence. The weapon, produced in Court, if wielded by a powerful hand cculd liave caused the injuries. Death must have been almost instantaneous, Wong Chong Gong, secretary of tho Chinese Association,and a resident of 110 Tory Street, stated that he had identified the body of the deceased as that of his father, who was 49 years of age. Witness had last seen his father alive on the night of Thursday, September 10, at the rooms of the Chinese Association. So far as witness knew his father had no enemy who would have been likely to do him any harm. It was a regular practice of his father to close the shop in Adelaide Road at about 10 o'clock at night. Witness knew that his father was possessed of some £60 or £70, and that he kept no bank book. Witness had no knowledge as to where the money was kept. Tall, Silent Man in the Shop. Edward Kruger, 14 years of age, residing with his parents in Adelaide Road, remembered that on Friday evening, September 11, he was sent by his father to the deceased's shop. When he first went it was about 20 minutes to 8 o'clock. The shop was then open and the deceased, who was behind the counter, supplied the witness with tobacco. There was also in the shop a big, tall man standing against the counter, near the window. The man was not talking to the Chinese, but was just standing there. Witness went away with the tobacco, but had to return and change it as it was not the right sort. It only took witness a few minutes to get back to the shop and when he returned the tall man was still there, and the Chinese still behind the counter. They were not talking. The tall man was leaning against the counter and wore a brown felt hat pulled well down on his head and a long dark green overcoat.' Witness could not say whether he was dark or fair, but he was clean, shaven and had two prominent upper teeth: After receiving the tobacco he had been sent for witness went home and did not return to the shop. "Matthew Hendeison, a cadet, in the Harbour Board's employ, and a resident of Hanson Street, gave evidence as to passing 100 Adelaide Road at about 7.45 p.m on the way to the Drill Hall in Buckle Street: The shop was closed and witness heard some sound, like very heavy breathing, but a glance through the window snowed nothing, unusual, and witness passed on to the Drill Hall: Neil Walker McBride, custodian of the Boat Harbour at Clyde Quay, who passed the shop at about 8.30 p.m. on September 11, in company with, two others, stated that the attention of the party was attracted by the fact that the shop was closed earlier than usual. On looking through a space in the window curtain, they observed the feet of a man, apparently lying on the floor in the back room. They took no further notice and passed on. Constable Wilson, of the Mount Cook Police Station, recounted the circumstances connected with the discovery of the tragedy at about five minutes past one,o'clock on the morning of Saturday; September 12. His description of the affair tallied with the report published that day. The sum of 15s. 4d; had been found in the till after the tragedy, but no other money was found on the premises. Tiie Coroner returned a verdict that the death of deceased was due to fracture of tile skull caused by a. blow from an iron bar inflicted by some person unknown Dominion, Volume 8, Issue 2273, 6 October 1914, Page 7

MAGISTRATE'S COURT.Before Mr. W. G. liiddell, S.M.) TOBACCO SALES A SIDE-LINE. CHINESE SUCCEED. DEPARTMENT'S CASE DROPPED. A somewhat interesting point hearing on tho Shops and Offices Act was decided at the Magistrate's Court, before Mr. V. G. Riddell. S.M., yesterday morning. The question was whether Chinese fruiterers who sold tobacco, etc., came with in the provisions of the gazetted regulation fixing the time of closing of shops selling tobacco, cigars, and cigarettes in the city oi Wellington. Five Chinese, Yong Lee, Kee Chong, On Kee, Wing Lee and Co., and J. Wong Wah and Co., were charged, on the information of the Inspector of Awards (Mr Le Cren), with hving failed to close their shops at 8 p.m. on Thursday last. Acting under instructions of the Chinese Consulate, Mr. E. G. Jeilicoe appeared for the defendants. The Department was represented by Mr H H Ostler. He stated that he had only received the papers on the previous evening, but after looking into them he had advised the Department that no offence had been committed, and that the prosecution could not therefore succeed He therefore asked leave to withdraw the Information. His explanation of this application for leave lo withdraw, Mr. Ostler went on to say that the mistake had arisen (through an erroneous interpretation of Sub-section. http://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/cgi-bin/paperspast?a=d&d=DOM19111005.2.9.2&cl=search&srpos=43&e=-------100-DOM-1----0chong--&st=1 Dominion, Volume 5, Issue 1248, 5 October 1911, Page 3

REGISTERING CHINESE.

REGISTERING CHINESE. A WEEKLY SCENE. TAKING THE FINGER PRINTS. Is the scene a public one? It may not be intended for such, but in effect it is. It can be seen weekly, when the Sydney boat arrives. Lined up along the wall of a largo room in the Customs-Department, of which the door is always open, and clustered about the outer corridors can be seen a score or more of solemn Chinamen, their pigtails neatly braided over the hat-less heads, and almond eyes expressing various emotions. Callow young Celestials, who have torn themselves away from anxious parents, grizzled veterans who have left grand-children in the rice-fields, and every age between, may usually be seen among the Orientals. They are strangers in a strange land that does not specially want them, immigrants, who have paid their poll-tax, and are awaiting the receipt—with them their kith and kin of Wellington, who speak the tongue of the barbarians. The finger prints of those who have arrived for the first time are taken in a most elaborate way by a young cadette, who also takes tho strangers' names and addresses, and generally; puts them through their facings with a dignity of manner and decisiveness of action' whicn is most admirable.. "Ko Fung," the young lady calls, after consultation of a list, and Ko Fung steps forward more or less promptly, shakes his head to indicate that he docs not understand English, and puts himself in the hands of the interpreter. Name, origin, occupation, and destination aro with some trouble elicited, and the man has then to make hia mark. On the form which notifies that he has paid his poll tax there are spaces left for the finger prints of both his hands. Further prints are taken on a duplicate form, so that both parties may have evidence of the payment. Usually the newcomer regards this performance as fearfully mysterious. His fingers are smudged with ink, and he essays to place the tips very gingerly upon the white sheet: Placing a towel above his band, the young lady presses down quickly but firmly the ends of four fingers—first, the right hand, then the left. The name of the next Chinaman is called. Twelve Chinese arrived by the Sydney boat yesterday, but ten of them had been in New Zealand before, and when this is the case the finger prints are taken less elaborately on a sheet of foolscap for comparison with the Department's previous rccords. Several members of the Wellington Chinese colony were present to hearten up the strangers for the mysterious but brief ordeal. Dominion, Volume 1, Issue 197, 14 May 1908, Page 6

Woman fined for buying paua

A former restaurateur has been fined for twice buying black market paua. Qunying Liu's defence lawyer, Tony Thackery, told Palmerston North District Court yesterday that he was troubled as it appeared that minorities were being picked on. An undercover Fisheries Ministry worker sold Liu paua and two rock lobsters on June 23 and paua on October 9, 2009. It was part of an operation called "Deep Six" in the Whanganui region. At the time, Liu owned and operated the Hong Kong Restaurant and Takeaways on Ridgeway St, Whanganui, although the 48-year-old is now jobless. Mr Thackery said businesses like Liu's were targeted and "that's a notion that [I] struggle with because the end result is the people targeted tended to be people from minority groups." On June 23, Liu paid $50 for 5kg of paua and two rock lobsters. The paua was valued at $650. On the latter occasion, he paid $80 for 10kg of paua, worth $1300. Mr Thackery said none of the paua was sold at the restaurant. It took some time for the prosecution to get to court because Liu had returned to China to look after her sick mother. Judge Gregory Ross fined her $2600. Seven people were prosecuted as a result of the ministry sting. - © Fairfax NZ News JIMMY ELLINGHAM Last updated 12:00 16/02/2012

Tax evaders get home detention sentence

The owners of the Hungry Bull Restaurant in Bulls have been sentenced to home detention on tax evasion charges relating to $160,000. Husband and wife Chee, 54, and Lay, 52, Leong will spend the next six months confined to their house after they filed false tax returns between 2003 and 2008. Between them, the pair held on to about $160,000 they were not entitled to through underpaying their GST and income tax, and Lay Leong claiming Working for Families tax credits. In Palmerston North District Court yesterday, Inland Revenue Department prosecutor Kerryn McIntosh-Watt said the Leongs bought the business in 1989 and set it up as a partnership. An investigation into their affairs found their personal accounts had many large cash deposits made into them, as well as into investment accounts. Explanations about these payments proved inconclusive. Sales figures for the Hungry Bull also showed a lower mark-up profit – the difference between profit and the cost of goods – than expected for a takeaway operation, Ms McIntosh-Watt said. "The annual partnership income returned appeared to be low." After a lengthy untangling of the Leongs' monetary affairs, Chee Leong admitted 12 charges and Lay Leong 18. They had since repaid the $160,000. Defence lawyer Tony Thackery asked that the home detention sentence be imposed at different times, so as not to affect their business. "The Leongs present as a couple who seem to live for work." But Judge Gregory Ross was having none of that. Mr Thackery said they would normally operate their restaurant from 10am to 10pm. "The business is adjacent to State Highway 1 and provides a much-needed service, not only to residents of Bulls, but to the travelling public." The judge said tax evasion was a serious matter that robbed the government of money to spend on running the country. He dismissed the idea that the Leongs were merely "innocents abroad". "By their actions they are undermining the very nature of taxation in the country." The Leongs also had to pay $500 legal costs. JIMMY ELLINGHAM Last updated 12:00 03/02/2012 http://www.stuff.co.nz/manawatu-standard/news/6360033/Tax-evaders-get-home-detention-sentence

Last updated 01:42 03/04/2008 CRAIG SIMCOX/Dominion Post FAMILY: They eat new potatoes as much as noodles and in many other ways the Leong family - including Jack and his namesake grandson - fit the ever-changing profile of a modern NZ Asian family.

One family, two cultures

They eat new potatoes as much as noodles and in many other ways the Leong family fit the ever-changing profile of a modern New Zealand Asian family. Figures issued by Statistics New Zealand yesterday projected that the 400,000-strong Asian population would increase by 3.4 per cent a year to 790,000 by 2026. The proportion of Kiwis identifying with Asian ethnicity by that time would rise from 10 per cent to 16 per cent. Among them will be the Leongs; they classify themselves as Chinese New Zealanders and incorporate aspects of both cultures into everyday life. It is a practice that has become entrenched over three generations of the Seatoun family, with Jack Leong, 84, raising his son David as a typical Kiwi respectful of his Chinese heritage. In turn, David is raising his two daughters and son, also called Jack, 17 months, in the same way. David's wife, Angela, said the assimilation of both cultures into family life was something that had "just happened". "We didn't make a conscious decision but we were raised as Kiwis and we wanted our kids raised the same way but to still understand the traditions and customs of Chinese culture." These come to the fore particularly around how the Chinese handle the delicate issue of death. "At funerals, mourners are traditionally given handkerchiefs to wipe away the tears, lollies to lessen the bitterness and money for good luck." Her two older children, Stacey, 8, and Cate 5, have been made aware of their heritage and are encouraged to hold on to that side of it. One aspect which may already be lost is the language; Angela spoke it as a preschooler but soon lost fluency and she laments that it probably will not be picked up easily by her children. "With my parents both living in the South Island, I find the language is getting further away too." She is, however, determined that other parts of the culture will be retained. "We try and follow some traditions because we think it's important." - © Fairfax NZ News Last updated 01:42 03/04/2008 CRAIG SIMCOX/Dominion Post FAMILY: They eat new potatoes as much as noodles and in many other ways the Leong family - including Jack and his namesake grandson - fit the ever-changing profile of a modern NZ Asian family.