Lollypop
Member since '07 <300 posts
- 250
- Posts
- 16
- Years
- Age 26
- Melbourne,Australia
- Seen Sep 28, 2016
"Conflict arises from intensely emotional situations." I looked blankly at this prompt given to me, staring at the words as if they would come to life and aid me in my VCE English Exam. What is conflict? I pondered to myself, twirling the fountain pen in my hand and reflecting back on my life experiences so far, especially my tumultuous beginnings.
From what I've been told, my parents had come to Australia following the crisis of the Vietnam War, following wave of people immigrating in hope of a new life, away from the bloodshed and conflict in Vietnam. In 1980, I was born to James and Joan Nguyen, who had settled down in suburban Melbourne. We were the only Asian family in our neighbourhood, a predominantly White-Australian neighbourhood. Day in, day out, we were subject to racist remarks. We didn't have a name. We were just known as the damned Viet Cong, the wretched Charlie, Chink and every racist name under the sun. As the man of the house, my Dad wore his heart on his sleeve, letting his emotions be known to the neighbours. Occasionally, he even got into fights and would often spend time at the Police Station, even though he would never personally instigate the violence.
Having being subjected to unfair racist remarks, my father did not avoid the conflict. He let his emotions run fly, but he did not forget to defend himself, or his family. I wish he were alive today, if only he was not so hot-headed, letting his emotions lead to his downfall....
From what I've been told, my parents had come to Australia following the crisis of the Vietnam War, following wave of people immigrating in hope of a new life, away from the bloodshed and conflict in Vietnam. In 1980, I was born to James and Joan Nguyen, who had settled down in suburban Melbourne. We were the only Asian family in our neighbourhood, a predominantly White-Australian neighbourhood. Day in, day out, we were subject to racist remarks. We didn't have a name. We were just known as the damned Viet Cong, the wretched Charlie, Chink and every racist name under the sun. As the man of the house, my Dad wore his heart on his sleeve, letting his emotions be known to the neighbours. Occasionally, he even got into fights and would often spend time at the Police Station, even though he would never personally instigate the violence.
Having being subjected to unfair racist remarks, my father did not avoid the conflict. He let his emotions run fly, but he did not forget to defend himself, or his family. I wish he were alive today, if only he was not so hot-headed, letting his emotions lead to his downfall....