16 May 2016, Pinnaroo Valley Memorial Park, Perth, Western Australia
When a loved one passes away, it’s inevitable that you may never have had the opportunity to tell them some things. This must be particularly so, between father and son.
Over the past week, many people have told me about how proud my father was of me. But what Dad doesn’t know, is how proud I was of him.
I’m proud that Dad was Chinese in Australia during a time when Australia was not necessarily so welcoming. He was born in 1946, around the same time his parents received a letter from the government requesting that they depart. But Dad’s birth meant his parents could stay, and he would laugh and boast that he was the saviour of the family’s future in Australia.
These early years are mostly a mystery to me. However, as a child, Dad remembered sitting around warehouses watching his father and other Chinese men while they smoked opium. And up until a few years ago, a Northbridge history website had pictures from the late 1940s of young Jimmy, and his sister, outside of the Chinese furniture factory where their father worked.
But I’m also proud that Dad was staunchly Australian. His first car was an FJ Holden. Someone once said he was one of only a few Chinese playing football and cricket in Perth in the 1960s.
When I accompanied him to the East Perth Football Club rooms after a grand final victory in 2002, one-by-one several gentlemen, of similar vintage to Dad, came over to shake his hand and reminisce about East Perth’s good old days.
I asked him who these blokes were. He laughed and said, “I have no idea”. I can only conclude that the Chinese fellow that frequented the Inglewood and East Perth football scene in the 1960s was probably a novelty at the time.
Dad also cared about Australia in a more sophisticated sense. His grasp of politics was impressive. He read the newspaper every day from cover to cover and watched hours of TV news and current affairs every night. His vintage tight fit t-shirt celebrating Bob Hawke’s 1983 election victory would be the envy of many hip political advisors today. And I’m not sure many brickies bought a copy of former prime minister Paul Keating’s book on Australia’s international relations in the 1990s. But Dad did.
I’m proud that Dad was resilient. For decades he was up at 5am and off to the building site, and rarely did I see him visit a doctor. I once had to pick him up from work Christmas drinks at a bar. After Dad had bought all of his colleagues a round of shots, a young apprentice bricklayer turned to me and said: “I don’t know how your Dad has been doing this every day for 30 years; I’m already over it after 12 months”.
The ultimate test of his resilience was his battle with cancer. Yet he never let it affect his outlook on life, and he calmly shrugged off any concern from others. He was determined to not let his illness get in the way of so many things he wanted to do.
Never did I hear him complain about the medical treatment he received over the years.
Yet, for all of Dad’s strength, he wouldn’t have gotten through the final chapter without the love and support of Linda. And she helped to soften his tough exterior, just a little bit, for which I am very grateful.
I still expect to see Dad walk through the front door again at any moment.