I dream of the little church opposite Woolies in different shades. Sometimes it’s redbrick, mirroring the Gymea lilies shadowing its patio. Other times, it’s pale sandstone, abraded by the pulsing heat of Australian sun.
Reality falls someplace in between. Grainy Kodak snapshots crammed into Baba’s albums show a building smeared in yolk-yellow, as small as I remember, with the same sloping eaves. Ba stands on the stoop, barefoot, maroon robes pooling. The sopping hem drips holy water onto hot pavement— drip, drip—as a six-year-old me squirms in his arms.
I look cut-and-pasted from a cheesy Disney catalogue, fizzy with giggles in my Daisy Duck pinafore. But when I flick through more photos, those smiles begin to falter, giving way to furrowed brows. This tiny version of myself, fossilised in print, scours my father’s grin for answers.
♦
Back in those days, church was lawless. There was a single, crumbling granny flat out back where children ran wild, bartering Beyblades for Ring Pops and binging direct-to-video Land Before Time sequels on a TV stained with tomato sauce fingerprints.
Status was defined by how many boyfriends you had and, at the time, I had three—Nathan Li, Daniel Tran and Bobby Flick. The only time God warranted a mention was when my boyfriends fought over who loved Him most.
“I pray to God every day before I brush my teeth,” said Nathan.
“I tell God I love Him before I eat anything, even Chupa Chups,” said Daniel.
“Well, my family has a golden figurine of Jesus imported from England,”said Bobby, and we all fell silent.
My family had a golden Jesus, too. It sat on the Yamaha piano next to mahogany-framed pictures of me carrying koalas and sulking in front of Uluru.
I knew, even then, that the figurine was not from England and was only golden by virtue of aerosol paint from Hot Dollar. Our Jesus was also accompanied by host of other deities—a small jade Guanyin, Buddhas carved from wood and a ceramic Ganesha, gifted to us by our neighbours.
When we all stood out in the courtyard, watching my father wade into a stone basin, Miniature Jesus and his grinning compatriots poked at my brain.
I thought of my first asthma attack, heart rabbiting in my chest, when Ba put two fingers on my forehead and murmured a prayer to The Father, The Son, and the Holy Spirit, voice sweet as communion Ribena.
But other thoughts beckoned too. Thoughts of Ba cupping Ganesha’s trunk, of Qingming Festivals where he burnt paper money and Tropicana for our ancestors beyond. Thoughts of Ba kneeling in compost mounds writhing with earthworms, curtains of incense smoke flocked around greying hair. Who did Ba love most on that mantelpiece? It was hard to say.
In the church courtyard, he climbed onto grass, drenched. Instantly, he took me into his arms, laughing so hard that his canines glowed opalescent. I let the water drip from his sleeves drip onto my scalp, sliding down my fat cheeks and into my mouth.
A blessing.
♦
My baptism takes place today, at the suburban brick colonial where our new pastor resides. It’s the kind of house I’d always imagined belonging to an old white lady, with a puffing chimney and a winding garden path speckled with chips of white marble.
But everyone here is Chinese. They drink jasmine tea and load up plates with spam, gripping my shoulders too tight, telling me how proud my Baba must be. The acknowledgements are like lint on my jumper—easy to shake off. I know this function isn’t really for me, but for the pastor’s daughter Penelope, who will be baptised earlier. I’m simply the digestif to her main-course, coming-of-age extravaganza.
When Penelope sees me, her lips smack against my cheeks, French-style. Her lavender maxi swishes around her ankles, fabric snug around her hips while sticking to the Good Christian Girl mandated length.
“Look sharp, baby,” she says. “You’ll be a woman soon.”
“You smell like weed.” I comb my fingers through her coal-black hair like I can dislodge the scent. “Have you lost it?”
“Chill, my dad wouldn’t know the devil’s lettuce if someone blew it in his face.” She studies my face for a long time, every nervous, transparent inch of it. Finally, Penelope smiles, gives me a knowing wink. “Even if he did, he’d just forgive me later—he’s godly like that.”
♦
While we wait, I bite at my fingernails nervously, tugging down hangnails with teeth until pinpricks of blood form on my cuticles. Penelope tsks at me, smacking my hand the same way my Ma would.
“Stop that, loser,” she says, “I dunno why you’re so nervous—all these rituals are just smoke and mirrors.”
“You don’t think they make a difference?”
“Nah, I do. But it’s all in your head, y’know? Like, psychological and shit. Everything’s done up fancy and there’s this big, official moment, so you start believing you’re truly changed and devoted, after. But it’s a temporary fix.”
“Deep,” I say, dryly.
But what I mean to say is this: maybe it’s not about changing, maybe it’s about feeling as if you’re doing something, feeling closer to your father, friends, neighbours; less alone, less small, less everything.
“I’m up,” Penelope whispers, “See ya on the flip side.”
♦
The pastor stands at the centre of a twenty-five metre pool freshly cleared of autumn leaves and drowned Daddy Long Legs. I watch from a deck chair, nursing a lukewarm glass of Sprite. Condensation mingles with the sweat of my palms.
Penelope leans back in the water, exposing the ochre column of her throat, her father’s hand steady on her back and forehead. For a moment, the surface swallows her whole, leaving only misted coils of ink, purple petals unfurling below rippling glass.
Then, she springs up. She clambers out of the pool carelessly, wringing out the wet rope of her hair. The maxi clings to her bra, her waist, her freckled legs. Her underwear, now clearly visible, is hot pink lace. Nobody seems to notice. There are no coos of disapproval. Only applause, the crowd caught in never-ending waves of effusion. Penelope catches me looking and winks.
“Go get ‘em, kitty,” she says, giving me a hard whack on the arse.
My face burns as I wade into the chlorine, cold water curdling my toes. When I turn for a second, I see that the mob has mostly dispersed, save for Ba and a few relatives. Penelope is nowhere in sight.
Shivering, I paddle deeper towards the pastor, until the water laps at my chest and his hands are on me.
Then, he pushes me deep. Underwater, embarrassment evaporates. Paper disintegrates into ash. Buddha grins wide, his grooves pushed in deeper by the kiss of a carving knife, while the ink arches of Ganesha’s eyebrows rise in judgement. Wet cloth cocoons me, my fingers glancing the fringes of lace underwear, the floral needlework so delicate, they must’ve been from David Jones.
When I rise, I am unchanged.
About the author
Claire Cao is a 22-year old Law/Arts student from Western Sydney. She comes from a Chinese and Burmese-speaking home and is interested in exploring the cultural confusion of growing up with multiple rituals and tongues.