Christie Mae Gonzaga

Story

I came to this unfamiliar, faraway place I now call home when I was eight years old with my parents Eva and Adelino. My parents left their beloved homeland with a grey and brown suitcase filled with scant belongings but plenty of dreams and hopes for a better future for their only child. As for me, I was just excited to be finally travelling in a plane after staring at a QANTAS calendar that my Aunty and Uncle in Australia had sent to us during my excitable, imaginative childhood in a small village in Cebu.

I remember the journey well. How as an eight year old I felt swallowed up by my seat, how I felt the vibrations of the plane’s engine beneath my feet, the delight I felt in being served a strange meal, the gratitude in being given a colouring in book and pencils by a kind flight attendant.

We arrived in Perth airport on a cold, spring morning in September. I remember descending the stairs of the plane in my pink tracksuit for we were forewarned that it would be cold, a Mickey Mouse watch on my left wrist and a Mickey Mouse suitcase in my right hand.

My Aunty and Uncle drove us to their home in Lesmurdie. I remember the deserted, quiet roads, the red earth, the brick houses. No chaos. Just perfect order. My parents and my Aunty chatted in the loungeroom while I ate peaches for the first time and listened to the vocal greetings of the kookaburras in the backyard.

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