
I have had the story drummed into me since I was little. Go to school, then to university. Graduate. Get a job. Find someone to settle down with, get married, buy a house, start a family. Work some more.
My parents came to Australia to provide a better life for their children, and this was the life they had in mind.
In their eyes, I don’t think it’s all gone to plan. Part of it may be our fault, but most of it isn’t – they had no way of knowing that their children would be priced out of the Australian property market, that jobs would become increasingly scarce, and that it would be difficult for us to even get jobs, courtesy of a culture of casual racism and an unconscious mistrust of people with Asian faces or names. Despite the odds being stacked against us, and even though my sister and I both live out of home, we are still very conscious that our parents still think the so-called Australian dream is within reach for us.

There is no doubt in my mind that my parents are disappointed that I didn’t continue on my 10-year-in-the-making career path as a scientist.
There’s a prestige in science, even if you make shit-all and have to stay cooped up in a lab all day.
The same courtesy is not extended to the arts – and it doesn’t matter that I still finished my science degree. I’ve chosen literature as my field of choice.Obviously they would have liked me to jump straight into a Masters or a PhD, but I knew that would be the wrong path to take. I needed to step away from the crowded, hallowed halls of university to give myself time to develop as a writer, as an artist.
But money provides security, no matter who you are, what you do, or where you live, so whenever I see my parents, the conversation inevitably veers towards my career (or lack thereof, depending on who you are).
When I was still a student, it was “when are you going to get a job?” – ignoring the litany of jobs I’d held since I was 16. I would remind them that I have a job – several, in fact. The reply: “No, when are you going to get a real job?” – as if jobs in retail, hospitality and administration aren’t real jobs. It’s a grotesque version of the “where are you really from?” question I am used to getting from casual racists.

Yen-Rong on graduation day
“Do you mean a job related to my degree?” I counter, somewhat passive-aggressively. My Mum either doesn’t care or doesn’t notice, nodding in response. I conjure up something vague and we move on – until we get to the next question: “what are you going to do next year after you graduate?"