Judith Huang

VP: Hi there. My name is Vuma Phiri, coming to you from Centre for Stories in Boorloo/Perth 

Today we present to you Swanbourne Story Tracks: stories of personal connections to the areas between Freshwater Bay, Lake Claremont, and the Indian Ocean. Some storytellers have been residents of the Swanbourne, Claremont and Cottesloe areas; others have profound memories from passing through these streets at some point in their lives. 

In collaboration with Town Team Movement and Project Mooro, Centre for Stories captured these experiences of connection to community and place on Whadjuk Nyungar boodjar. We pay our respect to Whadjuk Elders, and all Aboriginal people from the beginning, who are the knowledge-keepers and custodians of this place.  

Before we get started, a brief disclaimer. This story contains mentions of suicidal ideation. We acknowledge the importance of sharing honest stories but do recognise that some moments may be difficult to hear. So, if you’re struggling while listening to this story, please call Lifeline on 13 11 14, Or type lifeline into your internet browser and explore their resources on the website. 

In this episode, you will hear Judith Huang’s story. Judith is a Singaporean Australian author, poet and artist. Her novel, Sofia and the Utopia Machine, was shortlisted for the EBFP 2017 and Singapore Book Awards 2019. Her VR artwork Marcus and the Shadow showed at PICA in 2022. She is the co-founder of Chilli Jam Open Mic in Perth. This is Judith. 

JH: I moved from Singapore to Perth in 2018 because of a mental health crisis. My parents live here, and Australia has much better mental health care than Singapore. So, I moved back into the Mount Claremont house. I was 32. In Singapore, I had everything. I was a Harvard graduate in a place that valued academic achievement. I was teaching writing at Yale-NUS College, and my first novel was coming out that year. But in Perth, I became a full-time mental health patient. I had no place in society. I shuttled from doctor’s appointment to doctor’s appointment. My only role; that of a patient. So even though Perth is a stunningly beautiful place with rainbows that light up the horizon, every time there’s a sunset, I felt disconnected and alienated from the land. Sometimes I would look around me and I would feel as though everybody around me was a ghost, and I was the only real person. I felt dissociated and I often felt suicidal. Whenever I felt suicidal, I found myself gravitating towards water. Sometimes in the morning and sometimes in the evening, I would walk around Lake Claremont almost every day. I would pace on this track and then the dirt path, and then the grass and back again, staring at the glass and the cockatoos, pecking at the grass 

Or perching on the drowned tree stumps in the lake. I would stand at the pavilion and stare out at the black swans with their necks like half a heart shape, floating on the shallow water amongst the broken trees, like something out of a Salvador Dali painting. Sometimes I would ask my father to join me and he would walk with me around the track at Lake Claremont. And he’s a typical Chinese dad, so we don’t often talk about deep topics, but I always felt his solid presence. After almost three years of this, I decided to set myself a goal. I would learn how to swim in the ocean. After all, I was in Australia, and since I loved the beach at Cottesloe, I decided that I would learn how to swim in the ocean by swimming up and down the groin at Cottesloe inside the shark net, the safest possible ocean swim I could think of. And even then, my mother would say things like, “oh, but there might be riptides that might pull you under” or “What about the sharks that might eat you alive?” Even so, I persevered. One morning as I was swimming up and down the groin at Cottesloe, I spotted a woman in her seventies who looked kind of Asian. 

Now, this is somewhat unusual. So I called out to her and said, “Hey auntie! We’re the only two Asians in the water. What are you? Are Sinhalese, Iranian? Are you Nepalese?” And she burst out laughing and so did I, and we instantly became friends. So it turns out that she is Eurasian Malaysian Australian, and since I’m from Singapore, that’s just next door. Her name is Christine and we’re still friends today, and Christine is also here today. So, thank you, Christine. So Christine is plucky and compassionate. She had done social work and she is a historian of Aboriginal and Asian history in Australia. So basically she was like the perfect friend for me. Many times when I felt suicidal, I would also go to the steps at Cottesloe and stare at the ocean. The ocean was always different. Sometimes it was wild, sometimes it was calm. Sometimes it was turquoise, and sometimes it was dark. For many people, the ocean represents freedom, but I felt hemmed in by the ocean. The Indian Ocean is so vast and everything I had ever known – my friends, my career, my history – was on the other side. Sometimes I stared at the ocean with hatred and it stared back at me like a piece of blue cardboard. But always when I came away from the steps at Cottesloe, I felt soothed, somehow as though the sounds and the waves and the wind had blown my thoughts of suicide away. One winter night, I felt really bad and I felt like I couldn’t spend another second in my parents’ house and that I couldn’t spend the night there. I drove to Cottesloe, parked my car, got out and sat at the steps and stared at the ocean. The ocean was pitch black. The seagulls were wheeling and crying and flying in circles. I sat there and stared at the ocean. I stared for a very long time. I called Christine. Christine and her husband drove down from Leederville to Cottesloe so they could drive my car back. Christine got into my little green Mazda, the one with the flaking paint like it has leprosy, and she turned on the engine. I had a Queen CD in the car and it immediately started blasting, [singing] “oh, I’m going to take you home tonight.” Christine turned to me and she said, “that’s exactly what’s going to happen.” I spent the night in her spare room under her children’s old blankets. 

Almost seven years after I had relocated to Perth, a friend got me a gig translating for the Chinese artist, Chen Wen Ling who was in town for the Sculpture by the Sea Exhibition. I had so much fun translating for Chen at the various cocktail parties and events that were around the exhibition, and also taking him around to galleries and museums and sharing our takes on the artworks that we saw there. I felt valued for the first time for my skills in Perth. And Chen even encouraged me in my own visual art practice saying that I had real talent. I also made friends with one of the organisers of Sculpture by the Sea, Susie, and she bought the first painting I ever sold during the exhibition. There was an exhibit at Sculpture by the Sea that day, that year by a New Zealand artist called “Papare/Protection” by Anton Forde, which consisted of a flock of Maori sculptures that ranged in a V-shape on the steps at Cottesloe. Each with a piece of jade hung around its neck. Susie said, if you go and sit in the center of the V, you will feel protected. So I went and sat on the steps at Cottesloe surrounded by those totems in a V-shape facing the ocean, and I did feel protected, as though the spirits and the ancestors of this land had always been there. Every time I had sat on the steps at Cottesloe at that very spot. It’s just that this time I could see them. I felt safe, I felt connected, and they are here even now. Thank you. 

VP: Thank you for listening. This story collection was funded by Town Team Movement and Project Mooro and produced by Centre for Stories.  

Centre for Stories is a not-for-profit organization with charitable status. Our team is small and nimble, and we love what we do. To help us to continue to support diverse storytellers, consider a small donation. You can donate at centreforstories.com. 

This podcast was produced by Centre for Stories with story training from Colin Archibald, and sound engineering by Mason Vellios. Thank you.