The pursuit of family history is more than just a hobby; it’s a deeply personal journey that can unearth long-buried secrets, reshape our understanding of ourselves, and reveal the hidden narratives that have shaped generations. For many, it’s a quest for identity, a desire to answer the persistent question: “Why am I like this?”
A Pilgrimage to the Past
On a rather dreary Saturday in Melbourne, I found myself navigating the familiar, yet now profoundly significant, landscape of western Victoria in a 2004 Toyota Echo. This car, a tangible link to my late father, was the vessel for a journey to Coleraine, a small town that holds the first Australian footprint of my family. It was here, in this unassuming rural setting, that my grandfather established his milk bar, marking the initial chapter of my family’s life in Australia after migrating from China in 1914.
My father, who passed away at 80 after a stroke, was a man of simple habits, often found in his living room, watching the news and enjoying peanuts. A significant regret of mine is not delving deeper into his life story, especially given he was 60 when I was born. I hadn’t fully appreciated the value of his firsthand accounts, often feeling a touch embarrassed when he was mistaken for my grandfather due to his age. This burgeoning interest in my family’s past, spurred by a desire to fill those knowledge gaps, has become an unexpectedly compelling pursuit.
The Allure of the Detective
The accessibility of DNA testing kits has transformed genealogy into a pursuit akin to solving a cold case. It’s no longer a pastime solely for retirees; research from 2020 highlights family history research as one of the top three global leisure activities, a multi-billion dollar industry with millions of participants. In today’s world, exploring one’s origins is increasingly viewed as an extension of personal development and “self-work.” For me, it feels like the missing piece in understanding the intergenerational patterns and perhaps even traumas that might reside within my DNA.
Echoes from the Past: A Father’s Interview
A treasured memento from my father is a transcript from a single interview conducted for an English language class analysing accents. This document, a substitute for any audio recordings of his voice, offers glimpses into his experiences. When asked about Australia, his initial reaction was stark: “terrible.” He found it so different from Hong Kong, with its low buildings, and confessed he “didn’t like it at all,” yearning to return home. It was his father who insisted he stay, urging him to “get used to” his new surroundings.
The reason for his relocation was rooted in my grandfather’s business ventures. My grandfather initially worked on a farm, but finding the labour too arduous, he sold it to open a mixed business in Coleraine. To assist him in the shop, he sent for his 19-year-old son, my father, from Hong Kong. The prevailing White Australia Policy at the time severely restricted the entry of Chinese women, meaning my grandfather would often be separated from his wife and children for extended periods, working in a foreign land to provide for them.
Interestingly, my father, though an older father himself, revealed in the interview that his own father was “very old” when he was young, with customers calling him “young boy.” This detail, combined with my recent genealogical digging, revealed my grandfather was born in 1882. As someone born in 1993, this means I have a grandparent who was born 144 years ago – a mind-boggling revelation that has accelerated my quest for family knowledge. The ticking clock feels palpable; I wonder if anyone remains who can offer firsthand accounts of my grandfather, or if Coleraine still holds secrets waiting to be unearthed.
Unravelling Hidden Branches
The night before my trip to Coleraine, I revisited my father’s old photographs. His passing had unveiled a significant family secret: I have two half-sisters. My childhood narrative was one of my father finding love late in life, marrying my much younger mother, and raising me and my younger sister. However, documents discovered in a briefcase after his death revealed two previous marriages and two daughters from his first marriage in the 1960s.
This discovery felt like stepping into a soap opera, with new revelations emerging daily. I felt naive for believing my father’s romantic life began at 60 and a sense of anger that this crucial part of his history had been withheld. From then on, when asked about siblings, I’d mention my younger sister and then add, with a touch of melancholy, my two half-sisters “who are out there somewhere.”
The opportunity to be featured on “Australian Story” offered a research team to aid in the daunting task of piecing together my family history, particularly in locating missing relatives. Looking back, the ensuing journey has been far more tumultuous than I could have ever anticipated.
The Compelling Search for Truth
There’s an intrinsic human draw to stories of family searches and the pursuit of answers, even when they involve strangers. TV director and producer Claire Foster, who has worked on programs like “Who Do You Think You Are?” and “Every Family Has a Secret,” notes that viewers are captivated by seeing individuals “find their identity on camera.” These journeys become gripping explorations of fundamental truths.
Foster explains that what constitutes a family “secret” is fluid, evolving with societal changes approximately every 20 to 30 years. “The truth comes through a lens of what society says at the time,” she observes.
Dr. Ashley Barnwell, a sociologist at the University of Melbourne specializing in family secrets, agrees. She identifies key life events that often trigger such investigations: deaths, the birth of grandchildren seeking stories, and individuals confronting their own mortality.
I often fantasised about altering the past, wishing I could tell my father it was okay to open up, or that I had found the briefcase sooner to initiate a conversation. However, with age comes a broader perspective. I now see my father as a flawed, human being. Perhaps a few more years of life experience would have better equipped me to process these discoveries, explaining why some individuals find it easier to delve into family secrets later in life. Barnwell also informs me that anyone researching their family history is officially a “genealogist” – a title I’ve unexpectedly earned through simple curiosity.
My initial goal was to uncover “the truth” through historical artefacts, but Barnwell cautions that memory is an unreliable narrator. “One of the most interesting things about memory is not the truth of what happened,” she states. “It’s what they leave out as well… What people do and don’t want to remember, the stories they’re going to tell, which is ultimately what history becomes.”
My father undoubtedly had reasons for withholding information about his previous marriages and children, perhaps to protect us or maintain a certain image. My sister’s perspective is poignant: “In trying to protect us, you caused more hurt. In trying to protect your reputation and attempting to keep face, it caused the opposite. Finding out the truth, on our own, obliterated who we thought you were.” I share this sentiment, though I suspect my feelings may evolve over time.
Navigating the Uncharted Waters of Reunion
Researchers like Barnwell are developing guidelines for approaching newly discovered family members, but for now, family reunions remain a “choose your own adventure.”
A chance encounter with Jason Om’s book, “All Mixed Up,” at Sydney Airport brought another compelling narrative to light. At six, Jason learned he had a half-sister in Malaysia, ten years his senior. This revelation was initially confusing, but he readily agreed when his mother, Patsy, suggested they connect. Their decade-long correspondence was superficial, avoiding the “dark and traumatic” circumstances surrounding their mother’s departure from Malaysia.
After Patsy’s death in 1993, contact ceased. Jason described this period as a “disconnection” or “blackout.” In the early 2000s, he reconnected with his sister, Simone, who was studying in Melbourne, where he also resided. Their first meeting, however, was marked by a lingering “disconnect” due to their separate upbringings and the shared grief of losing their mother, compounded by cultural differences.
In his thirties, Jason felt a strong urge to uncover his family’s truth. An interview with his aunt, Patsy’s sister, revealed the keeper of his mother’s secrets. Patsy had converted to Islam to marry a Muslim man, a decision considered taboo by her devout Catholic mother. Under Malaysian law, her ex-husband had custody rights over their infant daughter, Simone. Jason’s aunt recounted how Patsy’s ex-husband had unexpectedly taken Simone, after which Patsy was sent to Australia by her family to start anew. Jason believes his mother’s move to Australia was not entirely voluntary, but rather done “under duress.” He now understands that the trauma of losing her child “broke” his mother, providing context for her erratic behaviour and breakdowns in the 1970s. Today, Jason finds peace with his mother’s story and shares a close bond with Simone. He reflects, “It’s taken decades to come to this moment. Because mum was so confusing to be with. She could be bizarre and strange and cruel, but loving at the same time.” Understanding her trauma made everything “make sense.”
A Comedian’s Journey of Self-Discovery
Comedian Aidan Jones’s story began at age 10 when his mother presented him with photographs, a pan flute, and a handmade rug – tangible links to his Colombian birth father, Fernando. Aidan describes his initial reaction as detached, simply acknowledging, “That’s the guy.” As a teenager, his anger stemmed from a missing piece of his identity, particularly with his white parents and stepdad, Derek, leading to comments about his darker skin and the inability to answer “Where are you from?”
At 20, Aidan’s mother found Fernando on Facebook. However, Aidan chose not to contact him immediately, out of respect for Derek, his father figure. He feared Derek might feel inadequate. Eventually, Aidan reached out to Fernando, who was living in Vienna, and planned a visit. The encounter was emotionally overwhelming; Aidan found himself frozen, unable to connect on a deeper level or discuss Fernando’s absence.
On a second visit, Aidan presented a carefully written letter in Spanish: “All I know is that my entire life, my skin and my history has been a constant reminder of the fact that you weren’t there to teach me about the world that you brought me into, and that that has hurt me for as long as I can remember. But despite your absence from my life, Fernando, you will always be a part of me. While nothing will change the past, we luckily still have the future ahead of us and all the possibility to create it. I would like to create a future with you in my life. Thank you for listening.”
Aidan recounts Fernando’s emotional reaction, yet it wasn’t the apology he sought. He admits he may have been searching for a father figure that simply didn’t exist. “Now I feel like I am that for myself,” he states, laughing. “I think at some point you have to, kind of, parent yourself.”
When asked for advice for those considering reaching out to estranged family, Aidan poses the question, “What have you got to lose?” He acknowledges they “could be a dick, but they might be great.” Jason Om offers a more cautious perspective: “People need to decide if they want to go through with that and be careful, because who knows what you might uncover.”
In the Footsteps of My Grandfather
And so, with these reflections, I packed my bags for Coleraine. Arriving in the quiet country town, the air crisp and the streets remarkably serene, I stepped out of the Echo. Coleraine, four hours from Melbourne with a population of just 1,000, felt a world away. I was scheduled to meet locals along the main strip, near the site of my grandfather’s former shop, “Louey Sing.”
The storefront is long gone, replaced by a patch of land with dilapidated fences and a rusty gate. The adjacent building, once “Louey On” and occupied by close family friends of the same surname (though unrelated by blood), still stands. This enduring structure offers a tangible connection to my family’s past, providing a glimpse into the era they inhabited. One window displays an eclectic collection of knick-knacks, while the other is consumed by a curtain of weeds. Standing here, where my grandfather once stood, I felt a profound connection to a man I never knew. This was where he would have socialised with friends and townsfolk, a familiar scene I was now experiencing.
Ian Brown, a Coleraine resident, shared his childhood memories: “I remember going in there and your grandfather Peter would be smoking a very long pipe. It didn’t look like anything I had seen before.” His words brought my grandfather to life, transforming him from a name on a page into a real person. Ian recalled them sitting “on the floor at the back of the shop, with their legs crossed, around the fire.” He confirmed that while my father “wasn’t very tall, your grandfather was.”
A small gathering had formed on the quiet street, including the locals I’d invited – Ian and his wife, Heather Brown, Noel Munro, and John Nepean – along with curious passers-by. Ian reminisced about Guy Fawkes Night, a tradition where townsfolk would purchase fireworks from the Chinese shopkeepers. It was amusing to realise my family had played a part in bringing such joy to the community.
I invited the locals for coffee at “Cambo’s Takeaway,” owned by Heng “Cambo” Ly, whose nickname reflects his Cambodian heritage. It felt like a full-circle moment, seeing a new generation of Asian-Australian business owners thriving in the town, and I was touched by the locals’ support for Cambo and his family. We had only just met, yet I sensed a shared understanding of the resilience required to survive and thrive as a minority in a small town, and a deep desire to be part of a community.
The Shadow of the White Australia Policy
While enjoying the warmth of the town, I remained keen to understand the realities of being Chinese during the era of the White Australia Policy. Some of the most guarded information about my family was a direct consequence of discriminatory laws. My research uncovered records of my grandfather’s frequent travels between Victoria and Hong Kong over half a century. Until 1958, non-citizens, particularly non-Europeans, returning from overseas were subjected to a dictation test, risking deportation if they failed to write a passage in any European language chosen by an immigration official. My grandfather’s repeated applications for exemptions from this test meticulously documented his movements.
An article from the local newspaper, the “Coleraine Albion,” detailed my grandfather’s citizenship ceremony at the age of 78, noting he was “the oldest person to receive naturalisation papers in the Shire.” This marked his renunciation of Chinese citizenship to become Australian. The article also highlighted a “small controversy”: a councillor expressed disappointment that no local business owners had attended to support him. “There had not been one representative of Coleraine’s business houses present to see a fellow business man in Mr Yow Kee Louey receive his citizenship certificate and take the oath of allegiance.” I made a mental note to address this with the locals the following day.
As night fell, I settled into my accommodation at an old pub. From my window, I gazed at my dad’s old car, parked outside Cambo’s. A sense of peace washed over me, a feeling that this trip held no fear. It felt as though I had returned the vehicle, symbolic of my dad and his spirit, to the place where he spent some of his most formative years, before the complexities of marriages, divorces, and inquisitive children delving into the past.
Unanswered Questions and Lingering Legacies
After a restful night, John Nepean, a cemetery groundskeeper, took me to the local burial ground. Among the headstones, I spotted “Coleraine’s First White Baby Boy.” Cheekily, I asked John, “Where’s the plaque for first White Baby Girl? Or any other ethnicities?” He chuckled, acknowledging the pertinent question. It brought to mind Barnwell’s observation that “what is not said” can be as significant as what is.
My visit to the Coleraine Historical Society yielded more discoveries, including photographs and promotional calendars for “Louey Sing and Co.” Businesses would provide these calendars to customers. After photographing the artefacts and perusing old copies of the “Coleraine Albion,” I asked John about my grandfather’s citizenship ceremony. Reading the article aloud, John paused, reflecting, “I really can’t understand why people wouldn’t show up for that.” We speculated on possible reasons – the location, time of day, or week. We also pondered his late decision to become Australian, perhaps driven by the constant threat of deportation. With no one left from that era to ask, I accepted that some questions would remain unanswered.
My final encounter was with Noel Munro, who helped me match photographs to their locations around town. While some images remained unplaceable, it surprisingly didn’t bother me. Instead, I felt immense gratitude for the insights Noel and the other residents had shared.
A Transformative Journey
Though I’ll never fully know my grandfather’s experiences in Coleraine, the small pieces of information I gathered have had a profound impact. Those who knew my family described them as possessing a strong sense of civic duty, entrepreneurial spirit, and being integral to the fabric of the town. This journey into my family’s history has been deeply healing, altering my self-perception and my interaction with the world. Perhaps my freelance comedy career isn’t a sign of being a “black sheep” but an expression of the inherited entrepreneurial streak. My desire to improve society, whether through comedy, writing, or volunteering, might simply be a manifestation of ingrained civic duty. Even my sweet tooth, I discovered, could be attributed to my grandfather’s afternoon treats at the local bakery and my father’s penchant for tea and cake. As Jason Om wisely noted, making family discoveries “changes your life. Nothing is the same as before.”
While my grandfather and I never met in the same lifetime, I am fortunate to have met those who remember him. I arrived in Coleraine a stranger and left feeling as though I had found a second home. It serves as a fitting reminder: as you embark on the journey of uncovering your past, don’t lose sight of the present.
