This memoir below is a delightful written piece by William Tran Vu, in Ms Dorothy's year 10 English class. Please enjoy a lovely written piece of a very high standard - congratulations William, and thank you for sharing your memories.

Mum's "Nếu con làm vậy, mẹ sẽ yêu con!" (If you do it, I'll love you!) used to be my cue to groan and pretend deafness whenever the overflowing trash can declared war on the kitchen. Back then, the aroma of simmering phở (a Vietnamese noodle soup) was the universal translator for "love" in our Vietnamese household. Little did I know, that love, laced with the fragrant steam of phở and the comforting hum of prayer beads, would become the soundtrack of my oddly blended life.

Born as William Tran Vu in Melbourne to Vietnamese refugee parents, I was Bao at home. My name, like my life, was a cultural mashup. Mum, a devout Catholic who fled the war in Vietnam, clung to her faith. Dad, on the other hand, found solace in Buddhism after the horrors he witnessed. Their beliefs simmered alongside each other, a delicate balance that sometimes resembled a forgotten pot of bún bò Huế threatening to boil over in our tiny Roxburgh Park house. Every Sunday, the air would be thick with the scent of freshly baked bánh mì (Vietnamese bread) competing with the wafting incense from the Buddhist temple down the street.

Then came the bombshell of their divorce, fracturing my world in two. Weekdays were spent with Mum in Dallas, and weekends with Dad. Sunday church services were swapped for quiet mornings at Dad's, the serene scent of incense replacing the usual churchy mix. School, however, was my haven. St Dominic's, with its vibrant student body, was a melting pot where my first crew was Vietnamese. Soon, we were joined by a motley bunch of Middle Eastern and Aussie mates, forging friendships as strong as the Cà phê sữa đá (Vietnamese iced coffee) we'd share after school.

John Fawkner College in high school was a whole other level of diversity – a crazy mix of Lebanese, Moroccan, Afghan, Pakistani, Aussie, you name it. My friend group became a global village, fuelled by trash talk during basketball games (which, by the way, I was terrible at, but hey, practice makes perfect!). Life wasn't always sunshine and rainbows. In Year 1, a playful mini-golf session with a wellmeaning Vietnamese friend turned disastrous. A rogue swing of his metal club connected with my mouth, sending my two front baby teeth flying and leaving me with a permanent lisp, a constant reminder of that fateful day.

Despite navigating cultural intersections, life wasn't all pho and bún bò Huế. The one faint memory I have of Vietnam is a whirlwind of sights, sounds, and smells from a family trip when I was just five. All I remember are flashes of bustling street markets, the honking of motorbikes, and the overwhelming feeling of being surrounded by people who looked like me, spoke a language I barely understood, and yet, somehow, felt familiar. In 2016, I went to Tokyo with my second-eldest chị (older sister) to visit my eldest sister's tiny apartment in Shibuya. It was a sensory explosion. The neon-drenched streets, the towering Gundams looming over bustling crowds – it was like stepping into a video game come to life. We stayed at my sister's tiny apartment, venturing out to explore hidden ramen shops and marvel at the sheer scale of the city. Every corner held a new adventure, every bite a delicious mystery.

Back home, school life took an unexpected turn in Year 6. I was elected School Captain! But then, the whole lockdown thing happened. My leadership role took a virtual turn, recording assemblies from my room in a makeshift studio of blankets and pillows. The only excitement came when the vice-captain, bless his heart, managed to… break the flagpole! It happened on the one day I was sick. They were tasked with lowering the flag, but the vice-captain thought it was a brilliant idea to put the key on the lip of the opening to access the rope, but accidentally dropped it between the outer and inner poles. It wedged itself in, rendering the entire cover useless as we couldn't lock it. We were left with an open flag pole and a massive headache about how to explain it to the grumpy Ms. Bretag, the principal.

In Year 8, my friends dragged me onto the basketball court. While I wasn't exactly a prodigy like Kyrie Irving, the competition was addictive. Now, in Year 10, I can hold my own (mostly), thanks to countless hours of practice and the occasional trash talk-fuelled pep talk from my multicultural crew. Mum's "love you" tactic might have evolved, but the sentiment, like my life, is a delicious blend. Vietnamese Catholic with a dash of Buddhism and a sprinkle of Aussie – it's a strange but flavorful mix, just like the fusion dishes Mum whips up (crispy spring rolls, anyone?). Gaming, art, and acing school (often a year ahead) – my passions might be unique, but that's the beauty of it.

This story's far from over. As I navigate this world, gaming mouse in one hand and maybe a prayer bead bracelet in the other, I know one thing for sure: the blend of cultures that defines me is my strength, not a weakness. It's the secret ingredient that makes my life a delicious, unpredictable adventure

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