Christine Chanty

Christine Chanty is a participant in Poetic Portraits, an intergenerational creative project to showcase the creative talent and diverse life experiences of different generations in Monash.

Christine Chanty is a 30-year-old daughter of Lao refugees, born and raised south-east of Melbourne.

A lifelong love of stories led her to study a Bachelor of Creative Writing. She loves connecting with people through personal essays exploring the nitty-gritty of being a woman of the Asian diaspora.

When not hunched over a desk, you'll find her singing karaoke, hitting up RecipeTin for her next baking project, or sifting through a thrift shop.

Christine Chanty - The Gift of Freedom(PDF, 32KB)

The Gift of Freedom

I was born with possession in my hands

soon to be gifted the language of the land

I could read at three and understand

you in two tongues

what depth to be had

 

Gifted language,

song,

story,

word

 

My young wants in all, infallibly heard

into my hands they were gifted

and now on my own

a gift I hold dear

is that of a home

 

A home I can carry

wherever I go

in keepsakes,

in values

I feel I belong

 

No language,

no song,

no story,

no word

 

Means much without freedom

I’m trying to learn

how you escaped for me, so I’d never be

subject to the feelings

that forced you to flee

 

You say, ‘Here is home now, even for me.

Here, we have freedom –

what more could we need?’

I need to know you, before you go

why you chose freedom

what freedom bestows

my keepsakes – my values –

these gifts that I hold

this knowledge

of freedom

this freedom

to know.

Little O

O, you are so pretty

Not only when composed,

But when you’re swirling around like a cyclone

Hair uncombed

I swear I see autumn leaves flow

From your hair

 

Oh, O

You are so pretty

In your hand-me-down reading frames

When you cede to anger, erupt with hate

Often chaotic O, it’s

O... (in)

K... (out)

That rage builds so much you want to scream

Because things are not fine, not all right, not!

 

(breathe)

 

People like us can be

O - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -verwhelmed

By a slowly - splitting - seam

I know what you mean

I see what you see

I know it can look like you’re

“Just being mean”

 

You’re not mean

You’re cool

You published artist, you

More knowing, more seeing, more true

Than little C, who wishes to be you

It’s her

Who wanted to write to you first

I wonder if you’ll write in return

From little O, little C

Little me

Has so much to learn