My unpretentious suburb is such a vast nothingness, it doesn’t even have a stereotype

I don’t mean to be hyperbolic, but there’s almost nothing of note in my suburb. Clayton South is the neglected younger brother of Clayton; it’s a somewhat desolate place where factories outnumber third places, and the birds that hang around the train station are considered local celebs.

Predominantly, you’ll find ’70s single-storey brick houses encircling Clayton South’s privately owned green spaces. There are pockets of Edward Scissorhands-esque uniform homes in miniature communities. The few shops it does have are huddled at its top end, while the rest of the ’burb is occupied by swaths of factories and underdeveloped land. The most notable landmark would be a coin flip between the charcoal chicken shop and the rock-climbing gym.

Long story short, with the help of the Victorian Homebuyer Fund, I purchased a house for my parents, younger sister and I to live in. We’d spent our entire lives in Melbourne’s south-east, and my parents shuddered at the thought of calling any other cardinal direction home. In our price range and desired geographical radius, Clayton South made sense. It wasn’t an obvious choice, but one that ticked our boxes, like a dependable home-brand cereal.

Despite the vast nothingness (hold the dramatic tumbleweed), I’ve developed great affection for the suburb in the years since I moved here. For one, it’s good for walking. The streets are wide, it’s quiet and often peaceful. There’s a lack of any pretence; what you see is what you get.

That lack of pretence can sometimes come across as a lack of pride. I don’t think I’ve ever gone on a walk and not seen a nature strip strewn with rubbish, whether it be from a tipped-over bin, illegal dumping or otherwise. Often, there are discarded clothes, furniture and kids’ toys – a roadside lucky dip, no refunds.

Those who’ve written before me about their suburbs for the “Life in the ’Burbs” series have looked around at their neighbourhood and asked themselves whether the stereotypes stack up. But I’ve come to the conclusion that Clayton South is so off most people’s radar – it is in many ways such a typical Melbourne suburb – that it doesn’t have any stereotypes.

Maybe Clayton South’s bubble of irrelevancy is its appeal. Unlike in more fashionable neighbourhoods, you can leave the house looking as terrible as you please in last night’s pyjamas without fear of retribution. There are some who have tried to elevate its status, referring to the area as “Westall”, the name given to the local train station, main road and the famous charcoal chicken shop.

More than 14,000 people live here, yet we almost entirely outsource leisure and community to our neighbouring suburbs. Sure, there’s a golf course, a go-kart racing club and a pistol club, but the latter two tack “Oakleigh” onto their names, their suburban shame evident.

We’re just shy of Clayton, a cornucopia of enticing food. It has dozens of Indian eateries, one beloved Hong Kong supermarket, and a slew of bubble tea chains along the main road. We don’t have a major supermarket in Clayton South but over in Clayton, there’s not one, but two Coles, which share the same car park.

Over on the other side of Clayton South is the suburb of Springvale, which is Melbourne’s mini Vietnam. At any given lunchtime, footpaths are piled up with patrons on plastic stools, and you’re never far off from being bathed in a butcher shop’s fluorescent pink light.

In a strange paradox, living in a place where nothing is noteworthy means everything is. On my aforementioned walks, I’ve become acquainted with a host of local characters. There’s an elderly East Asian couple who walk backwards together most mornings. My younger sister swears there’s a man who regularly plays the oboe on the Djerring Trail, underneath the sky rail structure (although I’ve never seen him). There’s a group of people who regularly meet for tai chi on the basketball courts (they invited my mum to join), and a rugged-up pair who ride their bicycles in loop after loop there, too.

Outside a bus stop that attracts high school students once 3.30pm hits is a magnificent vegetable garden with melons the size of Jack Russell terriers. There’s an inconspicuous factory that manufactures savoury Asian food, yet strangely conjures the wafting smell of cinnamon rolls every day around sundown.

As a person in their mid-20s who spends a lot of time northside, I didn’t expect to love living here as much as I do. Despite the fact I’m a 25-minute walk to the closest passable cafe, there’s a sense of ease that comes with a place that doesn’t expect you to be anything other than who you are. A suburb that started as a marriage of convenience as a first home owner, has blossomed into something more.

Perhaps it’s because the majority of people who live in Clayton South were born in Asia. Being surrounded by people whose familial values and experiences somewhat mirror my own as an Australian-born Chinese woman reminds me of what I identify as home: a place to be fully and truly yourself, pyjama pants notwithstanding.

Maggie Zhou is a Melbourne-based freelance writer and the co-host of the Culture Club podcast.

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