Inside/Out. Reflections on my Asian-ness.
This shot was taken in the centre of Robson Square in Vancouver - the city adopted by my immigrant parents in the early 70s, and the place I was born, raised, and lived until I moved to the Island in 1993.
I was about 5-years-old when my father - ethnically Fujian-Chinese and culturally Filipino - enrolled me in Fujian language classes. At home and with their tight-knit found community of Filipino friends, my mother and father spoke a mix of Tagalog and English. I was exposed to enough Tagalog that I understood when I was being talked to and talked about, but not much more.
Fujianese is a regional dialect of Southern China that is spoken by fewer ethnic Chinese, who converse predominantly in Cantonese or Mandarin. I can only assume that because my father wanted to maintain a connection to the language of his ancestors and the family he had left behind in Manila, it was important to him that his only child learn to speak Fujianese.
But I resisted. “I don’t want to speak Chinese. It sounds funny.” If my father was hurt by my declaration, he did his best not to voice his disappointment.
Even at kindergarten age, I was made keenly aware of my Other-ness. I was one of a few non-white kids in my class in North Vancouver. My “weird lunches” (leftovers of last night’s supper over rice) were a source of either fascination or disgust. I was taunted with non-sensical racial slurs like “Ching Chong China Girl” as the bully tugged at the corners of their eyes.
I resisted learning my father’s native tongue because I wanted to avoid being seen as even more “Other” than I already was. As was revealed to Brené Brown by a wise 12-year old: “If I get to be me, I belong. If I have to be like you, it's fitting in."
And so I spent the first decade of my life trying to fit into spaces I didn’t always belong. I clung hungrily to the privilege I could access. I didn’t simply isolate my use of language to English, I excelled in my grasp, earning the “Language Arts” award many years in a row in elementary school. I took pride in my own efforts to disappear my differences. See. I’m just like you.
English isn’t just my first language. It is my only language. Visiting my Filipino cousins as a child, I was constantly reminded that I didn’t quite belong to that tribe either. While I was never the butt of the jokes, I never felt “in” on the jokes either. No matter the spaces I was in, I felt like an outsider looking in.
Some 40+ years later, I regret that I allowed the shame I carried for my Other-ness to distance me from my ethnicity, my family, my uniqueness. As a writer, a teacher, and communicator, I know how much more powerfully we can connect when we use words with precision. I wish I had embraced Fujianese and Tagalog. I might have tripled my capacity to express myself more fully.
Diving into Asian Heritage Month
Have you seen Beef yet?
Apologies for the pun, but Curt and I DEVOURED it.
It moved us. It rattled us. It awed us. It illuminated the dark side of the constant struggle to be human and the lengths we will go to to seek or resolve validation, visibility, desperation, rage, retribution, justice, envy, isolation, belonging, duty.
I could write a dissertation on the cultural and socio-economic representations of the nuanced differences between Chinese, Japanese and Korean characters in the series. Or the unifying experience of the offspring of immigrants who bear a silent yet deafening disapproval when you dare to veer off the prescribed path to achievement. Or the deep guilt and shame that is ignited when you seemingly squander the opportunities provided through their parents’ selfless sacrifice.
Yes, I could go on and on about the ways this series rocked me. But more simply, what was truly noteworthy, was that I, as the child of Asian immigrants, felt SEEN.
As a kid growing up in the 80s, mainstream entertainment relegated Asian characters to kung fu fighters, bucktoothed geeks, sinister dragon ladies, or voiceless prostitutes. Occasionally, as Margaret Cho pointed out, you might see an Asian person unloading supplies from the back of a truck in M*A*S*H.
Now that we are actually engaging in the arduous work of aligning representation with the diversity of human experiences, we are beginning to see many more of our faces, our stories, our perspectives reflected back to us. And for me, Beef didn’t do this by loudly proclaiming itself as an “Asian” TV show. It just a TV show about what happens when humans follow our basest instincts to the most horrific extremes. Yes, the characters happen to be the offspring of Asian immigrants, with all the nuances of that distinct experience. But ultimately, no matter your ethnic or cultural background, we can all identify with the possibilities that may unfold when we react either abominably or graciously in the split second that follow a momentary crisis.
Perhaps inclusion is simply meeting each other at the sweet spot between that which makes us different, and that which makes us the same?
May is Asian Heritage Month. This month I’ll take a good wander through the new Victoria Chinatown Museum. I am diving into How to Pronounce Knife by Souvankham Thammavongsa and the haunting prose of Ocean Vuong’s novel On Earth We Are Briefly Gorgeous. I am eager to read the bounty of essays by Asian-American & Asian-Canadian scholars in the Minority Myth Project. I might even rewatch the mind-bendingly brilliant Everything Everywhere All At Once or relish in the sweetness of Crazy Rich Asians one more time. And I am definitely getting my fill of my favourite Filipino sweets at Friends & Family Bake in Fantan Alley.
Plus, I am honoured to be teaching the Yoga for the BIPOC Community all this month at MA Yoga. All those who identify as Black, Indigenous & Person of Colour (and your allies if there is space) are welcome. Join me every Monday morning 8-9am. Classes by suggested minimum donation of $5.
We culminate Asian Heritage Month with a yoga class and celebration on May 29th, co-hosted with SNIWWOC (Support Network for Indigenous Women & Women of Colour).
