Hong Kong’s beautiful skyline, as seen from Victoria Harbour. Photo courtesy of me.
You’re 8 years old.
Your 3rd grade class orders Chinese food & your father delivers it. You are so excited to see your pops in school. He’s your hero. But apparently other kids don’t think he’s so cool. They laugh at him and mimic his accent. You don’t want to be Chinese anymore.You’re 9 years old.
You attend ballet camp. Someone tells you that another girl *hates* you. She thinks your eyes are an “ugly shape.” You don’t have the vocabulary to describe why that’s hurtful. But now, you hate your distinctly Asian face. You don’t want to be Chinese anymore.You’re 16 years old.
It’s Halloween & 2 students come to class dressed as “Asian tourists.” They’ve taped their eyes back, strapped cameras around their necks and chucked up peace signs. You feel uncomfortable. When a teacher asks if you find the costumes offensive, you say no.You don’t want people thinking you’re uptight. You laugh along with everyone else. You don’t want to be Chinese anymore.
You’re 17 years old.
You’re off to college & you meet other Asians. They have pride that you never had. You meet a boy & he wonders why you don’t speak your family’s tongue. Why your favorite food is grilled cheese, not xiao long bao. You say your family doesn’t live that way.But you know you rejected your culture a long time ago. You know you refused to speak Chinese & you remember calling your mother’s food “disgusting.” It’s fucked. It clicks. It’s a race to reclaim everything you’ve hated about yourself. For the 1st time, you want to be Chinese.
You’re 20 years old.
You’ve spent the past several years repatriating yourself. You get your family’s name inked into your skin. That character is there forever. You won’t let anyone make you feel the way you did all those years ago. You love being Chinese.You’re 25 years old.
— Kimberly Yam (@kimmythepooh) August 18, 2018
You see a movie with an all-asian cast at a screening and for some reason you’re crying and you can’t stop. You’ve never seen a cast like this in Hollywood. Everyone is beautiful. You’re so happy you’re Chinese. #CrazyRichAsians #RepresentationMatters
Thank you, Crazy Rich Asians, for presenting your beautiful and talented all-Asian cast as romantic and comedic leads, instead of stereotypes or supporting side characters. Thank you for sharing a story about us that doesn’t revolve around math, take-out or martial arts. Thank you, truly, for this masterpiece that helps me come to terms with my cultural identity as an Asian-Canadian.
I speak Cantonese, I have a Chinese name, and I was born into a family of immigrants from Hong Kong. As a second generation Canadian, I struggled with my cultural identity my whole life – am I more Canadian or Chinese? Can I be both? How?
Growing up in Markham, Ontario, a small city with a large Asian population, one might think that I’ve developed strong ties to my culture throughout the years. Wrong. In all honesty, I spent most of my life hiding my Chinese culture because I was self-conscious about who I was and where I was from. I didn’t want to look, talk, or sound the way that I did; I wanted to be like the beautiful girls I saw on TV and in magazines – and none of them even resembled me.
No matter where we turn, media surrounds us, and as different forms of multimedia develop and become widespread, its influence grows with it. When I was young, I looked up to the people in TV shows and teen gossip magazines. Today, it might be Instagram and YouTube, and in a few years, it might be something even bigger, even more accessible, and even more toxic.
My favourite TV shows and gossip magazines never featured an Asian actor or actress for my young self to look up to. I never found someone that looked like me to admire, to be proud of or help me realize that it’s okay to be and look different. Although I liked my being Chinese at home, I wished so badly to be Caucasian at school. Why? Because everyone else was – especially the cool kids.
I hated being Chinese. I tried to fit in, and for some reason, that meant letting go (or ignoring) all of my Chinese interests. I stopped enjoying Chinese shows, repeatedly gave up on calligraphy in class, and even ate less Chinese food (!!!). I was embarrassed when my peers brought dumplings for lunch and were made fun of for the smell, and I didn’t stand up for them. I was ashamed. “Ugh, why do they have to smell?” I thought. Their scent just gave the ignorant kids another point to use when poking fun of my culture. I felt embarrassed.
When I moved away for university, I was unbelievably nervous. I was in a stage of my life where I wasn’t totally sure who I was or where I was going, and I had none of my friends by my side. Luckily for me, I made lots of friends in the Chinese Students’ Association at Western University. Who would’ve thought? Not 14-year-old me, that’s for sure.
My new friends quickly became family. Our similar families and upbringings excited me – I was so happy that I had experiences to share for once. Being able to exchange stories and relate with one another made me feel excited about my heritage. I no longer felt like I had to hide such a big part of my life. Without even knowing that they were doing so, my amazing friends helped me realize this. They were, and still are, my home away from home.
I have never been so happy to be Chinese. These past two years have not only made me excited to share my stories, but proud that I have had these experiences. Thank you again, Crazy Rich Asians, Jon M. Chu and Kevin Kwan, for giving me idols that resemble me, a story that tugs on my heartstrings, and a cast that warms my heart. Thank you for this big step in a movement for minority artists everywhere. Most of all, thank you for bringing Asian representation to the media that surrounds us.
Her Glassroom 