In Between

Illustration by Maddy Baird

Growing up, I was fortunate to have never experienced anything that made me feel “othered” for being Chinese. Everyone in my close friend group was Asian, creating a little bubble that sheltered me from the realities of being Chinese-Canadian. At the time, I hadn’t even realized that being Chinese could be part of my identity. I knew myself to be a girl who was tall for her age, had a voracious appetite, and was obsessed with baking – that's basically it.

Fast forward a few years to middle school, where I experienced various microaggressions from my classmates – except, at that age, I didn’t even know that that word existed. My last name being “Wong”, they would call me “Wongton”. You know, instead of “wonton”. Just a funny nickname, right? At least, that’s all that I thought it was; I had no concept of the fact that what they were doing was wrong. My teacher would tell them to stop and that I shouldn’t put up with their comments, but I was unbothered. In fact, it still doesn’t upset or anger me, and that’s what bothers me most. If my identity was more intertwined with being Chinese, would I care more? 

I can’t pinpoint when I first became aware of the fact that I was Asian and that a lot of people around me were not. Nowadays, I do note situations where I am the only person of colour in a group of people. I’m more conscious of the lack of Asian representation in media and entertainment and how that has impacted the way I view myself and the world around me. And most of all, I am much more aware of how little I know about my own culture. The realization started off small; I can’t speak a Chinese dialect. I was put in Mandarin lessons throughout elementary school but never retained the few sentences I was taught. Even then, my family speaks Toisanese, so Mandarin wouldn’t have been helpful for communicating with my extended family members. I’m ashamed, really – I have never been able to have a full conversation with my paternal grandparents. 

When I hear my Chinese friends talking to their families in Mandarin, I can’t help but be jealous. They know so much more about their background and culture than I do. Or at least it seems that way. I often question how much our differing experiences being Asian can be attributed to them being second generation versus my being third. Sometimes, I’ll mention the traditions – or lack thereof – that my family has surrounding Chinese holidays. Ours are always less traditional and less rooted in culture. In the past, my friends have responded with, “Oh, it’s just because you’re third gen. It’s different.” And while that is true, and I’m sure they meant no harm with the statement, it always saddens me. Would I have a better understanding of being Chinese if I were second generation? 

Coming to university and being in a fairly diverse program, I thought that I would be able to connect with many other Asian students. I believed that we would be able to understand each other on a deeper level and that we would fit together due to this one commonality, much like my friend group did when I was younger. But our lived experiences being Asian have been so different, and I can’t seem to relate to them in the way the second-generation students all seem to relate to each other. Perhaps it’s unfair to attribute my lack of connection with them to our differences in generation, and it has more to do with personality and character than anything else, but it makes me question my identity nonetheless. Being Chinese has never felt like a large part of who I am, and interactions I’ve had in the past few years have made me reflect on whether it should be. Does my limited knowledge of my Chinese culture and heritage make me “less Chinese?” I have a very Westernized perspective of the world and adhere to Western customs, and unless I’m looking in a mirror, I almost forget that I’m Chinese. 

In saying all of this, I don’t mean to imply that being second generation doesn’t have its own challenges or that I’m unfortunate to be third generation. I’m aware that my family being in Canada for a longer period of time has given me privileges that I would not have had otherwise. That doesn’t stop me from being resentful of the detachment I feel from my own culture, though, no matter how hard I try not to be. I love my parents, but in my weaker moments, I resent them for not teaching me Toisanese and for knowing so little about our family’s history in China. I know it’s not their fault and that I could be doing my own research if I truly wanted to learn more.

I’m certain that someone more articulate and with more expertise on the topic could write a much more nuanced version of this piece. I’m not even sure what conclusions I’m trying to draw here, but perhaps that’s the entire point. In writing this, I don’t think I’m searching for answers or trying to convey a message but merely trying to figure out my own feelings regarding my Chinese identity. My understanding of my culture and heritage will change as time passes, in the same way that my understanding of my sexuality, my interests, and my character have evolved and will continue to evolve as I grow older. Like every aspect of my life, I don’t have to have it all figured out yet.