A Page Out of My Book...
Image Source: @miked of The Beastie Boys https://www.instagram.com/p/B-vKRI-B1dh/
With the rise of tensions surrounding COVID-19, which have included racism as well as xenophobia, I felt compelled to share a very personal story from my childhood which relates to my ethnic background. Growing up in a closeted bi-racial home is an experience that I rarely share with anyone. This is the first time that I will be openly discussing this, it could potentially be the last. My hope is that by communicating what my struggle with ethnicity was like, it will help others feel empowered to forge their own identities through their ethnic backgrounds. Yes COVID-19 originated in China. Yes the Chinese government is completely mystifying and unruly. Yes it is likely that they covered-up the initial shockwave of this virus. Should it make one feel terribly for the people of that country? Absolutely. Is it appropriate to think that coming into contact with anyone of Chinese or Asian descent means that one will suddenly become ill and die? No, because that’s preposterous. Is it now okay to believe that all Chinese people eat wild or undomesticated animals all of the time? No, that is incredulous, maybe go Google it. Or better yet, let’s not take a time machine back to the “yellow” hysteria of the past. Let’s continue to practice the “woke-ness” that today’s society has so fervently claimed allegiance with, that way there will not be a continued narrative that fosters resentment towards those of Asian descent (or any minority for that fact.) I grew up in a very multi cultural city and country, yet I witnessed bizarre ideologies like this daily. No one is perfect, we all make mistakes, but I hope that we can all set our differences aside and figuratively embrace one another for the benefit of humankind.
My journey from confused child, to curious adolescent, and finally a proud adult, is the product of embracing another race — and it all started when I made the realization that there was just something different about my sister and me…
I wasn’t sure how to correctly articulate my feelings, but at the tender age of eight, I was very unsettled with how I looked in the mirror. I had dark brown hair and brown almond-shaped eyes, yet besides my younger sister, no one else in my family really looked like me. We were always told that we were Greek and Canadian, nothing else. We grew up eating Greek cuisine, celebrated Greek holidays, and tried to decipher conversations between our Greek family members at the dinner table. We heard stories of the old country and attended Baptist and Greek Orthodox churches. As early as I can recollect, my mother incessantly lamented her disapproval of anyone of colour, especially Asians. Sure we had some relatives and friends who were of colour, but I can vividly recall one particular moment where I was advised that if I were to even consider sharing my life with someone who wasn’t “white,” I would be disowned. “If it isn’t white, it isn’t right,” was the phrase sung to me by my parental figures from an early age. Living in Toronto, one of the most vibrant and diverse cities in the world, gave me a stark contrast to the closed environment that I once called “home.” As the years passed, I grew increasingly aware of the physical differences of my sister and me. They became more and more apparent, especially with the new additions of younger brothers and sisters. I wanted to have light features like them. My awareness of said differences coincided with a very curious gift of clothing from the GAP and Lion King trinkets that arrived shortly before my twelfth birthday. I fell in love with the presentation of the gifts. The green and gold packaging with Chinese symbols was astounding; I had physically never witnessed something quite like it. I proceeded to pester my maternal family with questions alluding to the gift giver, but every answer was different. “It’s from your uncle,” said my grandma; “It’s from your great grandma,” said my uncle. Every relative was seemingly able to pass the answer along until I was forced to stop asking. I sincerely treasured the packaging, I felt so cool holding something that was completely foreign. It reminded me of Sailor Moon, how surprised I was to discover who the sender would turn out to be.
Shortly after, my sister and I were confronted by a meeting with our mother and maternal grandparents. We were told that there was someone who wanted to meet us, and that he just so happened to be our biological father. Until this point, the burly ginger-haired hockey loving step dad who completely doted on us had been presented to us as our dad. He was of Italian and Irish descent, and we loved him very much — still do. I was uncontrollably appalled at this revelation. How dare this person try to ruin the dad we already had? Did any of the memories we all made together even matter anymore? Why on earth would we need two dads? I had never been so angry in my entire life. I felt betrayed, but it was in no way close to how upset I would be when we finally met our biological father. My maternal grandparents set up a lovely luncheon the following weekend for this “new” father and his guests. I was forced to attend and I was bubbling with disdain. When my biological father greeted us for the first time I looked up and saw an Asian man, Chinese, in fact. He was accompanied by our paternal grandparents who are also Chinese, and our bi-racial cousin who was nearly the same age as me. I was mortified, not only was this imposter claiming to be my dad but he was ethnic of all things! I was so ashamed, I couldn’t believe that somehow I came to be affiliated with something awful, something that had been ingrained into my very being as wrong. For years I had been taught that Asian people were unclean, did this mean I was unclean? Oh how I wanted to have features like my mother; oh how I wanted to be anything than what I was. How depressed I soon came to be, and for many years I hid the fact that I was in truth half Chinese. I quarrelled with my identity for well over a decade. I waged an all-out war against it, I even refused to eat Chinese food in any form, and I tried to see as little of my paternal side as possible. It was not until I moved away from my hometown that I actively tried to make the connection with Chinese culture. I knew that I needed to cleanse myself of the toxic associations that had been hurled at me because my parent’s relationship didn’t work out. It was through the aid of a counsellor that I was finally able to see that the trauma inflicted upon my sister and I was based on this sole fact. I started reading books on various parts of Asia until I was finally mentally prepared to read about China, but it wasn’t until my younger sister introduced me to authentic Chinese food and Asian “eating-show” (mukbang) videos that I began to see Asian culture as a blessing.
Visiting the Japanese American Museum in Los Angeles for a Hello Kitty exhibit was also a driving force in my quest for resolution; it is where I learnt the term “hapa.” “Hapa” is a term to describe people who are mixed with Asian / Pacific Islander descent. By no means was my search for self-acceptance a small feat, I had (and continue) to remove a lifetime of scars in order to feel remotely comfortable with something that I did not fully understand. There is still much to learn about my paternal side, but through self-exploration I have been able to embrace what I’m made of. My respect for all cultures is a direct reflection of the hardship that has molded me into the person that I am today. My search for the greater good within every person I encounter would not be possible without the confidence I have gained through my understanding of my ethnicities, and even though it has been awful I am grateful. By no means is this post meant to elicit sympathy to me, I only hope that it can help someone else. Thank you.