In Between: Growing Up Chinese-Australian
We all have seen the movies, read the coming of age stories like Crazy Rich Asians or Something In Between that talk about a person figuring out their identity as immigrants and aliens in their own countries. Struggling to belong. Wanting to fit in. A restless wandering and desire.
While Australia claims to be a multicultural country, it does not mean that we are perfect by any means. Growing up Chinese in Australia, it felt like I was in between two different cultures. I wasn’t “white” enough to be Australian but I didn’t belong at all in Hong Kong. I found it difficult to carry conversations in Cantonese and all I could do was hear and understand what people were saying. I felt like a child, not knowing what to say and having my parents talk for me, like my mouth can’t wrap around the words I’m trying to speak. My family in Hong Kong knows I have a bad accent, and can’t seem to shake off the fact that I was born in Australia.
I was reminded of this when I was reading over my writing recently one day and a part of this poem stuck out to me.
But I exchanged dumplings and noodles instead of words,
Broken Cantonese is all I can afford
The words come out of my mouth in a weird accent,
It never sounded like them so I don’t even try
This poem meant a lot to me because in Chinese culture, food is one of the main ways we share our love and life together. The first thing when you come home or greet each other is “Have you eaten yet?” Food is a love language in itself, a guiding principle for the way we interact with one another. Even if I come back to Hong Kong and I cannot speak Cantonese that well, my relatives will still feed me food and place it on my dish as an act of love without words.
However, I didn’t realise how important this skill was until my sister’s boyfriend, who is Chinese-Malaysian but can’t speak, hear or understand Cantonese, came to dinner for the first time. My parents are more comfortable speaking in Cantonese and even though they tried to translate words and speak English to him, he might have felt a bit left out of the conversation. It goes to show that language barrier is a part of the ‘in between’ diaspora, the halfway gap where children grow up in another country from their parents and are raised with different cultures, languages and beliefs.
I’ve been reflecting a lot lately about my Chinese culture, especially as I wrote this during Chinese New Year. I recall this time last year when I spent CNY in Hong Kong. It was the end of January when we visited and Hong Kong had already adapted quickly to the COVID pandemic. People had already started wearing masks at all times since they had gone through a similar period during the SARS epidemic. So we could even celebrate Chinese New Year normally. It’s tradition to visit each family member’s house on the same day, from waking up early and going from apartment to apartment, greeting each other at the door, taking off shoes and masks, drinking cups of tea and giving red pocket money. Then the cycle begins again. Putting on shoes and coat, put on mask, hand sanitiser. Leaving one apartment and on to the next. It was my first time doing this CNY tradition and let’s just say my sisters and I were exhausted by the end of the day.
And now 2021 is the Year of the Ox. A new year of prosperity and beginnings. This is a time to gather with your family, and eat dinner that your mother has spent hours or days buying, preparing and cooking.. This year, CNY looks a little bit different but similar in some ways. We weren’t in HK with all the relatives but we were with our extended family. We didn’t have to take off our mask but we took off our shoes at my aunt’s house. Sat and shared a delicious meal together, smells wafting from the kitchen while the kids are running and screaming around the house.
In Hong Kong, it is quite the opposite. Even though it is CNY, people are still not allowed to go out and eat at yum cha and restaurants (only 2 people are allowed to eat outside). The whole family cannot visit each other’s apartments so freely, people are restricted by harsh lockdown hours (7 pm to 7 am) and mandatory COVID testing by each suburb.
The Chinese news blast from my dad’s phone at the dinner table. My parents at the number of cases in Hong Kong each day, with a sigh on their lips. Their hearts are heavy and sad at how their country has all gone so wrong, torn by politics, corruption and a virus.
But my relatives are still celebrating Chinese New Year in their homes together. My parents make calls to them over the phone, wishing them a happy CNY and good health and happiness. Yes, Chinese New year looks a little bit different this year but I find love hidden in the smallest places: my mother peeling prawns for me and giving me a spoon of fish onto my rice. I see it with my father cutting the pork belly, while my sisters and I share secret smiles across the table.
How do I write a love letter to my Chinese-Australian culture? To my mother. To Hong Kong. I hope this is enough. And I wish that wherever you are, may this help you on your own journey of connecting or reconnecting with your culture and identity.
Tiffany is a recent Creative Writing graduate at UTS, based in Sydney. Growing up, she had always loved stories and the power of words to build a connection with an audience. You can find her usually at home curled up with some milk tea or listening to pop/indie music.
