Language and The Asian Experience
Barely scraping the surface
Words are limited at best on a good day, but on a day like today, when the heaviness on my heart is almost too much to bear, I can’t help but acknowledge the immense burden of complexity behind using a Western Patriarchal language to describe my experience as an Asian Woman. Among all the anger, division, hate, and sorrow that I sense from the world today, the words I’ve been able to string together to describe this experience extends far beyond “limited” and into the realms of broken, oppressive, and suffocating. So, I realize this is probably the first part of the story that needs to be told.
Duality Vs. Survival
As a Child of Hong Kong Chinese immigrants who fled their homeland because they knew China would one day take over and leave the country in shambles, my skin is yellow and my eyes are brown. I speak Cantonese with my family, take my shoes off at the door, and consider myself lucky to be raised by my Gong Gong (Grandpa) and Po Po (Grandma). I grew up on slow-cooked Asian broths, fish, rice, and a ton of choy (vegetables). It was rich and beautiful. At the same time, I was born and raised in Canada which meant my interests and preferences were further shaped through a Western lens. I existed in the lonely space between two worlds and grew up believing the only way to fully exist was to pick a side. I could keep my beautifully rich heritage, but that also meant accepting a second-class citizenship in a White man’s world. Or, I could separate myself from my heritage and fight to be equal in North America by any means necessary. I chose the latter. I gave up on my family and hated them for their unwillingness to adapt or fight for more than second-class citizenship. I left them behind as I learned new customs, mastered this language, tried to be beautiful, remarkable, and acceptable according to these foreign standards and while a part of me always knew no success would never be enough, I had to keep trying. Beneath the promise of freedom and equality for all, I saw this culture’s choice to turn a blind eye to its racists and prejudiced history. So, as much as I say adopting Western ideology was my choice, I’d also say it was less out of consciousness, and more out of an instinct for survival.
Choose Your Own Adventure. Belong, or Die Trying
Belong to one and die to the other, you choose. This is the story that constantly runs through my head when I think about my existence. All this time I’ve wondered if was just me, but today news headlines are validating that Asian lives like mine are being being shot down, threatened, and attacked at astonishing rates and I’m finally rationalizing that maybe its not just in my head. The message seems clear. Belong or die – and if you try to belong but miss miss the mark, someone in this society who is more acceptable than you, will deliver death to you, and the authorities will write it off as someone having a “bad day”. Belong, or die trying… This is the story swirling inside and outside of my head today.
Cantonese and Oral Culture
I know four languages but am only literate in English and Spanish. What’s left of my Chinese is the ability to speak in Cantonese and Mandarin. I find Cantonese extra beautiful because the spoken form is different from its written form. I may not know how to write in beautifully complex traditional Chinese characters, but I deeply appreciate the nuance of how oral culture resonates through my Cantonese identity. Oral conversations grow only as you let your guard down and begin to relish in the joy of belonging. Speaking and listening celebrates connection and the natural desire for our realities to be shared and understood. Spoken language requires an unfiltered presence for the here and now. There is no ability to delete things that are said. Even if it’s wrong, the focus is not on removal, but on adding, listening, clarifying, and continuing to engage until everyone involved feels understood and ready to move forward. Oral culture is so beautiful, but when I’m trying to convey my oral cultured thoughts to a written cultured audience, I’m once again faced with the challenge of following rules of a language that was not designed for me or these thoughts.
English and Written Culture
Sentences, paragraphs, and punctuations are the building blocks of this written society. As a survivalist trying to move beyond survival, I made it a point to master these tools. Today I can curate, edit, filter and organize my thoughts to try and convey the masterpieces held in my mind. As much as I’m liberated by the mastery of this written game and all its rules, a part of me hates that my self expression will always be tied to an adopted language that was never designed to be used by someone like me. I was adopted into this Western world and was privileged to receive an education that has given me words to wrestle with my duality, but it is also a system I associate with a choice between “life” or death. Assimilate and “live” by killing your own heritage and adopting ours, or (according to today, literally) die. So I speak and I write in this English language, but not without remembering that every word is a double edged sword.
Speaking for Those Who Never Had the Chance
No matter how deeply these carefully curated English words may land, they will never be the words of my mother, father, grandfather, or grandmother. These are not words they can fully embody or understand, because these loved ones weren’t offered the same educational opportunities I was given. They didn’t have a choice to be more than second class citizens. My privilege makes this demand for justice not just for me, but for them too.
I know these words will not protect me from the judgement of the person on the street who sees the colour of my skin, the shape of my eyes, and the mask on my face, and before I can even utter “hello”, writes me off assuming I don’t speak English. These words won’t stop the objectification and hyper-sexualization of my body or the assumptions and comments that will be made about my submissiveness and promiscuity. They won’t stop the quest for pornographic storylines of white male domination over Asian female bodies that are rooted in rape and war. These words will not shelter me from an attack by someone who has hatred coursing through their veins at my audacity to claim “My family and I belong here”. These words will not shield me from the looks of disgust hurtled in my direction as I walk the same streets, frequent the same places, or show the same human desire for survival that we all do. It will not change the mind of someone who believes Asians are good at math and stealing all their jobs, but that we’re also savages eating puppies for dinner and spreading Coronavirus. No written words will change the story they’ve crafted in their mind about people who look like me. What they need is a dose of oral culture.
These words will not protect my mother, father, grandmother, late-grandfather or my sisters, brothers, Aunties, Uncles, Gong Gongs and Po Pos from the rising abuse as we continue to adapt to the ever changing rules of our adoption into this unwelcoming foreign land. Yes, Language at its absolute best, is still incredibly limited. But words are all I’ve got, so here I am once again putting my survival on the table.
Reclaiming the Space Between Two Worlds
I stand in the middle of the Asian diaspora under threat by the same world we’ve all worked so hard to try to belong to. For the first time I’m searching for words to describe this in-between place because I can finally see its shared among so many others just like me. I thought I was alone, but now I realize my isolation was a byproduct of my own rejection of my community. I’m finally seeing so many of us standing together in this in-between space – grappling with the same thoughts that I’ve carried for so long. All of us called to “belong or die trying”, or at this point, called to simply try to not die.
I hate knowing that people who look like me and my family, are being viscously attacked for simply looking like me and my family. I hate that it look eight lives, and countless stories of brutally beaten Asian faces for me to finally demand that Chinese identity and Asian heritage should be protected and respected. I hate that I wasted so much time rejecting myself and my community for not being white, when I could have been building the bridge between different cultures so the unique richness of each heritage could be celebrated rather than feared. I wish did a better job of preserving my Family’s identity as Hong Kongers before protests and riots against China’s communist rule forever changed democracy in Hong Kong. There is nothing to return to in Hong Kong for my parents, so more than ever, there’s an urgency to make sure this adopted land feels safe and like home.
Representation matters, so I’m grateful for people who look like me, who are challenging the quiet Asian stereotype and are starting to scream and shout for justice. Because of them, I’m finally able to start reclaiming and rebuilding my identity as an Asian Woman. So thank you to those in the community who are stepping forward and inspiring us all to be part of the change.
Resiliency of the Asian Spirit
I don’t have much to offer beyond these foreign words that I know will not protect us from hate-fuelled crimes against people that look like you and me. It might not quell the terror, heartbreak, and anger we all feel, but this is what I have to contribute to the conversation, with hopes that one day, it won’t just be AAPI’s demanding our justice and equality. As limited as and as frustrating it is to use English to demand that our Asian voices are worth being heard, respected, and kept alive, I’ll be damned if I don’t try. Regardless of how deeply I’ve rejected my culture in the past, what remains is the resiliency of the Asian spirit. My people will rise to the challenge of foreign rules and language. We’ll take the insults, pain, and poison, and turn it into medicine. To help heal ourselves and the world around us. And we’ll do all of this with more honour and respect than any hate or fear ever could. This, if nothing else, is the essence of being a modern day Asian Woman.
My people will rise to the challenge of foreign rules and language. We’ll take the insults, pain, and poison, and turn it into medicine. To help heal ourselves and the world around us. And we’ll do all of this with more honour and respect than any hate or fear ever could. This, if nothing else, is the essence of being a modern day Asian Woman.
– A.T.T.I.C.A
This Fight Belongs to Everyone
Regardless of who you are, where you’re from, how much or little thought you’ve given this topic, we are human and designed for compassion. The Latin root of compassion is pati, which means to bear suffering (Merriam Webster), and com means with, so compassion is the unique human ability to suffer with our fellow humans. We all have a role to play to sit with our suffering and to change it for the better.
I encourage you to stay curious and engaged. Invite yourself to wrestle with some tough questions and challenge your own assumptions. Consider and reconsider the things you assume about this world and what’s acceptable in it. Where did those beliefs comes from? What does that belief mean for this moment? And what is possible for the future? A thoughtfully curated ownership over our individual thoughts and actions coupled with a sense of responsibility to our collective humanity is the only path forward where we don’t just survive, but get to thrive.
Where We Go From Here
If you witness or experience an Asian Hate crime, please report it. Too many incidences go unreported and it’s time to make sure the data reflects what is actually happening to people who look like us. Information on how to make a report is available through the following links for residents of British Columbia, Toronto, Ottawa, Montreal, Alberta and LA, New York, SF.
To get informed and involved:
Hate is a Virus: https://hateisavirus.org/
Asian Americans Advancing Justice’s Stand Against Hatred: www.standagainsthatred.org/
Check in with your friends and search together for more resources from your own community.
