四 (sì) 'Chink'
Two events bring my feelings of cultural bereavement sharply into focus:
In 2018, I moved to Ho Chi Minh City. It was the first time I had lived in a homogenous society where I at least resembled the majority population (though there were still plenty of clues that revealed my North American upbringing). After the initial culture shock wore off, it felt as if an invisible weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Perhaps it was the reprieve from escaping the microaggressions I experienced as a visual minority, even in a city as culturally diverse as Toronto.
A few years before relocating, I was called a racial slur in a road rage incident. The white man driving an F150 hurled his vitriol and ignorance at me with such force that I couldn't help but look at myself in the mirror. As I stared at my reflection, I wondered what was so wrong about me that could elicit such a hateful reaction from a stranger. It was a painful reminder that no matter how much I embraced Canadian culture, others would never let me forget my Chinese roots. It did not matter that I was born in Canada, spoke English without an accent (I grew up believing accents were something to be ashamed of), played popular Canadian sports, had white private school friends, or even dated white men to be closer to existing power structures.
No amount of denying my upbringing, erasing my cultural roots, or hating myself for being Asian could grant me the freedom of not having to think about my racial background every day. As a teenager, neither marginalization nor assimilation improved my mental health. By adulthood, I unwittingly began searching for something different, bringing me one step closer to integration according to Berry's model of acculturation (Berry, 1997). Within 6 months of landing in Vietnam, I realized I had found what I had lost, without ever realizing it was gone in the first place.
It was cultural bereavement that drew me to live in Asia for 2 years, long before I had the words to name what I had felt my entire life.
In 2018, I moved to Ho Chi Minh City. It was the first time I had lived in a homogenous society where I at least resembled the majority population (though there were still plenty of clues that revealed my North American upbringing). After the initial culture shock wore off, it felt as if an invisible weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Perhaps it was the reprieve from escaping the microaggressions I experienced as a visual minority, even in a city as culturally diverse as Toronto.
A few years before relocating, I was called a racial slur in a road rage incident. The white man driving an F150 hurled his vitriol and ignorance at me with such force that I couldn't help but look at myself in the mirror. As I stared at my reflection, I wondered what was so wrong about me that could elicit such a hateful reaction from a stranger. It was a painful reminder that no matter how much I embraced Canadian culture, others would never let me forget my Chinese roots. It did not matter that I was born in Canada, spoke English without an accent (I grew up believing accents were something to be ashamed of), played popular Canadian sports, had white private school friends, or even dated white men to be closer to existing power structures.
No amount of denying my upbringing, erasing my cultural roots, or hating myself for being Asian could grant me the freedom of not having to think about my racial background every day. As a teenager, neither marginalization nor assimilation improved my mental health. By adulthood, I unwittingly began searching for something different, bringing me one step closer to integration according to Berry's model of acculturation (Berry, 1997). Within 6 months of landing in Vietnam, I realized I had found what I had lost, without ever realizing it was gone in the first place.
It was cultural bereavement that drew me to live in Asia for 2 years, long before I had the words to name what I had felt my entire life.