I speak Dim Sum: chao shao bao. My Chinese vocabulary is limited to two things: food and ping yin (the Latin of Chinese language). But my physical appearance states otherwise: dark hair, brown Asian eyes and a modest 5’2” frame.
Growing up in a Canadian household and being a third generation speaks to wavelengths about my weak language skills. But regardless people have high expectations for my fluency in either Cantonese or Mandarin.
I’m caught between two worlds, between my ethnicity and my nationality. My ethnicity is explicit because of my physical appearance, and my nationality is a function of my personality. I am Canadian first and Chinese second. Should I be worried about prioritizing my nationality over my ethnicity?
Some seem to agree, while others ignore the problem I face altogether. My cousin in Hong Kong refuses to speak English to me during family visits as a silent form of protest, despite the fact that that he understands English. For him it makes no sense that a Chinese girl can’t speak Chinese. I almost think he relishes in the struggle. On the other hand, my parents, who are Canadian-born Chinese, see that I am just as Chinese as anyone else because of how I embrace my cultural habits; my language does not reflect my ability to feel Chinese.
On one trip to Hong Kong I encountered the same question about my ethnicity versus my nationality. I was shopping in Zara, a European clothing store, with a fellow Chinese Canadian who was fluent in Cantonese. A local Hong Kong mother and her daughter were chatting in the change room and choosing clothes for the impending season of elementary school. To me the murmurs shared between the two were an orchestra of plucked violins: sound without voice. But to my colleague’s ears they were insulting murmurs.
“You see those two girls speaking English? They’ve corrupted our culture by being westernized—never ever become that.
I think she failed to notice that she was surrounded by Westernization—Zara, capitalism, clothing with English labels, Western style clothing, the list goes on. It’s interesting to note that traditional Chinese families are more than willing to drown themselves in Western apparel, but the moment they notice a Chinese girl pouring over Western language they criticize. It’s fair to say that you can go shopping for whatever you want to take from Western culture, but I cannot take away Western characteristics that are a part of my identity. My friend, as a fellow Chinese Canadian, was just as insulted. We may have sounded different and acted different from local Chinese, but that never discredited our ability to feel Chinese. I admit that I should engage with the roots of my ethnic language and I’m working on it—Mandarin Oral Skills Level 1, complete. And I intend to keep learning more Mandarin and Cantonese. But I still question what constitutes the corruption of one’s culture. Will language skills change my ability to feel Chinese? At the end of the day I may never perfect Chinese or follow the background of a traditional Chinese girl, but does that mean I’ve corrupted the culture, that I should feel “less Chinese?” Only time will tell, as traditional society reacts to a whole new generation of kids just like me, clueless of their mother tongue but overjoyed at the site of chao shao baos. Tradition meets new generation.
Elizabeth Wong is a fourth-year undergraduate student at University College doing a double major in English and Political Science. She takes a strong interest in Chinese politics and culture.
