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Submission to the FVC Falconer:

I am a Stranger

I act like a white girl, talk like a white girl and dress like a white girl, but I am not a white girl. I am the more commonly known “Banana,” the Asian raised in a white community. Ever since my first day in Preschool, this has been who I am. My parents always joke about how I spoke only Chinese as a kid, and then one day, I came home from school and completely forgot. Don’t get me wrong though. This isn’t a criticism of the Canadian school system. It’s no longer the days of reservation schools, but the days of classrooms with posters with the words, “Remember kids, nobody is different, because of their race!” What I’ve always failed to remember is that although I am not different, I am also not the same, and that’s something I’ve always struggled with. I remember when I was in elementary school, I would argue all the time with my parents about speaking Chinese. They couldn’t understand why I refused to speak my mother tongue, and I couldn’t understand why I had to, because nobody else at school did.
I soon came to realize that just because I stopped speaking the language of my people; it did not make me fit in any better. Growing up surrounded by Caucasians most of the time, I was still a minority. I was envious of the level of connection that they had with each other that I wasn’t able to attain. I was still a stranger. There are white kids that I can relate to, but up to a point where there still are gaps, because, truthfully, although we live side-by-side, we are raised in different cultures. It’s human nature to group with people that we have the most in common with.
North American culture has a care-free sense of letting their heart’s desires dominate their choices. They are allowed this freedom, which the Asian culture doesn’t have, of thinking that anything is possible and the image of a well-off family is one that is able to communicate with each other. Traditionally, at least in Chinese society, parents are figures of authority to their children, not their friends, and the love of success and work is more important than the love of pleasure. By success, it means either going into medicine or business, and if you want to be really successful, go into both. Sports and Arts are a waste of time, unless you’re another Patrick Chan, and a good work ethic in school with a combination of competitiveness with your peers is the epitome of accomplishment. A mere “trying your best” isn’t always enough. It’s a different story with Canadian culture, as seen with the amount of soccer moms and parents that are okay with less than 86%.
I am blessed enough to have parents who have decided not to take it upon themselves to raise me traditionally. They encourage me to do the things that I’m passionate about, but at the same time, they’re realistic and put limits on the things that they think will not lead to my success. They know that if they let me do whatever I want, it will result in one of two things: either a self-confidence that will lead to an ability to take care of myself and others or an immature swagger and the attitude our generation has developed of thinking we’re the shit, with the second one being more likely.
During the period of time in my life that I decided that I was going to force myself in the white community, my dad decided to take me back to the village where my grandpa was born. He told me that I had to find the roots of my heritage and connect with where I come from. After much persuasion, I found myself slightly ecstatic about returning to the motherland and being in a place where I looked like everyone else, but I was thoroughly disappointed. From the very first moment I stepped out onto the street, I had never in my entire life felt more like foreigner. Not only physically, but also in the way I carried myself, I was different. For a white girl, I’m short. I never fill out the jeans that I buy in Vancouver properly, because of my lack of butt and somehow, every pair I try on seems to come down to my toes. I’m used to looking up to people when I speak and joking with people that being vertically challenged isn’t a disability. But for an Asian girl, I’m huge. I’m not saying this in a sense of low self-esteem, but with a sense of truth. The thing about China and Hong Kong is that everything is compact and a lot smaller. Milk comes in smaller cartons, everyone lives in apartments and the people are petite. I have curves where most girls don’t, and can’t wear the one-size-fits-all t-shirts without feeling self-conscience of how they hug my figure. People stared at me, not only because of how I towered over guys twice my age, but also because of how I acted. I didn’t shuffle past people on the street like everyone else, but I held my head up, and my Chinese accent was off by a mile. Among my own people, I was a stranger.
So all this leaves just one question left to be asked: Where do I fit in? I’m no longer the young school girl who wishes to be white nor will I ever be a FOB (Fresh Off the Boat). Because of the amount of effort it would take for me be one or the other, I’m stuck somewhere along the much dreaded line of in-between. It’s thinking like this that have started movements like the Taiwanese Census, a campaign not to further exclude the Chinese-American as an individual group of people, but to create awareness of our existence. It’s recognition that we do belong somewhere. I’m glad that I’m not still in a position where I feel as if I have to choose one or the other. I have a strong friend group of both Caucasians and Asians, and have come to realize that being the middle ground doesn’t come as a disadvantage. Languages that have been unlearned can always be relearned, and my life has been ridiculously rich with culture. Not fitting in isn’t always a bad thing. Being a stranger is who I am.

-Rebekah Ho, May 2010

.... I will edit this more later.