When people think of Canada, they often think of a cultural mosaic, a place where people from all cultures and ethnicities co-exist peacefully. The racial make-up of Canadians has changed dramatically in the past decade as more visible minorities are moving to the country. However, growing up as a child of the 80’s in Alberta, I did not exactly feel like part of a mosaic. In fact, I often felt like the odd little Asian kid amongst a sea of Caucasian faces.
The First Generation
My father came to Canada from Hong Kong when he was 18 years old to attend university. He came here by himself shouldering the hopes and dreams his parents had to build a better life. My mother came here with her mom and two brothers when she was 11 years old from China; her father had come over when she was just a baby and this was the first time she had ever met him. A close friend of her father christened each of the kids with an English name so they would fit in.
Both of my parents struggled to overcome language and cultural barriers—my mother was held back a grade as her English skills were insufficient. Yet despite these obstacles, they both worked hard and graduated from university; my dad as an MD and my mom as a nurse. From a young age, discipline and perseverance were traits deeply ingrained in them both as a result of their upbringing.
After meeting in university and marrying shortly after, my mom gave birth to my brother and three years later, I came along. My brother and I are the first generation in our family to be born in Canada. Although both of my parents had by that time been Canadian citizens for years, they both managed to retain many aspects of the Chinese culture. It also helped that my paternal grandmother, grandfather and great-grandmother came to live with us when I was six months old.
Growing up, my grandma, or Mama as I called her, helped raise us on a steady diet of white rice, steamed vegetables, meat and congee. Her congee (a favourite of mine), was as traditional as you could get. She added thousand year old eggs, a variety of beets, tofu sheets and simmered pork or beef bones. As a little girl, I spoke Cantonese at home as my grandparents did not know English.
Aside from the cuisine and language, Mama instilled many traditional “Chinese-isms” in us. She would often say, “Don’t take a bath after you eat, it’s bad for you!” Or, “The most important areas to cover are your neck and head—otherwise you’ll catch a cold!” And, “Taking too many baths during the week is bad for you!” In the evenings, all of the adults would be glued to the T.V. watching China-Vision.
Trying to Fit In
I never really thought much about race until I started school. Up until elementary, the majority of my time was spent with my family and large extended family. It wasn’t until I started school that I noticed how different I was from the other kids. My mom would often pack me leftovers for lunch from dinner, but soon I was requesting sandwiches, just like all the other kids.
I was given a Chinese middle-name when I was born. But if anyone were to ask me what my middle name was as a kid, I would simply say that I didn’t have one. I soon made friends and found acceptance, but secretly I pined for the blond hair and blue eyes that the “pretty” girls had. I was hesitant to invite friends over to play as I didn’t want them to think that our house smelled funny from the Chinese cooking, or that my grandparents were weird for not speaking English.
Needless to say, I was rejecting my heritage because I wanted to be like all the other kids. My parents obviously sensed this and enrolled my brother and me into Chinese class every Saturday where we would learn to read and write the characters. I hated going to these classes; my six year old self was indignant, “This isn’t fair! None of the other kids at school have to go to two schools and do double the homework!” Stubborn as I was even at a young age, I barely did my Chinese homework and relentlessly nagged my parents to let me quit. I finally got my wish a year or two later.
Throughout my school years, my parents strictly upheld their belief that schoolwork should come before all else. While other parents would probably be pleased when their child brought home a test score of 80%, my parents would say something like, “Why didn’t you get 100%?” And like almost every other Asian kid I’ve known, I was enrolled in piano lessons at an early age to learn “discipline.”
By the time I got to junior high, my Cantonese had almost deteriorated; I could barely speak at a conversational level. My parents started asking me why I didn’t have any Asian friends. The answer was simple—there weren’t very many Asian kids in our school. I was no more likely to be friends with someone based on their race as I was to not be friends with someone based on race. To me, it didn’t matter what colour you were, but it just so happened that my friends were all white.
The turning point came in high school. It was as if someone had made up for all those years of being the lone Asian kid and dumped all of the Asian kids I would have known if the statistics were correct, into one school. Where did all of these other Asian kids come from, I wondered. Suddenly, I no longer felt like such an outsider. My parents’ wish came true – I finally made some Asian friends and even dated a few Asian boys (albeit some of them were not the type to bring home to meet them).
Finding a Balance
Throughout my life, I’ve always struggled to balance the weight of tradition and culture against new and western beliefs. My grown-up self is regretting the decision I made all those years ago to quit Chinese school. Now that I am married to a Caucasian man, I have absolutely no need to speak Cantonese at home and I often struggle to find certain words when speaking with my grandparents. I have to give my husband credit for picking up a few phrases to be able to speak to my grandparents and for being so accepting of our cultural differences. While my grandparents are still around, we celebrate Chinese New Year, the autumn Moon Festival, and frequent Chinese restaurants. But what happens when they’re gone?
Will my parents, who are very much westernized, carry on some family traditions? Who will be around to cook Mama’s congee, or make dumplings from scratch? Heck, I can’t even make a decent stir fry. I believe that my story is not unique, that many other first generation kids of all cultures are experiencing the same pang of guilt for not trying harder, and are trying to tame the growing fear that their family culture may soon die.
A Dying culture? Not if You Make an Effort…
As I try to grasp onto and soak up as much Chinese culture as I can, I can’t help but feel more Canadian. Ask me who I’m rooting for during the Olympics and I will say “Canada” in a heartbeat. I look at my own extended family and the majority of my cousins are in inter-racial relationships. People say that by the time the Second Generation comes (that is, when I have kids), their native culture will be virtually extinct.
But I refuse to let that happen in my family. While I cannot promise to retain all aspects of the Chinese culture, I will try to hang onto some of it. Since my husband is part Italian, we plan on cooking both Asian and Italian at home. When I have children, I will teach them to speak some Cantonese and I will definitely still celebrate Chinese New Year’s by giving out lucky red pockets to them. This culture that my future children will grow up with won’t be Chinese. Instead, it will be a blend of different cultures which will fit right into Canada’s cultural mosaic.
Growing Up with Immigrant Parents
When people think of Canada, they often think of a cultural mosaic, a place where people from all cultures and ethnicities co-exist peacefully. The racial make-up of Canadians has changed dramatically in the past decade as more visible minorities are moving to the country. However, growing up as a child of the 80’s in Alberta, I did not exactly feel like part of a mosaic. In fact, I often felt like the odd little Asian kid amongst a sea of Caucasian faces.
The First Generation
My father came to Canada from Hong Kong when he was 18 years old to attend university. He came here by himself shouldering the hopes and dreams his parents had to build a better life. My mother came here with her mom and two brothers when she was 11 years old from China; her father had come over when she was just a baby and this was the first time she had ever met him. A close friend of her father christened each of the kids with an English name so they would fit in.
Both of my parents struggled to overcome language and cultural barriers—my mother was held back a grade as her English skills were insufficient. Yet despite these obstacles, they both worked hard and graduated from university; my dad as an MD and my mom as a nurse. From a young age, discipline and perseverance were traits deeply ingrained in them both as a result of their upbringing.
After meeting in university and marrying shortly after, my mom gave birth to my brother and three years later, I came along. My brother and I are the first generation in our family to be born in Canada. Although both of my parents had by that time been Canadian citizens for years, they both managed to retain many aspects of the Chinese culture. It also helped that my paternal grandmother, grandfather and great-grandmother came to live with us when I was six months old.
Growing up, my grandma, or Mama as I called her, helped raise us on a steady diet of white rice, steamed vegetables, meat and congee. Her congee (a favourite of mine), was as traditional as you could get. She added thousand year old eggs, a variety of beets, tofu sheets and simmered pork or beef bones. As a little girl, I spoke Cantonese at home as my grandparents did not know English.
Aside from the cuisine and language, Mama instilled many traditional “Chinese-isms” in us. She would often say, “Don’t take a bath after you eat, it’s bad for you!” Or, “The most important areas to cover are your neck and head—otherwise you’ll catch a cold!” And, “Taking too many baths during the week is bad for you!” In the evenings, all of the adults would be glued to the T.V. watching China-Vision.
Trying to Fit In
I never really thought much about race until I started school. Up until elementary, the majority of my time was spent with my family and large extended family. It wasn’t until I started school that I noticed how different I was from the other kids. My mom would often pack me leftovers for lunch from dinner, but soon I was requesting sandwiches, just like all the other kids.
I was given a Chinese middle-name when I was born. But if anyone were to ask me what my middle name was as a kid, I would simply say that I didn’t have one. I soon made friends and found acceptance, but secretly I pined for the blond hair and blue eyes that the “pretty” girls had. I was hesitant to invite friends over to play as I didn’t want them to think that our house smelled funny from the Chinese cooking, or that my grandparents were weird for not speaking English.
Needless to say, I was rejecting my heritage because I wanted to be like all the other kids. My parents obviously sensed this and enrolled my brother and me into Chinese class every Saturday where we would learn to read and write the characters. I hated going to these classes; my six year old self was indignant, “This isn’t fair! None of the other kids at school have to go to two schools and do double the homework!” Stubborn as I was even at a young age, I barely did my Chinese homework and relentlessly nagged my parents to let me quit. I finally got my wish a year or two later.
Throughout my school years, my parents strictly upheld their belief that schoolwork should come before all else. While other parents would probably be pleased when their child brought home a test score of 80%, my parents would say something like, “Why didn’t you get 100%?” And like almost every other Asian kid I’ve known, I was enrolled in piano lessons at an early age to learn “discipline.”
By the time I got to junior high, my Cantonese had almost deteriorated; I could barely speak at a conversational level. My parents started asking me why I didn’t have any Asian friends. The answer was simple—there weren’t very many Asian kids in our school. I was no more likely to be friends with someone based on their race as I was to not be friends with someone based on race. To me, it didn’t matter what colour you were, but it just so happened that my friends were all white.
The turning point came in high school. It was as if someone had made up for all those years of being the lone Asian kid and dumped all of the Asian kids I would have known if the statistics were correct, into one school. Where did all of these other Asian kids come from, I wondered. Suddenly, I no longer felt like such an outsider. My parents’ wish came true – I finally made some Asian friends and even dated a few Asian boys (albeit some of them were not the type to bring home to meet them).
Finding a Balance
Throughout my life, I’ve always struggled to balance the weight of tradition and culture against new and western beliefs. My grown-up self is regretting the decision I made all those years ago to quit Chinese school. Now that I am married to a Caucasian man, I have absolutely no need to speak Cantonese at home and I often struggle to find certain words when speaking with my grandparents. I have to give my husband credit for picking up a few phrases to be able to speak to my grandparents and for being so accepting of our cultural differences. While my grandparents are still around, we celebrate Chinese New Year, the autumn Moon Festival, and frequent Chinese restaurants. But what happens when they’re gone?
Will my parents, who are very much westernized, carry on some family traditions? Who will be around to cook Mama’s congee, or make dumplings from scratch? Heck, I can’t even make a decent stir fry. I believe that my story is not unique, that many other first generation kids of all cultures are experiencing the same pang of guilt for not trying harder, and are trying to tame the growing fear that their family culture may soon die.
A Dying culture? Not if You Make an Effort…
As I try to grasp onto and soak up as much Chinese culture as I can, I can’t help but feel more Canadian. Ask me who I’m rooting for during the Olympics and I will say “Canada” in a heartbeat. I look at my own extended family and the majority of my cousins are in inter-racial relationships. People say that by the time the Second Generation comes (that is, when I have kids), their native culture will be virtually extinct.
But I refuse to let that happen in my family. While I cannot promise to retain all aspects of the Chinese culture, I will try to hang onto some of it. Since my husband is part Italian, we plan on cooking both Asian and Italian at home. When I have children, I will teach them to speak some Cantonese and I will definitely still celebrate Chinese New Year’s by giving out lucky red pockets to them. This culture that my future children will grow up with won’t be Chinese. Instead, it will be a blend of different cultures which will fit right into Canada’s cultural mosaic.
