“Don’t forget who you are. They will take one look at you, and they’ll always remind you that you’re different. You think you’re White, but you’re not. They’ll always treat you different.”
I wish I had listened to my mother. She, along with my father, moved here from Hong Kong. It was not easy immigrating to the South in the ‘70s. Is it ever easy? Not really, but it was especially not easy then. I was born here in the U.S., and learned Cantonese as I simultaneously learned English.
I also learned that people stare at you like you’re a zoo animal. In the grocery store, in the library, in a restaurant. I learned kids mostly play with most other kids. Until they call you names and pull the corners of their eyes upwards. I learned people talk to you slowly, and loudly. Until you reply in perfect English and you can see their bodies relax.
Maybe it was because of all of these things that I didn’t listen to my mother. Maybe I didn’t have the words for it back then, and I hoped and hoped she was wrong because hope is a powerful thing. Maybe if I believed it enough, then I could be White. And treated as White. I was so desperate, I scrounged together enough money during the 80’s version of supply chain issues, to buy a blond Cabbage Patch doll. Even then, I knew that was as close as I would ever get to having a blond baby. Even then, I knew that Mary Jo Cabbage was as close as I would ever get to being White.
Maybe if I had listened to her, I would not have been shocked when people in bars asked me to say something in Chinese like I’m a circus performer for their entertainment. Maybe if I had listened to her, it would not have hurt as much when men told me how much they love Asian skin and exotic women, like it was a compliment. Maybe if I listened to her, it wouldn’t have been as invalidating to always be mistaken for other Asians who look nothing like me, as if we were all interchangeable.
But what if I had listened to her? What would I have done differently? Would I have raged and pushed back at the world at every turn? Maybe that’s what she wanted for me. Maybe that’s what she wanted for her. She didn’t have the words or standing to rage and unapologetically claim her space. Maybe she wanted me to do it for her, instead of rage and push back against her. Because that’s what I did instead of listening to her. What did she want me to do with her words?
I don’t know, and I can’t ask her. She died 7 years ago. I think she, like most mothers, wanted to protect me from the harsh realities of the dark side of humanity. I think she wanted to spare me from the years of confusion and sadness that come from being a model minority, and yet always a minority. Always different. I think she wanted me to be unapologetically me.
It took me a longer route, and more years than it should have, but I did finally listen to my mother. But only by becoming a mother myself. Once I gave birth to my son, I understood her. I understood how important it was to know your heritage, to know where you come from, to know who you are. I understood that you need to embrace who you are in order to call out micro-aggressions, biases, racism. I understood that you need to fully know your heritage before you can call out the fools, simpletons, douche canoes.
Maybe she wanted me to always remember I’m Chinese so that she could be seen by me. Maybe she didn’t feel seen in this country by all of these White Americans. And not seen by her own daughter. Maybe she was also asking me to take a look at her and see me in her.
By finally listening to my mother, I’ve bridged this gap with my own children. I am unapologetically me so that they can unapologetically be their fierce selves. When we’re hit with reminders of micro-aggressions, biases, and racism, there’s comfort in understanding each other’s hurts. When we’re hyper-sexualized, mistaken for someone else, or mocked for our food choices, we can turn to each other and sigh deeply in our knowing. We know our pain is seen and held gently.
I wonder how my relationship with my mother would have been if I had seen her early on. Maybe she never felt truly seen by me. I don’t think she ever really saw me either. But I do know mothers are always right, and she’s given me this gift of a close relationship with my children, by reminding me to remember who I am.
Don’t forget who you are. I am Chinese. I am a mother. I am a daughter. I am my mother’s daughter.