Looking back, growing up in a place like Markham was a unique experience. I am a child of two refugees who fled the Vietnam War when they were children. All my parents ever wanted for my brother and me was to grow up somewhere safe, comfortable, and with the opportunities, they were not afforded. I did not realize it at the time but I grew up in a place where many kids of the Chinese-Vietnamese diaspora would have dreamed to have grown up in. Markham is a city north of Toronto with a population of around 350,000 people with almost 50% of those people being of Chinese background.
When people generally think of Chinese businesses in their respective towns, they may think about a few Chinese restaurants serving westernized Chinese cuisine and nothing else. However, when you drive around Markham, you’ll notice the plethora of East Asian and Chinese-oriented shopping centers, shops, restaurants, and other businesses. All of this was normal. I remember vividly when my German cousins came to visit Canada for the first time, they were so shocked and jealous to see how well represented we were. It was nothing they had seen before.
Markham is full of immigrants of many backgrounds, as well as a large population of people who identified as Canadian or a non-visible minority. My neighbourhood was largely a Chinese, South Asian, and Black community in north Markham where there are a lot of new subdivisions, which is great for people looking to put down some roots. It was rare to see someone who was not a POC in my neighbourhood or my schools and it was nice to be quite honest. I felt safe in school and my community — I did not feel different. I went to schools with primarily POC staff who understood and encouraged all of us to learn, embrace, and share our diverse cultures. I think due to that part of my upbringing, I have always been so intrigued by other cultures, customs, and experiences and also gained a lot of perspectives that have helped me navigate the world.
Even though I was an accepted member of my community, there was still a bit of a disconnect about my identity. Yes, I was near people who looked like me but as I grew I realized that people in positions of power didn’t, people in the media didn’t, and some people held negative views about people like me. While I felt seen in my community, I began not to feel seen elsewhere. I began to notice the stereotypes, microaggressions, and the lack of representation in the media I consumed. If there were representations in the media, it was always loaded with stereotypes, I never saw myself portrayed like an average Canadian but rather an “other”, the butt of a joke, the nerdy sidekick, or the submissive sex object. That’s where things began to shift, my internalized racism grew and I began to separate myself from my culture, I began to take pride in being “whitewashed”, and I desperately wanted to be accepted by the general population — not just the members of my community.
The thing about Markham, something that I don’t think many people talk about, is how racially separated the areas of the city are. In the newer subdivisions, you find a lot of young families, POC, and recent immigrants. However, in more established and wealthier areas of the city, it is predominately white families who live there. As I got older, I realized that the heavy Chinese presence in the city not only in population but also economically — made a lot of long-time residents and non-POC people very unhappy. I used to hear people say things like Markham is “New China” or to be careful driving in the area because Chinese women are terrible drivers. While, I agree — Markham is very different than most Canadian cities with the Chinese population being higher than the white population and honestly, yes a lot of the aunties I knew were not the best drivers. Why? Because they learned to drive much later in life and we all know the saying that as you get older the harder it is to learn to drive. They were simply anxious to be on the road. But facts and logical reasons did not matter to these people. It was clear that our presence was not necessarily welcome or at the least — we were seen as different.
I began to make myself more palatable to white people and let myself become the token Asian in a friend group. I let them make me feel special by saying things like “you’re cool, you’re not like other Chinese people”. I let friends make racist comments casually and tried to not take it personally because getting defensive, and potentially losing my so-called friends was a much worse ordeal than turning my cheek. I didn’t want to be seen as someone who was overly sensitive and could not take a joke. But, all the jokes about me always came back to the fact I was Asian. Nothing else. My mere existence was funny. I did all of that and guess what? I still felt like shit. I still did not feel comfortable in myself and my identity, I desperately wanted to be white. I wanted to be validated by white people so desperately, while simultaneously allowing myself to be degraded in the process — because in the end I “wasn’t like the others”, so I shouldn’t be taking anything personally.
I was lost.
Then I left to go to university in a predominately white town. This was probably one of the most overwhelming periods of my life. I was somebody with an already shaky sense of identity and now I have been catapulted to a place completely unfamiliar to me. I had never felt so different in my life than during this period of my life. Whenever I would meet a fellow Asian student, it felt like a relief. I felt safe and understood. We had similar experiences in life and on campus. I began to feel more comfortable in my skin after the years of dysphoria.
But, then I experienced some intense fetishization by men who looked at me like an experience, a trophy, or exotic. Once again, my worth as a person was being dwindled to my ethnic background. It did not matter who I was, what I did, what I believed in. None of it mattered, other than my palatability to the white male gaze. I got called names like “Ling Ling” or “Chun Li” randomly by men, asked if I had a “yellow belt” or if my mother was a mail-order bride, and had men write me very explicit messages about how they would use me. Again, through the discomfort and identity crisis deep inside me, I thought this was just how it would be for me. I would just have to exist and experience these things time and time again. I would just have to allow for these things to happen to me because again, I would be seen as someone who couldn’t take a “joke” or was too sensitive. I kept trying to find validation from the wrong people — I desperately wanted to be seen by them and to be accepted. I dated people who constantly fetishized me and made me feel very complicated feelings about my identity.
One moment I remember vividly was spending Easter with my then-boyfriend’s family, and his mom asked me if “my people celebrated Easter”. I was taken aback by this, as before this moment I had never felt “othered” by them. I answered, “yeah, I am baptized and was raised Catholic”. They were always pleasant to me and for the most part, I felt welcome in their home and had many positive interactions with them. It was another shattering moment for me, to feel accepted, but to realize I was being othered again. While a part of me wanted to scream at the top of my lungs at the complete ignorance, I recognized something, which was that my upbringing was unique. My exposure to other cultures outside my own was normal, and it was a privilege. They did not have that same luxury, these were small-town folk trying their best. After this moment, I began to really take in the complexities of growing up in a country where the vast majority of people have a very limited understanding of people who are not them. You can’t blame them for their ignorance, but you wish you didn’t have to hear the same old things time and time again. I will always have to deal with interactions like this, I do not exist in a utopia. After two years at university, I decided to leave. The environment I was in exacerbated already complicated feelings by 1000 times. I needed to get out. So, I did.
I took a year off school to reconfigure. I was back in my community and formed a close friend group that helped me get closer to a place of self-acceptance and love. I gained a new sense of pride in who I am and my family history, I began to learn more about Chinese-Canadian history and was looking to start fresh. Where else to start again than to go to Toronto? I had always dreamed of moving into the city and it felt like the right time to make that change for myself. Although I did not grow up in the city, I made a lot of fond memories with my family and friends here throughout the years. It was always a treat to head into the city, go shopping, and head over to Chinatown for some cheap but delicious food. I was excited to move into a diverse city with great entertainment, nightlife, and people. I was excited to meet new people and experience my 20’s in the big city.
I finally settled in the city and felt ready for a new chapter in my life. Of course, in the beginning, I felt out of place as a suburban girl. Being in the city was a bit overwhelming at first and I mainly stuck to venturing in and around my neighbourhood. I wanted to get to know my community better by shopping local and interacting with my neighbours, I wanted to be a part of the community. It wasn’t long into my new life that I started to experience overt racism. I grew up experiencing microaggressions and was used to that, as unsavoury as it is. I guess it was naive of me to think that there was going to be a lack of racist people in the city or at least that people wouldn’t say outwardly racist things to each other. But no, I experienced a lot of racism in my first few months in the city — all of it completely unprovoked. I’ve been called “China”, “chink”, “gook”, “Covid Chinese”, and a lot of other names I can’t even remember. I’ve had people walk up to me unprovoked saying a random combination of Chinese-sounding words, “ching chong ching chong”, people asking me where I learned my English from, or if I was REALLY born here.
I was disappointed, hurt, and confused. All I ever wanted was to be accepted and not questioned about my identity by white people. I’d hope that they would see me as their equal, someone who they would treat with respect and not in a condescending way. It didn’t stop just out on the streets, but even in my living arrangements and workplaces. It was hard to live and work with people who saw you as an “other”, thought your cultural food smelled or looked rancid, or constantly employed harmful stereotypes about me. I started to feel like my younger self again, full of self-doubt and confusion about my identity. Here I am a born and bred Canadian, I don’t know anything else and never lived anywhere else. Hell, I haven’t even been to Asia before. But I was stuck. It’s cliche but I did feel completely stuck between two cultures and not belonging fully to either of them. I always felt the need to explain my family history to justify myself and my legitimacy in this country.
Funnily enough, for the first year of my life in Toronto — I rarely visited Chinatown except for the occasional passing by on the streetcar on my way elsewhere. I had spent a fair amount of time during my youth there that I didn’t have much of an interest in visiting, I was trying to familiarize myself with areas in the city I hadn’t been to before. But eventually, I started craving foods that were familiar to me — I was missing my mom’s cooking. I ventured to Chinatown and realized that I felt more at ease in the area. I wasn’t different. If anything, I was embarrassed to be of Chinese descent and unable to fully communicate with the elders and in the community. Nonetheless, they still welcomed me and I felt like I was being taken care of by my uncles and aunties. Shortly after, I began to realize how important it was to me and to others to have a safe place like Chinatown — where we were not different, could speak our mother tongues, and eat our comfort foods. Chinatown is special. The people reminded me of my own family. I felt safe.
For as long as I can remember my dad has leaned right and voted for the Conservative party, I even remember being 10 years old during the 2006 elections and telling a classmate that Liberal leader Paul Martin was an idiot because my dad had said so. Conservative voters in the Chinese community, especially those who belong to the suburban middle class to upper-middle-class demographic, is something I am familiar with. My parent’s generation, especially in my direct community fled civil war and a communist regime, and a lot of them do not understand the nuances of racism in Canada. As our community gained prosperity and built our own communities, they started to feel more comfortable. However, that comfort was something given to us by white people, we were the model minority. We were pawns for them to be pit against other people of colour, to explain away systemic issues that affect marginalized communities. I have always told my parents this, don’t get too comfortable with how things are and how we are treated, because with a blink of an eye it can all disappear. The Covid-19 pandemic and the quick change in attitude towards Asians in the west is the perfect example of what I was trying to convey to them. The safety they felt was an illusion. We saw a rise in anti-Asian attacks and murders, particularly against women. I began to worry about the women in my family and community. My friends and boyfriend began to worry about my safety. I had offers to do my errands or to be my walking buddy. I appreciated it all and felt loved with the support my friends were giving me, but of course felt saddened, because no one should have to live with such fear.
Covid-19 and the impact on my community and I made me realize something. When Chinese migrants first came to Canada to build the railroads, we faced “yellow peril”, systemic racism, and discrimination then eventually we somehow became the “model minority” while being the “perpetual foreigners” and it seems like we’ve now gone full circle back to “yellow peril”. I remember having discussions with my family and peers about the model minority myth and how it was harmful rhetoric, I was met with opposition. They would argue that it was better than we were seen as these subservient and hardworking people than to be seen as illegal immigrants, thugs, or terrorists. Once, a close friend’s father said to me “I like you Chinese people. You guys work hard, are polite, and mind your business” as if I should have taken that as a compliment. I don’t ever wish to be seen as better than any other race, those are dangerous sentiments to have about people.
The model minority myth is harmful because it erases the trauma, discrimination, and racism Asian people face in Canada. Anti-Asian jokes have always been seen as “tasteful” even though they completely are not, because of these myths of privilege and benefits of being Asian, how can we experience racism that is truly damaging to our community? We’re expected to keep our mouths shut, look down, and accept situations as they are. I realize this safety we felt in our broader community was rooted in these sentiments and myths and that is exactly why our community has always preferred to stick and build together.
I really began to appreciate places like Chinatown and Markham like I had not before. I had always liked these places because I could connect with my culture and customs and for many people, it’s a safe haven and a little piece of home. Where we all would be welcomed and safe there, we wouldn’t have to worry about someone telling us to “go back to where I came from” because they believe we are part of the reason why the pandemic is happening. Chinatowns across North America were built out of necessity, to keep us all safe during uncertain times. While the beginning of Chinatowns was unsavoury, it serves as a reminder to the community that we are resilient and are not going anywhere. We belong here, just like anyone else.
I am still coming to terms with my feelings about being an Asian-Canadian and the complexity of yearning to belong while rejecting the boxes I am expected to fill in to get there. I have to acknowledge both the privileges afforded to me through false ideas while unraveling the layers of how these same ideas damaged me. While I feel uncertain and more conflicted than ever about my place in Canada, I know a place where I am going to feel at home.
