Of Loss, Grief and Being Enough.
TW: Instances of racism and racial trauma. Quotations are used throughout to highlight real words that have been said to me directly.
The Black Lives Matter movement has opened up all sorts of global, societal and personal racial traumas. This entry in particular is a reflection of some of my personal experiences of racism as they have been opened. I am able, and have the privilege to address this now because of the work and sacrifices of Black and Indigenous people who have made it possible—Thank you.
Celebrating Chinese New Year with the family at my Ma-ma and Ye-ye’s house. My Ma-ma would spend all day preparing traditional lunar new year dishes. While I never learnt to speak Cantonese, I knew ‘sik fan’ meant it was time to eat!
I look back at my childhood, my teenage years, my adulthood (so far) and see how much society and the people within it (close friends, family, people I respect, strangers, myself) have reiterated the narrative that has been passed down to me from society, from my parents and ancestors. The narrative that I am not enough. The narrative was that no matter how hard I tried to be ‘just as’ (just as smart but just as social, just as pretty, just as deserving, just as worthy), that it will never be enough because of my slanted eyes and yellow skin.
“I wore ‘white-washed’ like a badge of honour, that ‘you’re not like other Asians’ and ‘you don’t look Chinese,’ was a compliment and something to strive for.”
Growing up in Steveston (where Asian presence was very apparent), I resented my Chinese cultural identity because of stereotypes and micro-aggressions: “The Chinese are invading/taking over,” or “Chinese people are the worst drivers,” and “Chinese people are dirty.” I wore ‘white-washed’ like a badge of honour, that “you’re not like other Asians” and “you don’t look Chinese,” was a compliment and something to strive for.
In elementary school, I didn’t eat my delicious Chinese lunches that my ma-ma prepared for me because other kids made fun of the other Asian kids food being “stink bombs.” I would have rather starved myself then to be grouped in and made fun of. I learned to laugh along with the “Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees” taunt. I denied myself the opportunity to learn how to speak Chinese. I learned to put myself down, put down my racial identity to belong with ‘everyone else.’ Even as a child I assimilated out of ‘survival,’ just like my mom and dad had to growing up in Canada after they emigrated from Hong Kong.
My mom with her parents (my Gon-Gon and Po-Po) and two brothers, embracing Canadian (and American) Hockey culture. They immigrated to Canada in 1966 when my mom was only three years old.
In high school, within the first week I was approached by classmates taking bets on what type of Asian I was. I was flattered that they didn’t “see me as Chinese,” that there was a chance I could be seen as half White and being ‘full’ was a surprise. Because of my ‘Whiteness’ or ability to assimilate, I also got to hear what people thought of “Other Chinese people,” because “you’re not like them.” It was in grade 9 that a complete stranger yelled across a parking lot and called me a Chink. I blamed myself. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried I could never erase this part of me. I could never be White or Canadian enough to escape from racism, to escape from being less than. I sought out validation in all forms, from my parents, from my peers, from my teachers. The narrative was that I was not enough, so I overcompensated to give more, to do more, and to be more—to the point of burn out and exhaustion that carried me into my adulthood.
“I blamed myself. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried I could never erase this part of me. I could never be White or Canadian enough to escape from racism, to escape from being less than.”
University happened, liberal art school happened, and for the first time I was surrounded by, what felt like (in comparison to my past), diversity and acceptance. I learnt about the male gaze and the ‘other,’ I also made friends along the way that I will cherish forever. But at the same time it came with an overwhelming sense of shame, shame and guilt that I had for so long suppressed and robbed myself of my cultural identity. Two grandparents had already passed. I was running out of time. But instead of reconnecting with my roots, I ran from shame. I did what I knew best and buried myself in work. I equated my accomplishments, my work ethic, and my social life, to my worth, which of course was never enough. I was constantly on the verge of breaking. The reminder of not enough ringing in my ear. I went on dates. On one first date I was fetishized and made fun of within the first 10 minutes, even pushing his eyes back and making a fake accent, then asking if I was “kinky like other Asians.” I came home and cried after that date, I felt unworthy of love. I received comments like, “I’ve never been with an Asian before” or the best pick up line “what are you?”—I didn’t even get a hello. I had to question wether I was liked for who I was or simply because I seemed “exotic” to others. It was so utterly confusing. No amount of work could make me escape from my skin.
I did it! Walking across the stage during 2017 graduation ceremony for Emily Carr University of Art + Design.
Then my mom died. My world had stopped. I was broken into a million little pieces, I could not go back to normal. But the world kept going, so I tried to keep up. One thing I know is that I am resilient. I finished my degree and dedicated my year’s work to my mom, to my grief. It was the first year I did something for me, and it felt amazing. It took death to make me realize I’ve been neglecting myself, putting myself last every time.
The years that followed my moms death have been the most difficult and vulnerable years of my life. They have also been the greatest years of growth and coming into alignment with myself—creating a new normal. I’ve bonded and formed stronger relationships with my family than ever before. I got a dream job with people I call family. Travelled the world. Started the life-changing journey of going to therapy. I met a man that I love so deeply that I couldn’t have imagined it or dreamt it. I’ve had moments of fully experiencing and embracing life, and all it has to offer. Even with that kind of love, the same narrative rings in the back of my mind—I am not enough.
This narrative looks like rage when witnessing an act of hate against another human being. It looks like waking up in tears, not being able to get out of bed, or feeding myself until dinner (and if you know me you know how much I love food). It looks like pushing everyone around me away. It looks like over planning and over controlling everything outside of me, because really I’m losing control of myself. It is the venom of not enough that oozes out when triggered. And oooOOo has it ever been triggered.
Since the George Floyd and Black Lives Matter protests have started, it has been conflicting. An overwhelming feeling of finally being seen, being heard, being part of a community that also knows the feeling of not being enough. Feeling an overwhelming sense of purpose to fight for those who have suffered at the hands of systemic oppression, to demand justice for Black and Indigenous lives, and for humanity. But on the other hand I’ve also seen people/brands just try to cover their own asses, performative allyship so they don’t get in trouble. I’ve seen people go back to normal. Like after my mom died. It’s grief. It’s everything that comes with it.
Signs from Vancouver’s Protests in support of all Black Lives. Left and centre images: Vancouver Art Gallery protest. Right image: Vancouver Black Lives Matter protest blocking the viaduct where Holgan’s Alley (Vancouver’s Black community) once stood. Photo credit/permissions: Centre image Yuriy Kyrzov, right and left image Megan Kwan.
Frustration. Can’t you see? Why don’t you see? Why don’t you care to see? There are people in pain that has been inflicted by you (and myself) as a part of denial, as a part of supremacy. Good people can still unintentionally cause harm. On one hand, addressing racism opens up the wounds of racial trauma, but on the other, not addressing racism opens up these wounds too. These wounds I had so diligently tried to suppress are bubbling and overflowing more than ever—the vicious narrative of never being enough. This oppressive system operates on all of us believing that we are not enough.
“...we all play a part in this narrative of not enough—so we also have the power to change it.”
I’m writing this as a reminder to myself that it is time to heal this part of me, these wounds I have accumulated over the past 25 years and inherited from previous generations. To rewrite the narrative of not enough to enough. I’m writing this in hopes that maybe someone who reads this will resonate with my story. Not to feel sorry for me, but to either relate, reflect and/or realize we all play a part in this narrative of not enough—so we also have the power to change it.
Now, imagine how this narrative and experience must be for someone who is Black and, or Indigenous. I can’t ever fully grasp what it is like to experience racism to the severity of real physical violence and fear for my life because of it. That is my privilege (one of many). So, when you see others in need, in pain, asking for their lives to matter just as much, and you can do something about it, why wouldn’t you? Maybe you’re not ready to open your own wounds just yet, maybe its uncomfortable? But how much longer can we afford to wait? How many more Black and Indigenous lives have to be lost due to our lack of action? This process of unlearning is messy, it will look different for each of us. But know you are not alone (loved ones, support groups, therapy!!!), know there is a better world on the other side of ignorance and trauma, and the other side is purpose and compassion; for others and in turn yourself.
“I am enough as I am, and as I am is always growing and evolving.”
That all being said, just because I have experienced racism doesn’t mean I am immune to doing racist things or acting on racist ideals. Really, I’m realizing now, (literally as I write this) I’ve been racist and oppressive to myself throughout my life. I’m sorry it took death and grief to make me realize I have been neglecting myself. And I’m sorry to anyone who I might have hurt along the way acting out of my pain and ignorance. Now knowing that I can do better and will continue to do better as I learn more, is enough. I am enough as I am, and as I am is always growing and evolving.
Photo credit and permissions: Vonny Lorde (@lastnamelorde).You can purchase this print and support Lorde’s studio, Exposure Toronto, which works to amplify Black photographers and videographers.
If you feel so inclined and have the capacity, please consider donating to Compton Girls Club via paypal. Through workshops, skill building, field trips, and mentorship, Compton Girls Club provides girls from underserved communities access to resources to become confident, assertive and independent women.
“When we plant the seed of information and confidence in girls, they then spread that energy and light back into their communities and unto others.” — Compton Girls Club
Although my mom isn’t physically here anymore, I am so grateful to have had that time with her. My mom was my greatest influence and I know that is the same for so many others. Another organization in need of donations is the Aboriginal Mother Centre based in Vancouver, BC. The Aboriginal Mother Centre, provides mothers and children at risk with shelter, support, tools and resources to rebuild their health, self esteem and skills to regain and retain their child.
*Links have been included throughout this entry for further information on the topics addressed. They include organizations to support, call to actions, resources, and information that can expand and elaborate further.