When I was eight years old, one of the girls at school asked me where I came from. I choked on my Twistie. Where did I come from? This was a stupid question because of course I came from Australia. Just like her. I washed my hair with Decoré shampoo and had Mister Matey in the bath, watched Agro’s Cartoon Connection and had a crush on Nudge from Hey Dad! We both spoke like we could have been in a Tip Top ad. Good on ya, Mum! The girl asked again. At this point I wasn’t sure if she wanted to know where I lived, was hassling me about the facts of life, or was just being philosophical.
So I said, “Duh, Australia.”
“No,” she said. “Where were you born?”
“Duh, Australia.” I even rolled my eyes, just to make a point.
“Well, where were your parents born?”
This was getting ridiculous. “Duh, Australia.” I said again. “And the Philippines.”
She gave me a smug look. “Well then you’re not really from Australia then, are you?”
I wasn’t sure what to say back. I hadn’t really thought about it before, it had never been an issue, but now I was having my first identity crisis. Australia is (and was) such a melting pot that I don’t even need to get into it. It’s a multicultural nation. But this was 1990; before Pauline Hanson, before boat people, before the Cronulla riots. Lots of the kids at school had parents who came from other countries but racism in Australia hadn’t quite reached centre stage in the media as something political. And I didn’t understand why anybody would be racist towards me! This girl was accusing me of being “un-Australian”, before it was even a word, and she certainly wasn’t Aboriginal. Could she really say she was any more from Australia than I was? No way.
The thing was, my Dad came from exactly the “Australia” that this girl was talking about. The Hayes side of my family was English, Irish and Welsh (almost like playing elastics! Remember that?), mostly fair and blue eyed, liked Rugby League, supported the Labour Party from way back, and ate meat and three veg for tea. My aunt traced back relatives who were on the First Fleet. Half of me was dinky-die, true blue.
But my Mum, even though she’d lived in Sydney from the age of 12, even though she spoke in a posh “I read English at Oxford” voice, had been born in Manila. And she didn’t look like my Dad (which I guess is a good thing), in fact she looked exactly like the description of Claudia from The Babysitter’s Club; petite and black haired with almond shaped eyes. But even though Mum cooked with lots of soy sauce and ate smelly shrimp paste, she also ate Vegemite ON Weetbix (seriously, can you get more Aussie than that?). She was still an Australian even though her ancestry was Asian.
So what did that make me?
Back then, the word Eurasian wasn’t thrown around as much as it is now. And let’s be honest, it’s a word that has lots of great connotations. Right now is fantastic time to be Eurasian (unless you’re Tiger Woods), and thank god I wasn’t born in the 16th century. Eurasians are lucky enough to experience two cultures, are said to be exotic looking and beautiful, and according to some study on facial symmetry are apparently the most beautiful people on the planet. Talk about pressure. As an adult, I have lots of Eurasian friends, and yes, they empathise with the “So what are you?” questions (basically everybody gets asked this these days though), but it’s great to be Eurasian as an adult. Unfortunately though, all of us were having our own little identity crisis as kids. Being attractive or not isn’t what it’s about at the end of the day.
Because while I now look like this:
When I was eight I looked more like this:
Try telling that little girl she’s going to grow up to be beautiful.
What I was more worried about was that I didn’t fit in anywhere. I didn’t look like my cousins on my Dad’s side, and in family photos I stood out with my black hair. But when I went to the Philippines to visit my relatives there, they all looked at me like I was from outer space. And then when I walked down the street in Manila, EVERYBODY looked at me like I was from outer space. I belonged to both tribes, and neither tribe, at the same time.
And both my parents had different ideas about bringing me up. My mother was into the idea of family legacy and pride and making sure I accomplished things so that I could succeed for the family. My maternal grandmother spent every waking moment with me when I was little because in Asian cultures, that’s just what happens. Mum wasn’t opposed to a little bit of corporeal punishment either. When I was naughty Dad just had a serious talk with me, but I was terrified of Mum. Dad wanted me to work hard and be happy. Mum wanted me to work hard and make my dead grandfather happy.
The confusing thing about being half-this and half-that, is that you can never describe yourself as a whole person. You feel fragmented. As a child and teenager, it took me a long time to figure out “what I was” in a society that basically demands for you to categorise yourself. And that was the crux of the identity crisis; it wasn’t that I was in the wonderful position of being brought up by two people from different backgrounds, and it wasn’t that I looked different. The problem was that I was being asked to define myself in such a binary way.
There’s nothing wrong with being proud of your heritage. But there is something wrong with putting people in compartments because of their heritage, or two, or three etc. Everyone’s roots are important, but the stereotypes are not. Just because someone has a German background doesn’t mean that they like sausages and lederhosen. Just because someone was born in India, it doesn’t mean that they necessarily eat curry while watching Bollywood movies. And while it’s very flattering, just because someone is Eurasian, it doesn’t mean that they’re more beautiful on the outside than inside.
I am still asked where I come from. All the time. I bet people ask you too.
So maybe what we need to stop doing is asking so much. I don’t mind answering the question, but what difference will the answer make? Just because you’ll find out that my Dad is Anglo-Saxon and my Mum is Filipino if you ask “So what are you?” doesn’t mean that you’re going to understand me any better than before. There won’t be any epiphany – “Ah, of course, this explains why Antonia drives so badly and has rice stuck to her face AND likes to drink Earl Grey tea while looking at pictures of the Queen!”. No. Ask something else. Because I love being Eurasian, but I’m really so much more than that. And you are more than where you come from too.
Substitute Australia with Canada, the Philipines with Jamaica and vegimate with poutine and you basically have just told my story. Growing up, it was always a little disappointing to have a friend ask me where I was from.
The fact that we have the same story even though both we AND our mothers grew up on opposite sides of the world from each other speaks to the universality of growing up bi-cultural in countries that, despite all the insistence on multiculturalism, still tend to see things in black and white (and all “primary” colours in between).
I think you’re missing the point of the question “What are you?”. I never hear it asked with the intentions you describe as a way to put someone in a stereotypical box. Rather, I hear it asked because when someone looks at someone and they look different it creates curiosity. My daughter for example chinese/white, my wife gets asked that question often about here. Funny enough, never from white people because they don’t care and generally just view others as ‘people’ rather than ‘races’ but frequently by Asians at dim sum or whatever. They ask if she’s gui moi among other things. Most people just want to know what made that ‘look’ so they can better understand their surroundings and the people who populate it. My suggestion to you…don’t be so quick to take offense, don’t be so quick to assume ill intentions, as these seem more indicative to me as a projection of your own issues rather than theirs.
@sgeine, while I can understand what you are trying to say I must disagree. We all try to box things up in neat little categories – that’s exactly how we try and understand things. People are inquisitive because they are interested but once they know, they’ve satisfied their curiousity and have placed you in a box in their mind. Automatically pre-concieved notions come into play, especially if they’ve met you for the fist time. I too am Eurasian and have a similar story to Antonia, except my mum is Aussie (Welsh/Scottish) and my dad is Kadazandusun (native from Sabah, Malaysian Borneo). I was born in and currently live in Australia but spent 16 years living in Sabah, Malaysia growing up. So I guess I have equal ties to both places, speak several languages and am extremely proud of both my heritages. Despite this, I continually get asked the same question in both countries and at times it can be quite trying. While it may seem suprising to non-mixed people, this can have quite an effect on one’s identity, especially when people are continually asking “where are you from”? I find it a refreshing relief when people automatically assume I am from Australia but but instead ask “what is your ethnic background”? At least this doesn’t imply that one is not from such a multicultural nation such as Australia.