I was an avid reader and started at the age of 2. At first, my books consisted of illustrations of cartoon people and animals but soon evolved into words imprinted on a tiny book. Despite the differences between the two, they all shared a similar trait: being engraved in Chinese. My first language growing up was, in fact, Chinese. My mother would always show me videos on her old DSLR camera—the type that flips out to be a camcorder—and the videos would be me butchering numbers and words in my native language.

A few of my older books, whose pages are yellowed and rotting, had illustrations of Chinese kids. I was constantly exposed to my native language before being sent off to kindergarten. I always speculated that my mother wanted to ingrain Chinese inside my head; she was aware of the fact that my heritage would most likely be never taught at all in school. 

Before I moved schools at 5, I lived with my 嫲嫲 where she cared for my brother and I. Though hazy, I still remember conversing with her a lot when I was little—even teaching her a few words in English. However she never retained them—not that it mattered. She would always tell me that I was a good child—much to my parent’s laughter in response—and would wish prosperity on my studies, my relationships, and my future. She would ice my face whenever I crashed into a table or a pole because I was so jumpy, and go on walks with me around the block. She would never complain, only a light chuckle.

We kept close for a while after I moved schools.

When the inevitable happened, instead of learning about the significance of tangerines, incense, and red pocket money, I was met with pressing of painted palms to represent turkeys, making paper flowers, and drawing in mazes. Nothing was ever about my background. 

It wasn’t until when I was in 3rd grade where that heritage slowly began to slip out of my hands. I had brought my favourite food to school; pan-fried dumplings with red vinegar dipping sauce. I was met with looks of dismay and disgust. I had no idea what was happening, other than they were looking at me. It was me that caused the smell. That same day when I had gone home, I told my mom “no more Chinese food. I want to bring Western food from now on”. I remember the adamant look on her face and the solemn nod that followed. My mother didn’t make my lunches growing up; it was my grandma on my mom’s side. She had to relay the message to her. I lived in a fairly large home before my grandparents and uncle moved. 3 generations, 8 people, and I was the one who broke that chain of heritage.

I stopped going to Chinese school because I hated it. I refused to finish my lunches if they were Chinese food. I would even pull my eyes back to mock my own distinct Asian features. I began to slowly seep into the depths of assimilation where I impersonated the ones who would mock me. 

Consequently came the snip of the thread that held me and my 嫲嫲. What used to be hour-long conversations now turned into mumble-jumble with a horrendous English accent. The smell of tangerines, the flipping of Chinese zodiac calendars, the touch of red pocket envelopes, and the taste of salty mooncakes dissipated alongside. 

The only words I could ever respond to 嫲嫲 growing up was 多謝. Thank you. 

I would watch her play her Chinese news from a tiny red radio all day and wonder about what she must be thinking about. Does she think about what to ask me? My whole life was surrounded by Chinese cultural values, but never could I carry on that legacy. I want to know more about my grandma. About her life growing up, growing old, marrying young, but never could I convey my questions into words. Nor would I understand her responses. 

As I grew older, I broke free from the shackles of assimilation. I reintroduced myself to lion dances, 小籠包, and the significance of material offerings. For once, I was able to proudly identify myself as Chinese again. For once, I was able to carry on a conversation with 嫲嫲 without being told as “misunderstood”. For once, I was culturally satisfied.

However, the more I’m exposed to eurocentric ideals, the more I worry for myself again. It wasn’t that long ago that I could continue my bloodline and carry on my traditions, but how long will that thread be solid until it is cut again? 

How long will I have until that heritage begins to slip away from me again? 

How long will I have until I’m thrown into the streets of Hong Kong and labelled as a 竹升?

How long will I have until the memories of my heritage are buried with the memories of my grandparents?

Will I lose it all forever?

As I write this, the burning thoughts of losing another part of me once again keep me awake at night. It makes me uneasy. It makes me scared to grow up. I don’t want to grow up if it means to strip me away from my background. 

It feels so surreal how easy it is to lose that cultural memory and happiness.