Riley Week 1: The Chinese I was Supposed to Speak

I was eight years old when my father took me, my eleven-year-old sister, and our Caucasian mother to his hometown in Hong Kong, China. By that point, I had been admitted to a Mandarin Immersion Program for three years, speaking broken Chinese because unlike my classmates, I did not have family at home that could help me learn Mandarin.

For context, Mandarin is the primary language spoken in China, but coastal communities such as Hong Kong and Guangdong mainly speak Cantonese, a different variant of Chinese. The entirety of my Asian family is from Hong Kong, so none of them were capable of helping me learn Mandarin.

When my family arrived at the airport on mainland China for our connecting flight, my father got down on his knees, looked me and my sister in the eyes, and warned us that people in China “liked to kidnap mixed children”. 

He continued to inform us that we would be our family's only method of communication until we arrived in Hong Kong, because my father did not understand Mandarin.

I remember being terrified by the situation itself, but what stuck to me more was the realities that it revealed about language. Language is not just a method of communication, it is a measure of belonging.

The truth is I did not even understand Mandarin. I knew enough of the language to get through classroom exercises, memorize vocabulary, and (mostly) understand my teacher, but when I entered the real world none of that mattered. 

My time in the airport before arriving at Hong Kong was confusing, terrifying, and humbling, and it only got worse once we got into town. I did not understand what my father and grandparents were saying. I did not know Cantonese.

I could have Chinese family and celebrate Chinese holidays, but when it came down to it would I ever really be Chinese? Would I ever be a part of the community?

I did not speak the ‘right’ Chinese. I did not have a button nose, ivory skin, and a petite build. My mother was American, from the South if you want to get specific. I ate butter noodles for dinner; I enjoyed cherry tomatoes as a snack.

As a mixed child, I have struggled with my sense of identity for as long as I can remember. I am constantly categorized, pushed one way or the other, and changed into something I am not. The reality is I do not fit into a category, but that does not make me any less of a member of my communities.

My whole life I associated language with belonging. I still do not speak Cantonese, and my Mandarin is far from perfect. That does not make me any less Chinese.

If identity is not something provable by the words you say, then how do you decide who you are?