Recently I was confronted with something that I rarely think about: my race. Sure, I champion the Asian Agenda™ at every chance I can get. And I'm outspoken about the treatment of Chinese people in New Zealand especially. However, the fact that I am a full-blooded, purebred, 100% authentic Chinese woman is almost never in the forefront of my mind. Maybe this is because I'm at least partially "white-passing"... or have at least had complete strangers assume that I'm either 1. mixed (more often than not) 2. Filipino (sure, I guess I get it) or 3. Rarotongan (what?). Whatever it is that I look like to other people, it isn't often Chinese.
First, some background: I work with bedlinen. This happened at work.
Arguably the worst part of this whole story is that the customer was the first of the day, right at about 10:30 in the morning, and who's ready for any kind of self-actualization that early on a Sunday? Plus, I wasn't even involved at first. The customer came in and approached my manager, telling her about the rental property she had just purchased Down South and wanted to kit out with brand new bedlinen—a normal situation in my working world. Her problem was this: she knew that a majority of her holidaymakers would be Asian, and she just wasn't sure what they liked. I had been eavesdropping and pretending that I wasn't when my manager turned to me. The customer turned too. Fuck. I had been caught in the act... of being Asian.
Her voice was kind of giddy once she had leveled her gaze with mine:
"You can help me! ...Wait. [She looks me up and down]. Where are you from?"
"I... (am from New Zealand) (was born in Auckland) (don't know what you mean) ...I'm Chinese?"
"Perfect. You'd know what they like. You can help me."
There are so many other things I could have said in this scenario, but since I value my $15.25 an hour I stuck with:
"Sure. I'll do my best."
It wasn't even that bad, or maybe it was. I'm still not sure, 2 weeks on. The only word I'm willing to commit to here is uncomfortable. Every time she asked me "Would they like this?" and then followed up with "Do you like it?" I struggled to reconcile the connection between 'they' and me. We looked at a lot of duvet covers and she asked for a lot buzzwords to describe an aesthetic that I wasn't even sure existed. What do Asians like? How would I know? I was only one of them. If there were a scale of 'Asian-ness' I'm sure I'm near the 0 end anyway. The worst part was that I had to use the word 'they' as well. How could I say 'we' when I haven't lived in 'Asia' since I was 2 years old? When I wasn't even born there? I didn't even live in China—I had a brief stint of living in Japan for my Dad's work and that was only for a few months. But I digress. Essentially, I had been put into a tailspin of self-doubt and race relations because of bedlinen.
The whole encounter only lasted about 20 minutes. She decided on a rich red and gold bedspread with velvet trim and tailored, padded pillowshams to match (they're like pillowcases but fancy). She said that I had been so helpful, and that she would be back for me again. After I gave her my hours, and a last piece of decorating advice, she was gone, and I was free to be me. Whatever that is.
Ultimately, this particular Sunday changed nothing. I'm as Chinese as ever. Which I've decided is not as Chinese as the folks that go to the Christchurch Chinese Church down the road from my parent's house, but is more Chinese than the lemon chicken that you get from your local fish n' chip n' burgers n' dumplings shop. I guess all it's done is reiterated what my own idea of ethnicity is.
I decided in my first year of university that while ethnicity and race are sisters, they're not twins. Like my eyebrows. One does not define the other, is what I'm trying to say. I decided that I was a Chinese-Kiwi. My ancestry decided that I would be Chinese. I value my race because it gave me swathes of thick, low-maintenance hair and it gives my family its history. My ethnicity gives me my love for my Dad's home-made pai kuat, eaten off placemats that feature the Mount Cook Lily, Pohutukawa, and Kōwhai. What neither of them gives me, I can confidently say, is any idea of what Asian tourists want to sleep under when they visit New Zealand.
First, some background: I work with bedlinen. This happened at work.
Arguably the worst part of this whole story is that the customer was the first of the day, right at about 10:30 in the morning, and who's ready for any kind of self-actualization that early on a Sunday? Plus, I wasn't even involved at first. The customer came in and approached my manager, telling her about the rental property she had just purchased Down South and wanted to kit out with brand new bedlinen—a normal situation in my working world. Her problem was this: she knew that a majority of her holidaymakers would be Asian, and she just wasn't sure what they liked. I had been eavesdropping and pretending that I wasn't when my manager turned to me. The customer turned too. Fuck. I had been caught in the act... of being Asian.
Her voice was kind of giddy once she had leveled her gaze with mine:
"You can help me! ...Wait. [She looks me up and down]. Where are you from?"
"I... (am from New Zealand) (was born in Auckland) (don't know what you mean) ...I'm Chinese?"
"Perfect. You'd know what they like. You can help me."
There are so many other things I could have said in this scenario, but since I value my $15.25 an hour I stuck with:
"Sure. I'll do my best."
It wasn't even that bad, or maybe it was. I'm still not sure, 2 weeks on. The only word I'm willing to commit to here is uncomfortable. Every time she asked me "Would they like this?" and then followed up with "Do you like it?" I struggled to reconcile the connection between 'they' and me. We looked at a lot of duvet covers and she asked for a lot buzzwords to describe an aesthetic that I wasn't even sure existed. What do Asians like? How would I know? I was only one of them. If there were a scale of 'Asian-ness' I'm sure I'm near the 0 end anyway. The worst part was that I had to use the word 'they' as well. How could I say 'we' when I haven't lived in 'Asia' since I was 2 years old? When I wasn't even born there? I didn't even live in China—I had a brief stint of living in Japan for my Dad's work and that was only for a few months. But I digress. Essentially, I had been put into a tailspin of self-doubt and race relations because of bedlinen.
The whole encounter only lasted about 20 minutes. She decided on a rich red and gold bedspread with velvet trim and tailored, padded pillowshams to match (they're like pillowcases but fancy). She said that I had been so helpful, and that she would be back for me again. After I gave her my hours, and a last piece of decorating advice, she was gone, and I was free to be me. Whatever that is.
Ultimately, this particular Sunday changed nothing. I'm as Chinese as ever. Which I've decided is not as Chinese as the folks that go to the Christchurch Chinese Church down the road from my parent's house, but is more Chinese than the lemon chicken that you get from your local fish n' chip n' burgers n' dumplings shop. I guess all it's done is reiterated what my own idea of ethnicity is.
I decided in my first year of university that while ethnicity and race are sisters, they're not twins. Like my eyebrows. One does not define the other, is what I'm trying to say. I decided that I was a Chinese-Kiwi. My ancestry decided that I would be Chinese. I value my race because it gave me swathes of thick, low-maintenance hair and it gives my family its history. My ethnicity gives me my love for my Dad's home-made pai kuat, eaten off placemats that feature the Mount Cook Lily, Pohutukawa, and Kōwhai. What neither of them gives me, I can confidently say, is any idea of what Asian tourists want to sleep under when they visit New Zealand.