Made in Hong Kong
I am half-Chinese, half-German and have never been anything else. It never occurred to me that this would be an issue to other Chinese.
All posts filed under: experiences
Sharing stories from our lives.
How I lost my skirt, bag, towel, pillow, blanket, scarf and home, all at the same time
As I frantically searched in the middle of the Amazonian rainforest, I was devastated. Had I lost it in the village we had just visited, a day’s canoe ride away? Had it slipped from my open bag into the muddy river waters, to gently settle on a sleeping stingray?
Chosen
For years, my family moved according to the whims of my father’s company. My parents had some say, of course, and there was always an electric charge in the air when such a “decision” was being made. Then came the news, delivered to my sister and me on various sofas in living rooms across the world.
When Tears Turned to Roars
While I can certainly see the death of Bin Laden as retribution and understand the solace it brings, it doesn’t make me want to shout “U-S-A!” or belt “God Bless America”. It doesn’t send me scurrying to don my most patriotic red, white, and blue ensemble. It doesn’t make me high-five guys or pop champagne. This wasn’t a sports victory or the Fourth of July.
Drifting Between Nations
I was born on vacation. My parents – Armenians from Iran – didn’t want their first-born child to be saddled with their politically unfortunate nationality from the get-go, so they chose the most innocuous of jus soli granting states and planned my birth accordingly. By this logic, I’m Canadian.
The Case for Ditching
Other TCKs may declare, with varying degrees of bravado, how an almost insatiable wanderlust propels them to exotic locations around the globe. In my case, the impetus was a critical need to flee the scene and rebuild.
Home? Does the Airport Count?
I look at myself in the reflection of the glass window in front of me. Yup, tall, white, curvy and long red hair. I totally blend in Asia. I wish my reflection showed what color my heart looked like.
Return to Sender
Considering my eight years growing up in Asia were characterized by a feeling of foreignness, it is ironic that returns to the region are characterized by a deep feeling of homecoming. It seems like something akin to Stockholm Syndrome – you adore the very presence that hurt you so much at the time.
I don’t understand the words
My Indian family’s reaction to my monolingualism was an almost distressing medley of amusement, incredulity and borderline contempt. As I grew up, the question ‘Do you speak Kannada yet?’ began to punctuate our family visits with wearying regularity.
No Time For Goodbyes
The greatest sadness of leaving Iran in 1978 was its speed. Our departures were so fast that there was no time for goodbyes. All of my closest high school friends scattered to the winds. Tens of thousands of Americans lived in Tehran when I was there, and by the end of 1979 there were only 52 left – the American hostages.
Denizen 