Thursday 27 September 2018

Palate Cleansing

I googled 'Australian - Chinese' writers recently in a pique of curiosity to see what would come up. This article caught my interest, mainly because of the word 'hyphenated.'

Years ago when I was a university student in Perth, I was introduced to the works of Trinh Minh-ha, who wrote something that has stuck in my head all these years.

'The challenge of a hyphenated reality lies in the hyphen itself. The hyphenated condition certainly does not limit itself to a duality between cultural conditions.'

I had not, up to that point, ever thought of myself as a hyphen, or hyphenated, but Minh-ha's theory around hybrid identities resonated with me. And still does because it provides an apt symbol for those of us who have or still do straddle multiple ethnic and cultural worlds as part of our daily lives. The fact that the article that caught my interest about Australian-Chinese writers is titled 'No-one is Born Hyphenated.' shows it is still a popular symbol being used 

Anyway, the opening paragraph contained another sentence that caught my attention. I quote:

Ethnic literature's hot. And important, too,” says one writing instructor. “I’m sick of ethnic lit,” a fellow student retorts, “It’s full of descriptions of exotic food.” 

This made me laugh because the memoir I am writing about growing up as a Chinese kid in Australia contains lots of descriptions about the getting, preparing and eating of said exotic food.

I am such a cliche was my second thought.

Which got me thinking about us hyphenated Chinese - (add second culture here, or third, ad infinitum) people for whom food is, to put it mildly, pretty important.

And not just any food. Good Food. Good Chinese Food.

Good Chinese Food is very important to most of my Chinese-hyphen friends. I have friends that have rice every night. Congee is important. Meat is important. Quality is important. Wok flame is important.

It makes sense. Irrespective of culture, your palate is formed by the food you eat growing up. And your attitudes towards food are informed by your environment . For the Chinese, food is imbued with vast powers. It is medicinal. It is preventative. It is superstition. It is celebratory. It is family. It is communion. It is value-for-money. It is, just short of religion. Actually, it is a religion. For the Chinese, food is a religion.

Somehow, I became an atheist.

Like most of my hybrid friends, Chinese food was a huge part of my upbringing but now, unlike some of them, I do not regard Chinese Food as the apex of the culinary universe. I like it. I eat it occasionally. I eat a lot of it if mum and dad are visiting. But for the most part, it does not feature in my daily diet.

This does not compute with some of these friends. It doesn't compute with my mother although she pretends it does.

But what do you eat? they ask, aghast.

I like raw things, I like vegetarian food. I don't really like congee. I think stir-frying is handy, but over- rated.

I don't want to eat the things that I had to eat every night growing up.  My palate is not a case of either-or. Chinese Food vs All Other Food.

There is however, one Chinese dish which I worship with holy devotion. It has sustained me for 43 years, most likely because I don’t have it that often.

Like the title of the article, we are not born hyphenated.  We are born multitudinal. I couldn't exercise that within my palate as a child when rice was might.

But I can now.




Tuesday 18 September 2018

Going Full BAME

BAME is the common acronym used in the UK for anyone who is Black. Asian. Minority. Ethnic. I fit into the BAME definition but it is a term which I have never liked.  The first time I ever heard it was during a job interview for Yellow Earth theatre. I was fresh off the boat (another popular term used in relation to BAME people). I had not been in London long and was bright-eyed and bushy- tailed in my eagerness to submerge myself into the arts scene.

I thought the interview was going well when the Chinese-British director asked what I thought about working for a BAME company.

Excuse me? What's that?

BAME. Black. Asian. Minority. Ethnic.

I stared at him. Was he serious?

What a horrible term. We’re all just lumped in together?!

The comment was out before I could stop it. The smile left the director's  and he pursed his lips defensively.

What's wrong with it?

Sorry, I just haven't heard that before, I back pedaled. It's not a term that's used in Australia.

Well what do you use in Australia?

For theatres like this, we would usually say Community Theatre. Not BAME.

BAME is more descriptive.

How? Where do I fit? I'm Chinese. Does that make me Minority or Ethnic? I know it's not Asian cause Asian means Indian in this country. 

The look he gave me told me he thought I was an idiot first and foremost, irrespective of ethnicity.

Needless to say, I didn't get the job. I left in a huff.

What a moron I thought. Talk about being a willing participant in your own incarceration.

Finally, publishing is taking a Benetton approach.

Years later (ie, now) when I started attending writing retreats and workshops, I heard the BAME term being bandied about again. It turns out that being a BAME is a good thing in publishing right now as the industry and market have realised that not only white people can tell stories or write books.

I absorbed this news and unlike my younger angry self, I decided to go all in. Go Full BAME.

Why not use this moment to my advantage I thought. I sure as hell need whatever help I can get.

So I started applying for writing awards and competitions specifically aimed at BAME people.  Luck would have it that I got offered places on some of them. Does this make me feel like I sold out?

Nope. It makes me feel like about fucking time other voices and people were considered legit and commercial.

Maybe this turn around in my attitude was the getting of wisdom.  In all likelihood, it was just wanting to get.

Get something. In writing. Out.






Thursday 6 September 2018

Middle of the Road

Middle age happens so suddenly.  The future is infinite until one day, it is not. The first time someone called me middle-aged, I scoffed.

You are middle-aged 

No I'm not!

Yes you are. You're over forty. Do you think you'll live until eighty- something?

Hmm. He had a point. I don't intend to live past eighty, and if I do, it will be an accident.

But despite the logic of numbers and average human lifespan presented to me, I did not consider myself middle-aged. The symptoms against which middle-agedness is gauged (in my society) such as physical decline, irrational desires to tick off bucket-list items (compete in marathons, write a book, adopt unflattering hairstyles) and an increasing observation that everyone seems really young all happened and are happening to me but I remained staunch in my refusal to be one of  them.

The Middle Aged.

Those people.

Then Book Club happened. Book Club has been happening to me for the past few years. It is, perhaps, another sign of being Middle-Aged but I'll pretend that I didn't just say that.

Book Club asked all members to nominate a book for the next meeting. I hummed and hawed as I scanned the three shelves of books that are on my 'to read ' list. None of them seemed suitable. I looked at my list of notes where I write down book titles that seem interesting.

Nah.

I gazed at my shelves and my notes.  Then it hit me.

I will never read all the books I want to read before I die.

In my head, I am this age when reading

In reality, I am closer to this age when reading


The list is too long. Some of the books I want to read, I don't even know that I want to read them because they haven't been written yet.

I realised that I no longer have the luxury of thinking,  I'll read that some day. I'll get around to it. That the years I have left are not sufficient read all that I want.

It's a tragedy.

And just like that, I became Middle-Aged.