iii. A girl from nowhere.
The third essay on heritage, identity and belonging.
“You’re not Chinese, right?” says the guy at the drinks stand as he looks me up and down.
It’s the first thing he says to me—I haven’t even asked for my chrysanthemum tea.
We’re at a local temple in my parents’ hometown of Melaka, Malaysia. It’s Cheng Beng, and all around us, hundreds of families have come to pay respects to their loved ones. Almost everyone is Chinese, which makes sense because Cheng Beng is a Chinese tradition. I myself am surrounded by a gaggle of my maternal relatives, all of whom are Chinese.
“I am Chinese,” I tell the guy as I hand him the change. Despite my best efforts to keep a straight face, I’m sure I look like a slapped fish—shocked and a little annoyed. The drinks vendor seems briefly confused before his face resumes a confident smile: “ah, mixed-blood right?”
“No, just Chinese,” I said, taking my drinks quickly.
"Where are you from?"
It's a question I often get in New Zealand. There, the correct answer is always Malaysia, even though I was born and raised in Tāmaki Makaurau. After 25 years, I’ve found the fastest way to have this conversation is to say that my parents are from Malaysia, though we’re ethnically Chinese.
But being born and raised in New Zealand, away from my extended family—most of whom still live in Melaka—means some of my relatives don't recognise me as Malaysian, or even Chinese. This trip, my oldest aunt, or 姨姨 | yíyí, keeps calling me "orang putih": Bahasa Melayu for "white person". Every time she does, I find myself wishing I hadn’t tried to learn Bahasa Melayu before the trip; sometimes ignorance really is bliss. But my oldest 姨姨 | yíyí is hardly the only one making comments on my “foreign-ness”. During dinner, my first 阿妗 | Ah Kim leaned forward conspiratorially and asked if we ate Chinese food at home. Others, like my cousins, say it’s obvious I’m not local from the way I dress.
Hidden in the subtext of these exchanges is a constant interrogation of identity. What does it mean to be Chinese? To be Malaysian-Chinese?
Is being the right ethnicity enough, or does being raised in a different culture disqualify you? My aunties pick out ethnic markers: I speak Mandarin, Hokkien and Cantonese, so I must be Chinese. I eat Chinese food, and I eat Malaysian food, so I must be Malaysian-Chinese. I speak in the fast, broad and lazy tones of New Zealand, so I must be… white?
My family aren't the only ones having trouble categorising me. In Malaysia, that question is near constant too. At every drinks stand, coffee house, dentist appointment, souvenir shop, restaurant, and food court—sometimes even just on the street—it’s always the same.
"Where are you from?"
At first, my instinct was to respond that I’m from Melaka. But in Malaysia, that response draws incredulous stares—it's the wrong answer.
In Malaysia, I’m from New Zealand; in New Zealand, I’m from Malaysia. Whatever the answer, I'm not from here.
Like many diaspora, I've got a complicated relationship with the question "where are you from?". It's a question of belonging. But our family have been migrants for as far back as we remember. Even in China, our last name traces back to the North, give or take a few centuries. So when your identity is fractured, patchwork, a myriad of scraps all pieced together, the question of belonging—of a neat category to box yourself in—falls out the window.
In New Zealand, just being Asian often excludes you from being a "real" New Zealander. And in Malaysia, despite being the same ethnicity as 23 percent of people, something—my aura? My vibe?—never fails to incite the dreaded question.
"Where are you from?"
What's ultimately so frustrating about being asked the same question over and over is that for me, there’s no right answer. When I take the question at face value, I’m from New Zealand. I was born in Tāmaki, I was raised in Tāmaki—Aotearoa is and always has been home. But my experience doesn’t neatly align with the Pākehā experience of being a “New Zealander”, and it doesn’t align with indigenous Māori experience, either. And as New Zealand is a young country, often defined along “bicultural” lines, other identities such as Asian-New Zealand ones are historically sidelined, erased or ignored.
Luckily, that’s changing as the Asian population grows in Aotearoa. But it’s an ongoing process. The Asian-New Zealand identity is still developing, and isn’t widely understood. What does it mean to be Malaysian-Chinese from New Zealand? Or Chinese? Or Korean? Or Indian? Or Sri Lankan? The community itself is still figuring it out. Our unique blend of cultures, traditions and experiences are still marinating. But slowly, we can see it producing something new and beautiful, like beetroot kau yuk.
In the meantime though, the question “where are you from” often means “how can I understand you?”. Knowing where someone grew up and when, their family background, their ethnicity and nationality gives context. But the urge to categorise, to find a shorthand—especially when an easy one doesn’t yet exist for many—can eliminate nuance and play into the assumptions someone already holds.
When I'm in Malaysia, I'm from New Zealand because my relatives think I'm "whitewashed"—that I have no interest in my culture or language, so there's no use sharing those things with me. When I'm in New Zealand, I'm from Malaysia, because Asians aren't real New Zealanders.
On a bad day, when I'm not feeling charitable, the question feels like a constant othering. Instead of a question, it could be a statement: "you're different".
On a bad day, I'm a girl from nowhere.
But on a good day, there's something liberating about defying categorisation—of being more than. Because of course, who someone is can't be distilled down to their nationality, ethnicity or culture. Those things all contribute, but the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.
Lately, I'm from New Zealand. But I'm also New Zealand-Chinese, Malaysian-Chinese, Thai-Chinese, Southern Chinese, Hokkien, Teochew and Just Another Fucking Aucklander. Ultimately, it’s a privilege to be a part of so many diverse cultures and traditions. There’s no tidy little label I can put on myself, yet. But I get to be a part of defining a whole new community.
So to that random drinks vendor from the temple that hot Saturday morning: no, I’m not just Chinese. Mind your own business though.
First of all I am losing it at these illustrations! You are a genius
I think my relationship to the 'where are you from' thing has evolved and gotten more complex, as of course it should, especially because I love hearing about people's context. I have well meaning white friends who won't ask it because they know it's loaded, but that seems to lose something too. Embracing the radical possibilities of defying categories and thereby expanding and complexifying those categories is an interesting and beautiful place to be. Where are you from no longer feels as angsty - it's a question that has its place, but learning belonging, individually and collectively, can and must be so much bigger than that too. And then there's the question of markers, like what signs do we use to present our belongings to the world, and what teaches us to interpret clothing and accents as bearers of identity? love love love your reflection - sometimes we do just have to say short n simple things to the coffee shop owners!!