It’s November. And it’s been a minute.
I just turned 59 last month. The year before THE year. My brother-in-law came up with that one, he’ll hit the six-oh 6 months ahead of me next year. My husband had a very low key birthday when he hit it – I offered to throw him a party like I did for his 40th. He loved that celebration. For 60 – no f*cking way was he going there.
Most of my classmates on Facebook have already experienced that milestone- another benefit of skipping a grade in elementary, when they still did that back in the day. Since then I’ve had a love-hate relationship my age. When I was 10 years old starting grade 7 (when everyone in my class was 12 ) – life was not so great. I was a tiny pipsqueak when everyone was going through puberty. I was reminded of that every day of my pre-pubescent life.
When I was in university, I didn’t feel so guilty about taking an extra year to graduate so that was a win. As was having kids later in life.
Nowadays I’ll be honest, it’s helpful. I feel like it’s cool to be in my 50s. I’m still able to feel youngish enough to hang out with girls in their 30s. I could be kidding myself, but they keep inviting me to events so I’ll take it. All the retro 80s bands are coming back onto the concert circuit so we’re going to gigs like we’re in our 20s again.
I’m on another work break. I had the perfect gig for the last 5 years – I felt I had hit the jackpot career wise. It was perhaps too good to be true so when it came to an end, I decided to take at least the summer off, maybe the rest of the year, before thinking of next steps. November is two months to the end of the year, and my life is going at a good pace. I have more time to see my mother (still my hero, going strong at 87); the big boy is on the precipice of leaving the nest permanently; the baby is away at school and hubby who is semi-retired, has a good routine. I go to the gym 5 days a week; I’ve lost weight and gained muscle. I’m not in a rush. I’m in the middle of a memoir writing course – and loving it.
So I’m signing up for NaBloPoMo to blog again. If you want to follow along check out San’s blog and sign up. I’m also reading more, and contemplating taking the writing thing to the next level.
Looking forward to catching up and meeting new bloggers!
At a time 
Still processing … life being Asian
“I worry about your Popo going out on her own. I’m glad she’s independent, but also relieved that with the pandemic she doesn’t venture out at all”
“I worry about you too, Mommy, you’re an Asian woman. It’s all so random.”
This is scary shit. I NEVER thought that the anti-Asian sentiment would be a “thing” for my daughter, for my kids to have to deal with, let alone it being arguably worse than when my parents and grandparents made their way into Canada. My kids have explored their Asian heritage for school – the Chinese Exclusion act is part of their Canadian history curriculum. They know of the head tax placed on their great grandfather; the reason for the somewhat fractured family dynamics. For me, micro-aggressions, schoolyard taunts, passive aggressive conversations, verbal slurs are one thing. The new normal in 2021 -random physical assaults and killings in broad daylight? This is civilized society?
It’s always there, you know. I grew up in assimilation mode, following the model established by my father – survival really. Be one with the every day Canadian white person. Don’t stick out, relish in the fact that you don’t have a Chinese accent – take it as a compliment when people call that out. Sometimes I would get the “You look mixed, actually, I can see it….”
I’m a banana – white on the inside, yellow on the out. The racist undertones. Through words, through actions. I am still yellow on the inside. You don’t say anything. You just deal and move on.
My husband made an assumption the other day, “You didn’t experience much racism growing up, did you?” To which I replied, “I haven’t mentioned it, but it doesn’t mean I haven’t felt it. And not just growing up, even in adulthood.” I love my husband, don’t get me wrong. He’s not racist at all. He’s just a white Canadian male. How could he understand or see it? We’ve been together 35 years- it was worth the conversation.
I suppose the fact that I would usually laugh at the “being Asian” jokes in conversation and in social media posts, make it seem like things have always been cool. And for the most part it hasn’t been a big deal. Nowadays, it really bothers me. I can’t look at it in the same way, it’s just not that funny anymore.
When I look back, I get a bit angry. Not huge events, but they niggle, like tiny cuts stung with saline. This is growing up in multi-cultural Canada.
-forced to miss recess regularly to talk to the new girl from China – I barely spoke Cantonese and she only Mandarin #resentfulawkwardness;
-being yelled at in a public washroom in Vancouver for taking locals’ jobs (I was a visiting tourist);
– on a European tour, being positioned in a group photo with the only other Asian in group – away from my white boyfriend (seriously ?);
-years ago at a global work event, being seated at the table for Asian countries – despite being the Canadian rep.
The NOW is a lot to process. What to do, what to say. I haven’t acknowledged any of the recent events on my social media accounts. A lifetime of being quiet about it doesn’t translate easily.