The piece below was originally written for New Voices on Food 2, published by Diversity in Food Media Australia and Somekind Press in late 2022.

It’s a reflection on my childhood years - what my upbringing in Canberra was like, how attitudes towards Chinese (and more generally, Asian) people impacted my sense of identity and relationship with my Cantonese heritage, and how it also influenced my behaviours at the time. Most importantly, it’s about the role food has played in providing a way for me to connect back with my roots - something that I hope resonates with people from all backgrounds.

In hindsight, it’s something I had been wanting to write for a while - and I’m incredibly grateful to Lee Tran Lam (who edited the book above, amongst the many things she does in the food world) for enabling it to see the light of day.

CANTO IN THE CAPITAL

My story isn’t unique. There are others who will tell their version of the same story, and more that will in the future. But for people whose families have uprooted themselves and given their all to make a new home in Australia - it’s a story that’s not shared often enough.

In the autumn of 1988, my parents emigrated to Australia with their two-year-old son, a couple of suitcases and a handful of contacts to hopefully lean on. Miles from the energetic streets of Hong Kong, we found ourselves on a quarter-acre block on the north side of Canberra, settling into a modest brick house that would become our family home for the next two decades.

My early years were bliss - I was a happy kid, played well with others, and was cheeky - but never out of line. We spoke Cantonese at home and English when we were out; and dad ate a bowl of instant noodles every morning while reading the paper - pretty normal stuff, or so I thought.

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At primary school, I started to encounter many of the hallmarks of being a Chinese immigrant. Most of it I could handle - being singled out for looking different didn’t bother me, getting asked for my ‘real name’ wasn’t a big deal, and people assumed I was proficient in martial arts (thanks to Asian representation in media being largely limited to Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee) - which meant I was at least safe in the playground.

Instead, what I felt most embarrassed about back then was food. It seems ridiculous now - but jokes about Chinese people eating dogs were standard schoolyard fare, so lunch break wasn’t the time to stand out. Of course, that’s not so easy when your packed lunch comes in a thermos - perhaps a pork congee with pei dan (century egg), or noodle soup with cuttlefish balls - which meant those lunches were eaten alone, or brought home untouched (and still piping hot - props to the thermos). Eventually, I convinced mum to include devon, white bread and tomato sauce in our weekly shop.

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A few years later, someone named Pauline stood in Parliament and proclaimed: “I believe we are in danger of being swamped by Asians. They have their own culture and religion, form ghettos and do not assimilate.”

For my 10-year-old brain, this was a lot to take in. 

Firstly, my experience was the polar opposite. I’d seen my parents make a concerted effort to integrate into the community - they knew they had to. Dad learned about this game called rugby league and took me to Raiders games¹. Mum sat by the pool and watched on as my brother and I took group swimming lessons (after which we’d hit up Sizzler and go nuts on the salad bar). And they had made new friends here - through work, school, and in the community².

But more profoundly, it made me feel like we weren’t welcome here. That we didn’t - and might not ever - belong.

Of course, Pauline didn’t speak for all Australians - but from there, my self-consciousness around being a foreigner took over, and I did everything possible to not be seen as a stereotypical Asian. I started to speak English at home³, and quit Mandarin lessons. I distanced myself from other Asian kids, for fear of being perceived as only keeping company with each other. Whenever we did anything ‘Chinese’ - like visiting friends for da bin lo (hot pot) and to blast Cantonese songs on their home karaoke system - it wasn’t something I’d tell friends about. I became overly agreeable, overly nice - thinking if I could show that “us Asians” were easy to get along with, over time we’d be accepted.

—

In spite of these identity struggles and desire to fit in, I could never distance myself from Chinese food - it was too integral to our family life to reject.

At home, mum and dad cooked excellent meals - most of them simple (like stir-fried tomatoes & eggs on rice⁴), with the occasional splurge on a steamed whole barramundi (with ginger and shallots) or live mud crab with yee mein. They worked hard, and putting food on the table was a way of showing love and affection to us kids.

Then there were the visits to Chinese eateries and grocers. Luckily, Canberra punched above its weight in terms of what was available, and it’s at these places that I really got to see my parents in their element: speaking their native tongue, enjoying the food they grew up with, and discovering things they had forgotten after 20 years away. There was the legendary Tak Kee Roast Inn, home to Cantonese siu mei (roast meats) hanging in the window. Mee Sing was our spot for old-school suburban Chinese, and New Shanghai (now The Scholar) for yum cha. Hing Shing was the pick of the butchers - especially soup bones and offal-y bits. And for special occasions - birthdays, Chinese New Years, or family reunions - it had to be China Tea Club, Jimmy’s Place or the timeless Ruby Restaurant. Remarkably, all of these places still exist today. [Edit: as of June 2023, Mee Sing has unfortunately closed]

At the time, I thought nothing of these food experiences - but in my mid-20’s, I realised how much they had allowed me to stay in touch with my Cantonese identity. What started out as a point of embarrassment all those years ago became a way for me to understand our culture; to hold on to some of its language; and to become comfortable in sharing its traditions with others.

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If there’s one point to take from this - it’s to cherish your food culture. No matter who you are or where you’re from, food provides a connection to generations past - the recipes, the rituals, the relationships. For me - and hopefully many others - it’s also helped me find my place in Australia, and given me the freedom to explore and express my heritage.

As for the future? I’ve still got a long way to go in terms of connecting back to my roots - but for a culture where sik jor faan mei ah? (“have you eaten yet?”)  is one of the most common greetings, food seems like a good place to start.

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¹ I never understood back then (and I guess I still don’t now) why a ‘try’ is called a try. Surely doing something that scores points deserves a better name than ‘try’?

² Still, there were times where they hadn’t quite picked up the local lingo yet - like the time their friends said ‘see you later’ after having come around for dinner. Mum and Dad weren’t sure if they meant ‘see you later tonight’ and subsequently stayed up until after midnight in case their friends turned up again. They didn’t.

³ Mum and dad’s solution to this was to take $1 off my weekly pocket money every time I spoke English - it only took a few slip ups each week for my piggy bank to not get fed.

⁴  Still a comfort dish to this day!