My Namesake...My Challenge

How convoluted can your name get? If you have a couple of minutes, I’ll tell you my story.

When I was born, my parents promptly named me and registered my birth just like any law-abiding citizens. What’s so unusual about that? It’s a big deal—given that we’re talking about living in India during a time when many Chinese births were not registered until years later.

Owning an accurate birth certificate was quite an accomplishment…it was, until my parents decided to change part of my name before I enrolled for kindergarten at the local Chinese school. Apparently my generational name—the one that was common to all my sisters, unborn at the time—was in conflict with one of our ancestors in China. My parents didn’t think it was necessary to update my birth certificate though.

The curve ball came when I went to an English school at eight—earlier than most other Hakka Chinese kids my age. Rather than use my birth name, I was enrolled with my revised name spelled phonetically. One could argue that my high school certificate is not mine.

Another twist came about when we were allowed to become legal Indian citizens. The birth certificate became an important document. Only problem was that the person preparing my application added an alias. Now here was the perfect opportunity to right all that was wrong, but no…that would have made too much sense. I'll spare you the details—fodder for another blog perhaps—of how a butchered sound-alike of my name was included into my citizenship documents.

When I immigrated to Canada, I reverted back to my legal given name registered at birth…until I got married and adopted my husband’s surname…but that’s the least convoluted part of this story.

Growing Up In Gentler Times

Photo by P. Maitra http://defenceforumindia.com/forum/china/26737-understanding-china-4.html

I grew up in Tangra, a suburb of Calcutta now called Kolkata. Throughout my childhood, I don’t think I received more than one toy a year—and that’s likely overstating it. Yet, I’ve never felt like I had a deprived childhood. We entertained ourselves playing with other kids and got creative with anything we could lay our hands on, turning them into make-believe toys. Like the times we pretended to fly with towels tied around the neck in lieu of capes, or sailing paper boats made from newspapers and notebooks—often to my mom’s chagrin.

In those days, my mom always took an afternoon nap. Much like “siesta” time in Spain and Italy, midday during the Calcutta summer is hot and humid, and induced the same heat related inertia in adults, but produced the opposite effect on the kids. During those lazy afternoons, our craziest adventures were to goad each other to perform stupid and risky feats like jumping from the rooftop—albeit a low roof—to a pile of leather shavings on the ground. Of course, we made sure that our parents never found out. Yes, there was hell to pay if we were ever caught.

Those were also gentler times. The community was close-knit. As kids we wandered off from our house everyday in search of playmates. If that bothered my mom, she certainly didn’t force us to stay put. If we didn’t show up at meal times—the whole family always dined together three times daily—she’d walk over to the neighbours’ houses and enquire. Everyone, and I mean everyone, directly or indirectly knew each other. Someone inevitably would have seen us playing somewhere and pass the word on.

If I had allowed my kids to run around the way I did as a child, I would have been considered negligent. Yet my mother was not negligent. We were safe because the entire community took care of us. Now isn’t that saying something about the world we live in today?

On Being Hakka

Why do we Hakka people have this need to have a conference? I don't know of any other ethnic group that does this type of naval gazing.

A week ago, I attended the Toronto Hakka Conference. 270 people of Hakka origin were at York University for two days of sharing and exploring.

Most of our ancestors left China about a hundred years ago, and scattered all over the world. Now many have converged in Canada and have adopted this country as home. Hakka from India, Jamaica, Malaysia, Mauritius, etc. swapped stories about growing up in our respective countries, and how we continue to pass on our culture and traditions to the next generation. 

But why get in touch with my Hakka Chinese roots now? These last couple of years, as I focus on my writing, I find myself digging deep into my roots. Doing this has forced me to examine my identity and what being Hakka means to me. I’m bursting with stories—the challenge is how to get them out.

So naval gazing or not, the conference certainly reinforced my Hakka pride and reminded me how fortunate we are to be living in this wonderful country where multiculturalism is in the air we breathe.

Ancestor veneration

When I was a kid, ancestor veneration meant treats...candies, cookies, pastries...choice treats.

On special occasions, as a dutiful Hakka Chinese woman, my mother honoured our ancestors with offerings of cooked meats—chicken, pork and fish, fruits and the above-mentioned treats. As far as I was concerned, the tradition was a good excuse for stuffing our faces. The hardest part was resisting the goodies during the days leading up to the appointed date. They looked too irresistible to stay in the deep recesses of my mother’s hiding places. We weren’t allowed to eat them until the ancestors had been properly appeased.

Now that was a contentious point for an outspoken uncle who often said that if the ancestors actually ate the food, this tradition would probably stop. My mother’s response to her brother was if such a thing were to happen, it would reinforce her belief. What is this belief anyway? In my youth I was pretty nebulous about ancestor veneration—just another incense / candle burning ceremony. It wasn’t until it became my turn to carry on the tradition that I started to dig a little deeper inside me to see how I actually felt about it.

Earlier this week, we engaged in some ceremonial veneration acts of our own for my husband’s deceased parents. The occasion—our first granddaughter’s birth a couple of months ago. I tried to explain to our non-Chinese daughter-in-law the significance of the ceremony from my point of view. I believe that the tradition is meant to remind us of our roots, and to help keep the memories of our loved ones alive. For me that’s enough reason to continue the ritual.

Hakka Women Didn't Bind Their Feet

Hakka women didn’t bind their feet.

I make that statement with pride. Traditionally, up until the early twentieth century, Chinese girls had their feet bound when they were very young. It was a status symbol to have small feet. It was also desirable to walk with a swaying gait. The practice was mainly prevalent amongst the rich whose daughters were assured of marrying into wealthy families where they wouldn’t be expected to work. The disfigured feet made normal walking a challenge.

Hakka women worked side by side with their men. They were warriors as well. I am convinced that a large number of us have inherited our ancestors’ independence and entrepreneurship. Some of the world’s best known Chinese are Hakka. Deng Xiaoping, the leader who opened China to the world was a Hakka, as is Lee Kuan Yew, the longest serving Prime Minister of Singapore. In Canada, the best known daughter of Hakka ancestry is Adrienne Clarkson, the 26th Governor General of Canada.

A Hakka conference occurs every four years in Toronto. 2012 will see another such conference at the end of June. Today there are many Hakka Canadians. While we have assimilated very nicely, nevertheless we are fiercely proud of our heritage.

I Am

I am Canadian. I am Chinese. I am Hakka.

Let’s add another twist. I was born in India, which makes me Indian as well. Confusing? Not really if you’re in my shoes. Looking for diversity and multiculturalism? You've found them–right here. The reality is that this is not something that is in my consciousness. These are facts that add to who I am.

Beyond the happy convergence of the physical and environmental circumstances of my being, I consider myself Canadian above all else. I have lived in Canada almost twice as long as I have in my birth country. My only connection to China was a two-week trip in 2010 as a tourist, although I have roots in the Canton province, relatives who are complete strangers to me.

Growing up in India, my first language was Hakka, a Chinese dialect. I went to English schools from the time I was eight. That threw a wrench in my Chinese education and outlook. I think in English, but for some bizarre reason, I count in Hakka as long as I’m doing that in my head. Although all the schools that I attended insisted on teaching Hindi as a second language, my tongue trips without discrimination over every word—and oh, forget about being grammatically correct.

There you have it…my foray into multiculturalism on this beautiful Monday afternoon.


Picture by Jeremy Hsiung