This year, both Australia Day and Chinese New Year fall on January 26th. The immediate upshot of this is that I have the day off work to ring in the Year of the Ox; but as I stand over the sizzling pan of nian gao I find a recurrent question creep into my consciousness: what am I? Chinese or Australian?
Having migrated here at the tender age of six, my earliest (and hence most deeply imprinted) experiences, and indeed my first language were formed in Hong Kong. Yet, it is in Australia that I have gone to school, met my closest friends, and now, embarked on a career. Before I could further examine this burning conundrum, I had to flip the gao to prevent their burning. And anyway, what is it really that makes gao, well, gao? Is it the gooey coconut centre, or the immediately recognisable crispy egg exterior?
Let me move on, lest my question crumbles like this metaphor has.
It is easy enough to see how I am Chinese. My black hair, sallow skin, and comparatively petite frame greet me in the mirror every morning. And while I sip pu er tea and call my elderly relatives to wish them equine vitality or peaceful comings and goings, it is impossible to deny my heritage. Yet glancing through today’s paper, replete with stories of the extraordinary achievements of extraordinary Australians, and yet more masturbatory articles about Jelena Dokic, it is hard for one’s heart not to swell with a little true-blue pride. Even as I pen these very musings, I realise that my tenuous grasp of the Chinese language would not offer the capacity or fluidity for such expression. The deeper I wade into this quagmire, the more muddied it all becomes. So where my physical attributes and actions go one way, my head and heart tugs firmly in the opposite direction. ‘struth. Confusion abounds.
Time for a tea-break, I think. Pu er, anyone?
Australia Day. Chinese New Year. What is everyone doing anyway?
Cricketers batting and bowling for sporting glories;
Grandparents, with children on laps, telling of their forefathers’ stories;
And the thousands of families gathering together, whether sharing snags or red packets…
Then it hit me, like the proverbial thunderbolt. Maybe I was asking the wrong question all along: it is not about what I am, but what I can be. This is without doubt the most apt question as we celebrate what it means to be Australian today: mateship, multiculturalism, and a fair go for all. So while Indigenous Australians and migrants alike continue to fight for recognition, respect, and opportunities, they too are asking, of themselves, and of their country:
What can I be?