My Chinese Roots: In Between the Border of Racism, Exclusivity and Generational Trauma

In 1997, my fourth brother was born. In a desperate attempt to balance the gender equation, my mother consulted with her peers on how to conceive a baby girl (knicks, knacks, any myth or legends, whatever would give her a daughter). She and my father had been betting on these tactics since my first brother, in contrast to most traditional Chinese families who want a boy. I can assure you, however, that this didn’t diminish even a minuscule amount of their traditional approach to life. They actually created their own ritual to conceive a baby girl; rather, a manifestation. The idea was to doll up my brother into a girl, putting him into a dress with a girly haircut. And voila, two years later, in 1999, my mother successfully gave birth to a baby girl. My father and mother are very traditional. “Remember your roots,” my father would say. Both knew deep inside that they were not privileged enough to dream of a laborless life, just like their fathers, who were first-generation immigrant workers. The answer to preventing their kids from falling into similar conditions was education and ensuring they attended university. My father strived to open a whole new world to his children despite never attending one. He believed in studying; he was an autodidact, learning Chinese, Cantonese and Eastern medicine. But when a few big life events occurred, I gained more clarity about what my family believed.

To maintain a 100 percent pure Chinese identity seems to be the golden example of being a good descendant.

My Father’s Death Changed My Family’s Values

Like most Asian parents, my father and mother didn’t know how to show their emotions appropriately. They hoped we could show tenderness and love through a mimicry of movies, cartoons or the sitcoms they regularly watched at 7 p.m. But it was a far stretch to believe entertainment could teach us how to love them.I wouldn’t claim that I was very close to my father, but we shared the same idealism as my mother. I am what you would call a father’s daughter.My father’s intentions for me were:1. Marry someone who treats you well. Not someone richer, because you shouldn’t be treated lower by in-laws.2. Always care for people who are affected by sickness, financial problems, etc. Be there for them.3. Study abroad. All three of these intentions were suddenly struck down on Christmas Eve. My father quickly died after a moment of convulsion. From then on, my mom, who had heavily depended on my father for emotional support, became head of the family and its finances. Like a sudden lightning strike, my mother and I saw the love of her life take his last breath. Afterward, we both had one goal—living properly and tending to each other until she reached old age. My mother, however, always depended on the majority of the community to shape her views, and soon, our family values began to align with her own:1. I couldn’t pursue a prestigious education because I was supposed to care for her now.2. I needed to marry rich and make sure an allowance from my husband went to the family.3. I was only to take care of my family, not anyone else’s.

My Family’s Trauma Has Made Them Intolerant of Non-Chinese Indonesians

All hell broke loose when I confessed that I was in a relationship with a Chinese Javanese senior at college. He was a devout Catholic, so converting was nonnegotiable for a long-term relationship. But religion wasn’t the problem—it was his Chinese purity and lineage. Despite 50 percent of his identity being Chinese, it was still unacceptable to my family and extended relatives to date him. According to his patrilineal lineage, his father was Javanese, but he wasn’t “culturally Chinese” enough. I grew up a Teochew descendant, and he was “not our people.” This continued with my next boyfriend, who was Muslim and probably only 25 percent Chinese.It is locally acknowledged that Chinese communities in Indonesia are exclusive—they use derogatory names for those who are not Chinese, which are huankia, huan-na, fankui or tiko. This prejudice isn’t based on elitism or a certain sense of superiority but on trauma. Eventually, mass unemployment, corruption and economic crisis triggered the May 1998 riots against a 32-year-old authoritative regime, putting a target on the Chinese community, whose immigrants were believed to have decimated the economy. Many families became victims of the unrest, and many witnessed the encouragement of their discrimination. It strengthened what my maternal grandfather taught his children: “Huankia will never be good to us.”I do not blame them for holding on to the belief that they don’t feel welcome. However, I do blame them for denying my reality and relationships altogether, be they platonic or romantic. They’ve scrutinized my friends—even at my father's funeral, someone made a blatant, insensitive statement about how my friends were huankia. My mother pinned all the blame on my unwillingness to socialize with the Chinese, when in fact, I have Chinese friends. It’s only because I’m close, and in love, with someone who isn't.

Religion wasn’t the problem—it was his Chinese purity and lineage.

I Accept My Family but Risk Being an Outcast

My uncle once warned me that my stubbornness over my interracial relationship would lead to the total severance of not only my family but the whole Chinese community. This kind of thing happens pretty often. To maintain a 100 percent pure Chinese identity seems to be the golden example of being a good descendant. Breaching such purity means being prepared to be deemed as an outcast, and I have constantly been pulled between a moral ground against racism and piety toward my family. It started as a family conflict, but I’ve now begun questioning my whole identity. I deeply identify as Chinese—I feel comfortable when I can finally speak my Teochew dialect outside the home. Yet, the scenario of choices remains: I am a Chinese person who lives in my predominant cultural community. At the same time, I openly accept my family's casual racism and how they despise huankia, as they call it. If I hold on to my moral compass and belief, I risk becoming an outcast. I may share the skin color and taste buds, but my community will forever cast me aside. The problem is too complicated to be solved. It feels like compromise is the only answer, but I am already lost.