What am I? Depends on who you ask.

“You have three children,” my uncle shouted to my mother across the restaurant, “and none of them look like you!”

My younger sister glanced at me and expectantly bowed her long, natural-black hair. She knew I was about to ask, “what did he say?”

We droned through translation and conversation – the bustle of Cantonese turned into English through my younger sister. It is the only way I can speak to my extended family. Despite their smiles and laughter among yum cha and rice rolls, I could see glimmers of disappointment in their eyes.

My siblings and I are biracial, and if my distinct Caucasian features were not alienating enough, I am the only one who cannot speak Chinese. It makes trips to Guangzhou, China, specially awkward. My brother, with his light brown hair and tall nose, will often annoy my grandmother by purposely mispronouncing words; my sister, with her straight eye-brows and pale complexion, is tasked with translating for me; and I, with my defined eyes and square face, quietly stand by.

Even with their strong accents, my siblings merge flawlessly into the familial fabric. They go visit China far more often than I do. My uncle confided to my mother that he was scared of losing his niece to another culture, and he is not the only one. “Don’t you forget about grandma,” my nai nai (grandmother) would always tell me. It breaks my heart, and I still cannot find the words to tell her that.

The awkward intimacy between my family and I is a clear example of what it is like to be bi-racial. It is an experience that is no easier outside the home than it is from within. I grew up in a small, mostly Caucasian town as a Eurasian. My peers often had light blonde hair, tall nose bridges, and defined features. My features, on the contrary, were softer and my hair was a deep brown. While it never struck me as a source of shame, my visible differences from my peers quickly set me against the monoethnic community that I lived in. As a result, I was quickly labelled as “Asian”, never mind that my last name was McKay.

When I grew older, I moved to a predominantly Asian community. My peers often had dark hair, high cheekbones, and soft facial structures. My hair was lighter, my nose bridge more defined, and my facial structure more classically “White”. It was painful to hear that while I considered myself Asian, nobody else seemed to agree.

It was in the same community that I found myself talking about my grandmother’s green bean pork dumplings and the Asian side of my family. A peer who overheard me whipped his head around and asked, “you’re Asian?”

Another chimed in, “you don’t look Asian. I look Asian”, referring to her features.

While working, a Caucasian customer approached me and blurted “ni hao” in a strong accent. My only response was shock. When I failed to respond, he grew frustrated and asked, “Is that my language or yours?” Perhaps too quickly, I let him know that I do not speak Chinese. I grew up in Canada. My last name is McKay. The language was foreign to both of us, and when he concluded that I was “basically white”, it left a bitter taste in my mouth. It felt borderline treacherous to differentiate myself from my Chinese heritage, but it was equally distasteful to be stereotyped on the basis of ignorance.

Speaking of my racial background was like treading a tightrope; defending my identity was a war on all fronts. I was not Caucasian, yet I was not Asian. I would always be labelled as the outsider, left in an ethnic grey zone – lost and without company. While I have always loved the special conflation of morals, cultures, and experience that being mixed-race brought me, too often it came with feelings of isolation.

I had always envied my brother, who looked predominantly white. Not because of the race that most accepted him as, but because he was so easily given an identity. Sharing an identity with others breeds community, because it’s built on the assumption that you also share values, experiences, and norms. I envied my friends who could openly share their cultural values to gain validation and understanding from others, not “but you don’t really know what it’s like”. Even worse, I was often shoe-horned into one category or the other.

“I never met an Asian who’s bad at math,” one of my coworkers laughed over a conversation about classes.

“Actually, I’m mixed. I’m half-Asian.”

He only scoffed in response and continued to address me as Chinese.

I would often voice frustration over the shortcomings of being biracial – one side of my family would applaud my actions while another would condemn them; people of similar descent often labelled me as an outsider; and racially-charged aggressions were often dismissed on the basis of “but you’re not really that race”.

These complaints were once met with a frustrated, “Morgan, aren’t you Caucasian?”

A simple solution might have been attempting to find a community within multiethnicity. However, the biracial experience is unique in how diverse it is. My younger brother appears white and is treated as such. My sister, who looks more Asian and speaks Chinese more fluently, is more readily accepted as Chinese. This disconnect is only within my family. An African-American faces different challenges than an Asian-American, and both will lead drastically different lives than an African-Asian. The opportunities are endless, and the differences do not stop there.

A diverse ethnic background is a new concept. It was only made possible through innovations in transportation and communications technology as well as social movements advocating for interracial relationships. Had I been born at the same time as my grandparents, in the 1930s, I would not have been legal. More disturbingly, I would have been seen as a product of immorality. Surely, my mother would have been subjected to the same indignation as Velma Demerson, mutilated by a doctor and disgraced by her community. I have nothing but gratitude that I live in a multicultural country where racial division is less of a concern.

I realized that I will never “truly” be Caucasian nor Chinese. But while these labels will continually be denied, there is one thing that cannot be: my roots. I might not be fully Caucasian, but I have my Caucasian family and background. I might not be purely Chinese, but I have my Chinese family and culture. Labels may be lost on me, yet I will not lose the lessons both sides of my family have taught me. I might not be seen as Chinese, but I will continue to speak to my grandmother in broken Chinese and help her make dumplings. While I am not “White”, I will continue to enjoy eggnog on Christmas and camping during the summer. Because I am neither, there will never be a waking day where I do not understand what it is like being treated as a minority.

Being Eurasian raised me under the tender care of two different cultures and family styles. While I may be met with misunderstanding, my background is something that I will always be grateful for. I am the result of the social progress that only the modern day allows, and it allows me to embrace my identity. I am Caucasian, and I am Chinese. I know this because of my roots, my family, and my upbringing. And nobody can take that away from me.

By Morgan McKay

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