BY MITZI REANN CHUA

“I call the window seat!” I jolted through the aisles, being a nuisance to neighbouring flight passengers. Everyone settled in after storing their carry-ons, each class compartment filled with indistinguishable chatter, making it even more difficult to hear the pilot over the speaker. From Manila to Canada. The aircraft slowly ascended toward the night sky; chewing bubble gum eased my earlobes from the high altitudes. I was three years of age and voyaging to the unfamiliar waters of North America. The bright lights, the bustling terminals at Toronto Pearson Airport, and the comfortable seats with velvet lining distracted me from our awaiting ride. I was lavishing in my milk-bottle refreshments and hugging my Hello Kitty stuffed plushie, unaware of the sacrifices that my parents made to enable me to live in Canada.

“Anak! What about these overalls? So pretty and on sale!” my father exclaimed with a grin, spanning from the North Pole to the South Pole. We visited Value Village quite often. Rummaging through the mountains of styles on clothing racks was a workout in itself, but, nonetheless, quite rewarding. The feeling of getting great clothes for striking deals was worth the hours of sorting and scavenging.

I was around six years old when I first visited Cinnabon at a local mall. My mother told me that she worked at this location during morning shifts and that she could spare giving me some leftover churros. On the bus ride home, I told her that I was having a difficult time understanding and speaking English, and that I hoped I could speak in Tagalog forever. (Ironically, I lost touch with my mother tongue only years later.)

It was also a time of growth and new beginnings as I entered primary kindergarten. Looking back, I had a huge crush on this boy in my class; his creamy cheeks were as bright as a fresh serve of ice cream, and a tomato red T-shirt often paired with his beige shorts. I voiced my concerns of my native language with my teacher, explaining that I was often perplexed switching between Tagalog and English and unable to differentiate between the two. Just like my identity, I was torn between the fine line that shaped my cultural heritage and my new home in Canada. It turns out that my teacher had told my parents to only communicate with me in English, no Tagalog allowed. An irrevocable mistake that made a significant impact on my identity.

As time moved onward, so did our journey in Canada. We no longer had to stay in the basement of a family friend and were able to drop enough down payment for an apartment. I bid farewell to my adored Hello Kitty plushies as they were being packed in cardboard boxes: some were donated and others for keepsake. We painted a fresh layer of paint over the worn out dry-wall of our new apartment and placed some Scooby-doo stickers, which we scored down the street at a garage sale, on the green walls.

I spent many days of my youth at Chuck-E-Cheese, exchanging my well-earned tickets for pink cotton candy at the prize booth. The recurring sound of “we have a winner!”, inspiring my gameplay. I pondered on thoughts of working at an arcade or food stands; I would fulfill these fantasies by playing “Papa’s Freezeria” simulations, serving slushie orders to customers ready to be quenched. Those were the simple times and my worries were insignificant.

I was eight when my parents enrolled me into a Chinese class. They believed that the teacher would start with the very basics of Mandarin. I felt a glimmer of hope for a new friendship as I engaged in some friendly banter with a girl my age, but the moment I stepped into the classroom I felt like an outsider. Ms. Mei, my classroom Lǎoshī, started speaking fluent Cantonese and I felt helpless knowing that I would have to “guess my way” for the next few months. For what felt like decades, I was completely ridden with fear and decided to leave the classroom when no one was paying attention. It felt like I was being toppled by giants. The senior elementary kids were following the flow of exiting their first period classes, and entering into the next. Fortunately, someone redirected me back to the classroom, and my so-thought new friend shook her head with disapproval. By this time, I was ready to silently bawl my eyes out. A week later my parents took me out of the class, never to touch my kin of Chinese ancestry.

It was in the fourth grade that I began assimilating into Western Culture. I gradually stopped watching Filipino variety shows and could also no longer sing the rendition of “I Want It That Way” in Mandarin. I could still understand my native language but if I wanted to formulate a reply, I would ultimately respond in English or in broken chunks of Tagalog. My parents enrolled me in piano lessons and I truly enjoyed learning my favourite cartoon theme songs. To my surprise, my teacher encouraged me to focus on classical songs and music theory. Without question, I went along with it because I felt like I had no choice, regardless I did not mind playing classical music.

I had classes every Thursday at 7:00 p.m. After the nerve-wracking piano session, my parents rewarded me with McDonalds. I would either get a Happy Meal or a Bacon McDouble, without pickles. Little did I notice that parents would not get anything for themselves. In my innocence, I thought that the menu was not to their liking or that they preferred not to have fast food. My parents made every effort to make my life as easy as possible; I could not recognize that we had to be frugal because we were barely making ends meet at the time.

My parents made significant sacrifices to optimize the opportunities given to my brother and me. My father was a stay-at-home dad. He drove us to and from school and cooked heartwarming meals everyday, a sacrifice often gone unnoticed. My mother had become our breadwinner, generating income for the four of us to survive. She graduated from Cinnabon and found an office job in Markham. There was greater leeway to splurge after her promotion. If getting takeout was a grand prize, going to a buffet was like winning the lottery. We now went out to eat for special occasions: birthdays and Christmas, and I had gorged on the savoury umami flavour of salmon roses and the refreshing mango pudding seldomly, on these biyearly visits.

By the end of Grade five, my father and I went to visit our family back in the Philippines. The only time I could communicate with them was through video call every New Year. It was often difficult because mornings in Canada would be nighttime in Manila. My palms broke out into a cold sweat thinking of meeting my extended family again. I felt so disconnected, we were now basically worlds apart despite being biologically related. It was almost as if I was reprogrammed, “Mitzi 2.0”, with a new outlook, identity, and ideals. I feared that memory of assimilating would once again remind me of my culture that I believed to have irrevocably lost.

At the airport, I was greeted with warm welcomes amidst the breezy, cool airconditioned facility. Stepping outside felt like a pressing sauna that would not go away. I had to remind myself that the Philippines had naturally occurring tropical temperatures and that I would have to stop complaining. It was already nighttime, but I was still bustling with energy, adjusting to the jetlag and suppressing my adrenaline.

My cousins’ lives were drastically different from mine. They woke up at 4:30 a.m. and left the house for school by 5:30 a.m. They ate oatmeal, pre-packaged and mixed with water over a stovetop. That was breakfast everyday, nothing more, nothing less. I entered the washroom with a slightly broken vanity only to be greeted by a flying cockroach.

The streets of Binondo were bustling with local food sellers, motorized tricycles, and jeepneys. The constant heat was still looming over my heavy, sweaty shoulders as I slowly removed my back, sticking on the supporting cushion of my chair. The life here was different. Much slower paced. While everyone was breaking their backs doing labourious work, they were still happy people; something I admired of people from my cultural background. My cousins would get back home around 5 p.m. They would quickly eat dinner and then go off to after school classes and then tutoring.

Exploring our surroundings, my father and I decided to visit Divisoria Mall to eat Chicken from the iconic Jollibee. The gravy was so delicious it could stand alone as its own meal when accompanied by rice. I searched nervously for a garbage bin to place my empty tray but to no avail could I find one. It turned out that in the Philippines, the customer is “king” —even when eating fast food. The cashier ran frantically to rip the tray out of my hands and took it from there. An unshakeable memory indeed. After eating, we passed by a toy store, filled with plushies and Lego. I decided to peek inside when I was delighted to discover a whole row of Hello Kitty plushies. Once again, I was able to reminisce on my innocent childhood. Watching Caillou in my pajamas, and watching reruns of my favourite Disney Channel movies reminded me that nothing in life was free, there were sacrifices behind the facade of relaxation.

Grit. This word alone helped me to recognize my parents’ hardships. I was often oblivious to the problems back home in the Philippines and contemplated why my father often whispered in hushed tones in the wee-hours of the morning. Life was tough in the Philippines for both young and old; there was always something to do and no time to complain about it. It got me wondering about my parents’ own childhoods. They grew up in a multigenerational household with many brothers and sisters. Not only did they have to support themselves, but take care of their younger siblings amidst paying for tuition, which was pretty much compulsory as soon as you began wearing diapers. There is no such thing as a free education in the Philippines. Even though public schools are funded by the government, students and their families are expected to pay for school projects and other hidden expenses. With this in mind, many lower income families let their children work instead, igniting the cycle of poverty for another generation.

I often kept my interactions with others to a minimum; my social battery was being sucked dry considering I was a shy, introverted, and awkward child. My great-aunties often told me that “You need to smile more!” I let out a forced smile to be polite, but I was still unsure of my identity and what made me happy. I felt alienated. Even though all of my relatives and the people around me were friendly and welcoming, I was blindsided by the cultural disconnect that both time and Western influences had made on me. My cousins and I had a few things in common; we shared a mutual love for anime collectibles and seeking adventure. However, when I held long conversations with them, it felt like they had years of history and memories behind them that I had never been a part of. My interactions with natives and distant relatives were quite awkward; we were mutually unfamiliar. I could still understand Tagalog, but I had lost my fluency in speaking. I had an empty pit in my heart, it was a shame that my desire for Western assimilation had silently crept up on my cultural identity.

Before the end of our vacation, my father decided to buy his brother a stainless-steel refrigerator as a “thank you” gesture. Both families spent the evening at a restaurant in the mall again. Catching me completely off guard, my cousin smirked and called me an “RK”, an acronym for “rich kid”. I suddenly felt a wave of guilt, only to reflect on my own privileges. I had a working refrigerator back home, food security, shelter, and a loving family. Despite some hardships, I had all the basic necessities for survival, copious amounts at that. While my cousins were not doing too bad themselves, I thought of other families living on the poverty line. Suddenly, the food became bitter and I lost my appetite.

Upon coming back home to Canada, I had gained a new perspective on life. As the plants were rejuvenating with the upcoming spring, I had renewed my energy by seeing my mother and brother after a long time. They had made a lopsided sign that said “welcome home”, with cute miniature-stick figures around the letters. The jetlag subsided and I reinvigorated my daily routine in a matter of a few weeks.

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These days, I’m approaching my senior year of high school with limited Tagalog, and can barely sing Mandarin renditions of Backstreet Boys songs anymore. My family and I recently visited Value Village for old times’ sake. Not to buy, but to donate a few of our belongings. Upon entering high school, I came to enlightenment with my parents’ sacrifices. Their unwillingness to buy goods out of impulse was not because they were cheapskates, who were stingy with their money, it was because they mastered the importance of frugality and had lived through turmoil to understand how difficult it was to make ends meet. Developing this understanding enabled me to empathize with them. I was fully aware of the adrenaline rush of finding a good deal or scouting for second-hand goods in pristine condition that worked just as fine as if they were sold in supermarkets.

We continue to eat out frequently, but of course, in moderation. We strategically plan out eating locations to visit throughout the year instead of spending too much of my parents’ salaries all in one night. We basically worked our way up to achieve the “Canadian Dream” — but the moment feels bittersweet knowing that there are still immigrants working their way to climb a ladder that may already be designed to disadvantage them.

Although I’ve been lucky enough to not have been exposed to direct encounters of discrimination or ostracization, I cannot help but point out the white elephant in the room. Since the pandemic, I feel as though the idea of “conditional belonging” has contributed to the tug of war between my two identities: the one bridging my Filipino-Chinese cultural background, and the one I've come to assimilate into in North America.

In search of my worth, I went through old cardboard boxes to find my old Hello Kitty plushie. I struggled to see the cat with the pink bow tie. Like many immigrants, Kitty is often evaluated and scrutinized by everyone. When her character acts to the media’s liking, everyone adores her, but if her management team comes out with an unpleasant design or model the public are quick to judge. In many ways, Kitty is an embodiment of myself and perhaps of the immigrant children who may succumb to the pressures of living their parents’ dreams to fit into their new worlds. Like many immigrants, my parents’ academic credentials were cast aside. Former business-owners turned into fast food workers overnight. Understanding my parents’ struggles was the only way to give my support; I remained optimistic that their sacrifices would lead me to opportunity.

My personal experiences have shaped my identity. Figuratively speaking, we are different versions of Hello Kitty plushies. We all have different stories and use different accessories to express ourselves. Most of us have gone through our fair share of hardships and epiphanies; in the process we learn how memories and experiences are driving factors that teach us to develop into better people and, also, how they keep us tethered to our personal history.

Mitzi Reann Chua’s work of creative nonfiction, Bought & Branded: The Threshold Intertwining My Cultural Identity won second place in our writing contest. Chua is a student at Mary Ward Catholic School in Scarborough, Ontario.

Bought & Branded: The Threshold Intertwining My Cultural Identity

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