I Am So Damn Chinese

Proof. (Sometimes I need to be convinced myself) Breaks out into Chinese poetry about flowing rivers, the gorgeous scenery of Taroko, the aroma of the fresh tea leaves, and the Chinese temple across the river…

I can also eat xiaolongbao with expert chopstick skills. I have come to think that the test of one’s Chinese-ness is also a test of one’s elegance in eating xiaolongbao with chopsticks (without breaking the skin and spilling soup everywhere); and how much xiaolongbao you can eat (I’m just liang long — two baskets — full of Chinese-ness!)…

So Chinese that when I passed a Pakistani restaurant at the Rao He night market last night, I desperately needed to get in there, drink chai, listen to South Asian music, before stepping back out into who I really am, deep down inside: a cussing swearing, bargaining, loudmouthed Hokkien lang, re-discovering her Hokkien roots in the train announcements, food orders, and in-store bargaining in the Taiwanese language. I think Amira’s birthday present to me last year might have something to do with this (the Javanese girl who is more Chinese than I can ever dream of gave me jade jewellery and told me to rub it so a “Chinese genie will appear and scold you in Hokkien”).

Touchdown midnight tomorrow, 12 hours in my own bed in my own country, and I’m off to see one of my oldest friends get married off. In Eastern Java.

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