By Ricky Jade
We placed our clothing on the cashier’s bench.
“Oh my gosh, are you guys sisters?” they asked with their dazzling customer service smile.
“Haha, yeah,” we said.
“You look so alike! Where are you from?”
“We have Filipino background. ”
“Oh really? That’s so cool.”
It seems like meaningless conversation. It’s just small talk. But wait until you have to do it over and over and over and over again.
I love hanging out with my sister in public. But I’ve got to admit, it’s a chore. There is always some store clerk or stranger that is oddly fascinated with the way we look. You see, my sister and I are what you would call “racially ambiguous”. I’d show you a photo, but I don’t feel like it.
We live somewhere where there are a lot of immigrants and first-generation Australians, where races and cultures mix. Point is, seeing someone of a race different to yours here is not new. I’ve always been proud of where I’m from and my heritage, proud that physical features from different races show through in my face, my skin, my hair. I welcomed people’s curiosities about my race because it meant attention. As a child I even prompted the question myself to people at school or parties by saying, “Guess where I’m from?”
But what does “from” mean?
Well, according to the Oxford Learner’s Dictionary, “from’ is ‘used to show what the origin of somebody/something is.”
But is my origin where I was born? Or is my origin my family? From where do my roots start? I’ve always viewed myself as a culmination of those who came before me. But is that too backward? Do I need to look to who I am now?
I have had Australians tell me that I should tell people that I’m Australian. I have had Filipinos tell me that I should tell people that I’m Filipino. I’m honestly not sure what the answer is. Either way, I’m prompted to give backstory.
It’s the classic: “But seriously, where are you really from?”
But a few weeks ago, I reached somewhat of a breaking point on this obsession about my race.
In May, my sister and I hosted a Suitcase Rummage stall in the CBD. It was awfully chilly for midday in Autumn, and we were layered up, surrounded by suitcases of preloved clothing. Also shielding themselves from the cold was an older white couple that walked arm-in-arm between the rows of stalls.
The man pointed and wiggled his finger between me and my sister, “These are not Asian, they are Latina!” The man spoke in an accent, something European.
“Where are you from?” they ask.
“From here,” my sister says.
And I immediately follow-up, knowing that her answer wasn’t going to be good enough for them, “Our parents are from the Philippines.”
“Ohhhh! Fil-lip-pi-na!” He says in an exaggerated accent.
And it didn’t really end there. For the five hours of the rummage, comments and questions piled higher than our clothing.
“Where are you from?”
“Are you related?’ someone would ask. Some people never even looked through our stall. ‘Oh really? Where are you from?”
“Are you two twins? Oh, you’re sisters? It’s like I’m seeing double!” A mother squealed in fascination, fanning her hands around, her knees among the clothes. I don’t even think we look that similar. My family feels the same way.
And at the end of the day, a strung-out women mumbled “I’m sorry for being a bitch to you Asians.” She had been going through our clothes with no intention to buy, constantly speaking to herself, both aware and not at the same time.
Now, you’re probably wondering why I mention how people say we look so similar. What does that have to do with race? This wonderment they have, this blatant fascination with agape mouths and high voices, has this underlying connotation about our race. While others may be blind to it, or not see any basis in my claims, which has happened before, when it happens to you, you just know.
To put it in my sister’s words, “They looked right through us.”
If someone tells you about an experience that felt odd or uncomfortable to them, like the way they were watched or treated by a store clerk, trust what they felt. Call it subtle racism or microaggressions or plain odd behaviour or whatever you want. At the end of the day, give someone a listen and you might be able to understand the behaviour of others, or yourself, a little better.
A lot of these encounters may seem like a bit much. Or I might make it seem that way. But strangers will seriously approach us in public and ask us where we are from. Is it honestly that fascinating? At the ripe old age of 22, maybe I’ve become a pessimist, but I’ve finally grown exhausted of the conversation about my race. I am fully aware of my whining, but guess what? You’re reading my rant.
For your curiosity’s sake, let me explain the breakdown of our genes. Both my parents are from the Philippines, but they don’t look “typical” Filipino. My dad has lighter skin on account of his grandparents being Russian and Dutch. My mum has lighter skin because, well, I’m not really sure why, but everyone says it’s because of some Spanish and Chinese background. If you climb up our family tree high enough, it’ll branch off to countries all over the world. And the newest little leaves are my sister and me in our not-quite-whiteness and not-quite-Asian-ness.
At the end of the day, maybe my race, whatever it is, is just a part of me. I just don’t want it to make me feel like museum artefact. That’s all.
Ricky Jade is (mostly) a life writer. Her life experiences inspire her writing because honestly, they’re weird and she is probably mad or sad or infatuated about something. She spends her days struggling through her final year of Creative Writing, and nights focussing on whatever her current hobby is. She is also an editor at the QUT Literary Salon and a freelance copywriter. See what she’s up to on Instagram @rickyjadee and check out her other publications at linktr.ee/rickyjade.
