Pains of Diaspora
A diaspora (from Greek διασπορά, "scattering, dispersion") is a scattered population with a common origin in a smaller geographic area. The word can also refer to the movement of the population from its original homeland.
My diaspora pains me in my adult life.
During my years of development, through puberty and maturity, the relief in finding my place as an American was paired with the pains of being Chinese. I loved who I have become here in this country, find solace in my sexuality and ideals. In my goals to be a social worker and to decorate my body in ink. Then there is my mother, my family, my culture. Desperately looking at small tribes in my country, not of my Chinese Han ethnicity, to find justification why it’s ok to be this way, to think this way… but it’s not. My culture; at least that defined by my family, doesn’t condone my life style, my morels, nor me. It hurts so deeply to realize that my beloved culture that I repeat and identify with, doesn’t except me. It hurts, it breaks my sole.
That’s diaspora. To be so rejected by the culture you so deeply identify with. I don’t ever want to hate my own people or my own origin, but I do, as defense. It’s human to fight something that causes you pain. Fighting fire with fire. However, doesn’t that just make a larger fire? It does, so I retreated into my American identity. A identity of being others, ironically an American defined identity of Chinese, and “othered” even more when I cease to fit into my given stereotype. So I live on the rims of society, willing to be pointed out standing with a few, staring down at the pot or normality. Others enjoying what pleasures of staying inside societies parameters. I watch, with slight envy of such acceptance, but with more joy of having the freedom to be identifiable and the power to move about on this rim, this edge. And to jump off if necessary, no need to climb.
The American ideal of individuality: achieved. The ideals of being whole culturally… in progress. The pain still swallows me whole every time I speak Cantonese, because I hear my American accent and the reaction on “pure” Chinese faces of their disbelief in my attempt to retain something that they thought wasn’t mine, that they thought I had voluntarily rejected. In love my culture, I love the stories of emperors, empires, the magic in the forest and the respect of the monks and Buddha. That’s my China, because I can’t relate to the China of today. I don’t know him. I don’t understand him, nor does he relate to me. I know this disconnect is real, but I want to create something that isn’t there, maybe because I think that it will help this pain that rips my soul. Or maybe I just need my family to say that they accept me and love me. Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s it……