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‘You Filipino?’ a woman enquired, running up to me and my sister as we waited to cross the road near the bronze lions of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank in Central District.
‘No’ I answered, looking at this complete stranger in ankle-length trousers and flip-flops.
‘You Filipino,’ she stated, nodding knowingly at my sister. ‘You definitely Filipino. You look Filipino. You must be Filipino.’ My sister was so annoyed. It happened frequently, sometimes ending in an embarrassed chuckle, and at other times almost indignation and unacceptance from the stranger.
Chinese amahs, who had long served expatriate families and did everything from cooking and cleaning to childcare, had slowly started to give way to an influx of women from the Philippines. Nowadays, on their days off, usually Sunday, these maids congregate in swarms around pavements and walkways in Central District, picnicking on mats and newspapers, buying and selling clothes from large plastic carrier bags, their music blaring as their chatter rises above the noise of traffic and usual passers -by. Walking past them can be a real assault on the senses, and one to be avoided where possible. But back when I was growing up, it was an unusual sight – and these Filipino maids were keen to make contact with their own.
The gardens and water fountains of Statue Square and the air-conditioned luxury of Princes Building were never that busy, but it was the thoroughfare between the tramline and the Star Ferry concourse and City Hall area. The cenotaph stood proudly, if poignantly, at the northern end of the square, a memorial to those who died in World War II.
I scrubbed for theatre. First on the list was a dilatation and curettage. The team was busy and fellow students had assembled in a small silent crowd. I must have been late. The consultant beckoned us medical students to come to take a closer look before he removed the vaginal speculum. I peered in; a healthy cervix and well-perfused tissue. When we were all done, the surgical team began to remove the theatre greens and to take the patient’s legs down from the stirrups. I remember being taken aback. The woman was a deep mahogany colour. It really struck home at that moment that colour is only skin deep. Inside the body, devoid of the skin’s melanin pigment, we are all the same.
Of course, intellectually I knew this was the case, but it was a defining moment in my medical student experience.
The net curtains that shielded the middle-class residents of Winchmore Hill, North London, twitched as we walked down the leafy suburb from the railway station. It was a crisp Easter Sunday morning, and I was going to meet my boyfriend’s family for the first time, and to join them for a traditional English Sunday lunch. It was 1980. I wore my best frock, bought the weekend before, at Petticoat Lane market in the East End of London, for about five pounds. It was the only dress I owned. My boyfriend met me at the station, and walked excitedly down his local streets, oblivious to the twitching curtains and reserved, subtle British stares of passers-by. During our courtship, I was always aware of the looks people gave us. It didn’t matter to me, but I was aware of them – and of the prejudice in some people’s ignorance. I can still feel the coldness when I walked into a bakery in the middle of Essex as a medical student on placement at the local district hospital. The sudden hushed silence could be spliced with a scalpel. The stares – curious, unwelcoming, judgmental, discriminatory. Instead of avoiding the bakery, I would make a point of going to the same establishment again, and asking in my most English of accents for an iced bun or a jam doughnut. I spoke the Queen’s English – and that shocked a lot of people.
‘So, you don’t mind that your son is going out with a girl who is, well, not English?’ my future in-laws were asked time and time again by well-meaning family and friends.
It was not an issue for my in-laws, and I did not understand why it should be. After all, my grandmother had let my mother marry someone who was not Chinese. When grandmother first met my father, she thought him strange and awkward in his manner. He had been invited home for a Chinese meal, and whilst chewing on a mouthful of fish, he did not know what to do with the fishbone he encountered. To my father, it would have been exceedingly rude to spit the bones out of his mouth, so he swallowed them. My grandmother told me she could not believe what she saw.
‘And his handkerchief!’ she told me years later. ‘Such a disgusting habit. So filthy. He blew his nose on his handkerchief, and then folded it up and put it back in his pocket.’
The concept of ‘face’ in Asian cultures is difficult to explain; there is no Western equivalent. It is not simply pride or ego. It is a complex ingrained notion that embodies a person’s identity and human worthiness; it is not particularly related to social status. Behaviour that may cause a person to ‘lose face’ is frowned upon; it is unforgiveable if it is perceived to cause a major loss of face. Deference to one’s elders is also paramount. When I was growing up, for example, it was unacceptable for a student to disagree with a teacher, even though she or he may have made a mistake; nor was it considered proper to ask a difficult question in front of the class in case the teacher was unable to answer it satisfactorily. It was therefore completely foreign, and rather challenging for me, when in my first year at secondary school I had an American teacher who encouraged debate and questions and was more interested in what I had to say than how I said it. She was very fond of a quote from Henry David Thoreau which hung as a poster on her wall. She gave it to me when she left Hong Kong.
If a man does not keep pace with his companions,
Perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.
Let him keep step to the music which he hears,
However measured or far away.
Chinese parenting is paradoxical, and affection and love are often displayed by rebuke. Criticism, reprimand and harsh words were the prerogative of parents and grandparents, showing they cared enough to want one to improve. There is no loss of face in such circumstances, but such interaction from others may cause considerable insult and offence. I see this at times when working in multi-cultural environments, and often marvel at the tolerance of the affected and the apparent lack of awareness of the transgressor. Knowing doesn’t make me immune, and I can recall two occasions in my career when, unknown to me at the time, it caused spectacular upset that is difficult to understand or explain, when seen through a Western lens. On one occasion I was the culprit; the other the recipient.
Politeness and the small rules of etiquette are deeply ingrained in every Chinese household. I’d never heard of ‘going Dutch’ before I came to the UK. It was such an alien concept, as it would suggest that the person who made arrangements to go out, for example, couldn’t afford to pay. So, despite my denial of culture shock, there were and are narrow social attitudes and practices I sometimes find prickly, although I am aware of this and certainly understand them. Often casual and rather insignificant, they serve to remind me that in everyday discourse we tend to ignore, or are unaware of, cultural differences.
A frequent common example is an invitation to a meal. Chinese families do not extend casual invitations. Nor is it customary to invite guests to one’s home, where family members are entertained. So when an invitation is extended, either to the home or more likely elsewhere, it is considered an honour to be asked – and unless there is an extremely good reason, it is accepted graciously, saving face for the host. But all too often in Western society there is either no response, or invitations are declined, sometimes because one doesn’t feel bothered. At times I am guilty of this too.
The giving and receiving of gifts is another example. It’s considered impolite not to remember family and friends when one returns from abroad, so souvenirs and gifts are bought and shared, but this is rarely reciprocated. I’ve heard people interpret this as a need to show evidence of having been away. The gesture of passing an object, whether it be a gift or a cup of tea, is done by using both hands and is considered rude and disrespectful not to do so, unless it is being passed to someone of a younger generation. If the gift is substantial, or given as part of a celebration, the recipient returns some of the good luck the giver has brought by way of a small laisee (red money packet). The intention of the giver is what matters most and not what is given. To reflect this, and to avoid being seen as greedy, the gift is not opened in front of the giver but put to one side until much later. Very different from Western culture.
I also remember not so long ago offering to pay for drinks at a team Christmas party. It was well meaning when it was suggested I could perhaps pick up the tab with a colleague, but for a split second I had to remind myself this was the Western way of doing things and not said to imply I couldn’t afford it.
Food is a matter of extreme importance, and normal greetings take the form of enquiring if someone has eaten. Food etiquette is ingrained, as is respect for one’s elders. They are always invited to eat first and the table will wait until the eldest has lifted his or her pair of chopsticks to begin the meal. The concept of ‘time is money’ did not exist either; there was always time to have a chat and to deliberate on a matter.
Chinese tradition is filled with symbolism. I remember my sister and me saving to buy our grandmother a special present when she reached her 70th birthday. We were so excited, and went out shopping to big department stores on our own; stores such as Diamaru in Causeway Bay (which was a fairly long tram ride away), or Wing On near the waterfront close to where we lived. We even had the courage to go into Lane Crawford, the premier department store on Queen’s Road Central. Eventually, we decided on a gold-plated carriage clock; a handsome item which was aesthetically pleasing and elegant to the senses. We were thrilled with our purchase, and gave it to our grandmother on the morning of her birthday, filled with such pride and achievement. I was only 10 years old, and did not realise that the Cantonese word for clock has a homophone which means ‘to go to a funeral’. Mother scolded us and said that giving a clock as a gift was a bad omen – especially on such a special birthday. I was absolutely mortified. But my grandmother accepted it graciously, with a smile on her face and a generous heart.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said to my mother. ‘They are only young. Anyway, what does it matter?’ and she placed the carriage clock in pride of place on her dressing table. It was still there the day she died, almost twenty years later.