Caught Between Two Worlds
I was born in Hong Kong and moved to Canada when I was seven. Having immigrated as a child and been raised in the West, I have always felt like I am neither here nor there culturally. I wasn’t born overseas, so I’m not what some would call a “total banana”—yellow on the outside, white on the inside—but at the same time, I didn’t want to be associated with those we referred to as “fresh off the boat.” Somehow, I felt like I was “better” than them. So there I was, stuck in a kind of cultural purgatory—not belonging fully to either world.
This wasn’t just a passing thought or a fleeting teenage insecurity. It was a deep-seated issue that lingered for years, shaping how I saw myself and others. I still remember visiting Hong Kong not long after we immigrated and feeling so embarrassed about my roots that I pretended not to understand Cantonese at all. I spoke English the whole time, even though Cantonese was the language of my childhood. But then, when I was back in Canada, I would feel insecure around my Western friends or overseas-born Chinese. I always felt like I wasn’t good enough—not Western enough for my friends here, not Chinese enough for my relatives and peers there. I was messed up inside, though I didn’t know how to name it back then.
Embarrassed by My Own Roots
Aside from this constant feeling of not belonging, I honestly didn’t care much about being Chinese. Being Chinese, to me as a child and teen, just meant I had restrictions and oddities that set me apart from my peers. It meant I couldn’t walk to school by myself, that I brought “smelly” lunches that got strange looks and comments in the school lunchroom (yes, now those stackable bento boxes are a cute thing on Instagram, but back then, they were a source of embarrassment). It meant that my mom insisted I wear too many layers in the winter because, in her mind, Canadian schools were freezing, even though there was central heating. So, no—didn’t hate being Chinese, but I didn’t love it either.
When Faith Didn’t Touch My Ethnicity
When I became a Christian, that didn’t change how I felt about my ethnicity. I learned that “Jesus loves me” and that I was a child of God. My spiritual identity was taught as the most important thing, and indeed, it is foundational. But that focus unintentionally made me believe my ethnic identity was irrelevant, maybe even a hindrance. Even after I was called into missions, I didn’t have a heart for the Chinese people. In fact, I wanted to go anywhere except the “motherland”—Cambodia, Japan, Laos, Thailand—anywhere but where my roots were.
Little did I know that my quiet avoidance came from a place of despising my own ethnic identity. I didn’t recognize it at the time because no one really talked about it—not in my circles, not in church, and certainly not in missions training. I just didn’t think it mattered. Until one day, everything changed.
A Testimony That Changed Everything
I had the opportunity to sit and listen to a persecuted Christian leader from my motherland. This man had been imprisoned for 18 years for his faith, had been homeless for many more years, and had spent his life on the run, all for the sake of the gospel. I had heard stories of persecuted Christians before, but something about that moment broke through the walls I had built. For the first time in my life, I saw that this persecuted leader’s story wasn’t just a story of faith—it was my story, too. The gospel wasn’t only about missionaries from other cultures taking the good news across the ocean. My people, my ancestors, had given their all for Jesus.
In that moment, I realized I had a spiritual inheritance I had turned a blind eye to. Though this leader wasn’t the person who brought me to Christ, I felt as if he were my spiritual father. And for the first time in my life, I felt profoundly grateful to be Chinese. It felt as if I had won a million dollars, like I had discovered something precious that had been mine all along but I had failed to see.
This revelation opened my eyes to the beauty and worth of my ethnic identity and inheritance. After this “conversion” experience—and that’s truly what it felt like—I found a new love for my people. But this love also led me into a season of repentance. I had to face and repent of the many prejudiced thoughts I didn’t even know I carried: ideas like “I am superior because I was raised in the West” or “Why are they so ill-mannered?” The labels I had absorbed growing up and never questioned.
A Season of Repentance and Healing
In the process, I had to dig deeper to uncover where these thoughts had come from. I realized that much of what I disliked about being Chinese came from personal experiences—from family dynamics, from the embarrassment of being different, from hurts that came from straddling two cultures, even within the church. As I worked through forgiveness, reconciliation, and healing, I began to separate the beauty of my culture from the parts that were shaped by brokenness. I learned not to throw out the baby with the bathwater but to treasure the gems God placed within my heritage.
Living into a Redeemed Identity
Since then, I’ve been on a journey—a mission—to connect with others who are seeking to redeem their ethnic identity. I long for us to see how the gospel can be expressed uniquely through our cultures. I know I’m not alone in this experience, and I’m not trying to define what our collective future should look like as diaspora people. But my hope is that, as we find our voices and pave new paths of expression, we will discover more of God’s heart in and through every culture, reflecting His beauty and creativity to the world.
