In the past few years, I’ve written about my journey with labels: Living and Thriving with Labels and Don’t call me Migrant or Asian but who do you say I am? In a generous reading of a label like ‘migrant’, you could say it is a convenient shorthand that points people to specific information and services, and allows people to quickly adjust how they engage with the subject matter or people who identify as migrant. You might even say ‘migrant’ encourages feelings of empathy and curiosity. In a less sanguine light, ‘migrant’ perpetuates the tropes in our public consciousness – the yellow/brown/black skinned person who is struggling in a white world, who overcomes the odds to be one of them, overachieves but stays humble and grateful.
Almost 5 years ago, I re-named my blogging website ‘The Diasporic Academic’, inspired by a keynote presentation given by Wendy Larner at a conference on international education held in Wellington. A diasporic academic by her definition was someone with multiple national affiliations, for example, a researcher from one country based in another country working on a project, or travelling between countries for research purposes, and at the same time, having a role as an intermediary between cultures, for example, translating from one language to another, or providing a culturally nuanced interpretation of things. (To dig deeper into the concept of diasporic academics, I highly recommend reading Larner’s 2015 paper on which the keynote presentation was based, as well as a 2020 book chapter I co-authored with a fellow diasporic academic.)
No doubt I’ve long left my academic ambitions at the door of the once enamoured institution called a university, but my academic sense making and inquiry has been put to good use in my public sector career – demanding clarity in policy definitions, looking for evidence to support claims, assessing the value of outputs and interpreting the validity of outcomes. So I’m proud to say that the ‘academic’ part of my identity has taken on a new form, that of a conscientious public servant.
In terms of living out my ‘diasporic’ potential, it has been an interesting journey through the professional and personal contexts of living and working in Aotearoa New Zealand. Being visibly and audibly different from the ‘European norm’ of everyday affairs, I’ve gone through various degrees of identity crises or conscious raising moments. It has made me become more sensitive to social and cultural assumptions, both my own and those around me, and often wonder about what actually goes on in people’s heads when they have an intercultural interaction. We probably assume ‘nothing’ until a word or gesture prompts an ‘aha’ response. Or we might be deliberate about discovering differences and similarities if we actually talk about cultural differences with genuine interest and respect – and how rare is that!
Let’s talk about names – a diasporic reflection
One of the common assumptions we make is people’s names.
Your name is something you take for granted. You know what it is, the variations in different contexts, how you like to be addressed, how you don’t like to be addressed, what is acceptable and welcomed banter, and what is offensive or inappropriate. To illustrate, I’ll start with the ‘Western’ name, that is, one with a first name, middle name, and a family name: Elizabeth Bennett Brown, an officially recorded name.
If we know or assume that the person is single, officially we would address the person as ‘Miss Brown’. Friends might call the person ‘Liz’ or ‘Lizzy’ or ‘Beth’. When using the name in a professional context, the name could be written simply as ‘Elizabeth Brown’, and perhaps even ‘Lizzy Brown’ if that has been the version used over time or could even be a personal brand that warrants formal usage. If the person was married, we’d say hello to ‘Mrs Brown’ and perhaps infer that ‘Bennett’ was her maiden family name. Or maybe ‘Bennett’ was her actual middle name and her maiden family name is buried in school photos and the like. This is how the office, banks, schools, and various institutions would likely respond to the person with the name of ‘Elizabeth Bennett Brown’.
Now compare this with an officially recorded name of a Chinese Singaporean woman: Lim Bee Choo, Maureen. Lim = family name, Bee Choo, Maureen = given names. ‘Lim Bee Choo’ is the the romanised rendition of the Chinese name based on the dialect group of the person (in this case, Hokkien), ie, it is rendered as it is spoken, as opposed to how the Chinese character would be spoken in standard Mandarin (in this case, ‘林’ pronounced ‘Lin’). Maureen is the given English name. It’s quite common for a Chinese Singaporean to have an English name, and by that I mean a name that is given by the parents, recorded at birth, not a name taken at a later age in life. (Something that can be attributed to Singapore being a former British Colony but of course more complex than that, and maybe something to ruminate on later.)
As this is the person’s officially recorded name, we can assume this is the maiden name. If the person were married and wanted her married name officially recorded (eg, on the national identity card), the most common option would be to apply to have the married name added as an alias. This means the person’s maiden name is the principal name, and by default, the official name. Replacing your maiden name with a married name on an official identity document needs to be done by executing a Change of Name Deed Poll. (It’s extra work and costs money so I’ve yet to know of any married female friends who have done so.)
You could use your married name in other contexts (eg, professional name), and be known as Mrs Maureen Goh. Or to just indicate you’re not single (or to be ambiguous about it), Ms Maureen Lim. (In my mother’s generation, it was common to use your married by simply adding ‘Mrs’ in front of their husband’s name. So if Lim Bee Choo, Maureen married Tan Soo Teck, David, her married name could be Mrs Tan Soo Teck, David, or Mrs David Tan.)
To address Lim Bee Choo, Maureen (married or not) in less formal settings, family might call her ‘Bee Choo’ or ‘Choo’, or ‘Ah Choo’; her peers would call her ‘Maureen’, and would be professionally known as ‘Maureen Lim’, although school communications to parents would list her as Mrs Goh. (Note: I found a very helpful resource on Singapore naming conventions and culture, which also has similar entries for other countries and cultures. Absolutely worth reading if you regularly interact with friends or business associates from non-Western backgrounds.)
If Maureen had to list her official name on documents from the ‘Western world’, she would be careful to list ‘Lim’ as her family name, ‘Bee Choo, Maureen’ as given names. If she was forced to choose single names to fit the given categories, her name might be recorded as: Family Name – Lim; Middle Name – Bee; Given Name – Choo; Preferred Name: Maureen. Automated letters drawing from the categories would simply address her as ‘Choo Lim’, and if it were recorded that she was married, ‘Mrs Choo Lim’. ‘Maureen Lim’, as she was commonly addressed and acknowledged in Singapore, would have an automatic identity makeover in New Zealand.
The Inciting Incident
I love the concept of the inciting incident in film and novels: the event that sets the main character on the journey that will occupy them throughout the narrative. Like how Biff calls Marty McFly ‘chicken’ in Back to the Future, triggering Marty to react with determination to put Biff in his place, keenly aware of how his father was a pushover, an easy target for bullies.
Just like how inciting incidents upset the balance within the main character’s world, inciting incidents in my life in New Zealand have made me question why the people around me held the assumptions they did, and why I reacted the way I did. These inciting incidents have touched on deeply personal things such as my name, the colour of my skin and hair, and my customs. And nothing gets me going more than inciting incidents about my name, the most common inciting incidents of them all.
Imagine Elizabeth Bennett Brown, Lim Bee Choo, Maureen, and myself found ourselves in conversation during tea break at a business seminar in Auckland, and our name tags reflected our names as follows: Lizzy Brown; Choo Bee Lim; Sherrie Lee. Our imaginary (and all too real) conversation could go like this:
SHERRIE LEE Hi, (reading name tag) Choo Bee, I’m Sherrie (SHAIR-ree).
CHOO BEE LIM Oh, it’s actually Bee Choo, long story about computer systems, …
SHERRIE LEE No, I get it! Of course, you’re Bee Choo! (laughs). And you’re either from Malaysia or Singapore right?
CHOO BEE LIM Born in Malaysia, but grew up in Singapore. Most people call me Maureen, only my family calls me Bee Choo. But when I came to New Zealand, after filling out a couple of forms, my default name is Choo, and a real struggle to get Bee Choo or Maureen recognised as my proper name. (sigh) So it’s not too bad that I managed to get Bee Choo on my name tag, even though it’s the wrong order! (joint laughter) I’m guessing you’re from Singapore?
SHERRIE LEE Yep, born and bred. Looks like our accents and names give us away. (joint laughter)
LIZZY BROWN joins the conversation.
LIZZY BROWN Hello, I’m Lizzy.
CHOO BEE LIM Hi Lizzy, I’m Bee Choo or just call me Maureen.
LIZZY BROWN Maureen it is, I’m better with English names. Hi (reading name tag) Sherrie (sher-REE).
SHERRIE LEE (cringing inside but smiling outside) Hi Lizzy. It’s Sherrie (SHAIR-ree), like the drink, rhymes with ‘cherry’.
LIZZY BROWN Rhymes with cherry, cute, I can remember that (laughs), so Sherrie (SHAIR-ree).
SHERRIE LEE (more cringing inside but a wider smile outside)
CHOO BEE LIM We’re just talking about our names and the difficulty with Chinese names.
LIZZY BROWN Actually I don’t think your Chinese name is too difficult, they look like English words to me, so ‘Choo Bee’, have I got that right?
CHOO BEE LIM It’s actually Bee Choo, they got the names mixed up. It’s ok, Maureen is fine.
SHERRIE LEE (attempting neutral small talk) Lizzy, is that short for Elizabeth?
LIZZY BROWN Yes, it is. And Sherrie (sher-REE), what’s your real name?
SHERRIE LEE (even more cringing inside) Sherrie (SHAIR-ree) is my real name, my mother gave me that name.
LIZZY BROWN (laughs) I mean, what’s your Chinese name?
SHERRIE LEE (with defiance and a steely look in her eyes) I don’t use it.
LIZZY BROWN I used to have Chinese borders, students studying at uni, and one girl would change her name every semester. First it was Lucy, then it became Anna, not sure what name she does by now (laughs). Maureen, did you have a different name before?
CHOO BEE LIM No, my name is Maureen, always has been.
LIZZY BROWN (laughs) Nice talking to you (walks to another group of people).
CHOO BEE LIM and SHERRIE LEE exchange knowing glances and laugh out loud.
The Diasporic Resident
The inciting incident about names was an imaginary movie scene, created from personal and observed experiences of cultural assumptions and hidden meanings, and snatches of phrases from well-meaning individuals not yet familiar with the Chinese diaspora in Southeast Asia. If this is sounding too academic, it might as well be. After all, it will be a part history part anthropology lesson if I start unpacking Chinese naming conventions, cultural norms and expectations, and colonial influences. (Try Chapter 1 of my 2019 thesis if you’re up for some fairly readable academese.)
Inciting incidents like these that help me appreciate who I am in the world, the world of ‘European norms’ in a settler colony, with the Crown gradually unpacking and honouring Treaty obligations, as well as the wider world of migration and multiculturalism. In the immediate world of my living and working, it can often feel like I’m justifying my existence to others around me – why I should be accepted and feel valued. And when I’m considering my relationship with tangata whenua (the Māori, the peoples of the land), I have questions about what it means to be tauiwi (foreigner/immigrant), especially a non-white immigrant. Whereas if I’m operating in a world where the mobility of people and their culture and languages is welcome, then there’s much more freedom to embrace and celebrate differences.
After finishing my PhD, I truly wanted to be an academic operating in that world of migration and multiculturalism, desiring to be that cultural intermediary or broker who could help explain the unspoken thoughts in people’s heads during the kind of conversation Lizzy, Bee Choo and I had. Although I am not that academic I thought I’d be, I can be a diasporic resident in the world of cultures and clashes.
So here’s a challenge to myself and fellow diasporic residents – the next time an inciting incident about your name occurs, will you be that diasporic resident who explains the story behind your name?
Seven years ago I made the most significant life decision to date – uprooting my family from Singapore and moving to New Zealand for what many would regard as ‘a better life’. I felt my family was complete with three young children, had an epiphany about doing research and preparing for an academic career in international education, and wanted to start fresh in a new place that would welcome us wholeheartedly, a place we could grow to love, a place we trusted to provide a more equitable future for our family.
Today, seven years after making that decision, I have finally found what I’ve been looking for. 2021 has become the year of the ‘final destination’ not because there’s nowhere else to go from now on, but the culmination of residency, house ownership, established relationships and meaningful employment has marked the end of a seven year journey towards being and feeling settled.
I never thought it would have taken seven years when the typical time was 24 months, at least according to well-meaning advice from the New Zealand government in the form of a settlement curve (Note: While they say it is different for everyone, there’s no other example given). But perhaps those seven years were necessary to build up resilience through struggles of varying depth and emotion, and to fully appreciate the complex feelings and mental state around migration and settlement.
The journey started on shaky ground.
We arrived in Hamilton in late November 2014 close to the start of the summer holidays and were left wondering if we had chosen a ghost town to reside in in the first couple of months. That meant having to do a whole lot of DIY in finding familiar people and networks, much like how we had to figure out how to DIY around the house. You might consider this just an initial blip of an otherwise upward trending settlement experience (again, according to the settlement curve theory). But the experience was more like ‘peaks and troughs’ unevenly spread out, interspersed with flatline day-to-day routine living of school drop-offs and pick-ups, supermarket runs and going to church.
Peaks were often associated with feeling part of the community (whether this was school, work or church) where we could express ourselves without fear of ridicule or suspicion. These were positive outcomes of coming to New Zealand. But the most significant peak was securing sufficiently paid employment that was considered relevant for a residency application. That was the biggest deciding factor for our future in the country after I completed my PhD study. This meant moving from Hamilton to Wellington, and changing my life and career trajectory altogether.
The troughs, in contrast, can be characterised by feelings of rejection by the host country. Rather than singular events, it was the reminders of how Kiwis were largely ‘friendly but not friend making’; efforts to establish personal relationships were either misplaced or flat out unreciprocated. But then again, new friendships in my stage of life – middle-aged with three children turning into teenagers – were going to be far and few between. And so I quietly resigned myself to the temporary friendships with fellow international PhD students for several years. When I started working, navigating collegial relationships in the New Zealand workplace was another new experience to grapple with. I remember having coffee with a new team and feeling like a foreigner all over again with jokes and cultural and sports references zipping past over my head. And during times like these, I would hear the soundtrack playing the song of whether the strange would ever truly become familiar.
Through the seven years of peaks and troughs and flatlines in between, as well as pandemic induced lockdowns and border restrictions, I have learnt how to do more of ‘living in the moment’ – a challenge for someone who thrives on order and being organised. Carpe diem – seize the day – as my 20 year old self would remind me.
I’ve also realised that the initial dream of ‘a better life’ in New Zealand has changed into something else. It has been muted by the reality of creeping housing prices and inflation, petty politics and shortsighted planning. But the desire for a more equitable future for the family is playing out in different ways and unfolding over time. The grass is always greener on the other side, and to New Zealand’s credit, the air is fresher and personal freedoms are greater on this side of the world. Particularly with greater personal freedom, I’ve experienced and achieved a number of things which would have been difficult or impossible if I had remained in Singapore.
Part of the dream of ‘a better life’ was about creating an environment where we could appreciate different worldviews and other cultures while being comfortable with ourselves and others. Today we have the permission to call New Zealand home, a house we own, a community we belong to, new and meaningful friendships, and most recently, landing a job that meets my pragmatic, professional, intellectual and aspirational needs. So in some ways, I’ve fulfilled my dream, but it’s really a dream in progress, working at embracing all of the good, and overcoming the struggles and setbacks.
P.S. The title of this blog post is a response to U2’s song. It has a catchy tune but I’m glad I’m not singing this in my head anymore.
Firstly, to my sister who celebrates her birthday on Christmas Day, because the celebrations are often conflated and lessened when they ought to be separate like it is for other people whose birthdays are far from Christmas – I wish you first a very Happy Birthday and then I wish you a very Merry Christmas – this is my feeble attempt at separating the two! But more seriously, may all the double feasting give you some temporary relief from your year of adaptations – and maladaptaions – in home and work lives, in personal reckonings and the search for meaning in everything that you do.
To my ‘Christmas’ sister, my other sister, and my mother, the ones I share a group chat with, every so often we talk about you visiting us, and all of you have, Mother being the most regular visitor who comes for a few weeks leading up to Christmas. And less often, you ask when I am coming home. Last Christmas, I probably said ‘next year’ without commitment and sincerity. But this Christmas, I want to say ‘next year’ – still without commitment but with a lot more sincerity. This year I truly mean it – I do want to go home – next year – when the border re-opens, when I can travel with managed risks, when I can gather the financial and mental resources to arrange travel for my family of five, when I can finally say with conviction it is worth all of it to go home.
To my father, the memory of you sending us off at the airport with cold burgers and fries as we were delayed at customs, your warm wishes of asking us to ‘enjoy the good life’, and your polite promise of visiting us, taunts me now and again. But this Christmas, I will remember the neat Christmas gifts you have given me and my sisters when we were kids, the toys and quirky things you’ve given my children, and the skill of gift wrapping I learnt from you – Merry Christmas Daddy!
To my family with me in New Zealand
Our Christmases since we have moved to this country have been low key compared to our feasting with family back home. I’ve tried to start some Christmas traditions – remember the mac n cheese for Christmas in the first couple of years? And then the agar agar with condensed milk – an adaptation of my grandma’s recipe – for another couple of years? And the Christmas tree with homemade decorations outshining the store bought ones? And of course the boxing day shopping – often for Christmas gifts! And your grandma visiting us a few weeks before Christmas was the Christmas family cheer (along with suitcases full of prezzies) that we all looked forward to. And then this Christmas – after this year of ‘Sturm und Drang’, with grandma not visiting, with the hopes of settling in Wellington with our own home dashed over and over again, I’m almost out of breath and simply too tired to get into these new traditions. But I’ll summon all my energy and try something new and get all of us into the Christmas spirit – a time when we need to be grateful – and hopeful – to be sure of why Christmas is called Christmas! We remember Jesus Christ, son of God, born of the virgin Mary, sent as a Gift of Redemption.
To my friends and colleagues in New Zealand
Friends from Hamilton – you became friends through our shared circumstances of being ‘international’ PhD students, or you emerged as part of campus life, or were two degrees of connection with my immediate circle – Merry Christmas to you and thank you for the happy memories of Hamilton life. I don’t know if our paths will cross again but if they do, I hope we will easily pick up where we left off a few years ago.
Friends in Wellington – I found you in church and our friendships are still new and growing – may our bonds through faith be strengthened slowly but surely. To friends from elsewhere, some of you may be from the distant future as parents of my children’s friends but I won’t be disappointed if it doesn’t work out (as friendships in Hamilton taught me a few lessons). And some of you may come from unexpected places that God has planned – perhaps to be reported in the next Christmas letter.
Colleagues from the various paid and volunteer work I’ve done, you probably know me the best of this category called ‘friends and colleagues’ – or more precisely, you know the ‘best of me’ since it is work where I have to present the ‘best’ version of myself, the professional persona that justifies my being in this country – it is being employed in work that utilities recognised qualifications and skills that allows me to live here. I hate to be called one but it is true, I am a ‘skilled migrant’.
Before coming to New Zealand, I thought these labels were just administrative and that once I was in the country, I would simply be part of the fabric of a wonderfully accepting and inclusive nation. But that must have been some sort of marketing gimmick that played on the naive desires of a ‘wannabe’. I’ve been living with administrative labels for the past 6 years, and often working hard to justify the label.
But this Christmas, after several years of working as a professional alongside other professionals, and experiencing a work culture that recognises the individuals for their unique contribution, and having colleagues who value and appreciate each other as individuals, I can start to peel off these labels. No doubt I will be tagged with various descriptors as it suits those who need to, but I am thankful that my colleagues know me for who I am – and spell and say my name correctly!
After reading this Christmas letter, and after you have decided it has been too short, and too long, not enough context or too much information, I look forward to hearing from you – whether as a Christmas letter or message, or some form of communication – in the translation of your choice.
Despite what feels like a ‘long’ time, I’m really still a newcomer to Aotearoa New Zealand. And considering more than 4 of the 5 plus years were spent in Hamilton, and having recently relocated to Wellington, the Aotearoa I know is just an emerging picture.
It is a picture coloured by intense periods of questioning my various identities and ‘trying’ and ‘doing’ social integration. It is also not a stable picture, with emotional highs and lows heightened in periods of uncertainty and angst, in the overall quest for ‘settledness’ and normalcy.
With my heart on my sleeve, and a restless mind seeking anchors, I invite you to pause and examine this picture that usually hangs unnoticed on your wall.
In the current climate of ‘diversity’ and ‘inclusion’ in workplaces, these trendy terms fail the reality test of working in a largely Anglo/Euro-centric culture. I recall the jaw-dropping audience of old-timer administrators when I related my ‘confinement’ experience after childbirth. As I sat at the lunch table with a story that grew scandalous with each cultural revelation, I felt humiliated for trying to strike up interesting conversation. But at the same time it thickened my skin and forced my sensibilities to learn from this faux pas.
When I share such experiences with others, it is often fellow migrants, often Asian, who nod along in agreement and commiserate with sighs of resignation. We learn quickly from our mistakes and embarrassment, but we nonetheless feel indignant over unequal opportunities in accessing jobs and opportunities. Often we hold a special gratitude for our first boss who let our foot in the door.
These ‘migrant’ or ‘ethnic’ conversations can feel familiar and safe. There seemed to be a natural urge to express solidarity, whether outright or implied, of asserting our shared experience and struggle in a hostile environment, whether real or imagined. There was tacit solidarity over the necessary ‘struggle’ before achieving success for ourselves and our family.
In recent times, I’ve become more ambivalent about my role and identity in the community script. I’ve moved cities, work environments, professional sectors, and social circles. My affiliations have multiplied, and so have my social identities. But to suggest I play a different role can seem unnatural, unusual, or worse yet, an act of betrayal against my own kind.
At a recent forum on Asian leadership, there was a pervasive presumption that Asians were overlooked and undervalued. I could identify with feelings of indignation and injustice, but also wanted to share my positive experiences of being treated with respect and included in a Pākehā dominant work environment. My story, however, simply jarred with the plot of the day.
I have also shared my journey with another group who are not necessarily migrant or Asian. This is a group I call my ‘safe house’ because with them I felt free and safe to be who I was and who I was trying to be. You could characterise them as empathetic multicultural-minded friends. Some of them were from mixed cultural families, others worked in pastoral care for international students, or had professional or volunteer jobs that served the needs of migrant communities and new citizens. I found them in churches, university services, associations, communities, government agencies, and in families of my children’s schoolmates.
Of course, just being involved in cross-cultural contexts does not automatically make one empathetic to others experiencing or experimenting with new cultures. I’ve met those who claim to be migrant champions or international education professionals but couldn’t wholeheartedly recommend them to others. By all accounts, they did their job. But to me they lacked a personal desire to affirm your value for who you were, whether they found you familiar or strange.
A more recent discovery of a safe house is the kapa haka group at work. The welcoming nature of the group and encouragement by instructor-colleagues to sing boldly and accurately exemplified to me manaakitanga (hospitality) and kotahitanga (togetherness). What a gift and privilege to learn about, and express through performance, Māori culture – as an outsider looking in, as one welcomed to learn and belong in all my shades of difference.
I come back to my picture which has emerged as a self-portrait. It hangs on the invisible walls of my dwelling which intersects with the dwelling places of migrants, Asians, colleagues and friends. The question of who I am will inevitably be answered differently by the various co-dwellers.
To answer that question today in the season of the Lunar New Year, can be simply expressed as ‘I am Chinese’. At work, together with a few Chinese colleagues, we will put together a shared morning tea celebration for all staff. (And I would ask you to think of ‘Chinese’ as diasporic rather than singular!)
Non-Chinese colleagues will look to Chinese colleagues for cultural expressions of the season and explanations of its significance. In doing so, I also hope they will find the opportunity to build safe houses for multicultural-minded conversations flourish in.
