#20 White Privilege I’ve Worn My Whole Life

This morning at a mortuary in Hong Kong, the partner of my relative who died on Friday spoke with me, my mother, and my aunt in Cantonese. She then turned to me and started speaking English.

“She knows Cantonese,” said my aunt.

“She looks like a gwei mui tsai,” said the partner in Cantonese.

I let my shoulders droop and my forehead tense and pull my eyes wider as I glanced first at my aunt then at my mom.

Gwei mui tsai has the same meaning as gwei lo (pronounced gway lo), the term tossed around here to refer to white people. Technically gwei lo means a ghost man and a gwei mui tsai means a ghost young girl.

The partner of my deceased uncle seemed to recover and continue the conversation in Cantonese, now intentionally to three of us.

Two nights ago, the 89-year-old friends of my mom asked me if I knew what a ho yip faan is — a common rice dish cooked in a lotus leaf. I said yes.

They said wow, you are really smart for a gwei mui tsai.

I paused, looked at them, and left the room in the direction of the bathroom. I didn’t go to the bathroom. I disappeared into a dark corner. I texted one sentence to two friends to tell them what just happened. My way of letting off steam so I could return to the party in the living room.

These people have known me since I was an infant. Born in North America, I first visited Hong Kong in 1986. I grew up in North America with a mother confident in her culture who spoke Cantonese and cooked Chinese at home, and my father was OK with all of that. I came to Hong Kong 15 times before I moved here in 2016.

It doesn’t shock me when people look at me and don’t think I speak Cantonese.

It shocks me when it’s someone who knows me, and according to me, should understand me.

Consider my reactions to these two encounters mild. I’ve done worse.

Less than two years ago, the same aunt handed me a mysteriously black and green rectangular biscuit/pastry wrapped in label-less cellophane. The next exchange below happened in Cantonese.

Is it savory or sweet? I asked.

It’s sweet, right for you gwei los, was her response.

The pilot light lit, the flames came alive.

I tossed the snack in her direction, landing on the table in front of her.

Wah?! Why are you throwing things? She asked.

Why are you calling me gwei lo? I asked, tossing a thin plastic tray in her direction. It had been given to me to use as a plate if I had eaten and not thrown the snack.

Gwei Lo is a simple term for many people. “That’s the word we use to describe Westerners,” said the aunt later, “it is not offensive,” she insisted.

Gwei Lo is a complicated term for those resistant to its incessant application to them.

“Your life must feel really hard if you feel angry every time someone calls you that,” she said.

She wasn’t wrong. It’s free range application on me by people who don’t know me and people who do know me boils my blood. Especially that time — I was asking whether this snack was savory or sweet. What has my appearance got to do with what I eat?

So, consider this morning an improvement for all parties involved.

Where is the heart of my grudge against gwei lo, the term?

Is it the term, or its application?

Why should the way I look dictate my language abilities or food preferences?

Truth is, my abilities in Chinese do match the expectations that it won’t be as good as native Cantonese speakers.

People say my Cantonese is really good when it’s not. It’s native in sound, not literacy. I keep up with 80% of conversation and 50% of the news. I have the reading literacy of a five-year-old and my Chinese hand writing looks like it’s been bounced off of those curvy fun house mirrors that deform your body, one section absurdly oblong and another part porky.

I didn’t grow up here, I never went to school to learn Cantonese. My Cantonese is good for someone who didn’t go to school. It’s not good for a 37-year-old adult.

My appearance has lowered others’ expectations of my language abilities, making them easier to meet.

It’s white privilege I’ve worn my whole life.

—

This is Day 20 of Don’t Break the Chain — a writing class by Cole Schafer.

Today’s prompt: Write about a grudge you can’t let go of, one that makes you really angry.