I'm Not Crazy Rich, But I Am Asian.

In true Tabitha fashion, I started this post last year when Crazy Rich Asians was still in cinemas and at its peak. I thought I was going to write a quick, lighthearted “wow I loved the movie you should go see it and here’s why” post but the more I dove into it and why it resonated so loudly with my emotions, I realized there was a ton more I had to unpack and some deep seeded pain points I needed to address.

Anyway… I’m honestly so happy the day has come when, upon mention of my being from Singapore, people finally aren’t asking if I’ve been caned for chewing gum anymore. These days, I’m met instead with an emphatic, “HAVE YOU SEEN THE MOVIE ‘CRAZY RICH ASIANS?!’” I then easily meet their excitement with my own – and frankly, I will never tire of talking about the movie.

And if you must know, yes I chew gum when I’m home, and no I have never been caned for it because it’s a stupid urban legend, and let’s just move on.

Crazy Rich Asians made me so proud in two ways: First, as a Singaporean, it was thrilling to see my home country so beautifully represented. The familiar sights and sounds (especially the bits of Singlish) made me giddy because I’m very homesick (my entire family is still there, and so is my heart) – not to mention how excited I was watching actors from my childhood play major roles in this delightful rom com. I was so overjoyed I was trembling and crying, so it’s a good thing movie theaters are dark! It’s such a spectacular, sensational (yet still quite real) portrayal of Singaporean Chinese culture I totally could relate to, and if you haven’t seen it, I highly recommend it.

Secondly, as an immigrant in America, I was over the moon because for the first time, I was watching a Hollywood production featuring an all-Asian cast – and they weren’t sword fighting in period garb or racing Subarus. There’s no doubt this movie is culturally significant for Asians in America and our representation in entertainment. It’s also great for Singapore because maybe now more Americans will know that we speak English and we are not part of China.

As much as I feel extremely lucky to be able to revel in the movie from both these vantages, I also had as strong a visceral reaction to it. And all it took was one line to break me:

“When children are away from home too long, they forget who they are.”

The line was not uttered with love, so much as the reasoning behind what the elderly character viewed as disrespect from the movie’s hero. It’s such a Chinese thing to say, too – poetic yet scathing and so damn passive aggressive. It’s Tiger Mom Level 11, and hearing it stung as if my own grandmother had said it to my face.

You see, I began my life in America at the ripe age of 20, an age where we feel like we’re already adults, but in hindsight, are truly still such children. Come January, I will have lived here for as long as I lived in Singapore – I left my home half my lifetime ago. I’ve been having trouble coming to terms with that, and it fills me with guilt. That line really did a number on me.

It wasn’t as though I was leaving a rough life. In fact, I lived a very comfortable, happy life in Singapore! The college degree I sought was not offered there; in a way, I “had to” leave. But deep down, I always felt like I didn’t quite fit in at home, and I was always drawn to America – the music, the pop culture, what I thought was a more liberal society where women could be vocal and have an opinion (but that’s another post for another day).

Someone once called me a banana: yellow outside, white inside. I remember scoffing because, come on, that’s just rude – and also ridiculous. But I also didn’t argue – they weren’t wrong, and so what if I was “white inside?” That insult only affirmed that I didn’t belong even if I wanted to, so I packed my bitter bags and here we are.

My banana-ness probably helped me come into my own here in a country that’s as far away from home as I could get. Yet as one decade passed, then (very soon) another, I face the fact that this whole time, I did want to belong back home. And now it’s taken a throwaway line in a rom com to drive a new determination in me: I am not going to let time make me less of a Singaporean, because only I can do that and I don’t want to. This banana has ripened and turned a rich yellow, along with some age spots on the outside.

Over the past several years, I’ve been replicating my grandmother’s recipes. When I became pregnant, I started journaling the little things I loved about my childhood; our family and cultural traditions, tidbits and even superstitions. I thought it’d be fun to some day impart those things to my child so he’ll know where he’s also from.

Most of all, that journal is for me – the child who left home far too long ago for her own liking, but who does know who she really is.