My Voice: A Chameleon Migrant's Journey
I've been reflecting a lot lately on my 'voice' and authenticity. It's become clear that I'm unsure what this truly means. This is largely due to changing my name for various superstitious reasons and the feeling that my identity is fragmented, influenced by various cultures and beliefs.
As a first-generation migrant from Thailand to the US, finding my voice took a long time. After twenty years, I finally felt Thai/American, Asian/American – embodying the vibrant subculture of large cities like New York. But what happens when you migrate again, to a place where everyone is white? After falling in love with an Aussie boy, I moved to Canberra, Australia. Once again, I found myself adapting, moulding myself to fit into a Western culture that often doesn't understand the migrant experience.
As a migrant, how does one find their voice? I've lost count of the compliments on my English or how I've been "liked" for my Westernised demeanour. My voice – I'm not sure what that is. My husband, a six-foot-two white Australian with Irish and Scottish ancestry, never has his identity questioned the way mine is.
The photo (though not of me) shows that looks can be deceptive. Perhaps, I'm seen as just another "generic Asian" living in a country still young in its amalgamation of race and cultures. Next time I'm back in Thailand, I'll try to find some baby pictures – another loss for migrants. We leave behind not only pictures, but cultures, language, food, and even parts of ourselves.
Throughout my years in Australia, I've met a doctor and a PhD scholar running a small Syrian restaurant, a Bangladeshi student completing her second Master's degree who also works as a Covid cleaner, and the nameless brown Uber driver who was once a lawyer, doctor, or politician back home. Do we all become nameless through migration?
I envy those with a secure sense of identity. Assimilation, acculturation, cultural bereavement, coupled with socioeconomic division – what hope do migrants have in influencing the creative arts? Perhaps, one book at a time.
Truth be told, I wrote this blog with the hope that it might never be read. Yet, for a chameleon migrant like me, expressing my voice is an essential step forward. It's a baby step, yes. But by posting this, I announce that a young girl – once hindered by undiagnosed dyslexia and illiterate until ten, raised by a single mom, and later adopted by an aunt for a better future – can overcome hurdles through books, higher education, and hope.
Photo by Ron Lach from pexels.com