The seatbelt sign flashed off and I tugged my travel bag from under the seat in front of me. As I stepped off the airplane, my senses were assaulted with an excess of oddities. The world was brighter and sleeker, the air smelt obscenely crisp, and I had a hard time tuning out the loud conversations surrounding me. I fumbled at the cashier trying to identify the coins in my hand and yet everyone was moving so slow. I was convinced the world could see through my confusion as if the word “foreigner” was stamped across my head in bold letters. I had just landed in Canada…which, according to my passport, should have felt like home. You see, I grew up in China. My father’s job moved us to Hong Kong when I was six and I lived there all the way up until I went to high school in Shanghai. I loved it. And even though people regularly stared or called me names, I fully embraced my Chinese heritage. My friends knew to call me Asian because I would correct them if they said otherwise. On standardized tests, I would circle “Other” or “Asian” under ethnic background because I hated being called White. The biggest compliment would be from the friend who’d say, “Ruth, you’re more Asian than I am.” or from the delivery man who’d be shocked at my complexion after I spoke Chinese to him on the phone.

I remember the first time I realized I was white. It was during orientation at college when all six hundred first-years were told to stand in a huge circle in the gym and asked to step forward if we identified with statements such as “Step in if you’re 18. Okay, step out.” And so on. I think it was supposed to be unifying but once the leader hit ethnicity, my confidence buckled. “Step in if you’re white.” I couldn’t bring myself to enter the circle and I noticed my neighbors casting glances. “Step in if you’re Asian.” I inched forward, and was painfully aware of the fact that I was the only white person in the middle. I backed out quickly. I kept hoping “bi-cultural”, “multicultural” or even “culturally confused” would come up but they never did. That experience spiraled me into a year-long identity crisis where I wrestled with the fact that, while I felt Chinese, my own skin projected a different persona. I came to realize that even though conforming to preconceived notions might make others, or even at times myself, more comfortable; I was living a fragmented life. Instead, I have embraced my own complexity and have gained freedom to enjoy all that makes me unique. I am slowly learning how to be at home within myself…and that means I can be at home anywhere.