Illustration by Keelin Gorlewski
Understanding languages across cultures and generations
I am a first-generation Chinese-Canadian. My parents immigrated here when I was four years old, and my earliest memory in Canada is going to Pre-K, not knowing a single word of English, and bawling my eyes out as I watched my mom leave from the classroom’s large windows. Like many immigrants, my parents came from a poor family in rural China, and they came to Canada in hopes of raising a family and creating a better future for me and my sister than the one they had. We were the motivation for everything they did. I remember the houses we lived in growing gradually; each was larger and nicer than the one before. It is these memories that I look back on to see how much my parents struggled and worked to create the life I have now—attending university and living a pretty privileged lifestyle. We are by no means rich, but we aren’t poor, and I’m privileged enough to not have ever experienced financial instability. My story isn’t a special one. My family and I are just a speck in part of a larger immigrant diaspora that emigrated in search of more.
One of the first things any immigrant faces is the language barrier. Anyone who has ever tried to learn another language knows how difficult it can be, and the feeling of embarrassment that comes with speaking in the foreign language and being judged when it doesn’t come out right. The reality is that immigrant parents, like mine, had to do just that. This was at a time when the internet wasn’t at the tip of their fingers. They couldn’t Google Translate sentences. They only had themselves to rely on, as they were the first of their family to settle in this new country, and their children relied on them heavily as well. I can only imagine the kind of difficulties they faced in understanding not only the legal affairs of living in a new country, but also the cultural nuances. This is unlike me and my sister, who were raised in Canada (my sister being born here). Everything is absorbed and normal in our view; it is just the way we do things. It is this almost instinctive knowledge we have about the workings of society, government, and legality of things that our parents can now rely on us for. We become their lawyers, doctors, and teachers.
We take on duties that are not in our job description but are implied in our status. At first, it’s translating menus and ads, random things you read on the internet. Then it’s that letter in the mail from the bank. Then that passport renewal form. Then the results of a doctor’s examination. Then you’re filling out legal forms pretending to be them. But we’re all family, so it’s okay. We’re family, so I can ask you to do this for me. We’re family, so I have to do this for you. We are their children, and that comes with the duty and obligation to repay them for raising us, giving birth to us, and providing for us. Maybe that’s a reflection of our character or a product of cultural values instilled in us. But it’s a sentiment that I found is consistent among immigrant children. However, these requests become more frequent, adding to our ever-growing busy lives trying to balance school, work, hobbies, and social life. It can get time-consuming and frustration can build up when you’re overwhelmed with so much. I have watched friends juggle internships, lectures, school work, and side projects, busy from 9 am to 11 pm, six days a week. To add to that, they manage social media accounts for their dad’s business and translate statements for their mom’s art projects. With that schedule, there’s little room to breathe.
But I’m not just translating words. I’m translating the culture I grew up in, one that is different from the experiences of my parents. I remember as a kid and even into my teens, my parents would never allow me to go to sleepovers even with my friends, and I would be so frustrated and angry that I couldn’t go. I would ask them why and argue back a little, but it would still end the same way: no sleepovers. Then on the coming Monday, I would hear about how much fun my friends had and what they did, and I would feel this sense of loneliness because I felt like I was missing out on friendships. I would continue asking my parents to attend sleepovers, hoping they’d let me because I’m older now and more mature. But the answer would still be the same. I couldn’t understand why, not at that age anyway.
“I’m not just translating words. I’m translating the culture I grew up in, one that is different from the experiences of my parents.”
How can I have these negative feelings towards my parents who have done so much for me? It is this sense of guilt that corrodes my mind and my heart. How ungrateful. And that’s the thing—this ambivalence isn’t something to feel guilty about. What is important is what comes after the ambivalence. Perhaps one should think that these feelings of ambivalence reinforce bonds of connection between parent and child. It is within these tensions where I will still translate this letter, still fill out that form, that the test of the relationship comes from. It’s unrealistic to believe that a family is going to be one that is always happy and fun and that doesn’t argue. There will be misunderstandings, anger, sadness, and underlying all that is love.
Love is one of those hard topics that goes unspoken in Asian households. My friends and I like to joke that we’ve never said “I love you” to our parents, nor have we heard it back. It’s an unspoken but known fact within the household. But that makes actions much more important. Asian culture emphasizes gestures to show respect, courtesy, and kindness—taking the cheque for the meal, gifts whenever you visit a guest’s home. It’s the same within the family. We don’t say “I love you” to our parents; we wash the dishes, make dinner, run errands, accompany them on days off, treat them to dinner, travel together. It’s the forms we fill out for them, the words we translate for them to understand our world. Our actions are our words.
Looking back on it now, I understand why my parents were against me going to sleepovers, and it wasn’t for any specific reason. It was more about how they understood sleepovers and their own cultural upbringing. Sleepovers were not a thing for my parents. So I understand now that they weren’t refusing me because they wanted to “ruin my life,” but because they just didn’t share my understanding of sleepovers. Translations aren’t just the literal translation of words, but the translation of values, perspectives, and understandings across generations, ages, and cultures. I had to and have to translate my experience and perspective of a young first-generation Chinese-Canadian to my parents. And it’s not easy. Things will get lost in translation, perspectives will clash, misunderstandings will occur, and some things just won’t make sense to them. And over the years, I’ve grown to reconcile these contradictory feelings of resentment, familial obligation, and guilt, and understand them to be part of the complicated immigrant experience. It doesn’t make me a bad daughter or bad person for feeling frustrated and irritated at these constant requests. It makes me human. Families aren’t exempt from being the target of these feelings. But it is what I do <i>despite</i> those feelings that matters; it’s the efforts to understand, the communication with my family, which can be difficult in an Asian household of two different languages. But perhaps our languages aren’t that different. Some words mean the same thing across cultures.
I like this story. Thank you.