Fall 2020 | Occasus | Issue 10

Happy Hour
Mixed-as-a-drink.

Yes, that’s what I named my Tumblr URL.

Remember those? In the days before Instagram models and YouTube vloggers, Tumblr boys and girls took over the internet. I wanted to be like them: comfortable in their own skin and confident in their thick black eyeliner and flat hats. They were kids of all backgrounds and talents, united by their coolness and affinity for the online world.

I made his Tumblr page for one of my art classes. I needed to create an inspiration board as a portfolio of resources for one of my projects, and Tumblr was allowed. As an artist, I loved it. Your Tumblr URL is the thing that people could recognize you by, and I wanted it to be unique, creative, and something that reflects who I am.

But what makes me so special?
I was looking up scholarships one day when I got home from school. University applications had just been sent in, and I wanted to see if I could apply for anything else while I was still on my writing high. I was at the kitchen table, with my dad behind me, cooking pasta on the stove. I read the list out to him as he calmed the boiling bubbles in the pot.

“Academic excellence? Already did that. Athletic… nope, nothing I can apply for… wow do they ever like their football team… Military? Ha could you imagine me doing that!” I clicked down the list, muttering to myself. “Mature student, Indigenous culture, minority, exchange program, now that would be cool…”

My dad tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot and turned around.

“What was that last one? Minority? I think you could apply for that.”

I paused my scrolling and laughed. “Me? How am I a minority? I mean, how am I not part of the majority?”

“You’re half Asian.” He shrugged. “That might count. Apply if you want to and see what happens.”

I stared, confused, as my dad turned back to the pasta, taking it off the heat and draining the water down the sink.

I never really thought of myself like that before; I always felt so included. Grateful to consider myself so, but just always assumed that I wasn’t really any different. I was proud of my heritage, of course, but all my traditions and food and customary dress are shared by my family, friends, and millions of other people. So how was that considered a minority?

I remember the first time I went out to a bar in university. I was eighteen, underage, and with a group of people who were all older than me. Little freshman me, I didn’t know that the house party was actually a pre, and that everyone planned on going downtown after to hit the clubs. In a last-minute scramble, a friend of mine handed me one of her IDs: she was full Chinese and couldn’t even have passed for a distant cousin. “Just try it,” she said, “See if it works. No one looks like you, so this will have to do,” True, I thought. Well, let me tell you: it didn’t work. The bouncer was this big, burly, fully Caucasian dude. It was a summer night, absolutely no lineup at the bar. I handed him the card. He looked at it, then at me; then back at the card, then back at me. And honestly, at this rate, who was I trying to fool? The both of us knew the ID wasn’t mine. But he – was blind? Trying to not be racist? – and asked me if I had a second piece. I had to wipe the dumbfounded look off my face and pretend to pat down my pockets like I lost my other cards… which we also both knew I didn’t have. Obviously, I didn’t get in. But I’ve got to give the him credit for trying to keep a straight face.

I guess I’m lucky to have grown up in the place I did. As a mixed kid living in Canada, I’ve realized that it is a privilege to have grown up in such a diverse and welcoming country. My mother, half Chinese, half Filipino, emigrated from Manila with her family when she was a young girl. My father, half Austrian, half Hungarian, was born here, a very proud Canadian man with strong European roots. Although both my parents are considered very “white-washed”, we would still eat a mix of traditional foods, celebrate with customary practices, and use words in Tagalog, Mandarin, and German in our everyday language. I always identified as both Asian and European; I was never one or the other. I was both.
Do you want to know what my first ideas were for my URL? Cringey, that’s what they were.

Mixed-kidd.tumblr.com? Ew.

She’s-Waisian? Oh, God, no.

Half-and-half? What am I, milk?

But I kept going. Boy, was I creative. Melting pot? Soup? Seasoning? Geez, you would think I was starving. What about ingredients, things that make up one delicious dish? The dish, implying me, of course (as I am an absolute snack). Ugh. I should get out of the kitchen and start doing my homework in another room. I stretched, leaning back on my chair from my spot in the kitchen. I tilted my head back and stretched. Then my gaze fell upon the liquor cabinet.

When I was kid, my favourite Disney princesses were the ones that looked like me. Mulan, for one, was my idol. She kicked Hun booty and made me proud of my Chinese heritage. But Pocahontas (though Native American) reminded me of my native roots as a Filipino, and Snow White attested to my European heritage, her story based in German culture. But there were no stories of people like me, no princesses who were half of one ethnicity, and half of another. I was different, and I was proud, although at times it made me feel slightly alone.

When we were in grade school, we had to take student achievement tests called the EQAO and CAT. The first few questions were always regarding the individual: age, grade, gender, background. There would be multiple options: Native American, Caucasian, Asian, African, Hispanic, et cetera. The list went on. I used to stare at my paper and tentatively hover my pencil over “Caucasian”, then “Asian”, then back again. I remember my teacher at the time thought I was stuck on one of the first questions and came around to see if I needed any help. I thought I was going to get into trouble for taking too long, so I quickly checked off both and moved on to the next question.

“The instructions said to check off the box that applies to you, not boxes.”

I stared at her, confused, and she pointed to a third option. It was titled “Other”.

I erased my other two checkmarks and checked this one off, writing down my backgrounds along the line underneath. I used to wonder, what kind of specimen was I to have been labelled an “Other”?

I guess you could say that growing up with a mixed background did have its perks. I could cheer for multiple countries during the Olympics, for one. More cultures also meant more celebrations and parties: more family, more food, more fun! What’s more, I found that I could associate myself with other people through this understanding of culture and was exposed to different types of lifestyles and traditions from a young age. Children who are born into mixed families or are raised under the influence of multiple backgrounds tend to have a more sympathetic or empathetic relationship with people from cultures other than their own. We are more exposed to and open to other ideas and experiences. I was lucky to grow up in a city like Toronto that promotes and welcomes diversity; I can celebrate Chinese New Year and go for dim sum in Chinatown, or go with my friends to the Taste of the Danforth, even celebrate my parent’s anniversary at a Moroccan restaurant.

However, I often forget how different I am. People, especially from older generations, are not used to it. Even when I meet new people who are from smaller towns without a lot of diversity, they still find it a shock that two or more cultures exist within the same person. Going to London for school and making friends here who have never tried Korean barbeque or Chinese spring rolls was a bit of a surprise to me. I simply assumed that everyone was aware of these things, or experienced to them, in some way. I guess being exposed to different cultures in my home environment as well as in the city I grew up in helped to integrate tradition and expand my cultural awareness.

Of course, when I travel and meet new people, I’m aware of my position and what they might think of me. Though I may have family connections in all parts of the world, people will still make assumptions and see what they want to see. Things like racist comments or catcalls will be something I’ll simply learn how to ignore. I’m getting used to drunk guys in bars hitting on me with a “Konnichi wa” even though that’s not my background or the language I speak, or in the street yelling out “hey, Ling-Ling, gimme your number!”
There will always be pros and cons about my heritage, just as the same as everyone else. I think people only act this way because they are not used to people like me; I’m different, and I don’t fit into any specific category or ethnic stereotype. I’m lucky that I grew up in such a welcoming community and diverse city; my childhood could have been worse, and my heritage might have caused issues in advancements or opportunity.
So. Mixed-as-a-drink.

That’s a pretty good URL, in my opinion; I’m giving myself a pat on the back for that one. It’s creative; it’s spunky. I think I deserved to refer to myself as something other than a bowl of soup, anyway. When I meet other kids my age who are also mixed race, I think it’s cool to see how we as a people can blur the lines between cultures and religion. Also, with cultural advancements in society and the acceptance of genders and race and religion, more and more things that are different, are recognized. They come together, and they’re celebrated. Like Asian-fusion restaurants – they got a little bit of everything.

Wow, I’ve got to get out of this kitchen.

Anyway. My point? I like to think that people like me are our own little mixed drinks, that we are leading our own little happy hour. I’ve got a dash of Chinese, a splash of Austrian, one shot of Filipino and one shot of Hungarian. Throw in some ice to make me cool and garnish with a lychee to make me sweet. You decide how you want your drink to be made.

And I have to say: I like mine shaken, not stirred.
Nicole Feutl is a fourth year student completing an Honors Specialization in Studio Art as well as a Certificate in Creative Writing.