May 2009 Archives

Being a hapa, I've always enjoyed playing that guessing game (you know the one): "Bet You Can't Guess My Ethnicity."

Chinese?
Thai?
Hawaiian?
Korean?

One by one, many people list off every Asian race under the sun, sometimes throwing in the wild cards of African, First Nations or even Icelandic for good measure. Most people ask, but some people assume, often by coming up to me and conversing with me in their native language. During one such encounter, a nice elderly man finally explained why I constantly get pegged for Korean. He said, "It's because you have a happy face and smile a lot, like a Korean." Who can get mad when someone puts it like that? Not me.

The curiosity has always been welcome, perhaps because I've never been a stranger to having a multi-layered sense of cultural identity. Born half-Japanese and half-Filipina, I moved with my mother to Canada at age 2 and was raised by a Slovakian stepfather in the tiny mining town of Port Hardy. I grew up around a surprisingly diverse group of friends whose parents were all attracted by what was once a booming industrial economy of mining, fishing and logging. Being a tomboy, much of my playground was the wilderness of First Nations reserve land where beavers, maple leaves and deer weren't just images on currency.

Like many people, my sense of being different than others started to develop when I started elementary school, not through the typical schoolyard bully scenario but through the school system itself. In grade one, I remember being pulled aside with all the ethnic kids (Canadian-born and immigrant alike) and told that we were to take part in a special English class designed for kids from different countries. Had they taken the time to find out, they would have realized that the only words I knew in Tagalog, the official language of the Philippines, were the kind that people shouldn't say in polite company. Despite the fact that English was the only language I'd ever really known, I found myself excused each week from regular class to work with a special aide worker on English and other group learning activities. Though the intent was seemingly innocent, this attempt to further integrate me into Canadian culture ironically prompted me to become one of the most widely joked about Asian stereotypes in human history: spelling bee champion! Yes, it's hard to admit, it's true.

Growing up in a small town had its advantages, however, mainly because, like the theme song from the 80s TV series Cheers, "everybody knows your name." Because there were so few of us, it was difficult to get pooled into a generalized "Asian" group. Instead, I found that I stood out for my individual unique attributes and history.

The thing about being hapa, however, is that your whole life becomes an exercise in negotiating this fine balance between your different cultural identities. Oftentimes I've found that it is your commonalities, rather than your differences, that become invisible in the grand scheme of things, particularly amongst people of your own race. Having sought out my own roots in Japan, there's nothing that compares to feeling like a complete stranger when you're with people of your own ethnicity. Or when the person who's asking, "No, where are you really from?" is a member of your same community. The opposite reaction, however, can be instantaneous: sometimes, it's a flicker of recognition in someone's eye when you shift from being a foreigner to someone who shares a common ethnic identity. This sense of connection--of being grounded in your origins and sharing that with others--is a powerful experience unlimited by borders or nationality.

For the same reason that Canadians put a flag on their backpacks when travelling abroad, we all look for signs that identify others who share the same cultural identity. We all want to feel we belong to something as a whole, whether it's an interest, ethnic background or professional community. Hockey fans wear team jerseys so they can cheer when they meet each other on the street; gang members get tattoos to be initiated; engineers wear iron rings; Sikhs proudly wear turbans as a symbol of their religious fidelity. Though not always visible, our connections and bonds to a broader community and cultural heritage have always been the building blocks upon which we create our sense of identity.

The more time I've spent learning about my culture, in all its forms, the more I see crossroads and similarities to other people and their cultural experiences. I can laugh about suffering through the dynamics of a big family with my Spanish and Turkish friends; I can appreciate the similarities of Filipino food to Malaysian and Chinese; I can understand the words being yelled in my favourite izakaya restaurant; I can tell you about much-loved Slovakian bedtime stories or where to find the smoothest beer. At the root of it all, I've come to understand that our sense of cultural identity is not static or innate. It is personal, contextual and realized, a multi-layered tapestry that we redefine and evolve through experience and relationships. When people ask me where I'm really from, I never hesitate in giving them the full story. After all, the answer is something I've spent my whole life cultivating and knowing.

Upcoming Exhibit
Velo-City: Vancouver & the Bicycle Revolution
June 4 to September 7, 2009
Vancouver's human-powered revolution that's changing the way people experience and relate to the city, their neighborhoods, and to their own bodies.

Share a photo of you and your bike at velocityvancouver.ca

Opening Party - Wednesday, June 3rd, 8 to 11pm
Tickets $15 in advance at Guest Services 604.736.4431

In tight economic times, saving money is a priority. With that in mind, Schema Magazine's regular column, Books to Borrow, is a guide to recent releases and some accidental finds to borrow (or avoid) from your local public library.

In this release:
Soucouyant, by David Chariandy
Eating Stories: A Chinese and Aboriginal Potluck, Edited by Brandy Liên Worrall.
The Joy of Getting Along with the Chinese, by Fred Schneiter

Soucouyant
David Chariandy | Arsenal Pulp Press, c2007. | ISBN: 9781551522265 | Text by Shaena Kobayashi

"During our lives, we struggle to forget... And forgetting can sometimes be the most creative and life-sustaining thing that we could ever accomplish."

Soucouyant, David Chariandy's dynamically lyrical and poetic first novel, addresses the universal human desire of escaping our personal histories while still tightly holding on to those selected memories that we believe are beautiful.

Set in a rickety house in a "good neighbourhood" near the Scarborough Bluffs, the story follows a son's return to his mother, Adele, who is suffering from dementia. She believes that a soucouyant--a malevolent, female spirit that peppers Caribbean folklore--possessed her as a child and is triggering the resurfacing of traumatic and long-forgotten memories. Fittingly, the story drifts from the present to the past; Adele's son once again takes on the role of caregiver while bearing the responsibility of remembering his family's past, including the details of his mother's difficult childhood in Trinidad during World War II and her journey to 1960s Canada, a country that was still unsure how to deal with the new reality of multicultural immigration.

The memories--witty, haunting and sometimes heartbreaking--Chariandy imbeds throughout this story are vivid and painted with passion and vibrancy. The novel touches on themes that are deeply moving: the fleeting nature of memory itself and our complex understanding of mortality.

Eating Stories: A Chinese and Aboriginal Potluck
Editor, Brandy Liên Worrall | Chinese Canadian Historical Society of British Columbia, c2007 | Text by Shaena Kobayashi

Whether we're taking out or eating in, there is one universal truth that can't be denied: we all love food.

The Chinese Canadian Historical Society has produced an anthology featuring twenty-three Chinese Canadian and Aboriginal writers called, Eating Stories: A Chinese and Aboriginal Potluck. This collection focuses on food and family and appeals to all the senses with its witty anecdotes and over 170 photos (after all, no book of food is complete without pictures) and 37 recipes. This brilliant collection of food writing and memory is an informal perspective on Canadian history and highlights each writer's ability to relate the hidden stories in our everyday dining. Eating Stories provides not only a glimpse, but admission to a lively and tasty meal.

The Joy of Getting Along with the Chinese
By Fred Schneiter | Heian International, Inc. c1994 | Text by Jason H.Y. Lee

At the risk of betraying just how green I am to writing media reviews, I must openly admit that I committed the cardinal sin of literary criticism: I judged this book by its cover.

But honestly, with a name like The Joy of Getting Along With the Chinese, how could one not? The title pigeonholes an entire history, culture, identity, and people into a single concept of "Chinese," and fits this concept into a paradigm typically reserved for topics like yoga or floral arrangement. As well, my first impression was not made any rosier when seeing the table of contents sport such tag lines as "Seeing the World through Almond Eyes," "Mr. Wong is Rarely Wrong: The Care and Feeding of Guests," and "How to Read Chopsticks; Chinese Do ... So Should You."

And come on, the first illustration you see in this book is a devilish caricature of a slant-eyed warrior from some bygone dynasty manhandling a foreigner. Not to mention the ubiquitous "Chinese" fortune cookie on the cover. Without hesitation, I was ready to ironically laud this book as a textbook example of how the typical Eurocentric writer projects the "other" as one monolithic and mystifying people. Well, leave it to Fred Schneiter to make me feel like a presumptuous ass before I even make it past his prologue.

Schneiter hits the nail squarely on the head when he declares, "Have you noticed how all books about China seem to tilt either toward the theme of The Wonderful Chinese or The Wily Chinese?" It is precisely this non-threatening and culturally sensitive incisiveness that makes Schneiter an unexpected breath of fresh air. He is wise to limit the scope of his book to being simply "some small contribution toward the realization of our largely untapped mutualities." By doing so, he buries the stereotype I envisioned of the North American backpacker who is granted license to pontificate on "the Orient" after one extended visit. As a final word, I suggest that one reads this book not as a Rough Guide to China, but rather as a general interest book that offers contemporary generalizations about the Chinese, in contrast to outdated ones, that always presents an air of self-aware humour to the nuances and idiosyncrasies of both Chinese and North American culture.

+ Email books[at]schemamag.ca with your suggestions or reviews of "ethnic cool" books in your local library.

"When considering the straight male poets who have held sway in Canada for the last sixty years and while acknowledging the growing diversity of their aesthetics, it is striking how much of a boy's club Canadian poetry has remained (just ask the girls.) Their articulations of self recall the goings-on of a club or a locker room, a locker room from which, ironically if typically, many straight male poets have also felt excluded. Even in today's climate, which is nuanced by multiple perspectives and subject positions, it feels inevitable that a Gen-X frat pack will assert itself, assume the mantle of their elders, and attempt to hold sway." (Seminal, 17)

Seminal: The Anthology of Canada's Gay Male Poets boldly articulates a proudly queer corner of that testosterone-riddled locker room, or perhaps a new and improved locker room altogether.

As John Barton notes in his introduction, he and co-editor Billeh Nickerson have compiled this collection out of necessity: it's the first gay male Canadian poetry anthology edited by gay male Canadian poets. The poets in Seminal are a vital part of Canadian culture and ought to be celebrated as such. In this the editors are proudly partisan, while acknowledging that their work may invite dissension (most anthologies do; whoever is not included is by definition excluded). One suspects Barton and Nickerson would welcome any disagreements towards their editorial choices as a necessary contribution towards the discourse on gay male Canadian poetry.

The anthology includes poets born from 1878 to 1981 and is arranged in this order; each poem's publication date is also listed. This chronological arrangement forms a necessary part of the argument Seminal puts forth: reading the selections from beginning to end, one starts with opacity and ellipsis. For example, a blazon is written on marble rather than human flesh in Frank Oliver Call's "To a Greek Statue." (Blazon is a literary term used for a poetic catalogue of a woman's, or in this case, man's admirable physical features.) Many of these early poems are vague and airy, as if any attempts at concrete language are too great a risk to take. As the years and pages progress, the poems give forth a more open eroticism, but also a more open grief, as in Robin Blaser's "In Remembrance of Matthew Shepard," or in direct references to the 80s horrors of AIDS and death. The poems also start to diversify; form and subject are varied just as any other poetry written from the 1950s forward.

There are many bodies here: "gym sculpted bodies," "long dicks" and anonymous, "beautiful sex" to be had. There are lengthy lyrical tributes to devoted boyfriends. There are odes to Hockey Night in Canada and erotic fantasies featuring Wayne Gretzky, there are (no) farts in Winnipeg and "14 Reasons Not to Eat Potato Chips on Church Street" (a fast track to hepatitis–who knew). By ordering the poems chronologically, one can literally track the process and progress of the gay male poet in Canada. All these voices in concert begin to approach a state of grace, as in (gay, male, American) poet Frank O'Hara's poem: "Grace to be born and live as variously as possible."

Postscript: I wrote this review in Spring 2008, well in advance of Robin Blaser's recent passing, on May 7, 2009 in Vancouver. I'd like to dedicate the last lines by O'Hara to Blaser, a fitting tribute to his life and work, and suggest readers also check out poet rob maclennan's elegy/tribute The incomparable Robin Blaser in Xtra West.

Please also see Blaser's Lunch Poems reading at University of California at Berkeley, from November 2008.

Coming in June!
In the coming fashion-commentary, Schema plays with Vancouver's fashionista love-hate relationship with the great outdoors.

Coming in June!
Schema Magazine hits the streets of Vancouver for some grassroots perspective on the But Where Are You Really From? experience.

A seemingly innocent question, one that many people would never even imagine to contain layers of subtext or carry with it a history of exclusion and authenticity. "But where are you really from?" rarely appears in a conversation all by itself. It's the sum in a complicated equation that reaches deep into personal identity, diversity and belonging.

Many of us know that feeling, that combination of anger, resentment, hesitation and confusion that bubbles up from your gut whenever someone asks you the question, "Where are you from?" Yes, it's a simple question, and, yes, you know that the answer can be simple as well, but that's not the problem. Before you even open your mouth to respond, a very familiar thought runs circles inside your head, "No matter what I say, this person will not understand."

Canada is a great country. I love living here. I love that I was born and educated here. I'm attached to cold winters and ice hockey and the very particular delights of poutine and the polar bear swim (not that I've ever participated in the polar bear swim, but I appreciate the urge that propels half-naked people to run screaming into frigid bodies of water on New Year's Day, the urge, that is, to flout the cold and thumb my nose at my fellow Canadians who run away to Arizona every holiday season to play golf in short pants). I love that we're a country built on immigration, a country where indigenous peoples and newcomers have the opportunity to live together and constantly renew the pains and processes of diversity, which is the very thing that marks us as uniquely Canadian and which pushes us to learn and re-learn what it means to be part of this human community.

But there is a problem. Those of us who live here understand and accept the diversity of what Canada means, and when we venture forth into the rest of the world, we tend to forget that not everyone else grasps the diversity concept in the same way. I, of course, am Chinese Canadian. When I am in other countries, I tell people I meet that I'm from Canada. The inevitable response is (and let's all say it together now), "But where are you really from?"

There's something that happens when your national identity is constantly being questioned, when the person you're talking to doesn't believe your identity as you've told it to him or her. Your Canadian-ness seems not quite real, as if your citizenship or residency is somehow not as valid as someone else's.

You begin qualifying who you are, saying things like, "I'm Canadian, but my parents are from Trinidad, but I was born in Canada, you know, in Toronto, at the hospital on Queen Street," as if by providing more evidence of your right to say you're Canadian will somehow justify your nationality. Sometimes, you just grow angry and the rage inspires you to puff out your chest and say, "I really am from Canada. Do you have a problem with that, senõr? Because I'll give you a problem."

During moments of rage and feelings of unjustified inadequacy, remember this: you know what you really are. You are intimate with all the shifting and myriad components that make up your life, your communities and your identity. Defining yourself unapologetically and honestly is the only thing that will help others finally understand. Now that I've said all this, let me tell you one thing more: there are six other stories here to explore, each with a different perspective, all valid, all sincere, all valuable contributions to this discussion. Read them, because you should.

When I got off the plane in Kuala Lumpur, I had a vague idea of what to expect: Muslims, no booze and tasty food. Indeed I found those, but I discovered that Malaysia is obviously a lot more complex than these three basic assumptions. Malaysia turned out to be a fascinating country whose multiculturalism pervades every aspect of daily life--not unlike Canada, I guess.

Such was my introduction to the Southeast Asian subcontinent, which I set out to explore over five months, from August to December 2007. Malaysia exceeded my cultural expectations and this set the tone for the rest of my journey. From there, I travelled to Singapore, Indonesia, Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia, and the Philippines.

One aspect of my trip that distinguishes it from the majority of English-language travelogues you'll read is simply this: I am not a white guy. I'm Filipino-Canadian and although my cultural heritage and visible-minority-turned-majority status in the region is largely insignificant, I consider certain experiences I had along the way as decidedly unconventional. Gridlock in Jakarta. Riding in a bajaj.

Take, for example, my visit to Kuala Lumpur, where I spent six weeks at my brother's home. He lives in an upper-middle class condo complex near the Bangsar city district, not far from downtown KL. The complex, called "Pantai Hillpark," mimics the design of Andalusian Spanish villas, with whitewashed walls and terra cotta shingles. Its swimming pools are surrounded by palm trees and tropical plants, which are attended to daily by diligent, dark-skinned Tamils. There are manned security gates at every parking lot entrance.

One afternoon, my brother and I were walking to the cafeteria located in the centre of Pantai Hillpark. To get there, we had to cross two security gates. It was extremely hot and humid, a veritable sauna of 30 degrees Celsius and 95 per cent humidity. I left my button-up short-sleeve shirt undone. As we walked past the second security gate, a large, stout Malay man in baggy Muslim clothes came running toward me. He was yelling something to me in Malay. My brother and I were startled and intimidated. The look on my face must have told him I didn't understand what he was saying because he quickly shifted to English and said angrily, "This!" He pointed to my open shirt. "This cannot happen here!"
Boat to the Gili Islands, Indonesia

I apologized and clumsily tried to button up my shirt. I felt like a kid getting in shit from the teacher. The man then asked if we were residents of the complex, to which my brother replied yes. He proceeded to interrogate my brother, amazed that we were unfamiliar with the local vestiary customs.

"Fucking asshole," my brother said. "Don't worry about it, Al. He's probably a part of the 'religious police.' They have that here, you know."

Would he have confronted me if I were European-looking? It seems odd to ask myself that, but then again, does it really? This country was colonized by the British; the British used to run everything here. They made the rules. So, after all this, I had to wonder: would he have made a big deal about my shirt if I were white?

I figured he confronted me because he thought I was Malay. I sort of look Malay. Filipino ethnic history dictates that I'm part Malay, by origin. Perhaps the alleged religious policeman made an honest mistake in trying to keep his fellow bumiputra in line. But I could be wrong.

Anecdotes like these coloured my trip across Southeast Asia. Sometimes I felt the locals treated me differently because I look like them, or because I seem familiar with their customs and culture. I do and I am. Therefore, my being Southeast Asian gave me a different vantage point as a backpacker.

My next stop was Singapore, the tiny island city-state connected by bridge to peninsular Malaysia. Singapore features the same primary ethnic groups as Malaysia--Malay, Chinese and Indian (mostly Tamil)--but with a greater proportion of Chinese and white expat businesspeople. My first impression was a common one: this is a developed country, unlike its poorer neighbours. I found Singapore similar to Toronto--business minded, English speaking and multicultural. My unique perspective would have to wait.
Scooter riding in Bali, Indonesia
I then spent the month of October in Indonesia, where I turned out to be somewhat of a racial chameleon. People had difficulty deciding where I was from. My attire is "American," my eyes "Chinese," my height (I'm 6-foot-1) is atypical of a native Southeast Asian. I'm often asked if I'm half-Asian.

Bali, with its world-famous surf, gave me two disguises. The Australians and New Zealanders there assumed I was Maori and more than once I was greeted as follows.

"How are ya, mate? You Kiwi?"

"Actually no, I'm Filipino-Canadian."

"Oh, I thought you were Maori. You look Maori."

Meanwhile, because there were so many Japanese surfers there, the local Balinese often mistook me for one. "Konichiwa!" they would say to me earnestly.

I toured Thailand for most of November and I seemed to blend in with the Thai. People on the street would immediately start talking to me in Thai. I assumed they were asking me something benign, like what time it was.

I realized something: Because I'm Filipino, everything I saw and did on this trip was relative to my knowledge of the Philippines. Upon my visit to the island of Ko Yao Noi, riding on a rented scooter, and all I could think was, "The Thai landscape is more like the Philippines' than Indonesia's is."

From Thailand, I ventured into Laos. I met a couple from Victoria at the border, Chris and Tina, who are also in their mid-20s. They seemed cool so I agreed to go sightseeing with them in nearby Vientiane for the day. We rented rickety bikes for the equivalent of $2.00 CDN and rode around town, taking pictures of literally everything in sight. It was a great day and at the end of it, when I was too broke to afford a beer and a bowl of phở, Chris paid for both. He's a really nice guy.

Then we spotted a big tin pot full of steaming eggs. The shells were greyish, not white, which made it pretty clear they weren't chicken eggs. "What are those?" asked Chris.

"Those are duck embryos, dude," I explained. "We eat those in the Philippines too. We call them balut."

"No way," he replied. "I think I've seen them on Fear Factor before. If I buy one, will you eat it?"
Duck embroyo (balut) in Vientiane, Laos
Of course I ate it. I've eaten these as far back as I can remember; I have clear memories of my grandmother teaching me how to eat them. I asked the vendor for some salt, but she didn't speak English, so I made a sprinkling motion with my fingers.

She nodded, went away and came back with a little dish of fish sauce with chopped chillies in it and a tiny spoon. This would have to do. I peeled off the top part of the shell and spooned some of the mixture into the egg.

"See? There. You can see the embryo," I said. Inside was the beige little duckling, curled up against the shell.

"Whoa, there's its eye... and its beak!" Chris exclaimed as he took pictures with his cumbersome digital SLR.

"That's disgusting. I don't even want to look," said Tina, of the duckling. She looked though.

First, I sipped the broth inside the egg. "That's the best part," I said, just as my grandmother always said to me. Chris and Tina were speechless. I peeled back the rest of the shell and sucked the foetus into my mouth. As I chewed it, the bones made a soft popping sound in my mouth, rather than crunching--more like cartilage than bones. Two other parts remained: the yolk and the white. The yolk is soft and delicious, just like that of a hard-boiled chicken egg, except it's covered in brownish veins. The white, which is hard and rubbery, is basically inedible. To Chris and Tina, however, the entire thing remains inedible.
Deep-fried tarantula in Phnomh Penh, Cambodia
This experience allowed me to look at balut from three angles: 1) from the eyes of a white Canadian: "That is bizarre," 2) from the eyes of a local Southeast Asian: "To me, this isn't bizarre at all. It's delicious!" and 3) from my own, Filipino-Canadian eyes: "I know you guys think this is bizarre, but isn't it cool how I can make it seem normal?"

My being Canadian, just like them, buffered the process for them. I'm not new to this. My family and I have been doing this to my white friends for years. Roast pig's head on the kitchen table? They've seen it. The smell of fried fish on my clothes? They've smelled it.

Bridging cultural gaps comes natural to me. Perhaps that's why my dad always called my brother and me "coconuts," as in brown on the outside, white on the inside. Indeed, I'm a bit of both. Maybe a blend of white and brown, say a "butterscotch pudding," is a more accurate metaphor.Boat trip in Halong Bay, Vietnam

After Laos came Vietnam. I spent a couple of weeks travelling from Hanoi to Saigon. A few older ladies offered me their daughters to bring back to Canada. I'm sure white guys get the same bridal offers. But one such lady in Hoi An called me "very handsome" and thought I was half-Vietnamese, so there you go.

I was the only foreigner on the bus to Hoi An. The porters kept pestering a pretty Vietnamese girl across the aisle, jokingly insisting that she come and sit with me. She would giggle coyly and politely decline. I, too, feigned laughter.

It was a 15-and-a-half-hour bus ride from Hanoi to Hoi An--the most uncomfortable bus trip I've ever taken. Forget any notion of personal space. The gentleman beside me had a friendly smile but kept propping his feet on the seat in front of him, nodding off on my shoulder. They would overfill the bus to the point where people stood and sat in the aisle amongst random cargo: boxes, tin suitcases and massive rice bags. One passenger leaned against my seatback as I futilely tried to sleep. Thankfully the driver burned incense intermittently because the bus stunk of too much recycled breath, sweat and foot odour.

Since it was cool outside, the windows were fogged up and dripping. I was trapped in a steaming hulk of humanity. Furthermore, the seats--made completely of slick white vinyl--made my ass, back and crotch sweat. It was disgusting. But hey, the ticket only cost me 215,000 dong ($13.47 CDN).
Gridlock in Phnomh Penh, riding in a "tuk-tuk"
My ability to blend in with the other passengers of the bus, let alone tolerate the discomforts onboard, is both visible and unseen. You can see it because I'm Asian, but it's invisible because I've done this sort of thing before.

I've ridden on buses and jeepneys in the Philippines, packed with chickens, goats and enormous bags of rice. My tolerance to these things is learned, but also innate.

In Cambodia, while sightseeing at Angkor Wat, a little girl selling souvenirs had a crush on me. My friends figured it was because, unlike most other tourists, I looked like her. She even drew pictures of me while I ate lunch. I didn't buy any of her souvenirs; I bought one of her sketches.

The Angkor Wat child vendors are notoriously relentless. They're sharp kids too, scripted in English:

"Hello sah... Where you from? ... Canada? ... Capital city: Ottawa... You speak two languages in Canada: French and English... Population: 32 million... Now you buy okayyyyy? ... Buy from me and I give you peace and quiet, okayyyyy?"

After Cambodia, I went to the Philippines to spend Christmas with family. It wasn't until I was leaving Manila--en route to Japan to visit my girlfriend, who teaches English there--did my unique perspective kick in.

I hate paying airport fees, as does everybody. As I waited in line to pay the dreaded fee, an American white guy and his Filipina wife stood in front of me with their two mestizo kids.

"Mestizo" is a Spanish term for "mixed race." Interestingly, the colonial significance of the term varies with locale. In Spain, mestizos are traditionally considered low class, mutts or half-breeds. In colonies like Mexico, Cuba or the Philippines, however, mestizos are the opposite: high class, fair-skinned and the image of beauty. Models in Filipino advertisements, for example, are almost exclusively mestizo.

Anyway, when it came time for him to pay their airport fees, I noticed the sign on the booth: "Airport Fee: 750 pesos or $18 US."

"I'd like to pay with U.S. dollars, please," said the American guy, as he handed the cashier four $20 bills.

"I'm sorry sir, but we do not have change," said the cashier.

I cringed. Here it comes, I thought.

"What? You don't have change?! How can you not have change if you're asking people to pay 18 dollars?! Obviously you must have change if some people pay exactly 18 dollars!"

The cashier shook her head apologetically.

The Filipina wife pulled her husband aside, to calm him down. "This is bullshit. Fucking third-world country," he grumbled.
Long-tail boat tour in Koh Yao Noi, Thailand
I had to agree with him. It was bullshit. The Filipino inside me was ashamed. The Canadian inside me knew the score. Once again my racial ambiguity, my cultural familiarity versus unfamiliarity, was playing tricks on me.

Images of Spanish conquistadors, Jose Rizal, American war generals, my immigrant grandmother and my white Canadian girlfriend flashed through my mind.

Good thing I had enough pesos left.

Allan Pulga is a freelance journalist from Regina, Saskatchewan. A graduate of the University of Regina School of Journalism, he has worked as a reporter in Saskatchewan, Ontario, Quebec and Senegal. He loves to travel and will eat anything.

At the 2007 Vancouver International Film Festival, Up The Yantze, directed by 30-year-old Montreal filmmaker, Yung Chang, won the NFB's Best Canadian Documentary Award. This is a visually stunning film about the building of China's Three Gorges Dam, its effects on the two million people who live along the river, and the cost of its development, namely the disappearance of riverside cities, towns and villages.

Chang has given us a work of art that must be appreciated at several levels. From its opening shot, it is clear that this film is breathtaking in its visual beauty. Soon, we are also moved by Chang's social conscience.

Following the world premiere of Up The Yangtze, I had the opportunity to visit with Chang and learned that not only is he one of the finest filmmakers to grace the Canadian landscape, he is also, without doubt, a charming young man who speaks with passion about China, the home of his parents.

For Chang, there is an inescapable reality to the Chinese landscape; it is full of a kind of terrible beauty that reflects the scars of its tumultuous history.

Up The Yangtze unpacks Chang's own personal journey to a place that connects him to his past, and also to the people of the present living along the river. The film becomes, for him, a gateway to a collaborative process that results in the telling of other people's stories. As he says, he is "only along for the ride." He explained to me that the story of the Three Gorges Dam "unfolds and becomes something much deeper" than he could ever have imagined, to the extent that he becomes a participant in the "collaborative process of humanism itself."

When one fully grasps the cinematic connection formed by the river to the people who live alongside it, we begin to feel, in a palpable way, the pain of China's headlong rush into the world economy. In the end, human life is a commodity easily traded away for an imagined, prosperous future. The river, says Chang, is "the grand metaphor of life." But also, in very real terms, the river is also a passage to hell, where the livelihood of an entire community is sacrificed for the irrevocable march of economic progress. As one peasant states so simply and so ironically, "China must be very powerful, it can stop the river."

And yet, for Chang, there is joy to be found in the process of storytelling. The story of the river, while shaped by economic development, allows Chang to explore new modes of human relationships. Up the Yangtze connects Chang the filmmaker with Yu Shui, one of the film's subjects. Yu Shui works on a cruise ship carrying western tourists who, gazing mindlessly at the passing landscape, are "removed but sometimes concerned but not that concerned, enough to take a picture or enough to stay within the boundaries of their comfort [but certainly not enough] to get off that and to explore deeper," explains Chang. It is these same tourists who watch the river, like some great dragon, devour Yu Shui's family home while she, out of necessity, works as a servant of the cruise ship and, by extension, the river itself. Her family, like many in their community, cannot afford to educate her.

As one delves deeper into Chang's experience as a filmmaker it becomes quickly evident that he holds an intense passion to "explore deeper."

Spurred on by his mentor and executive producer Daniel Cross, Chang was motivated to take seriously what has become a model of social responsibility. We learn from Chang that Cross, after producing S.P.I.T., a film about a squeegee kid, employed Eric "Roach" Denis, the main character, who eventually went on to make his own award winning film. Chang took to heart "Daniel's influence and ... inspiration. We have all learned," says Chang, "a responsibility towards the subjects. It was repeated to me while I was making [Up The Yangtze] that I had affected their fate, especially Yu Shui's fate. It's important to follow that through and not leave them dangling. I think there's a shared exchange. I owe her, she doesn't owe me anything, but I owe her. That's why ... we're really bound to the subject." And how did Chang manifest this sense of obligation? "Our production company ... decided to help her pay for [her education]. We owed her at the very least that much."

So often the power of film and literature is not in what is said or in the obvious, but in what is hidden from view. For Chang "that's the purpose of art ... filmmaking, music, or literature ... the point of it is that we do look for those hidden meanings. Everybody looks for the subtext in something, or as creative people we look for the subtext in something. As human beings we are always searching for that kind of deeper meaning underneath the superficial layer. I think it's very easy to provide images, no matter how mundane and banal, and somehow one is able to find an interpretation of that. In this film, if you take out my story and follow the story of [Yu Shui, as she] change[s] on the cruise ship, it is a very linear story, but it's the role of the artist, or the role of the audience to discover those deeper meanings. That's the power of cinema; you don't always have to explain everything. It's not journalism."

Chang, through the art of storytelling, tells a greater story, one in which he encourages us to see the landscape as a canvas on which people live in tandem with a nature scarred by government and bureaucracy. On one level this scarring reveals a deep layer of social, political and economic wounding. But on a deeper level, the scar reveals a strange beauty, sometimes too powerful for words, a beauty that inspires exhilarating joy but is the result of the most profound sorrow and the uprooting of entire communities. To participate in that story as viewers we must be cognizant of that desperate duality.

Richard Toews interviewed Yung Chang at the 2007 Vancouver International Film Festival. Chang is currently busy working on new projects. One with the Canadian Film Centre and the National Film Board of Canada about the fruit underworld (based on the book The Fruit Hunters), and he is also writing his first feature, a film about Chinese wedding photographers. Up The Yangtze is available on DVD in English with Chinese subtitles.