Growing up, I carried around what I struggled with most in my backpack. There were the steamed buns in my lunchbox I was mocked for bringing instead of peanut butter sandwiches. Each morning, I’d sling the aberrant lunch over my shoulder, and walk past kids who would parody the way my mum shouted in Chinese across the school car park.
Later, I’d go home to unzip my backpack and find handwritten notes saying homosexuality was a sin. I’d scrunch them up as I pulled out my diary, adding to the list of kids who didn’t want to be friends anymore after they found out I was gay.
As I grew older I learnt to work through the emotional baggage. The more time I spent with my mum –learning about the food we’d cook for Chinese New Year, the philosophies of Taoism and absorbing our culture— and the more I read about other people coming out, the easier it was to accept that what used to weigh me down were things that I didn’t need to change.
But despite being proud of who I am in everyday life, a part of me still carries shame. Once a year I return to the tropical heat of Malaysia and before the sweat has a chance to drip down my face, I brace myself as my aunties and uncles ask why I don’t have a boyfriend. Fixated on the idea that I won’t be complete until I find a husband who will take care of me, their unshakeable faith that I will one day marry a man makes me feel as though I have to hide who I am.
I feel guilt that I don’t tell them about my girlfriend in Australia— someone I am extremely proud of. But knowing the cultural factors that shape their attitude, and the fact that homosexuality remains outlawed in Malaysia, it feels much easier to dismiss conversations around my sexuality than push back and risk destroying relationships.
My family in Malaysia place a great amount of emphasis on marriage and family values. All my cousins have married in order of age (younger siblings can’t marry before older ones); most live three generations under one roof and all the gender roles are clear-cut — my aunties and female cousins cook and clean, while my uncles make all the big decisions in the family.
Carolyn (in the orange on the left) with her cousins - all of whom live in Malaysia. Source: Supplied
Back in Australia, as I lie in bed next to my girlfriend, I’ll often come across photos and Instagram stories of my family in Malaysia. I’m excited to show her what everyone is up to, or how much the kids have grown—but as I do, my heart sinks knowing that it may be the closest she’ll ever get to meeting them. My girlfriend takes so graciously the fact that I keep her a secret, and understands that it’s not out of malice nor does it diminish the love I have for her. But regardless of her support, it’s still something I have a hard time navigating.
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These posts never get acknowledged. Unlike the photos of my cooking or the cute animal videos that I share, they remain un-liked and overlooked by my family.
The middle ground is on social media where my sexuality is an open secret. I rarely think twice about posting photos of my girlfriend or sharing articles I’ve written on queer identity, despite knowing that most of my family is on Facebook. Ironically, the internet allows the kind of distance that lets me more comfortably share who I am. The only awkwardness comes from the fact that these posts never get acknowledged. Unlike the photos of my cooking or the cute animal videos that I share, they remain un-liked and overlooked by my family, much like my sexuality.
Over the years my sister has bought her boyfriend back to Malaysia. He was quickly embraced into the family, as he managed to win over everyone with his attempt to speak Chinese. My cousins were excited to take time off work and show him around, while the kids laughed at the novelty of his blonde hair. Seeing the look of delight on his face as he got to know my family filled me with joy. But it was a bittersweet reminder that my girlfriend won’t have the chance to experience the same thing.
Carolyn (wearing the pink dress and headband) at a family gathering for her sister's birthday in Malaysia. Source: Supplied
She will never have the opportunity to try my auntie’s delicious congee, or have my uncle read her fortune.
She will never have the opportunity to try my auntie’s delicious congee, or have my uncle read her fortune. She will never bear witness to the commotion caused by my family fighting over who’s paying for dinner, or see how bright my cousin’s kids are —each fluent in at least three languages. I will never get to take her to the local markets with my mum as she tries to barter for cheap deals and we won’t ever stay together in the house at my uncle’s coconut plantation.
I often think about the future and having kids of my own. I wonder if my children will be accepted by my family in Malaysia or if they too will miss out on meeting them. I wonder if they will be treated differently because they have two mums or if it will be something that we never speak about like my sexuality.
The love and loyalty I have for both my family and girlfriend run deep. Despite the chance that the two worlds may never collide, I still hold onto a glimmer of hope — that one day I will be able to share my life in Malaysia with my girlfriend, and that my family will get to see that I’m proud of who I truly am — no matter which part of the world I’m in.
This article was edited by Candice Chung, and is part of a series by SBS Life supporting the work of emerging young Asian-Australian writers. Want to be involved? Get in touch with Candice on Twitter
