Now, why don't I speak Chinese again?

I started work last Monday at a Chinese noodle bar. They were amused when they knew that I didn't speak Chinese. Embarrassing much. My protest that I spoke Hokkien was futile when they introduced me to a chef from Fujian. I had to quickly explain that Penang Hokkien is different from the Mainland variety. Bummer.

Then they asked me, which part of China was I from? I said I'm from Malaysia. They said, yeah, but which part of China did my family come from? I said I... didn't know.

They were shell-shocked. Didn't know? DIDN'T KNOW?

I said, yeah, it's been a while since my ancestors came from China... I don't think we have any records, but we guess it's Xiamen or somewhere near that vicinity.

They shook their heads slightly, I could tell they pitied me. Not knowing where your roots were in the great middle kingdom, I suppose, was like cutting your queue off. Oh wait, we already did that during the turn of the previous century. Anyhow, I gleaned that it was really important to know which part of China you were from.

In conclusion, I maintain that I'm not a banana. I speak Hokkien, which is a form of Chinese. AND I'm Malaysian. But if you want to call me a banana, I'm fine with it, although I don't particularly fancy the fruit. Too sweet.

And one day I'll save up enough money to get my DNA tested to find out which damn part of China I'm from, OK? Blame faulty records, don't blame me! Tch.