I remember being at the playground and waiting my turn for the swing. A gaggle of little girls egging each other on to be brave. “You ask!” “No, you ask!” Eventually, one of them would pluck up the courage to come forward, starting off politely, perhaps to counteract the rude question that was to follow, “Excuse me? Can I ask you a question?”
I’d nod for them to go on.
“Are you a boy or a girl?”
I didn’t know how to answer them. I was confused about the answer myself.
You see, from a young age, my mum had decided to raise me like a boy. My mum migrated from countryside China to suburban Melbourne in 1981. At the time, she was only 21. She left behind most things, taking only her patriarchal mindset along to Australia.
My parents had six kids in seven successive years because my mother really wanted a baby boy. If my mother were to look into the to see her deepest desires reflected back at her, she would see herself surrounded by sons. Back in China, my mum learned that her value as a woman was predicated on her ability to conceive sons. In traditional Chinese culture, sons are seen as superior because they carry on the family name, while daughters eventually marry out of the family and devote themselves to serving their in-laws. Sons, on the other hand, stayed.
Despite being brought up to look like a boy, my mum still treated my brother differently to the rest of us girls
Being superstitious, my mum had a statue of Guan Yin Bodhisattva, the Fertility Goddess who bestowed sons, in the living room.
She got her wish for a boy on the fourth try.
I was born a year after my brother. The year she thought having conceived one son meant there could be more to come. But all she got was two more daughters — two more disappointments. She didn’t give up. After the birth of me and my little sister, she kept trying, falling pregnant — then miscarrying — three more times.
When she finally realised that another boy would never come, she decided to raise me like one. My mum dressed me in my brother’s hand-me-downs. Perhaps it gave her some comfort, after all the pregnancies and the pain she went through, to see me as a son. As a child, I was never allowed to grow my hair past my ears. There came a time when I yearned for long hair so I could be like all the other little girls. I would put my jumper on my head, lovingly stroking my make-believe hair, feeling like a Disney princess. I learned to grow anxious of my mum’s watchful eye scanning my hair length, knowing that the hair clippers would soon come out.
Despite being brought up to look like a boy, my mum still treated my brother differently to the rest of us girls. Looking back, I could complain about the fact that my brother’s childhood photos fill up most of the family photo albums, with me making the occasional cameo in the background. I could bemoan the injustice of mum’s miracle baby boy getting more money in his hong bao than us girls every Chinese New Year. Or I could undertake an analysis of how our Chinese names reflect my mum’s favouritism. My brother’s Chinese name “de bao” translates to “gain treasure”, whereas one of my sister’s Chinese name is “nu” (女) which means female – very creative, I know. But for years, I tried to keep the unfairness blurry, letting it all – being raised as a boy, being treated differently from my brother – stay out of focus.
The author (left) as a child. Source: Supplied
I became angry at my mum for saddling me with confusion and feelings of inadequacy as a little kid
In my early days at university, I struggled with feelings of inadequacy and found it hard to be comfortable in my own skin. I felt like whatever I did never measured up to my classmates. I remember writing in my diary, “I’m so average it aches.”
I was referred to a psychologist by a GP. Then one day, when I told him that I felt worthless all the time, he’d said matter-of-factly, “Well, is it any wonder? You weren’t born a boy so your mum never valued you.”
I had never made that connection before.
I’d never really unpacked my childhood up until then, but speaking to a psychologist made me realise how damaging my upbringing was. I became angry at my mum for saddling me with confusion and feelings of inadequacy as a little kid. I’d have fits of rage and shout the whole house down, asking my mum why: Why did you want boys so much that you raised me as one? Why couldn’t you just be happy that you had five healthy girls? Why did you have so many children when you can’t even look after them?
She had no answers.
These days, if you peeked into our home, you wouldn’t guess that my mum once yearned so deeply for boys that she brought me up as one. She’ll cook me with quinoa instead of rice because she saw on a health channel that it’s a super food. She’ll get my brother to text me, asking for my shoe size because she’s noticed that the soles of my ballet flats are flapping off. My mum treats us all equally now, loves us all the same. When I ask her why that is, she says simply: “Girl… boy… same difference.”
“Yí yang,” she repeats in Chinese, meaning “the same”, before changing the channel to If You Are The One.
I might never get the answer I yearned for about her change of heart. But for now, it seems she’s made peace with having five daughters.
Yenée Saw is a writer and a winner of the 2017 Premier's Multicultural Media Awards.
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 @candicechung_
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