Kevin Wilson, lurking between some mysterious tree trunks at Vandusen Garden.
Kev and I have been friends for about six years now, and I can honestly say, I don’t think I’ve ever had a dull conversation with him. Our talks can range from toilet humour, spouting off goofy neologisms, to gingerly teasing out and analyzing anything from literature to race and identity. One could say that we’re sort of like intellectual kindred spirits. Like bacon and chocolate, we seem like an odd pair, but it just works (if you haven’t tried chocolate covered bacon, do it. Seriously.) Anyway, we hung out on Saturday and I told him all about the work I’ve been doing with Amy Perreault, and about what I’ve been learning regarding Canadian history and Aboriginal issues. I told him about all the questions I had in terms of how I relate to this country. I was born here, but on unceded territory, so was I born as a guest? Can I call it my homeland? If not, I surely couldn’t call Hong Kong or China my homeland. Plus, my paternal grandma (who I privately refer to as mi abuela) is a Cuban born Chinese while I apparently have Spanish roots on my mom’s side. While listening to my little identity crisis, Kev, who is of Musqueam and Irish descent, said, “Yah I have the exact same questions.” His comment gave me a lot of insight into the complexity of identity and this weird thing called race. Though I can’t conclusively verbalize the details of that insight yet, I will end this post with a point to contemplate:
What can I conclude from the fact that a Musqueam-Irish-Canadian male asks himself the exact same questions about identity and place that I as a Chinese-Canadian female asks?
How’s that for a conversation starter? ¡Chau por ahora, amigos!