Word Count: 588
Hey guys, it'd be really awesome if you can give me some feed back. I feel like this essay is missing something and the grammar is probably atrocious, so I thank anyone who is willing to read this :). Is it too cheesy, cliche, or too...well, racist? Thank you again!
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"Pakistani?" my aunt blurts. Her face twitches, and she tries to hide the contempt in her voice. "You're mentoring Pakistani children?"
I nod; she shakes her head, and within seconds, we're left speechless with each other. The background fades away, and this conversation becomes another staple memory of my Hong Kong stay.
At sixteen, it has been nearly a decade since I've stepped foot on this bustling metropolis my parents call home. Previously a British colony, a simple walk down the street opened up a poignant seascape of colourful skyscrapers, traditional cafes, and cultural artefacts untouched by China's Cultural Revolution and Communist rule. Governmental candidates wrestle for votes with their plans of reform on the street, demonstrations are protected by the Freedom of Speech, and compulsory education is free. Unfortunately, behind this blanket of wealth and civility developed an outlook of cultural superiority over the minorities who sought for a better life in this city. On the public bus, passengers dramatically avoided the seat next to the Sikh man; turning on the television, a young Filipina is portrayed as a maid with an expired passport; an Indonesian nanny is publicly criticized for speaking in her own language. Back at the centre where I volunteer, I meet Amina-renamed Lucy by her teachers; a recent immigrant from Pakistan. She's six years old, barely fluent in Cantonese, and already familiar with the racial slurs acquainted with being Pakistani. Children whisper about her as she passes by; teachers ignore her waving hand in class, and she makes no attempt to fight back.
Having grown in up in a Canadian suburb where I have always been a visible minority, no words can truly describe the guilt and anger I felt witnessing my own kind discriminate against other minorities as a majority. Moreover, what saddened me the most were the many excuses they gave to justify their actions whenever I confronted them about their behaviour. Despite overcoming my own cultural differences in my suburban town, I can vividly recall the differential treatment I received from my teachers in elementary school for being the only one unable to speak English. Amongst my predominately white classmates, I was branded as 'not truly Canadian' until middle school because of my background. By high school, I have forgotten half of my Cantonese, published writing in a bestselling book series, won recognition in a national writing contest; only to be questioned by a particularly obnoxious classmate whether I was an illegal immigrant.
Lying beside my bed is a picture of my seven year old self; the background is my second grade classroom. If I look hard enough at the picture, I can still see myself ten years back, mute and deaf-ashamed. Prior to volunteering, I had always looked back on those memories with a bitter disgust. It was during my time in Hong Kong that I came to realize it was those unpleasant experiences that allowed me to help and understand those going through the same setbacks. Racism, undeniably, exists in some shape or form everywhere in the world, whether it be in Hong Kong or Canada. Racism stems from ignorance, and only when such hatred is put aside will we begin to move forward towards a better place. After my Hong Kong summer, I decided to relearn my Cantonese. Beginning on September, I started teaching Cantonese classes and culture at the local heritage school. I may not be able to change the world, but it's still worth it to try going one step at a time.
Hey guys, it'd be really awesome if you can give me some feed back. I feel like this essay is missing something and the grammar is probably atrocious, so I thank anyone who is willing to read this :). Is it too cheesy, cliche, or too...well, racist? Thank you again!
______________________________________________________________________ ____________
"Pakistani?" my aunt blurts. Her face twitches, and she tries to hide the contempt in her voice. "You're mentoring Pakistani children?"
I nod; she shakes her head, and within seconds, we're left speechless with each other. The background fades away, and this conversation becomes another staple memory of my Hong Kong stay.
At sixteen, it has been nearly a decade since I've stepped foot on this bustling metropolis my parents call home. Previously a British colony, a simple walk down the street opened up a poignant seascape of colourful skyscrapers, traditional cafes, and cultural artefacts untouched by China's Cultural Revolution and Communist rule. Governmental candidates wrestle for votes with their plans of reform on the street, demonstrations are protected by the Freedom of Speech, and compulsory education is free. Unfortunately, behind this blanket of wealth and civility developed an outlook of cultural superiority over the minorities who sought for a better life in this city. On the public bus, passengers dramatically avoided the seat next to the Sikh man; turning on the television, a young Filipina is portrayed as a maid with an expired passport; an Indonesian nanny is publicly criticized for speaking in her own language. Back at the centre where I volunteer, I meet Amina-renamed Lucy by her teachers; a recent immigrant from Pakistan. She's six years old, barely fluent in Cantonese, and already familiar with the racial slurs acquainted with being Pakistani. Children whisper about her as she passes by; teachers ignore her waving hand in class, and she makes no attempt to fight back.
Having grown in up in a Canadian suburb where I have always been a visible minority, no words can truly describe the guilt and anger I felt witnessing my own kind discriminate against other minorities as a majority. Moreover, what saddened me the most were the many excuses they gave to justify their actions whenever I confronted them about their behaviour. Despite overcoming my own cultural differences in my suburban town, I can vividly recall the differential treatment I received from my teachers in elementary school for being the only one unable to speak English. Amongst my predominately white classmates, I was branded as 'not truly Canadian' until middle school because of my background. By high school, I have forgotten half of my Cantonese, published writing in a bestselling book series, won recognition in a national writing contest; only to be questioned by a particularly obnoxious classmate whether I was an illegal immigrant.
Lying beside my bed is a picture of my seven year old self; the background is my second grade classroom. If I look hard enough at the picture, I can still see myself ten years back, mute and deaf-ashamed. Prior to volunteering, I had always looked back on those memories with a bitter disgust. It was during my time in Hong Kong that I came to realize it was those unpleasant experiences that allowed me to help and understand those going through the same setbacks. Racism, undeniably, exists in some shape or form everywhere in the world, whether it be in Hong Kong or Canada. Racism stems from ignorance, and only when such hatred is put aside will we begin to move forward towards a better place. After my Hong Kong summer, I decided to relearn my Cantonese. Beginning on September, I started teaching Cantonese classes and culture at the local heritage school. I may not be able to change the world, but it's still worth it to try going one step at a time.
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