The other day while I was walking to the bus stop, I saw three little old Asian ladies already there waiting. They were decked out in little bonnets, carrying their belongings in nondescript plastic bags. At first I thought Hmong. But as got closer, I began to hear sounds that rang familiar: they were speaking Cantonese. So there they were, talking up a storm at the bus stop and enjoying each other's company as they waited in perfect weather. I didn't want to eavesdrop so I kept my distance. After a short while, the bus arrived. As they boarded, they huddled around the fare box to negotiate their handfuls of coins in the hope of finding the exact amount to deposit. When the first one had successfully paid her fare, she headed to towards the centre of the bus, leaving the other two to complete their transactions. She let out a surprised "Ha!" as she spotted a little old Asian man she knew already seated on the bus. She rushed over to greeting him cheerfully in Cantonese and beckoned her two friends to come see whom she had discovered. And their conversations continued, hardly skipping a beat as they gracefully incorporated the gentleman into their exchange. A few stops later, they got off the bus--of course, at the Asian supermarket.

The whole time, I'm sure there was a huge smile--perhaps maybe even a toothy grin--plastered on my face. It was so indescribably comforting to hear Cantonese. And though I couldn't make out exactly what they were talking about, I was soothed by the euphony of melodic rises and falls that Cantonese is blessed to have as a colourful tonal language. Cantonese may not be my first language but I will always have a certain affinity towards it. Perhaps it's pride in my heritage... or maybe it just reminds me of family. Either way I will ever be partial to it.

Yet every time I think about my favourite language, I become so conflicted. Relatives have remarked how well my brother speaks Cantonese in direct contrast to me. I'm sure their intentions weren't to shame me, but I am acutely aware of my own ineptitudes. I will always speak with an accent but I can get by. Which brings me to a song by Jin that I discovered a few months ago.

你駛鬼理我邊度出世只要我有料
一張出世紙點可以做代表
我問你做竹升有乜咁失禮
就算我係你都咪檔我食塞米

你話我唔係正宗唐人who are you?
ｄ鬼佬睇我嘛又係黃皮膚
雖然我地環境係兩個唔同世界
但係分別好小你唔好踹得就踹

[official translation, sic]
Don't worry about where I was born
A birth certificate is just a piece of paper
I ask you what's so bad about being a ABC
Even if I am, don't think I'm an idiot

You say I'm not officially Chinese, "Who are you?"
In the eyes of foreigners I am "yellow skinned" just like you
Even though are backgrounds are two different worlds
But its pretty much the same, so don't treat me otherwise

These words--with a little more bite in Cantonese than in English--resonate with me. Perhaps the lyrics are a little more defensive than I ought to be, but I can definitely relate so well to this, especially in an environment where the people I know are either non-ABC Chinese or white. So where does this leave me? Still stuck between cultures, still struggling to grasp my place in either one. But at least the anxiety of in-betweenness is assuaged by knowing I'm not the only one.