The Un-Paintable Canvas

I stumbled into the classroom, laces entangled, scanning the room for a place to sit. With the last crumbs of powdered eggs brushed off my chapped lips, I slid my bag under a chair and slumped into an empty seat in the corner. The teacher’s rehearsed charisma commenced the class, and each student was called to say their name, pronoun, and the place they call home. Every person seemed so sure of themselves, confident in each syllable of their identity. Yet a battle between two perceptions, two realities, two labels broke out within me. It’s embarrassing to think that a simple question could ignite the wave of anxiety that washed over each vein in my body. Who am I, the exotic student from Hong Kong or the whitewashed American? 

Stuck on a question with no right answer, I gambled with Hong Kong. The person next to me blurted out, “That’s so cool! I love anime.” As soon as those words left his mouth, the classroom broke out into busy discussions about Asia, Panda Express, and Naruto. My mouth remained clasped. Did it matter to him that anime is in Japanese? Did it matter to them that Hong Kong and Tokyo are three thousand miles apart? Did it matter to anybody that Panda Express isn’t real Chinese food? 

Piercing through the layers of my skull was the painful realization that my classmates from “the number one high school in America” didn’t know where Hong Kong was. The city in which I grew up is a beautiful masterpiece, but the canvas that lay in front of my classmates was a repulsive replica. 

I want to blame the arrogance of Americans, but that’s not fair, because eight thousand miles away on the Southern coast of China, I fight the other front of the war. 

Last summer, I went back to visit my old acupuncturist. As I walked into the empty reception room, the elegant fumes swirled around my nose, teasing my senses and caressing my mind. A quartet of traditional cantonese instruments paraded around my eardrums as the old man emerged from his office. His radiant smile pierced through his mask, and his compassionate eyes dawned on my soul. “好久不見! 你躲在哪裡呢？(It’s been so long! Where have you been hiding?)” he asked.  The moment I said “美國” (America), his smile retreated just as quickly as it had appeared. The passionate excitement turned to concern. He asked me what I did to make my parents send me away, how I survive in the violently racist environment, and warned me not to trust those obnoxious, trigger-happy Americans. I wanted to tell him how amazing my school was, but his frown only arched deeper. I wanted to convince him that I was happy, but his eyes portrayed no acceptance. I wanted him to know that I was safe, but how could I? How could I paint a masterpiece on a dirty black canvas? 

It’s easy for me to blame Americans for being egotistical, or to blame my acupuncturist for being naive. In this brutal, violent, and confusing battle, I want so badly to point at someone, some place, or some country, and deliver the blame in a gift-wrapped package. I want so badly to blame the artist who painted these false narratives. But how can I blame my classmates who have never left the country, or my friends back home who have never set foot in the U.S.? 

If I described the aromatic spices wafting through the streets of Hong Kong, would they salivate over a cuisine they’ve never experienced, or would they continue to share the Youtube video on the consumption of bats and dogs? If I painted a fourteen story mall in Causeway Bay, could they picture the beauty of the city, or would they continue to visualize the devastating poverty? If I illustrated stories of home, would they listen with an open mind, or would the pungent stench of internalized propaganda blur their vision. They’ve probably read numerous articles, watched hundreds of videos, and might’ve visited the country, but when we look at the same towering buildings, we see a different city. 

A fifteen hour flight away, my friends and family pray for my health and safety. They’ve never met my amazing teachers, but they’ve watched the massacres of school shootings. They’ve never felt the diversity of Andover classrooms, but they’ve watched documentaries on the Ku Klux Klan. They send me across the world for education, but they only see the violence. I want to paint the amazing people, unfathomable food portions, and inspiring diversity, but school shootings, gang wars, and political corruption have already stained the canvas. 

I slumped into the corner of the room sulking in the ignorance of my classmates as they continued to discuss China, orange chicken, and Dragon Ball Z. I scanned the room in desperation, but all I could scavenge was the stained canvas draped over the eyes of my classmates. Were they wrong to believe this false narrative, or was I the one at fault for not painting it over? It was my duty to vanquish the replica, but I wasn’t ready to tackle this insurmountable commission.  

I want to believe that somewhere out there is an artist ready to paint both truths. I want to believe that my classmates will someday envision a Hong Kong full of vibrant culture, mind blowing flavors, and cascading mountain ranges. I want to believe that my friends back home will someday envision an America with heartwarming soul food, diverse communities, and enormous theme parks. I want to be the artist who can strip away each canvas and repaint the narrative, so that everyone can see the true artwork beneath. But my paint is diluted and the narrative is too dark. The masterpiece is lost.

Todd Avery Lin