Running From Who We Are and Inherited Shame

Introduction

I was on the metro in Bucharest recently—rush hour, crammed in with tired Romanians just off work.

I had Kendrick blasting in my ears, vibing, and tapping my foot to the beat. Then one of my favorite Chinese songs came on. A nostalgic one from childhood.

And I did something instinctively, something stupid.

I grabbed my phone and turned the volume down. Not because it was too loud. Not because anyone gave me dirty looks.

But because it was Chinese. And for a split second, I was ashamed.

Ashamed that someone might hear it and realize: He really is a dirty commie.

And being self-aware that I am, I immediately knew why I did it, chuckled, and turned the volume back up.

It was just a song. But that little moment said everything about how I still carry shame—quietly, instinctively, inherited. And Bucharest, whether it meant to or not, kept handing me a mirror.

What Watching Romanians Run From Themselves Showed Me About My Own Shame

Bucharest seemed like an interesting place, full of resilience, quiet pain, and quirky charm to an outsider like me.

And one of the first things I noticed when I got here? Romanians would rather be anything but themselves.

From their noticeable obsession with emulating Italian fashion, food, and culture, to the way their faces tense up when you refer to them as Romanians, to the way they idealize Western people and societies, maybe just a little too much.

It’s not hard to sense that there’s this quiet but persistent shame around being who they actually are.

I observed and chuckled, I made fun of them on my bad days, and then I saw it—my own shame around being Chinese mirrored right back at me.

In case you didn’t know, I grew up in China and moved to Canada when I was 15. And as much as I tried to make peace with it, there was always a part of me that’s afraid of being found out, that underneath the Canadian citizenship and the almost-perfect English,

I’m just a mutt.

How Living in Bucharest is Forcing Me to Come to Terms with My Chinese Roots

After being spoiled by Canadian multiculturalism and progressive values, landing in an Eastern European society was a big cultural shock.

Suddenly, the duality of being both Chinese and Canadian didn’t translate. There was a lot less space for nuance.

To a lot of them. I’m just a Chinese rice farmer who escaped my third-world shithole and fled to Canada for the promise of a better life. Little did they realize, some of the richest people living in Canada are from China.

But like what they say, perception is everything.

So I did what any semi-insecure mutt would do. I started downplaying my Chinese side and hid behind my Canadian passport.

I stopped telling people that I grew up in China, and started passive-aggressively flexing my Torontonian identity.

And much to my pleasant surprise, my Canadian accent is just good enough to pass as a pure-blood to a lot of Romanian ears.

I won’t lie, people’s eyes lit up whenever I proudly announced my “country of origin.”

And believe me, that’s one of the first things they ask you here. Another loaded question casually dropped in small talk, but really just a polite way to size you up.

For a while, I was walking on rainbows thinking that I’d hacked the system and made all those cold Canadian winters worth it.

I didn’t have to be Chinese, and it “helped “me socially.

Until I went out with someone who I had a crush on and watched her eyes go dim when I opened up about my childhood in China.

She didn’t say anything about it. But the sudden drop in enthusiasm said everything.

Until I had been approached by enough K-pop and Anime fans who assumed I was Korean or Japanese. And watched their awkward disappointment when I told them that I was Chinese.

Fuck. This.

Why does it feel like everyone is shaming me for my origin? And it feels vaguely familiar.

Being In Romania Reminded Me of a Past I Never Fully Faced

See, I haven’t smoked enough Canadian legal weed to forget a simpler time. When I was blissfully ignorant as a kid in China.

I was just one of the however many billion Chinese. I didn’t know there was something wrong with being Chinese.

Sure. Maybe the state propaganda made sure that I didn’t forget that European colonizers once came over and called my great-great-grandparents weak and small.

But I was one of the tallest kids in my class in China. I wasn’t about to lose sleep over being “smaller” than some people in a faraway land.

That all changed once I moved to Canada.

There I was, a fresh-off-the-boat Chinese kid in a Canadian high school. Struggling to speak a completely alien language, trying to fit in a totally different school culture, and hilariously failing at being Canadian on a daily basis.

I wanted to make friends with Canadian classmates, but the more I tried, the more self-conscious I became.

Because one thing became pretty clear: speaking with an Asian accent was a great way to get made fun of by other teenagers. Of course, I met nice ones too.

I loved my grandma’s cooking, but as more days went on, the more I became embarrassed about opening my lunch box and getting snarky comments about how my lunch smelled weird. They should’ve tried it. It was delicious and made with love.

As I grew older, and people around me got more “educated”, I also had to take up a side hustle I never signed up for: defending my government’s questionable choices.

It’s like death by a thousand cuts.

Slowly and surely, I started internalizing:

Maybe, it was not ok to be Chinese.

Maybe, it was not ok to be me.

FUCK. THIS.

I Will Own My Chinese Roots, Fuck This Internalized Shame

I’ve run from my Chinese roots for the better half of my life. I did it in Canada, I did it again in Romania.

And what did it get me?

Conditional acceptance and “attention” from people who shouldn’t matter to begin with.

Yes. I’m a Chinese commie who loves hot pot and Mandopop songs.

I’m also a Toronto D-bag who listened to way too much Drake at the gym.

And I’m neither.

I’m just a human being with his unique individuality, who gets labeled by his race, nationality, and culture, and feels a bit ashamed sometimes.

I’m just like the Romanian girl who put on a fake UK accent and told me she was British.

I’m just like my Arab friend who felt the need to emphasize he’s not like the “typical Muslim.”

I’m just like the British, German, and French people who told me how they were not proud of their country or its history.

Why are we torturing each other and ourselves like this? What for?

I’ve had enough of this bullshit.

I started telling people that I’m Chinese to screen out people who are not meant for me. I caught myself hiding my love for cheesy Chinese songs and corrected myself. I even found some shamelessness to order beef and rice when I went out to dinner with my Romanian friend.

You know, the little things.

But this feels like the path to liberation.

You are so much more than your labels.

You are not just your race, you are not just your income bracket, you are not just your nationality, you are not just your height, you are not just your job title.

And you are not gonna let anyone else shame you for these external labels that ultimately mean fuck all, because they only can if you let them.

You are a unique human being. And you are inherently worthy.

So show up. Own everything about you. And let the chips fall where they may.

And you are not doing this to get more acceptance from others. You are simply doing this so you start accepting and liking yourself. Just so you can stay a little more sane.

And those are the most important things at the end of the day.

Conclusion

I never imagined watching Romanians running from themselves and projecting their own shame onto me would be the thing that finally forced me to stop running from myself. All I can say is that I’m glad this happened.

And this isn’t just about me. This is for everyone who has felt that they have to hide a part of themselves to be accepted and liked.

Stop hiding, stop letting others shame you for being you. Own everything about yourself and stand proud in your glory.