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Building Bridges – Spain vs. France vs. Singapore

By Chloe Villaret

“Where are you from?”

At this point, my palms are sweaty and my heart rate is a little higher than it was just moments ago. No, I am not stateless. Nor am I a fugitive, or anything of the sort. I guess I’m pretty normal, but then again I’m not. The question of where I’m from is a tricky one. I was born in Spain to French parents, and I grew up under heavy Spanish influence. Chilli con carne, Gypsy Kings, and mini toy castagnettes were all part of my childhood. The flamboyance and vibrance of Spanish culture meshed with the refined heritage of my French roots. With chilli con carne we had baguette. After playing a Gypsy Kings CD, we listened to Edith Piaf. And when my toy castagnettes broke, there was Barbie in her little french beret.

 

Now here comes the tricky part. When I was still a child with frizzy baby hair, I moved to Singapore. Suddenly there was fish or chicken porridge for breakfast, Bollywood music on the radio, and Chinese mahjong to play with. Having spent the rest of my childhood growing up in Singapore, and having opened up my heart to a Singaporean man who became my much-loved stepfather, I began to feel more and more Singaporean. I lost the ability to speak my mother tongue – much to the horror of my Spanish aunt – and began to speak English. I moved to an international school and learned Chinese for 6 years. Are you confused yet? It gets better. I then moved to a French school, where I have been studying for nearly 7 years now, and began to learn Spanish again. I was then introduced to my stepmother, an Italian, and before long I welcomed an Italian half-sister.

 

Most people marvel at the sight of such diversity all wrapped up into one person, and many are delighted (and sometimes exhausted) by my ability to pull out any kind of cultural anecdote at a moment’s notice. And whilst the world smiles at me, I do not always smile at it. I’ve come across a lot of open-minded and culturally-aware people, but I’ve also met people who either didn’t get the chance, or simply didn’t want, to expand their horizons and learn about the other side of the world. Summer camp was always a pain. My nationality? French. My place of birth? Madrid. My country of residence? Singapore. At this point, any self-respecting camp leader raises an eyebrow and peers at me through his spectacles. Arguments with fellow camp-goers inevitably ended with “Well just go back home! Go back to wherever you came from!” But that was just it. Where was “back home”? Where did I “come from”? I didn’t have a Spanish passport and I certainly didn’t speak the language. When I went back to France, I couldn’t understand a word people were  saying; there was so much slang I hadn’t yet learned, and what on earth does 5€ amount to in Singapore Dollars? I wasn’t doing much better in Singapore. Countless times I would be sitting in the subway, and I would look around and see nothing but a sea of black hair that looked nothing like my own curly chestnut hair.

 

I wish I could say that I woke up one morning and had an epiphany. I wish I could tell you that one afternoon prince charming swept me off my feet and I forgot all the xenophobic comments that had been thrown at my face. I wish I could tell you something earth-shattering, life-changing and mind-blowing happened to me. But it didn’t. Nothing happened in particular. I took part in some MUN conferences and adopted the nationality of my delegation: Indonesia one day, Hungary the next. I met people from Saudi Arabia who understood my humour better than my next-door neighbour in Paris. I became best friends with a girl from Angola when I couldn’t even pinpoint her country on a map, and with the girl from an island I had never even heard of who sat next to me in class one day and who has never left my side since, not to mention the Belgian friend that forced me to admit that Belgium was not “a wanna-be France”. I went to school and learnt Spanish. I went home and learnt Italian. I listened to some Beyonce music and decided that yes indeed, I woke up like this. I guess you could say I got over myself. There are bigger problems in the world than my dilemma of deciding whether to wear a Spanish flamenco gown or a French Renaissance dress or even a Singapore Airlines flight attendant costume to my school’s International Day, and writing about the issues we discuss at MUN conferences around the world reminds me of this time and time again.

 

This isn’t to say that we shouldn’t be mindful and aware of our heritage and what it means to us and our identity. What it means is that we should take what our ancestors have given us, and run with it. I’ve chosen not to let my mixed heritage define me. If you ask me today “Where are you from?”, depending on my mood I might tell you I’m French or perhaps Italian now. If I’m feeling fiesty, I’ll probably wear some red lipstick and tell you all about my Spanish nationality. And if I’m too tired to explain why I have a Singaporean ID in my wallet despite looking about as pale as they come, I’ll most likely just tell you I’m from Singapore. To all the delegates out there who feel they need to write an hour long speech just to explain their nationality, or who cringe when they hear “Where are you fr-”; just know that you are not alone. Look around you, and read the placards sprinkled across the room. South Korea, Burkina Faso, Thailand, Lebanon and Sweden alike. Isn’t it beautiful to see such diversity? I’d like to think every human being is like a committee room: a mix of cultures that somehow works out in the end, and that is invariably destined for great things.

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