Author Melanie Cheng discusses the impact of a bicultural upbringing on identity

Can you tell us a bit more about how growing up in two places, Hong Kong and Australia, shaped you as a person and a writer?

I moved from Australia to Hong Kong when I was seven years old. I am of mixed heritage; my father is ethnically Chinese and grew up in Hong Kong, while my mother is a fifth-generation Australian with Anglo-Celtic roots. I don't have strong memories of my childhood in Sydney, but I believe I was pretty happy at school. My family left Australia before the era of Pauline Hanson—an Australian politician who stoked anti-Chinese and anti-Asian sentiment in the 90s—and I realize now that this was a blessing. Even so, my mom tells the story of how, on arriving at my new school in Hong Kong, I was delighted to discover other kids “just like me” in the class, which suggests that I was aware of my difference from a young age. In Hong Kong, we lived a predominantly expat lifestyle, but unlike many of my British friends, I had Chinese heritage. My brother and I participated in all the local festivals and visited my Chinese

grandparents every weekend in Tai Koo Shing. This gave me a kind of insider/outsider status, which was helpful, perhaps even formative, in my development as a writer. A bit like the biracial protagonist in Viet Thanh Nguyen's book, The Sympathizer, this straddling of cultures allowed me to have “two minds” and see issues from “both sides”. And so, I appreciated both the absurdity and the beauty of certain traditions and idiosyncrasies that Hong Kong and Australian locals took for granted.

In your South China Morning Post interview, you talk about a language barrier with your grandmother in Hong Kong because you spoke no Cantonese as a child. Is this a language that you later tried to learn to communicate with people in Hong Kong, and is it one that has influenced your writing, even if you write in English?

In my gap year after high school, I enrolled in an intensive Cantonese class and tried to learn the language. I definitely improved during that time, but I never achieved anything near fluency, and now that I've lived in Melbourne for the past twenty years, I've lost even the little that I did know. I do remember telling myself during high school that if I couldn't speak Cantonese, then I was going to make damn sure I mastered the one language I did know: English. Perhaps this played into my eventual decision to become a writer.

I will always regret not being able to communicate with my Chinese grandmother. I share her Chinese name, So Lin, and I felt a strong connection to her when she was alive. In fact, the first story I ever published in a literary magazine was about her living through the Japanese occupation during the Second World War. A Chinese grandmother also features in the final short story of my collection, Australia Day. So, perhaps, all along, I have been trying to bridge these language and cultural barriers by writing about them.

In the same interview, you talk about how you might not have ended up becoming a writer if you didn't study in Melbourne. Can you tell us more about the cultural environment and arts scene there that really allowed your creativity, as a bicultural person, to flourish?

In 2008, Melbourne became the second city in the world, after Edinburgh, to be crowned a UNESCO City of Literature. This meant that around the time I was graduating from university, there was a rich literary culture being nurtured in the city. Early on in my career, I discovered and became a member of Writers Victoria, a writers' center based in Melbourne, and it was through their courses that I was able to hone my craft and meet other writers, including people who would go on to become my friends and mentors. Finally, in 2016, I entered my manuscript, a collection of short stories called Australia Day, into the Victorian Premier's Literary Award for an Unpublished Manuscript—a prize only open to emerging writers who are residents of Victoria—and the shortlisting and eventual win were instrumental in that book being published. I feel very grateful that I ended up here, in this city. The plan had always been for me to study medicine in Sydney, as that was where my extended family was, but in the end, I didn't secure a place at university in New South Wales. I came to Melbourne instead, having no friends or family and knowing nobody, but with time it has become home.

Your last novel, Burrow, deals with experiencing grief during the pandemic. Are these topics you'd like to explore more in your future writing?

When I begin work on a novel, I don't set out with a topic or theme in mind. Mostly my books begin with a premise or a situation that I'm curious about. With Room for a Stranger, it was the idea of homesharing—an elderly person renting out a room to an international student. I wondered what that would be like for two people at such different stages of their lives and from such different cultures to be thrust together in the intimate and potentially claustrophobic space of a family home. With The Burrow, it was the idea of a family experiencing a sudden accidental loss—I wanted to know how they would recover from that; would they blame each other? Would they blame themselves? Would it be possible to live a life that was receptive to moments of joy and wonder after such an impossible tragedy?

I don't know when or where the idea for my next project will come from. I'm in between books now, and I can sense my mind wandering and trying to find traction. I'm toying with the idea of a story set, at least partly, in the Hong Kong of my childhood—that period just before the handover.

Does your bicultural background influence your approach to practicing medicine, particularly when working with patients from diverse cultural backgrounds?

I can relate to the experience of moving countries and feeling like an outsider, and that has helped me empathize with patients, particularly the international students I see in my current practice. Navigating the medical system is difficult at the best of times, let alone when you are sick and feeling vulnerable and you can't understand the language and practices of the dominant culture. In Australia, our health professionals come from an extremely diverse range of backgrounds, and hopefully this means that patients feel understood and less alone.

What have been the events that marked your expat life the most?

I think moving to Hong Kong when I was very young and completing almost all of my schooling there played a crucial role in connecting me to my Chinese heritage. That time between 7 and 18 years old, though short, is so formative and looms so large in our memories. I suspect that if I'd lived in Australia my entire life, I would eventually feel sad that I didn't know Hong Kong better—these things tend to haunt you as you grow older. In terms of events that have marked my expat life, I would have to pick my wedding. It took place in Melbourne—my new home—but my Chinese grandparents flew down from Hong Kong for the occasion, and my extended family and a few of my high school friends traveled from various places around Australia and the world to join us. We held a traditional Chinese tea ceremony to honor my parents and grandparents, and this was complemented later in the evening by Arabic music and dancing from my husband's culture, which is Lebanese. It was such a great melding of different cultures—both a celebration of our differences but also a recognition of our similarities.

What do you think the outlook for immigration will be like in 2025? Do you think that political shifts might affect that outlook?

To be honest, I'm worried. The rise of right-wing views and fascism can only be bad for immigration and expatriation. We are seeing leaders of countries use rhetoric that is not just xenophobic but outright racist. For a multicultural family like mine, it is a terrifying climate to exist in. And yet, people continue to travel for work and study and leisure. Those less fortunate continue to escape persecution and war and move to safer lands, not because they want to but because they have to in order to survive. And so, as long as this mixing continues to occur, people will continue to forge friendships and partnerships and families against the odds.

What steps do you think states and other authorities could take to better support immigrants, expats, and third-culture kids in navigating the challenges they face?

Facilitating opportunities for social connection and education is essential. My mother-in-law has kept many of the friends she made during the English language classes she took on arriving in Australia over thirty years ago. But facilitating is the operative word here because relationships cannot be forced, and group activities are not for everyone. Educational material in multiple languages and accessible interpreting services are probably the bare minimum, but it's astounding how often they are not done. Community hubs like health centers and libraries, where immigrants can find people with access to the knowledge and resources they need, are fundamental.