by Lena Fong-Johnson (she/her)

My baba wanted me to be a doctor. That's why he included 針 (meaning needle or stitch in Chinese) in my name. He was a cop in Hong Kong and moved to Scotland, where this once-respected man faced a plethora of racist taunts. The same story has been told a million times.

He became a restaurant owner cooking chips and curry sauce for the locals and started teaching Gung Fu. As a child, I couldn't help but judge him for feeding the stereotype.

I escaped Falkirk for the dizzying heights of Edinburgh to study Chemistry. I wasn't bright enough to study medicine, but my dad still found ways to boast. I suppose he wanted to feel like a "big boss" instead of a diminished figure. That extended to his family. It's true what they say that microaggressions are like a million paper cuts. He wanted to feel strong again. He prayed to the ancestors, went for yum cha on a Sunday, and trained hard—hoping these activities would offset the darker emotions.

On the other hand, I shunned my heritage and identity like a shameful secret in an attempt to fit in. Then something inexplicable happened. It was like flipping a light switch. I suddenly became fascinated by my culture and decided to train as a Traditional Chinese Medicine acupuncturist.

Shakespeare once asked what was in a name. Somehow, my baba knew when he cradled me in his arms that my destiny would involve needles, and he was right.