The divorce closet, that is.
I recently got married, for the second time. I am 48 years old with a 10-year-old son and eight-year-old daughter, and I am marrying a good man. He happens to be British and also happens to be so privileged, as to know very little of family drama — something that is quite normal for me and mine.
I grew up in a 1970s Toronto suburb. The west end, at the time, and from my young eyes, was mostly populated by hard-working Italian, Portuguese and Greek families. Especially in the Roman Catholic schools, I attended. My paternal grandmother was Buddhist and prayed (bai-sun) to her orange Buddha every morning. My maternal grandparents were Seventh-Day Adventists. Many of my aunties and uncles on my mother’s side are devout Christians. I don’t know how my sister, and I ended up being raised Roman Catholic.
Racism against Chinese families at the time was normal. It certainly was my normal. A blonde first grader’s favourite line was, “Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees, look at these!” We were used to the comments, the strange looks, people sneering at the smell of our food, white people speaking loudly to us, thinking that would help us understand their perfect English better.
When recounting these confusing encounters to my mother, her response was always the same, “Put your head down and walk away.”
We needed to fit in. “No more Chinese! Speak English. Get rid of your accent!,” my mother advised, like a mantra. So I paid attention, being very careful to enunciate each consonant, especially the final ones, so that I didn’t “sound Chinese” and would be more respected.
So, we lived our suburban, Catholic life, trying to fit in. The mask we wore was always one of near perfection. My big sister and I were obedient, did well in school (she was always on the honour roll, not I), took our annual Royal Conservatory piano examinations, went to Chinese School on Saturdays and always had the Ching Po Leung soup that our “Mah-Mah” (paternal grandmother) made every Saturday morning.
Life was less than perfect though, as it often is in most families. My parents struggled to make ends meet, which was not easy. They worked hard, with very little time to rest. My relationship with my sister became strained. And my mother and my Mah-Mah who lived with us seemed to resent each other for their own unique cultural and generational reasons.
But still, in front of other family and friends, we swept all these imperfections under the rug, pretending they didn’t exist. We call it “saving face.”
Fast forward 25 years and I was going through a painful and messy divorce with the father of my two children and husband of eight years.
When my marriage fell apart when I was 42, I told not a single soul. Not even my best friend and certainly not my parents. I just kept it all in my head.
I waited nine months to tell my parents that we had separated, foregoing the potential support I may have gained from my parents, rather than disclose my failure of a marriage. If there was ever a time to save face, it was now.
I wanted to tell my mother sooner but was terrified as to how she might react. I waited until a late summer’s day in August of 2016. And I finally spoke.
Would she hang up the phone? Would she start screaming at me? Would she listen in silence? She did none of these. Rather she was a mother to a child in need. She listened, acknowledged, understood and spoke calmly: “I understand why you need to divorce, but we will not tell anyone. Not even your sister,” she said.
Deal. So, we kept the secret.
It is now August 2021. It appears that some of my family members may suspect that I have been on my own for the last few years, but don’t publicly express their suspicions. For the sake of saving face for my parents,
I was prepared to keep the secret, as long as they needed, even if it meant waiting, hiding until they passed. The last thing I would want to do would be to shame my mother and be the first and only person in our family to be divorced. I would be mortified if any one of my parents, friends or family went to them saying (with a Hong Kong Chinese accent), “Wah, I am sorry to hear about your daughter! Aiyah, what a shame. Such a pretty girl — a single mother with two kids and no husband. What happened?”
Luckily, I have found emotional support with the community that I moved to, 4,000 kilometres away from where my parents are. No one in Squamish knows my friends or family from Ontario. I have been able to find help in this caring community during the most difficult years of my life. My new husband was one of those individuals who was instrumental in my survival over the last few years.
At the age of 48, I am starting my life over.
Before my recent wedding, I finally asked my mother, “After we get married, should I still keep the divorce secret?” She responded, “You can tell people, but only after the wedding.”
That was the stamp of approval I needed. Finally, I was free from having to hold on to this secret. On August 21, I made the announcement to my family, that I am remarried. I introduced my new husband to the family and stopped living in the closet.
Jovanka Wong is a Squamish resident and new bride.
