My name is Nathan Tim, and I’m a bona fide Englishman, at least on the inside. But my Chinese parents don’t see me as such, and I doubt they ever will. To them, Englishness is a fleeting and somewhat farfetched concept, something they never thought of attaining. They just wanted a better life in England, not to become the English themselves in the process.
So why should I be any different? Why couldn’t I live life on repeat in a rundown restaurant like them? Perhaps I should follow in my parents’ footsteps and find comfort in our little bubble. But all this repetition bored me and weighed me down, making me crave movement, acceptance, anything, as long as it changed my life.
At one point, small changes did come—so small that I overlooked their implications.
Football tickets
One day in high school, after waking up late in the morning as usual, I put on my uniform and rushed downstairs before my mum intercepted me with breakfast. All arguments with her were futile, so it was better just to stomach some quick bites. Right after I said “Good day, Mum,” Dad barged in with boxes of restaurant supplies.
I knew right then they were about to argue, as Mum narrowed her eyes and studied the boxes; Dad, like he always did, pretended nothing happened and sat down for food. That left me awkwardly in the middle, and while my brain told me to get out of there, my Dad caught my attention once again as he pulled out something from his pocket.
“This Saturday. Football game … I got you tickets,” Dad said casually. But there was nothing casual about it. Dad was the type of person to grunt if a toy cost more than 20 pence, so buying two tickets for a quid each? It just didn’t add up to me.
“Ummm Dad … you sure you didn’t mix it up with something else. Say, receipts?” He shook his head, as I approached the tickets and saw “CHELSEA V. ARSENAL” printed on them.
Disbelief and confusion flooded my brain. First, how did my Dad, someone who never followed sports, find out about football? Second, where did he get those tickets? I genuinely thought they were sold out way before the season started.
“For your 17th birthday.”
“Oh … uh … thanks, Dad.”
Dad nodded and started unpacking the boxes, while I reread the tickets just to make sure they were real.
“Go to school, Ho Wan,” Mum broke the silence and pointed at Dad. “And you, don’t forget to wash the dishes in the back.”
I stuffed the tickets into my pocket and headed outside. I thought this year’s birthday would just be like the last 16, bland and uneventful. How wrong was I!
Some family history
I was born in London in 1955, a time when the wrath of the Second World War still permeated England. Ironically, my parents left Hong Kong for England to seek a better life, but they miscalculated and traded the bad for somewhere worse (though they would never admit it). Regardless, they bought a run-down restaurant in Soho with all their savings, an unconventional move for Chinese immigrants who mostly settled down in the East End. Our restaurant became the odd one out in the neighbourhood.
Luckily, business was good, for the English people also desired changes, specifically to their fish and chips.
The restaurant was our home, with the bottom floor for dining and the second floor for sleeping. I helped here and there, sometimes cleaning the floor and washing dishes, but mostly translating our menu to English customers. When I started school, my parents had to break out of their bubble; their way of communication involved a fair bit of pointing and Cantonese, often rendering the customers confused. However, it wasn’t ineffective, as the English ultimately got their food and my parents picked up pieces of English phrases. While this was a win-win situation to me, my parents always complained about the customers.
“Why we learn English if they never learn Chinese?” my mum couldn’t wrap her head around the English’s lack of desire to learn Chinese.
I shrugged and suggested that maybe Chinese was too hard for them. Plus, what other use would Chinese have outside of the restaurant? The second part I said in my head because I knew the likelihood of it developing into an argument. To my Mum, the Chinese language was part of our identity and pride, something the English could never take away. This explained my name, “Ho Wan,” as my parents wanted me to embrace my Chineseness, yet they failed to account for all the unwanted attention.
Becoming Nathan
For the longest time that I can remember, my difference isolated me outside of home. Not only was I one of just two Asian kids at my primary school, but I also had the stereotypical Asian name. No wonder teachers struggled to pronounce it. Some tried to say the whole thing, but it came out as “how waaaan,” while some stuck with “Ho” and ignored the rest.
I, almost certainly red because of embarrassment or awkwardness, nodded my head despite the horrendously inaccurate pronunciations. All I wanted was to escape the attention and blend in. But my name was getting me more attention—unwanted attention that I absolutely hated.
So I needed a plan, a change to get rid of all this unwanted attention. Like a sudden awakening, my brain lit up one night, and the name Nathan came to my mind. Why can’t I be Nathan? I don’t see why not, as long as I use it outside of home, I thought. That way, I would get to be more English and avoid attention, but also retain my Chineseness at home. I just needed to execute the plan.
On a sunny Friday morning at school, the teacher called out “Ho” as usual. Unlike the day before, I stayed silent; the seconds felt like ages, and my face involuntarily reddened again. With a hint of impatience, the teacher looked up and searched for me. Right before we made eye contact, I raised my hand and said, “Excuse me, Ms. Smith.”
“Oh, there you are. I was just looking for—“
“Nathan! Were you looking for Nathan?”
“Who is Nathan?” Ms. Smith asked with confusion.
“It’s me. I’m Nathan. I’ve always been Nathan and I thought you should know.”
“Oh, well … alright then,” Ms. Smith smirked. “Nathan it is.”
Then came the attention from the entire class. Everyone was looking at me like I was that one panda in the zoo. At least this time it was good attention, attention I desired.
Just like that, people knew me as Nathan instead of “Ho Wan” outside of home. And I rejoiced in this change because it made me more English.
Enter Rahul
Now that I was an Englishman, I decided to make friends with other English boys. I thought I lacked initiation, a show of interest. So I convinced myself to put on a smile, a genuine smile comparable to the one I wore when my Dad brought home new toys. I thought this would make the other boys feel safe, but it was also meant to make me feel safe in this uncharted territory and protect me from inevitable rejections.
Did they even shake their heads and say no to my offers of friendship? No! They simply walked away upon seeing my face. They didn’t even look back. No words, just silent rejection. The way they walked, I still remember: so English, so arrogant and so distant. Maybe they said something or they didn’t, yet all my brain remembered was their backs turned against me, affirming my futility in this uphill battle of Englishness.
Unbeknownst to me, a boy watched the whole thing play out in the corner. He understood my defeat and disappointment, for he’d gone through the same ordeal and had grasped the limits of his Englishness. He patted me on the shoulder and handed me a beat-up football. I looked into his eyes, so full of excitement and expectation that they rescued me from my recent failure.
“You alright, mate?” the boy asked. “Play football?”
I nodded, and tried my best to squeeze out a smile.
“I’m Rahul, what’s your name?”
“Nathan. It’s Nathan.”
“Right then, Nathan. You a Chelsea fan?”
“Blue is my favorite colour.”
Rahul chuckled, and I started laughing, too. I was 10 that year, and I made a friend, my best friend and only friend.
For the next seven years, I kept my English name from my parents. As a result, I’ve been “Ho Wan” at home and Nathan at school. In order to keep both parties in the dark, my names became mutually exclusive, and I made sure to stick to the name that matched my setting.
For the most part, it worked wonders, yet there were slip-ups when Rahul called and asked for Nathan. My parents, in response, either said “There is no Nathan here” or “Wrong number.” It never occurred to my Mum that I might be Nathan, because neither an English name nor an Englishman belonged to a Chinese household. The cultural mismatch saved me from trouble and gave me time to take over the receiver before my Mum put it down.
The day of the big game
“Yo! Wait up, mate!” On my 17th birthday, a familiar voice disrupted my thoughts. I immediately turned around and found a friendly face emerging into my vision.
“Sup, bruv,” he said to me, “Big day today, innit?”
“Yeah, turned 17 today. Feeling old, mate.”
Rahul smiled and patted me on the back. He handed me a paper bag filled with freshly-made samosas, the oil ready to seep through the bag.
His parents owned Eastern Delight, a restaurant in the same neighbourhood as my family’s. They often compared their place to restaurants in Brick Lane, not because of the similarities but the differences. To them, it was a matter of pride—they wanted to get out of Brick Lane, yet they lacked the financial means to afford better. Thus, they settled here in Soho.
While Rahul’s parents talked about changes, I had my eyes on the fresh samosas, an irresistibly crunchy and rich delicacy to a child raised on tasteless and boring rice. Subsequently, the restaurant became our meeting place whenever Rahul called. To this day, my Mum still doesn’t understand why I rushed out after every phone call asking for Nathan.
“Got any big plans this weekend?” Rahul asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes!” I pulled out the tickets and handed one to him.
“That a ticket?” he said in disbelief. “It’s the derby this Saturday. That’s wicked, mate … I thought they were all sold out.”
“Saturday at seven. Don’t forget your Charlie Cooke jersey. We need his magic to take down those red clowns.”
Unlike my parents, Rahul’s parents loved football and had bought him the jersey. They saw football as a way to fit in, a way to be more English and less Indian. Hence, when they found out we were going to a football game, they lifted Rahul’s curfew for the night. They even reserved us a cab on Saturday night, as a birthday gift to me.
Through sleeplessness and impatience, Saturday finally came. I carefully pulled out a blue jersey hidden in the bottom of my drawer. Yes, it was a Chelsea jersey from months of hard work downstairs. I studied myself obsessively in the mirror after putting it on, the name “OSGOOD” shining on my back.
“Charlie Cooke and Peter Osgood ‘bout to make history tonight,” I murmured to myself, pure excitement in my voice.
Before heading out, I put on a hoodie over my jersey to avoid unwanted attention from my parents. Still, my Mum gave me a suspicious look but said nothing. The business at the restaurant started to ramp up, and my Dad just nodded at me. I knew he meant for me to have a good time, and I really wished for us to have more time, just father and son. I was running late, and by the time I got to Eastern Delight, the cab was already waiting outside.
“Ay, hop in, mate!” Rahul poked his head out and commanded. “The game’s starting soon.”
I rushed inside the cab and put on a guilty face. “My bad … busy Saturday,” I paused. “Let’s get going.”
Rahul looked visibly annoyed, but as the cab started moving, his excitement replaced the annoyance. We talked enthusiastically about the players and the certainty of a win, despite our home and away losses to Arsenal last season. All we cared about was the future.
“Hallo, boys,” the driver interrupted us quite unexpectedly. “My name’s Chanu.”
While I wanted to get back to our discussion, Rahul showed visible interest in the driver’s Indian accent, replying, “Right, Chanu. Busy night innit. You know my parents?”
“Possibly. The Patels or the Singhs?”
“Patel. My name is Rahul Patel and my dad is Samar Patel.”
“Splendid! Samar was my old friend from Dhaka University. We studied English literature and girls went crazy for us.”
“Oh, didn’t know about the girl part,” I jokingly commented.
“But what? My dad never talked about literature, let alone uni.”
“Impossible! Shakespeare was our favorite, and we both came to England to pursue our love for the English … and for a better life.”
Rahul was silent. He looked down, as if there was something on the seat, but I saw nothing. Why would a college-educated man settle for a small restaurant? My parents had no education, and thus no say in their occupation, but Samar had a choice. He could have been more. Hell, he could have been a writer if he wanted to. From Rahul’s silence, I could tell that the same question plagued him, begging for a plausible answer. Unfortunately, we had none, and with this question only came more unanswerable questions.
“I’m thinking about returning to Bangladesh,” Chanu said, breaking the silence. “I talked to Samar about it too, but he wanted to stay.”
“Why return if you’re already here?” Curiosity also grasped my attention. “What’s so bad about England anyways?”
Chanu grunted, as if my words hit a nerve. Rahul was still thinking, all the excitement erased from his face.
“The English never wanted us,” Chanu said emphatically. “We’ll never be equal.”
I searched for Chanu’s face in the rearview mirror, finding nothing but pain. It suddenly dawned on me that he must have given up his pride, his confidence and his last bits of hope to settle as a cab driver. Humiliation was an understatement.
The silence lasted all the way to Stamford Bridge. I said goodbye with my head down, like a naughty child avoiding the gaze of his mother. I felt Chanu’s despair, and I knew the white men saw me as an inferior stock, too, yet I still wanted to befriend them. Whether it was human nature or foolishness, I’d never given up on the idea of Englishness. Deep down, I wanted to be a part of them, and I still do. Perhaps Rahul felt the same way. He finally looked up, his eyes and posture more relaxed.
“Cheer up, mate!” Rahul exclaimed. “We got a game to watch.”
Feeling “English”—and free
The stadium was packed with blue and red, two contrasting colours that defined the rivalry. Minutes after kick-off, it became clear that Arsenal was in superior form with higher possession and more shots on target. Our boys fought hard, especially Cooke and Osgood dribbling past defenders, yet no goals came. By contrast, Arsenal penetrated our defense with free kicks, and landed a goal with a swift header into the top left corner. The stadium immediately came to life with waves of uproar.
“Come on, lads, get one back!” Rahul yelled at a volume high enough to match the crowd.
“Osgood, pop a banger in there!” I hollered, just like Rahul did.
It was a good game, even though Arsenal took the win with the only goal of the game. We were by no means disappointed; instead, we continued to have an incredible time. The whole crowd cheered and booed like it was one, showing a magical sense of unity and belonging. Unsurprisingly, the Gunners across cussed at us, screaming “Go home, you bloody Chinks and Pakis! We don’t want your lot here.”
Just when we were about to fire back, the other Chelsea supporters took up our cause, with many white men backing us up. Rahul and I were surprised to see that fellow Chelsea fans left their prejudice behind for unity.
For some 90-odd minutes, I felt like an Englishman, a bona fide Englishman on the outside for the very first time in my life.
Although we lost, Rahul and I walked out of the stadium with a feeling of pride we never had before. This feeling was so memorable that we vowed to never let it go. On our way home, we decided to take the long way and walk. We talked about key moments in the game and the future prospects of our heroes, but we both knew we were avoiding the elephant in the room.
“So what you thinking when they called us … you know,” Rahul finally brought it up.
“Right, hmmm … I don’t know, really. Just ignored them. Plus, your family’s from Bangladesh, eh?” I replied.
“No joke, mate. They get it wrong every time.”
We laughed heartily, something that never got old for us.
“Seriously, I felt so good out there. It’s like—” I searched for words. “I was alive.”
“Yeah, mate. Me, too,” Rahul nodded in agreement. “I felt like them English folks, the white folks.”
That’s it! We both embraced our Englishness because of our love for football. And football loved us back with its all-encompassing nature. As each small change led to another, I wanted to tell my parents my new discovery, an identity that I’d been craving for 16 long years.
Back at home, my parents were just finishing up cleaning while I barged in. My Dad looked at up me while my Mum asked, “Good time?”
“Yes, Mum,” I replied. “I have something to tell you and Dad.”
My parents gazed at me in response, giving me all their attention.
“I’m not Ho Wan. I mean, my name is not only … ummm … Ho Wan,” I stuttered as nervousness kicked in. “You see, my English name is Nath—”
“Yes, we know,” My Mum interrupted me and pointed at the telephone. “We can hear, too … Nathan.”
I was shocked, but also relieved. Was I too naive to believe she never noticed? Or did I speak too loud? Anyway, I had to get to my point and all these questions could wait.
“Well, Mum, now that’s settled … I want to see more matches. Football matches.”
My Dad turned to me and said, “Too expensive, no money.”
“I’ll work hard for it,” I interjected. “I’ll even wash the dishes.”
My parents studied me with confusion. Their facial expressions asked me why I’d agree to do something that I hate.
“Why you like football?” My Mum asked. “One game not enough? Nothing but grown men wasting time … fighting for ball.”
“You don’t understand, Mum.”
My mum answered me with a quizzical look.
“It was different! I felt free! Free to be myself and act like the English,” I paused for a second and gathered up my courage. All the changes manifested into my words: “I WANT TO BE ENGLISH. I’ve always wanted to, Mum.”
"СВЯЗАННОЕ ЧТЕНИЕ" RACE AND DHARMA: Navigating racial identity through a Buddhist lens»
изображение 1: Global Panorama; изображение 2: Steven Penton; image 3: Asian Development Bank
