How Thai are you ‘really’?
Life is beautiful, but it has a way of breaking your heart. The younger me would’ve taken that heartbreak and used it to build walls—higher, stronger, impenetrable. I thought that was the only way to survive. But over time, I’ve realised that resilience isn’t just about shutting out pain; it’s about understanding it, sitting with it, and using it to become more empathetic, more open, and more human.
And one of the deepest, most personal heartbreaks I constantly experience is having my identity questioned.
What Does It Mean to Be Thai?
Throughout my life, people have debated whether I am really Thai. Sometimes it’s subtle—a comment in passing, a slight hesitation when I speak Thai fluently. Other times, it’s outright dismissal. And while I’ve learned to shrug it off, there’s always a sting that lingers. Because for me, being Thai isn’t just about where I was born. It isn’t just about the language I speak, the food I cook, or the passport I carry. It’s about a deep, undeniable connection to the history, culture, and sacrifices that shaped me.
Identity isn’t just one thing. It’s a patchwork of choices, experiences, wins, and mistakes. But cultural heritage—acknowledging where you come from—is an anchor. It gives you a foundation. It shapes the way you see the world. And when that foundation is constantly questioned, it shakes something deep inside you.
I understand why people ask. I was born in Australia. That alone is enough for some to say I’m not really Thai. But what they don’t see is the life my parents built for me—one where I was immersed in Thai culture more than many who grew up in Bangkok.
Thai wasn’t just my first language; it was the only language spoken at home. English wasn’t allowed once we stepped inside the house. After school, while other kids played, I was practicing how to read and write Thai under the strict watch of my parents or relatives. Every weekend, while my classmates were at birthday parties or sleepovers, I was at the temple, offering food to monks, learning Buddhist prayers, and bowing in respect. Our house was filled with the smells of nam prik, fermented crab, and freshly pounded prik gaeng. The music that played wasn’t from the radio; it was old Thai ballads, buzzing in the background as my parents worked tirelessly at home and in the restaurant.
Still, no matter how deeply ingrained Thai culture was in my upbringing, the questioning never stopped.
The Balancing Act of a Migrant Childhood
Growing up in rural Australia, we were one of the only Asian families in the Macedon Ranges. I didn’t see many other migrant kids until I went to high school and university, and by then, I had already learned how isolating it could be. My parents had to make impossible choices—how much of our culture to hold onto, and how much to let go of so we wouldn’t feel like outsiders.
At first, they tried to protect us from things they thought would make us "too Thai" in the eyes of our classmates. We weren’t allowed to play outside too much because darker skin was associated with field labor and lower socioeconomic status. But in a country where outdoor sports were a huge part of life, they quickly realised that was impossible. My grandma, however, never let go of those beliefs. She grew up in the rice fields of Nakhon Sawan, where the sun was relentless, and the last thing anyone wanted was to choose to be outside in the heat.
This balancing act played out in so many ways. We had to be Thai enough at home but Australian enough outside. I saw my parents struggle with this, especially when they realised that no matter how hard they tried to make us blend in, we would always be different.
Still, they never compromised on teaching us our roots. They worked long hours running a restaurant, but that never stopped them from making sure we stayed connected to our culture. Every second school holiday, we flew to Thailand—not to the tourist-filled beaches, but to our family’s rice fields, where life was completely different from the one we had in Australia. And then, every other second holiday, we explored different corners of Australia—Gippsland, where we learned to fish and perfected the art of Aussie beach cook-ups, the Great Alpine in Bright and Falls Creek, where we learned to ski and appreciate the mountains, and the surf-friendly beaches where we rode waves and basked in the sun.
At times, it felt like living in two completely different worlds. In Thailand, there were no paved roads, no running water, no flush toilets. No showers, refrigerators, or TVs—just a crackling radio playing old Thai folk and pop songs. My brothers and I spent our days climbing tamarind trees, wading through muddy rivers, and helping our relatives cook meals over coals. It was a world away from the Australian life we knew.
And yet, I loved it. I felt free. Like a little wild wolf, running around the countryside with my little wolf brothers.
I watched my mother slowly transform her childhood home—saving up enough money to build what Western society would deem a “proper” house next to the rickety wooden one she grew up in. I saw the impact of small changes: adding a dam so my relatives no longer had to collect water to fill the giant clay urns, installing a fridge so they could store food, building a concrete kitchen so they wouldn’t have to cook on dirt floors. And yet, my grandmother still preferred the old ways. She never quite got used to the cold, polished tiles of the new house.
These were the things that shaped my understanding of being Thai. The things that mattered more than any surface-level definition.
Why It Hurts
So when people question whether I am really Thai, it feels like they are erasing all of that. All the hard work my parents put in to make sure we never lost our culture. All the sacrifices they made.
It hurts when people reduce my identity to something as trivial as knowing what SangSom is—because being Thai is more than just knowing the name of a liquor brand. It’s more than just speaking the language. It’s the stories, the history, the generational struggles that people don’t see.
It hurts because many of the dishes I grew up eating—ones that are hyper-regional to where my family is from—are disappearing. Some are known only to older generations in rural areas, people who never learned to write them down. Many of these people are illiterate, and as younger generations leave the countryside for jobs in the cities, these recipes die with them.
And it hurts most because I know my parents did everything they could to make sure my brothers and I never lost our connection to where we come from. To be told, even indirectly, that all of that wasn’t enough? That my Thai-ness is up for debate? It’s a pain that never fully goes away.
The Truth About Identity
The truth is, being Thai isn’t something that can be measured. It isn’t a checklist of things you need to know or a test you have to pass. It’s in the way you were raised, the values you carry, the connection you hold to your people, your history, your food, your stories.
It’s in the sacrifices of migrant parents who fought to give their children a future while making sure they never lost their past. It’s in the in-between moments—eating som tum with your hands, being scolded by your grandma for not bowing or wai’ing properly, hearing old Thai songs play in the background of every family meal.
No one can take that away from me. No amount of questioning can erase it.
I am Thai.
And that will always be enough.
