Dannie Wang, Director of Membership, CPRS Vancouver
When we say “Asian,” what do we actually mean?
During my years in Canada, I’ve noticed a common assumption that I find both interesting and troubling. When people refer to “Asians,” the image that often comes to mind is East Asian, typically someone with light or yellow-toned skin. Rarely do we think of South, West, or Central Asians, even though Asia is vast and culturally diverse.
At the same time, East Asians are often unintentionally identified as Chinese.
I remember a moment when I was studying in Victoria, BC. My landlord, a senior woman, once whispered to me what she thought was a discovery: another tenant was “dating a Chinese guy.” When I asked how she knew, she simply said, “He just looks Chinese.” The next time I saw him, he looked to me like a typical East Asian man, with no clear indication of his background.
That moment stayed with me, not because it was unusual, but because it wasn’t.
It wasn’t until I began volunteering at the Chinese Canadian Museum in downtown Victoria that I started to better understand where some of these assumptions come from.
The Chinese community was among the earliest immigrant groups to arrive in Canada in pursuit of the “Gold Mountain” dream. At the same time, they became primary targets of exclusion and discrimination, particularly during the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1923. For decades, families were separated, and entire communities were shaped by policies that restricted movement, belonging, and identity.
In the museum, these histories are not abstract. They are deeply personal.
I remember watching visitors pause in front of archival photographs, pointing quietly as they recognized relatives they had never met. One story, in particular, stayed with me: a woman who only reunited with her husband decades later, after years of separation caused by exclusionary laws. As someone who grew up in modern-day China, I experienced these stories almost as if they belonged to a different world, but for many families in Canada, they are still part of living memory.
Experiences like these help explain why, in Canada, the Chinese story is often the first, or only, reference point when people think about Asian identity.
But it is only one part of a much broader picture.
Across the country, Asian communities include South Asian, Southeast Asian, West Asian, and Central Asian populations, each shaped by distinct histories, migration patterns, and cultural identities. Yet in everyday conversations, these differences are often flattened into a single, simplified label.
So when someone asks, “Why Chinese?”, a question I once heard during a museum discussion, it doesn’t come with an easy answer.
Part of it is history. Part of it is visibility. And part of it is how stories have been told, repeated, and remembered over time.
But the question itself matters.
Because it reminds us that representation is never neutral. The communities we highlight, the stories we prioritize, and the voices we amplify all shape how people understand identity.
As communications professionals, this is where our role becomes critical.
The way we frame narratives can either reinforce assumptions, or challenge them. It can reduce complexity, or make space for it.
Asian Heritage Month is often a time for celebration, but it is also an opportunity to reflect more deeply on how we understand and represent diversity. Not as a single story, but as many.
And perhaps that starts by asking a simple question:
When we say “Asian,” who are we including, and who are we leaving out?