Hi, I’m Py. That’s “Py” as in rhymes-with-Thai — which, on paper, is my nationality. Ethnically, though? That’s where things start to get blurry. Depending on where you draw the lines — genetically, culturally, or cartographically — I might have very little “Thai” in me… or possibly none at all.
Back in 2010, I was working at a consulting firm in the middle of Bangkok. One day, a blood donation drive set up shop in our building’s lobby. Feeling noble (and mildly bored), I decided to give blood. At the registration table, the nurse handed me a form with the usual questions — name, age, medical history — and then one that caught my eye: “What is the majority of the donor’s race?” The options were a buffet of regional identities — Northern Thai, Central Thai, Southern Thai/Malay, Chinese, Caucasian, African — and then there it was: Isan/Lao. (Btw, Isan is another name for the northeast region of Thailand)
Simply put, I look Chinese — like my dad. But the truth is that he is 3 quarters Teochew Chinese and one-quarter northern Thai; and my mom is full-blooded Phu Thai. Her grandparents crossed over from Laos long before national borders were clearly defined and settled in a remote northeastern Thai village — the kind of place where the gene pool doesn’t get stirred very often — my grandparents were cousins — imagine that happening now.
Doing some quick math, and using some logical thinking, that makes me… about half Isan/Lao. So I ticked the “Isan/Lao” box. Easy.
I handed the form back to the nurse. She glanced at the paper, then at my face. Then at the paper. Then back at my face. Without saying a word, she picked up her pen, crossed out “Isan/Lao,” ticked “Chinese,” and handed the form back to me with the confident finality of someone correcting a child’s homework.
With a face a pale as mine, I can’t really say I was surprised. It’s a scene I’ve lived through more times than I can count. I’ll be at a street vendor, ordering food in fluent Thai, and the vendor will pause and ask, “Your Thai is so good!” or “Are you Thai?” Sometimes I even get, “Oh, I thought you were Japanese… or Korean!”
It’s funny — and also not. Because I’ve been questioning my identity for as long as I’ve had the words to describe it. Thai is what my passport says. It’s the language I speak, the name I carry, but often, I feel like a foreigner in my own country — a permanent guest in a place where I supposedly belong.
All of this leads me to wonder: What does it mean to be Thai? Is there such a thing as a “Thai race”? What cultures, values, and traditions are truly Thai — and which are borrowed, adapted, or imagined? And why does this question stir so much tension?
Those are the thoughts that led me to start writing about it — partly to reflect on my own journey, but more than that, it’s a hand raised into the crowd, searching for others who’ve felt the same: people who don’t fully belong anywhere, and yet somehow, belong everywhere…
Py Piyapong 