There’s a photo of my mother on her wedding day that I love. She’s sipping soda and laughing with relatives at my parent’s Chinese banquet, looking radiant in her evening gown: a strapless, mandarin orange dress that puffs out towards the floor, princess-style. A classic pillbox hat sits poised over her trimmed bob; a sheer shawl drapes over her delicate arms. It’s a striking and unusual look for a Hong Kong bride in the 1980s.
Inspired by Western haute couture, she designed her wedding gowns (in Chinese weddings, the bride wears several outfits), hiring a neighbor who was a seamstress to help sew. “We didn’t have money for new dresses and I wanted something special that fit my identity. So, I made it myself!” she said.
I came across the photo while seeking inspiration for my own wedding. I had recently gotten married to my partner in a small civil ceremony in London, and we planned to host a proper wedding in Hong Kong a few months later. I also wanted to pick dresses that could reflect my “identity” and personal taste.
Unlike my mum, who married another Hongkonger and never left the city, I’ll be the first in my family to settle in Britain and marry a partner who is White and British. My fiancé is also the first in his close family to marry a non-White immigrant.
Rather than shying away from the challenges of navigating an interethnic marriage, we wanted to actively celebrate and engage with each other’s cultural heritages at our wedding. I was excited and couldn’t wait to plan everything — starting with my dress.
It was supposed to be easy: I’ll just find something that feels ‘right,’ I thought to myself. Something that isn’t too expensive, that stylistically honors both Chinese and Western traditions.
It wasn’t. As soon as I started looking online, I became overwhelmed. My searching prompted a barrage of questions: Should I wear a Chinese cheongsam (qipao) or a white wedding dress? How about both, or neither? Should we do a tea ceremony and rent two-piece qun kwa outfits (traditional Chinese tea ceremony attire)? Or wear Western clothing, but in colors like red and gold that symbolize prosperity in Chinese culture?
Before I knew it, I was up until four in the morning on Instagram scrolling over “inspo” pics, feeling like I’d tripped and fallen into the industrial wedding complex vortex and couldn’t claw my way out.
I also had a tough time finding bridal shops in London, where I’m based, offering high quality and contemporary Chinese designs (which is strange considering how many overseas Chinese and Asian people live here.)
It turns out, I wasn’t alone in my struggle. Jenn Qiao, the co-founder of US-based bridal brand East Meets Dress, started her company five years ago after failing to find a modern cheongsam for her own wedding. “The choices seemed to be dealing with sketchy sellers on Alibaba or impatient grannies in Chinatown,” she writes on the brand’s website. “My maid of honor and I thought: this isn’t an isolated experience,” Qiao explained on a phone call, adding that she ended up wearing a pink cheongsam that she eventually designed herself.
“Now, our mission is to offer modern styles that fuse your ethnicity and heritage to your current style.”
They started off creating bespoke and ready-to-wear cheongsams, but have since received a growing number of requests for “fusion” gowns from mixed couples. “One bride marrying a Mexican (man) wanted to incorporate this shade of blue commonly seen in Mexican art, so we customized one of our dresses in white and included blue embroidery,” Qiao said.
It’s a niche but growing market. In addition to playing with color, dressmakers also experiment with different materials and silhouettes. Qipology, a Hong Kong-based brand, offers diverse cheongsam designs with functional elements like zippers (rather than the traditional knotted buttons) to prioritize comfort and versatility, as well as fun takes (like a white halter qipao with a feathery trim). “We have brides of different shapes who don’t want to wear something so form-fitting,” said Julie Liu, Qipology’s founder. “(Modernization) is not really about how to incorporate the Western world, but about: ‘how do I look good in the qipao and not show everyone my belly?’”
Grace Pei, a designer at US-based Jinza Oriental Couture, said that over 90% of her clients are in interethnic relationships and planning multicultural weddings. “I realized that everyone wants to honor their heritage, but nobody knows how,” she said in a phone interview.
Pei recently wrote a guide on the topic, recommending that couples include tea ceremonies and Chinese lion dances, and to weave in cultural symbols into the decor — such as using peonies, lotuses and cherry blossoms with orchids or roses into floral centerpieces.
As time went on, I realized that my anxieties were less about the dress itself, and more about what it had come to represent: my sense of identity in a mixed marriage. Now that I’ve chosen to live in a predominantly White society and marry a White partner, I feel increasingly protective of my Hong Kong heritage and defensive against assimilation. The pressure I have felt has been exacerbated by the racist and sexist backlash in recent years to East Asian women marrying outside their race, which has become a negative cultural trope (see this fake “Oxford Study” that blew up on TikTok and shames Asian women for dating white men, or this viral essay by Chinese American author Celeste Ng about how she was harassed for marrying her White husband).
My anxiety was compounded by questions on what the wedding would actually look like. How do you honor multiple cultures on such a momentous occasion? Should we hire a translator for our tea ceremony? How should we approach asking western guests to prepare lai see for the occasion (red envelopes of money to wish the bride and groom good fortune)? Should we serve Chinese or Western food? Should we seat guests by family, as per Chinese traditions, or seat both families together?
And, at the crux of these concerns: Would we be able to make choices that cater to both families, who have drastically different cultural expectations? Will they accept us and embrace each other moving forward?
My partner also felt overwhelmed by these choices, but tried to reassure me that our extended families — who would be meeting for the first time — would share in our joy on the big day, regardless of its shape or form. Yet every decision still felt fraught with tension; like a choice of one culture over another.
When I confessed all of this to a Chinese friend, who recently married her Italian husband, I was relieved to hear she had similar concerns. She had worried that her attempts to honor her cultural heritage would be perceived negatively, and seen as culturally performative. They decided to stick to clothing from their respective cultures: she wore a cheongsam and he wore a Western suit. “I didn’t want us to be viewed as just ‘an interracial couple’ or have it framed as: ‘look at this White man (wearing) traditional Chinese wedding attire,’” she told me. “I wanted guests to see us as two individuals celebrating our love, rather than (as) cultural symbols.”
Her words resonated; they reminded me why I was trying so hard to be culturally thoughtful in the first place. We wanted to celebrate our love and respect for one another, as well as our families. At the end of the day, the best we can do is keep these intentions at the forefront of our decisions, and go with what feels right as a couple. And for us, it ultimately meant choosing several outfits to honor both Western and Chinese traditions — and to engage our loved ones in the process.
I went shopping with one of my bridesmaids in London, where we stumbled upon a delicately embroidered white dress with a short train that was on sale (it was fate, we declared), and bought it to wear for our drinks reception. My dad gifted my partner one of his old tuxedos for the big day, and my sister persuaded me to rent a party dress for the karaoke dance portion of our wedding (neither a Chinese or Western tradition, but very me). The dress was Western in design, but in the lucky Chinese color red — a nod to both cultures.
These joyful moments were on my mind the morning of our Hong Kong wedding, when we gathered both families together in my family home to take part in the tea ceremony. We wore rented qun kwas for that, and even got one for my mum, who couldn’t afford to do so at her own wedding.
Together, my husband and I held hands and stood in front of our loved ones: me in a high-collared red jacket and long skirt, with delicately embroidered phoenixes and beaded tassels that spun with each step; my partner in a matching Tang suit, with a pair of dragons dancing over waves of gold and silver. I looked over his shoulder and saw my mum tearing up, hand over her heart, radiant in her dark burgundy qun kwa. “You look beautiful,” she mouthed, and I smiled back. I did feel beautiful. I felt like me.
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