Chinese-American. Is that what I actually am? I’ve always felt like a foreigner. To the white man, I’m just an Asian
girl. To the true Asians abroad, I’m
just an ABC (American-born Chinese). I
love the USA. I also love my Chinese
heritage. I speak English. I speak Mandarin. I speak Chinglish. I’m really just sort of lost somewhere
between American and Chinese.
In
reality, I am part of a small minority of immigrant children who think they can
speak Chinese fluently and eat all the food from Taiwan or China, only to venture
to Taiwan or China and find out I’m too dark, too thick, have an American accent, and my
weak stomach can’t actually handle any authentic Taiwanese street food. Lost somewhere between generations and
cultures, learning along the way what it actually means to be American, my life
has been filled with struggles to figure it out.
I
remember it took some time for me to fully realize we just didn’t celebrate
American holidays the same. I remember
learning about how the Indians and Pilgrims would celebrate that first
Thanksgiving together and how the tradition of elaborate Thanksgiving meals
complete with corn, mashed potatoes, gravy, turkey, stuffing, and cranberry
sauce would make everyone giddy with excitement. I remember spending weeks on end during our
designated craft time at school carefully using a pencil to stick brown tissue
paper all over a newspaper filled paper bag to make a grand master turkey
centerpiece. I remember taking it home
to my mom, telling her it was supposed to be a used for our Thanksgiving
dinner, and then coming home one day and finding out she had thrown it
away because it took up space. I remember another elaborate craft
project tying red and green tissue paper around a wire hanger that we had
molded into a circle to make a red and green and very festive wreath for our
front door. I remember the excitement of
bringing it home to my mom who told me our door didn’t have any means to hang
anything on it. I remember never writing
letters to Santa Claus. I remember
opening one present from my parents on Christmas Eve because there was no such
thing as waking up early on Christmas morning.
Part
of me vowed never to throw away my kids’ art projects, but mostly, it didn’t
matter much. We might not have
celebrated Thanksgiving or Christmas the way white people did on the
television, but we always had family, all our cousins, lots of mah-jong, and lots of Chinese food.
I
think it’s funny to look back at the things I missed out on because my parents
were immigrants but also fun to think about the unique experiences I did have
because of that.
While
American mothers were teaching their kids how to make chocolate chip cookies, I
was rolling glutinous rice balls for our red bean soup. While American mothers were making baked
goods for the school fundraisers, we were taking a trip to the American super
market (a rare occurrence) to buy some already baked goods to donate. While
American mothers were taking their daughters to brownies and girl scout
meetings and activities and AYSO soccer practice, my mother was scheduling my
private tutoring sessions, speed reading classes, piano lessons, Chinese
school, and dance lessons. While
American mothers were planning grand Thanksgiving dinners with stuffing inside
the turkey, we were stuffing our turkeys with Chinese sticky rice (which btw is way better than stuffing).
There
were just a lot of things my mother didn’t care to adapt to when it came to the
American culture. She never said I
couldn’t do what the white kids were doing, she just didn’t bring it up if I
didn’t. And because she didn’t really
understand the American pop culture of the time, we were essentially fresh off
the boat (“FOBs”). I looked like I was a
byproduct of Taiwan, not America. My mom
dressed me in shirts with awkward improper English phrases (I can being your friend too!), and blouses and
skirts adorned with unfamiliar Chinese cartoon characters. My mom put my hair in pigtails with big
fluffy balls instead of neon shoelaces and anything of American trend in the
80’s. I didn’t have big hair or big
bangs, I had straight black hair that was flat, never crimped or curled. And
yet I had a fantastic childhood… one filled with Chinese expectations and
American struggles, but fantastic nevertheless.
