Notes on being Chinese but not quite

In light of it being Asian American and Pacific Island Heritage month, here is something that I wrote a year ago but never shared.

I am 4 years old, attending Hillcrest as a pre-schooler. I’m in a class with 2 friends from Mommy & Me. One day, we are playing and our teacher puts us in time out because we were speaking Chinese amongst ourselves. The teacher later tells our mothers that she did not put us in time-out solely for speaking Chinese, but because she had asked us multiple times to only speak English so that she could understand us at all times. In hindsight, her reasoning makes sense, but as a 4-year old who could barely speak or understand English, this moment defined the first instance in my life that I realized I was different. My first language was not English like my other classmates, and I was penalized for that.

I am 6 years old, in first grade (don’t worry, I speak English fluently now). My mom has packed me 韭菜 (Chinese leek) dumplings for lunch. As our class files into the cafeteria, I can barely contain my excitement. I love dumplings. I sit at a table next to my friends, but as I take the lid off my lunch container, I am met by cries of disgust— my friends have never smelled 韭菜 before, and to them, the sweet, herby aroma smells like “farts and dog poop”. Quietly, I close the lid, replace the container in my hello kitty lunch bag, and skip lunch for the day. I come home to my mother in tears, and she solemnly promises me she will never pack anything “offensive” for lunch again.

I am 8 years old. We have recently moved to Colorado from California. I am 2 years older than the kids in my Chinese class, not because my Chinese is deficient, but because my parents haven’t been able to find a Chinese school that teaches traditional Chinese with zhuyin fu, and that’s all I’ve learned. Bohua Chinese School deals exclusively with simplified Chinese and pin yin. I am the only kid that looks white in my class, and I hate Chinese school, and I hate my Chinese blood.

I am 13 years old. Despite my disdain for Chinese school and my Chinese heritage, I have internalized the model minority myth. I have more to prove because I don’t look Chinese. Fresh out of middle school, I am already worried about getting into university.

I am 15 years old and spread thin. Between a full course load of AP and honors classes, Chinese school on Sunday’s, track and cross country meets on Saturday’s, and piano whenever I have a spare moment, I barely have time to breathe. My boyfriend breaks up with me the day before homecoming, and as a final jab, he tells me maybe my mom and I shouldn’t speak Chinese when we’re around my English-speaking friends— its rude. I want to tell him that it isn’t her fault that she just forgets sometimes. I want to tell him that if he didn’t want to hear Chinese, he shouldn’t have dated a half-Chinese girl in the first place. I want to tell him a lot of other things, but the words get stuck in my throat.

I am 16 years old, almost 17, and my AP Chinese teacher pulls me aside in a class full of fully Chinese students, and tells me that in her 20 years of teaching, only one student has ever gotten a 4— the rest have gotten 5’s. She looks at me over her glasses, mouth set in a stern line, and tells me not to be her second 4.

I am 18 years old, in my second year of university. I am taking an Asian-Pacific American Communities class, learning about the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, Japanese internment, and the role that my ancestors played in the construction of the railroads, among other things. I am learning about how the model minority myth was and is still used to discredit the Black/African American experience while simultaneously invalidating any protests against Asian/Pacific American hate and discrimination. That same year, an openly racist, bigoted rapist is elected president, and all I can think is for a country that prides itself on being so progressive and civilized, we sure have a long ways to go.

I am 20 years old and learning to love myself— Chinese parts and all. I am learning to let go of the impossible standards that I imposed on myself for years. I am coming to terms with the fact that I do not have to fit neatly into a box labeled “Chinese” or “White”. I am neither white on the outside and yellow on the inside nor yellow on the outside and white on the inside, but a beautiful and complex mix of both. I am realizing that I can embrace both my halves and find a sense of belonging not by what race I identify with, but in the shared experience of being human.

I am 22 years old as I read with tears in my eyes that there has been a shooting in Atlanta and 6 out of the 8 that died were women of Asian descent. With the recent spike in Asian hate and discrimination that came with the rise of COVID-19 and racist rhetoric from politicians like Donald Trump, I am not surprised. My lack of surprise, however, does nothing to curb the unspeakable grief I feel for my fallen sisters or the anger that rises with the knowledge that it is twenty fucking twenty one and there are still people out there filled with so much hate for other human beings that they are willing to kill.

On the whole, I would say that my experience as an Asian American living in the States has been relatively soft and easy. The fact that I am sitting here, with a beating heart, breathing in mountain air, surrounded by snow capped peaks rising from a glistening sea speaks to my privilege. I have been lucky enough to receive an education and to grow up with a loving support system, which is more than many can even dare ask for. I recognize that there are many people out there who have lived through hardships I cannot even imagine, and in light of their struggles, it seems silly to be talking about being put in time-out for speaking Chinese or the pressures of meeting expectations exerted on me via Asian stereotypes and the model minority myth. However, I don’t think this invalidates the minute amounts of discrimination and micro aggressions I have witnessed in my life thus far. Instead, I think that these experiences (however small) are byproducts of a system that is sick. A system that tolerates intolerance and allows for— even perpetuates— acts of hate.

It is 2021, and it is time to dismantle the model minority myth. It is time to put an end to the fetishization of Asian women; we are people, not exotic curiosities to be objectified. It’s 2021 and it is time for white men to be held accountable for the crimes they commit against other living, breathing human beings. With everything happening right now, it’s hard to have hope, and easy to feel helpless. With so much wrong, how can we begin to make things right? I don’t have the answers to these questions, but I do believe having conversations and sharing stories is a start. So, I will continue to share my experiences, to make space for and to listen to others’ stories. To all my fellow human beings out there, Asian American or otherwise, I see you, I hear you, and I love you.