JULY 2014
37
“Do you eat dogs in China?” my friend asks with a disgusted tone.
“No, of course not! No one in China eats dogs. I don’t even know where people came up with that. It’s just a stereotype,” the twelve year-old me quickly answers.
She seems satisfied with my response and comments on how repulsive it would be if someone was killing puppies and feasting on them for dinner. In truth, I had no idea how to answer her question. I never even knew that this was one of the preconceived notions that people had of the Chinese culture. Her question was on my mind for the entire day and the moment I returned home, I asked my mom about it.
“Mama, do people really eat dogs in China?”
I wonder if this is a silly question. After all, I go back to China at least twice a year and I feel like I should know the answer. She tells me that in the northeastern region, some people do. Disgusted and annoyed, I throw a fit and complain about the people who do eat dogs. I am quick to condemn them for making life for all the Chinese people who don’t eat dogs, more difficult. She scolds me for my narrow-mindedness and reminds me that chickens are also animals but people seem completely at ease with the thought of eating them. In Chinese, she spews a Confucius quote at me, which I completely ignore in my haste to disassociate myself from my own race. I feel conflicted and caught between two viewpoints.
I am an ABC kid- American Born Chinese. My identity is impossibly tangled. In the United States, I am an Asian foreigner who does not look like the mass majority. However, in China, I am, “the American.” Yes, some of my relatives actually call me that. I can speak fluent Chinese, but it is the textbook Chinese that makes people look at you like you’ve spontaneously grown a third eye. I cannot interact smoothly with the local children because they speak in the fashionable lingo that kids everywhere seem to create. For the longest time, I wondered, where do I fit in? At some point in my childhood, I wanted blond hair and blue eyes. When my family spoke Chinese too loudly in public, I would hurriedly hush them and suggest they speak English. My parents sent me to Chinese school every Sunday and I desperately tried to get out of it. For the life of me, I could not understand why I had to play hours of piano and do five thousand extracurriculars when other kids were going to the zoo and eating cotton candy. My friends would scold me for practicing piano too much, but my piano teacher would admonish me for not practicing nearly enough. It felt like an earthquake where steady land was breaking into two sides and I could not choose which one to cling to.
I thought that no one could understand me. It wasn’t until I spoke with other Asian-Americans and we compared our experiences, that I began to appreciate my culture and make some generalizations. I realized that the Asian-American youth constantly struggles with their bicultural identities. As children, we are expected to follow to multiple sets of norms, none of which quite fit our unique situations.
One of the hardest things for me to understand, was why my parents treated me so differently from how the white parents treated their kids. They were constantly telling their children that they were the best and the prettiest. In my case, it was completely the opposite. As the child of immigrants, life is something special. My parents were willing to spend any amount of effort on me, as long as I succeeded. After piano recitals, other parents would bring their kids flowers and presents, no matter how badly they messed up. Even when I played perfectly, I was rewarded with harsh critiques. If I looked bad one day, my mom would tell me quite honestly, “You look horrible today.” They would never sugarcoat anything just to please me. Even when I did well on tests and activities, they were always pointing out what I could do better. It took me a long time to realize why they were doing this and how much they were giving up for me. They were abandoning lives in a country they were familiar with, to brave an alien land. I finally understood that they loved me just as much as the parents showering their children with gifts. They were just showing their love in a different way. I was determined to pay them back for their selflessness with triumph and success. But in the heat of youth, it is easy to lose yourself and conform to a common lifestyle. When this happens, I take a step back and ponder what I want more. I think about the long path, filled with blood and sweat that my parents walked down to ensure my future. I remember how hard they worked to provide me with privileges they were never entitled to. I compare this to my desire for name-brand clothes and new nail polish. And suddenly all my teenage inclinations seem petty. Don’t I owe it to them to make their time worth the while?
After speaking with other children of immigrants, I realized that we had this in common. It all made a lot more sense, and it was only then that I began to let myself enjoy my culture. I participated more actively in Chinese school and made an effort to engage in more activities within the Chinese community. I felt proud of my heritage.
At school, my inner-peace is shaken up yet again. There are only 63 other Asians at my school of 1,400. This means that my race takes up only 4.45% of the student population. At a nice suburban school, this might mean something different for me. My peers might be from other diverse cultures and backgrounds. However, at my inner-city public school, this entails people yelling, "KONNICHIWA!!" at me in the hallways. At first, I was substantially offended. But now, I’ve gotten used to it. I’m actually quite impressed with the uneducated people at my school. Others usually only know, “Ni hao,” which is Chinese. But, they seem to have expanded their vocabulary to “Konnichiwa,” which is Japanese. Good for them. In my city, the majority of Asians live in the suburbs. The small amount of us who live in the city get stuck with the ludicrous questions and stereotypes. When I get good grades, the credit is immediately stolen from me and given to the fact that I am “Asian.” “Asian,” almost seems like a living person who won’t go away and continues to steal my merits. Going to the same school as so many uncultured people makes me sometimes wish I was white, just to escape the labels that being different comes with. But, it’s always better to be special. It is always worth it to expand your horizons and learn more about what the world has got to offer.
Every day is a great day to be unique and stand out from others.
by Anna Wan