It’s a week before Lunar New Year, and one of my friends has invited me to a celebration at a nearby church in Wheat Ridge, Colorado. I say yes, although I can immediately feel myself start to sweat as I text a response from work. This is because the celebration was a Vietnamese celebration, and I was neither Vietnamese nor versed in any Vietnamese culture. She says that it’s no big deal and that anyone is invited, so I take her word for it.
At the event, there are thousands of people. My friend and I walk in and look at all our food options, where some cost just a dollar and others are more expensive. I turn to the only Vietnamese food options that I know well: spring rolls and egg rolls. While I’m buying the egg rolls, the man selling to me starts talking in Vietnamese, to which my eyes go wide and my friend steps in to translate.
The celebration goes on; I eat some of the best egg rolls of my life and we meet up with more friends, all of whom are Vietnamese. After a few hours, we head back home and I feel a huge weight taken off my shoulders.
Of course I had a great time, but something in the back of my mind was holding me back from fully loving the experience. I didn’t have to be Vietnamese to go to the celebration, but I felt I was missing out on the community that everyone else had. This was also the first year that I had ever celebrated Lunar New Year (if you can even call my participation in one event a celebration), even though it was the biggest holiday in the Asian community.
I’ve never thought of myself as an Asian American, and I’m sure this is a problem that plagues many other members of younger generations of Asians in America. I grew up fully American: eating American food, living in White-dominated Eastern Colorado, and only knowing English. Often, the thought of being a race other than White precedes me; it’s easy to assimilate and do what everyone else does. As odd as it sounds, I’ve had my fair share of existential crises’ having to remember that people I don’t know will often perceive me as someone I’m not.
I’m also adopted from China, which adds a whole new layer of identity confusion to the mix. I’ve gotten used to saying “Oh, I’m adopted” whenever a question of my ancestry comes up, but there’s always a twinge of sadness never knowing my past. I’m the kind of person who needs to know everything about everything, but a fundamental part of my past has remained a mystery.
I know that I am definitely Asian, as I’ve endured the teasing and stereotypes of my race growing up. The struggle I have is not whether or not I’m Asian, but whether my culture and background are connected to being Asian American. I’ve been told many different answers by many different people, but my mind still hasn’t been made. Truthfully, I’m not sure if I want someone to tell me either.
I wasn’t introduced to a larger community of Asian Americans until I came to college, where seemingly everyone had their backgrounds and cultures to further connect them. When I was invited to join Asian Unity at a club fair, I felt uncomfortable and fearful that they wouldn’t “want me,” which is why I never went to a meeting. For the most part, I accepted the fact that I didn’t match my own Asian American definition.
However, as recent tragedies have struck within the AAPI community, including the shootings in Monterey Park, CA, and Half Moon Bay, CA, I’ve had to reevaluate my stance on my identity—and I’m finding myself more confused than ever. Questions often pop up into my mind: What level of support am I supposed to give when events like this happen? Am I allowed to grieve with the AAPI community? Do I deserve to? It becomes a spiral that is difficult to escape and usually gets pretty emotional.
Through conversations and experiences I’ve had over the past couple of years, I’ve begun to realize that the only one holding me back from the AAPI community was me. I’ve been welcomed in every scenario, such as the recent Vietnamese Lunar New Year with my friends, and have never been judged by a friend for not knowing about Chinese culture.
I definitely can’t say that I’ve resolved these issues with myself, but I have a lot more insight than I did when I was in high school. So, the question of whether I truly think I’m Asian American remains unsolved. It feels like the light at the end of the tunnel is nowhere near, but it’s there. There’s still a lot of growing and crying to be done before I’ve fully grappled with my identity, and it’s possible that I’ll never figure it out. Still, it’s the little moments that make me connected to my friends, family, and mentors. Somehow, I’ve managed to find and create a community all on my own.