Chinese immersion school. Reused lunar new year decorations on the wall every February. Brief greetings with my relatives at our annual Thanksgiving dinner.
How does my experience differ from the multitude of Chinese American kids that grew up in San Francisco? As I have sought my identity growing up, race was never part of the search. Truthfully, I never knew what it was like to be an outlier in my city- I was always surrounded with people of all races and identities growing up. I never had to worry if my mom packed an “unusual” lunch for me, chances were plenty of other kids had it. If it was a non-American holiday, everyone around me still recognized it.
I was used to seeing the multilingual signs posted at bus stops, language-specific flyers at museums, or the foreign cuisines that were around every corner. Those were things I took so vagrantly for granted, because it was all I ever knew. My youngest years were raised primarily in Chinese by my grandma. I learned the unfamiliar strokes of the characters at the immersion school my parents had prayed and wept for me to get into. I learned to mimic the various dishes my dad made for dinner- steaming fish, egg, and spareribs; perfectly cooked rice in a saucepan. Recipes were only passed down by mouth, and my grandma still is the only one to know the recipes for Chinese sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves, or mooncakes from scratch.
Sometimes I wondered if my identity as a Chinese person attributed to my character. Did it make me more shy and reserved? Unwilling to ask for help? Did it lend a desire to keep things structured instead of letting things go by the wind? I observe the streamline of the elderly on Irving, silently going about their day with reused plastic bags with groceries from the Chinese grocery stores in tow. I quietly paralleled the dynamics of my family and the families of others. I wondered if my white friends received the same pressure of staying in math tutoring and piano lessons, even if I hated it.
I guess, we tried to do things that kept us Chinese. My family lit lanterns at the mid-autumn festival. I stayed in piano lessons up until high school ended. The Chinese prayers uttered over buffet-style nightly dinners consisting of rice, veggie, and meat dishes. My parents always encouraged us to speak it at home, lest the tongue be forgotten in our English society. The old adage was true in its case- my older and I speak it significantly well, but my younger two sisters could not be any less detached then they are now. I struggle with how much I identify with my Chinese side versus my American side.
It is a strange feeling to not feel Chinese, but Chinese American, and attest that to my identity.