“Sure you’re American, but you have a Chinese face, so you’re Chinese!” Uttered by a man in Rome who was trying to get me on a tour bus, this phrase pigeonholed me into the one category I had always tried to avoid.
I don’t know when I began to feel such a strong sense of indignation about my Chinese ethnicity. In retrospect, my guess is that it started when I was younger. I used to live in Savannah, Georgia for a period of my childhood. There, I would be verbally and physically bullied for my appearance. I remember the extreme frustration of people speaking to me as if I couldn’t understand English—when in reality, it was my native tongue.
This frustration did not go away with time. This summer, I had the opportunity to study abroad in Europe. I traveled to many places and was extremely humbled by what I experienced. It took me two months after getting back to finally put into words what I’ve been thinking about all this time. That is, that I became extremely aware of the fact that racism exists. I knew it all along, but didn’t experience the extent until this summer.
Identity has always been a sensitive topic for me. When I was a kid, whenever people called me “Chinese,” I would shoot back with, “No! I’m American!” And proceed to give them supporting facts as to why I was American: I was born in New York, I’ve moved around all over the United States, I was raised in “American culture,” etc., etc…
It got to the point where I was so against being called anything other than “American” that as a kid, I stopped speaking Mandarin to my parents. I pretended not to understand when their friends would speak to me in Chinese. But of course, I understood the things they would say about me—how it was terrible that I was rejecting culture and history, how my Chinese was already laced with an American accent, etc., etc. And it stung. But it was easier to pretend. It was easier to choose only one culture and face a black-and-white picture of who I was.
My study abroad trip put me in situations of extreme discomfort, from random teenagers shouting “Ni hao! Konichiwa!” as they passed by, to an older man in an airport saying, “F***ing Chinese tourists” as I spoke Mandarin to my mom on the phone.
I wish I could say that I just brushed their words off. But in reality, I’m a pretty thin-skinned person; I take things personally, especially cruelty. And when it came to issues of identity, their words struck a chord in me. At first I didn’t know why I felt so offended at their words. After all, if I were “solely American” like I had been claiming all this time, then why did I feel so much personal anger at their ignorance?
It was then that I realized something. My Chinese ethnicity was something I felt reluctant to address because I thought that admitting I was “Chinese” meant that I would be undermining my identity as an “American.” But after much reflection, I’ve discovered that accepting one significant facet of my identity in absolutely no way dismisses or undermines another.
This semester, I am taking a Chinese class here at UC Berkeley. It’s a class for native speakers who don’t know how to read or write Chinese, but who understand Mandarin fluently. Through this class, I’ve come to have so much respect for Chinese culture and history—with all of its nuances and political complexities. From discovering that the everyday English phrase, “Long time no see!” is actually a direct translation taken from the Mandarin phrase, “好久不见! (Hǎo jiǔ bù jiàn!)”, to understanding the significant contribution Chinese people made to the building of the first transcontinental railroad, I can’t help but feel awe and regret. I am awed at the significant but underrated influences of the Chinese on history that affects the present United States. But I also feel regret that for so long, I was ashamed of being called Chinese because it usually meant that I was being mocked.
It took me a long time to understand that being “American” doesn’t mean speaking fluent, “proper” English (which, linguistically-speaking, doesn’t even exist), nor does it mean being born in the States and being white. Without going into a patriotic spiel, I dare say that being American means having the audacity and the courage to break traditional boundaries of identity. The United States has been eclectic in identity from the start. Despite historical and political attempts to homogenize the population of the United States, the American people have always been diverse and multicultural. What makes an American an “American” relates more to abstract characteristics rooted in values and principles—not in race, ethnicity or ancestry.
Growing up in the United States, the vexation I experienced at being a “hyphen” was constant. That is, I hated being called Chinese-American (or Asian-American, at that). Because I was American. Period. No division. I rejected this duality of difference with a passion. But now I understand that this hyphen proclaims a facet of my identity that I should be proud of—that is, one of diversity, one of experiences, one of unique and irreplaceable memories.
I’m done sticking my nose up in the air and ignoring a significant part of my life. Now, I’m trying to open that door that I had kept locked for 19 years for fear of judgment. I missed out on so much just because I was too stubborn and sensitive to others’ opinions of me. I was afraid that, by accepting my Chinese background, I would be rejecting my American identity. I didn’t realize that being American meant being accepting and having more than one defining identity. But I know now.
I am of Chinese descent, taught and disciplined in a Chinese family. And I am an American, born and raised in the United States.
I am who I am, no matter how long it took me to accept it.