



By Gabe Cheng

Special to AsAmNews



“Do you know how to count to ten on one hand in Chinese?” my friend asked as we waited for the next round of pub trivia. We were at the bar with other work friends during our bi-weekly trivia team up and the conversation had drifted to differences in culture. My friend is a Chinese citizen in the United States on a work visa and I’m an American born Chinese (or ABC as most abbreviate). When we started working together I gave her standing orders to share anything she thought I should know about Chinese culture. So when I told her I didn’t know how to count to ten on one hand, she lit up and volunteered to show the whole table.



One through five are, as you might’ve guessed, not dissimilar from the western style. But the gestures for six through ten, which she demonstrated in a fast and fluid flourish of her fingers, were completely new to my co-workers and I. “You’ve never seen that?” she asked me, “it’s very common for Chinese people to do.”



I’m first generation half Chinese but I never went to Chinese school. So there’s a lot of things I don’t know. Most notably I can’t speak, read, or write the language. I can’t even spell my Chinese middle and last name without tracing the characters. My first generation friends talk about Chinese school the way I imagine soldiers commiserate about boot camp. They tell stories about long Saturday mornings spent repeatedly reading and reciting Chinese texts. Difficult and tedious, they say, but ultimately rewarding. But all I can do is shrug. I’ve been asked more than once, “why didn’t your parents make you go?” Because, I tell them, I didn’t want to.



There’s always a certain percentage of immigrant parents, not exclusive to Chinese immigrants, that want their children to assimilate. But to say that my parents just wanted my siblings and I to “be more American” is a bit reductive. Personally I hate the word assimilate because it makes it sound like there’s only one way to be an archetypal American. In one part of the country “American” means monster trucks and fishing competitions, and in another part it means surfing at sunrise and drinking artisanal coffee. I don’t do any of those things.







My mother grew up in a strict Italian/Sicilian household where, as she described, there was plenty of “Sicilian guilt” to go around. My father grew up in China but his family lost everything in the revolution and fled communist persecution in the aftermath. In the meantime, he converted to Christianity and eschewed many traditional Chinese practices. So I can’t tell you the customs of the Lunar New Year, but I can tell you whether or not you should hide your light under a bushel (you shouldn’t). When my siblings and I came along, my parents made conscious decisions about what to pass on and what to leave out. We were taught how to work hard in school, respect our elders, and make delicious food in large portions.



Growing up this all seemed normal. But as I got older, especially after leaving home and going to college, I felt increasingly out of place with most other first generation Chinese people my age. They might not have retained every lesson from Saturday school, but they’d all done it, and it had given them a perspective on our heritage that I lacked. The same can be said for the Italian Americans I encountered. This followed me into my former career as a high school teacher. My Chinese American students (and a few Chinese exchange students I had) were disappointed when I couldn’t speak the language with them. My African American and Latin students admonished me for “acting too White.” And my Caucasian students would sometimes not even realize I was Chinese, even though they addressed me as Mr. Cheng everyday. I repeatedly found myself defined by my absence of knowledge and shared cultural experience. As a result I’ve never completely felt a part of the Italian American or Chinese American community.



So what did I learn from not going to Chinese school? I learned how to define myself without the benefit of a cultural framework. I’m half Chinese and half Italian, but I’m also Gabe. We’re all the sum total of our choices and decisions, and for better or for worse, I started out with a blank slate. My parents didn’t want their children to feel beholden to our family’s past. If my siblings and I were to engage in our heritage, they wanted it to be a choice not an obligation. And whether they were right or wrong doesn’t really matter, because there’s no changing it now. In high school my sister chose to take Chinese classes for her language requirement. After graduate school, my brother chose to study Kung Fu and traveled to China for the first time last year. When I was writing the script for my webcomic I chose to make the main character Chinese American like me (more about that decision in this AsAm News Blog Post ).. And more recently I chose to watch a bunch of YouTube videos to help me practice signing six through ten in Chinese. So that the next time I went to pub trivia, I was able to keep track of our score using only one hand.



Gabe Cheng left a career as a high school teacher and moved to Los Angeles to pursue his passion for writing and entertainment. If you’d like to support his webcomic “ For Molly ” the Kickstarter campaign is going on right now



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