Not Chinese Enough

A personal story about identity struggles

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Ever since I came to the U.S. to go to junior high school, I became the girl who is “not Chinese enough”. From my love for hippie music to my love for plaid shirts and bell bottoms to my love for eclectic foreign films to my love for poetry, I was “not Chinese enough”. My parents watched my friendships with the “Americans” closely while promoting my friendships with Asians.

By the time I went to college, I was cast as the person in my family who was just too “banana”. In order to combat the onslaught of American culture in college, my parents guilted me into choosing a “Chinese” enough major — IT. Each year, they held a birthday dinner for me in the same Chinese restaurant that they deemed “Chinese enough”. I hated that restaurant. I hated the fact that they would not even let me have a choice on my birthday. I remember being so mad that I would scream at them for choosing that restaurant yet again. After a while, I simply refused to show up. In the end, they did not budge.

Eventually, when I showed up with an “American” boyfriend, my parents were livid. They hid their anger in their usual passive-aggressive demeanors.

I was the ungrateful daughter who could not appreciate her heritage.

Eventually, I found a middle ground. I joined Asian clubs in college. I found Asian friends as well as “American” friends. I studied Japanese along with taking a semester of Chinese composition. By the end of college, I thought I had shown my parents that I was willing to compromise. After all, I was fluent enough in Chinese that I could write essays.

Still, they didn’t think I was “Chinese enough”.

After I graduated, I spent five years in Japan hoping to reclaim some of my Asian-ness. I also wanted to understand what it meant to go to a different country and make it work. I wanted to close some communication gaps with my immigrant parents. Since being Asian was acceptable to my parents, I thought eventually they would accept me as an “Asian American”.

It didn’t work.

As years went by, the fact that I’m not “Chinese enough” would show up casually during dinner conversations, holiday celebrations, and life choice discussions. Each time, I was simply the naughty child who learned the “American” ways.

After years of this, at some point, I stopped attaching any value to their judgement of my “Chineseness”.

I started to realize that they were acting out of fear. They feared the loss of a family member to the tidal wave of assimilation into a different culture. They longed to be more “Chinese” themselves. But, after 30 years in this country, they were no longer the “Chinese” people they once were.

They simply couldn’t accept their own “American” identity.

Whenever we draw our identity on someone else’s belief system, our identity falls short. You see, I’m an American who has an Asian face. I speak English in my daily life with my son. I love cheeseburgers as much as my bowl of rice. I travel to Asian countries on vacations but I really just want to live in the U.S.

I am Chinese: I love Chinese food, I read Chinese poetry and I love Chinese holiday celebrations.

I am American: I’m independent, resourceful and progressive at heart.

I am Japanese: I’m zen in spirit, soft in the presence and loves the simplistic nature of everyday life.

Why do I have to be one or the other in this day and age?

I don’t.

My son is a beautiful fusion of American and Chinese. He does not care if my skin is brown, yellow or black. He doesn’t care if I can speak Chinese, Japanese or Swahili.

The only language he understands is the language of love. That language is demonstrated with action.

When we raise kids to demand them to conform to some cultural expectations, we are simply telling them: “I don’t accept you for who you are.”Our kids grow up to choose their very destinies. If we force them to learn a language, they will end up hating it. If we try to “subtly” brainwash them, one day, they will wake up.

As parents, all we can do is exposing them to different cultures, presenting them with choices and letting them choose the direction of their own life.

The next time someone asks me who I am or where I come from, I will tell them that “I’m an American.” I will tell them that even though you look at my son and thinks he’s Asian, he’s also an American. If you tell me that I am not caucasian that I’m not “American enough”, I will proudly tell you that “You are wrong, we are the face of the new American.” — all mixed up and proud of it.