When I tell you I’m an Asian-American, that sounds like a pretty sweet deal, right? I’m a child of two cultures, the ideal hybrid who can use chopsticks and understand what 'smh' and 'ttyl' mean. I’m the perfect catch on Tinder with my “exotic” features and American humor. Best of all, I’m bilingual and BBC tells me that means I’m better at concentrating and multi-tasking.
But to tell you the truth, being an ABC (American-Born-Chinese) is far from the rosy, cultural fusion that many would like to believe. It’s impossible for me to choose between the A and the C. At times, the Chinese and American parts of me feel like two opposing magnets struggling for dominance. To bring one closer is to force the other away and so I exist in an empty limbo where neither can quite touch me and I’m neither an A or C.
1. Yes I’m Bilingual But To What Extent
Yes, I can speak both languages but I’ve gone through an American school system where I’ve learned my ABCs and 123s and made friends in English. Of course, that leads me to be more articulate in English while my barely-used Chinese rusts away, unused except for the rare times I go home. My parents used to force me to attend Chinese school every Sunday where I sat and drooled on the desk for four hours as a volunteer teacher tried to stress the importance of maintaining our “mother tongue.” Sadly, those lessons haven’t paid off and after all these years, I only remember how to write “ni hao.” Normally this wouldn’t be a problem because, as I have said, I conduct most of my affairs in English. But when I go home, all I see are the disappointed looks of my parents and uncomprehending frowns of my Chinese-speaking grandparents. I’m unhappy that I cannot communicate with my grandparents and there seems to be a generational gap that I cannot bridge with my mime-shaming antics and incomprehensible Chinglish. As I struggle to get words past my clumsy American accent, my parents shake their heads and remind me it’s important not to lose my native heritage. I feel guilty that my Chinese seems to be fading away but how can I retain it and my cultural legacy in a place where we speak with acronyms like 'lol' and fawn over the latest episode of "Stranger Things"?
2. What Do You Want From Me?
We’re all surrounded by expectations, some personal but some manufactured, by the culture we live in. That’s not abnormal but for Asian-Americans, we face a double load from the American society we live in as well as the Chinese homes we grew up in. By day, I was told that I could be anything I wanted, that the sky was my limit as long as I was passionate enough. By night, I went home and told my parents of my desire to be a writer, veterinarian and cat whisperer, yes, all at once. I was treated to a long lecture about the impracticality of these pursuits, which might have been true about the cat whisperer, and to focus on subjects that would get me a secure job. In college, I’ve been told to be an independent woman, to be strong and fight to have my voice heard. College courses encourage students to participate and articulate one’s opinion, there’s even a grade for it. When interviews come up, I’ll be judged for how much confidence I exude and how much I can stand out from the crowd. But when I go home, my grandparents tell me that I’m too loud and that I shouldn’t talk so much. My parents get angry when I try to insert an opposing opinion into the conversation and remind me that a good woman is a quiet and obedient one. Those raised in a more individualistic household advise me to forget my parents, to forge ahead with what I want. However, that is where I feel the cultural clash most keenly because while it is impossible for me sacrifice my desires, it is also impossible to turn my back on my family, the most important and basic bond in Chinese society.
3. I Feel Like I’m Missing Something
On a couple of occasions, my parents will phone in to ask me to come back home for something called a “Dragon Boat Festival.” I’ll scratch my head and ask why we’ll be eating triangular pieces of rice wrapped in bamboo leaves. They’ll never really give me a good explanation and just mumble something incomprehensible. What I’m trying to get at is that as an Asian-American, I feel that I can never fully immerse myself in Asian or American culture. Like the example above, I don’t know the mythos of the holidays my parents call me back for. Nor do I understand the comments about the “hot” and “cold” balance of the body my grandmother makes when I get sick or the fear my mother has of the dark because it “hides the gui (demons).” There is an entire treasure house of cultural knowledge that I am missing and I feel empty when I realize the depth of my ignorance towards my Chinese heritage. On the flip side, I don’t feel fully steeped in the American culture I am surrounded with every day. While my peers discuss the latest Netflix shows they’ve watched or the daily drama surrounding actors and pop singers, I sit there mutely with nothing to say. I’m a passive observer in the high-kinetic environment of my American surroundings and feel strangely lonely. However, when I try to embrace American culture more fully, I experience guilt for neglecting, almost betraying, the culture of my parents and remember the many disparaging remarks about Twinkies and bananas.
4. There’s No Place in the Alphabet for Me
Even after complaining so extensively, I’ll say that the hardest part of being Asian-American is not being able to fully belong to either group. Hanging out with an American or Chinese crowd only highlights the dual nature of being bicultural and I’m never truly comfortable either at home or college. Among my Chinese relatives or the international students, words escape me and every other Mandarin syllable that is spoken escapes my understanding. I laugh uneasily when the entire group laughs at an incomprehensible joke or squirm with embarrassment when I talk about the wrong things. At school, I remain quiet about topics that I don’t know about and bob my head along in agreement to hide my ignorance. I find myself gravitating towards the other Asian-American students at my school because there is a mutual understanding of our unique heritage. Who better to hang out with than another Asian-American when I moan about missing Chinese food or complain about my parents’ expectations? Floating in the gap between being Chinese and American can be lonely, so finding a fellow outcast to share that solitude with you can be the comfort you never knew you needed so dearly.
