seven
My mother packs me fried eggs with soy sauce for lunch. She tucks them in saran wrap and a few sandwich bags, instructs me to make sure I finish it all. During recess I find a piece of shade to sit in, opening my lunch box when two girls, blonde and pretty, walk by and ask me where that weird smell is coming from.

I throw the food away after they’re gone and tell my mother it was delicious when she asks later.

fourteen
The chatter of the cafeteria rings in my ears. A classmate sees me, invites me to eat with her group of friends. As soon as we sit down the questions start: “Where are you really from?” “Why do you practice piano all the time?” “Can you help me with math? You must be good at it.” Someone says that Asians push their eyes in to make them look bigger. Another takes her fingers, pulls the corner of one eye up and the other one down. “Chinese Japanese,” she hollers, and they laugh.

I laugh with them. I feel disgusted.

seventeen
"Sorry? how many did you want?”

"Three,” my father repeats evenly, except he pronounces it s-ree. Like many non-native English speakers, he’d never gotten used to the th sound.

The man at the front desk smirks. “Three,” he drawls. “You want three copies.” i stand nearby, silent, fuming, wanting to scream that in China, my dad was an English professor, that he built himself up from absolute poverty, that he can speak more dialects than I knew existed. But I don’t. We exit the lobby.

"What a nice guy,” my father remarks, and I realize he is sincere.

nineteen
I cross the street from the Walgreens on the corner as I walk to campus, headphones blasting music to try and drown out the noise of traffic. As I pass two men on the street, I instinctively hunch over, not wanting to draw attention to myself. It doesn't work. "Hey China doll," one of them yells. The other laughs, adding, "Ni hao, ni hao, am I saying that right?" I quicken my pace, a knot of disgust growing in my stomach, wanting to yell "Fuck you" but knowing it would be better not to.

twenty-one
I see dried seaweed being sold at the grocery store. A healthy snack, the packaging reads, the newest trend. A young white couple whisks three or four bags into their cart. “These are amazing,” the woman gushes, oblivious to my wry smile, and they head for the checkout line.

I leave without buying anything and think about how my embarrassment of being the “other” is erased in that one action, how my entire livelihood has suddenly been validated after all this time of experiencing the exact opposite.

It must be so wonderful to never experience shame.