Years after I left Florida, I stopped to visit a Chinese friend of the family on a return visit. He was a friend of my mom’s, but he and I also worked together for a while. He now owned his own business. I admired him for his kindness and respected him for his principle. He gave me room to be myself apart from the pressures from the community. We caught up in our respective lives. I asked about his business; he asked about my life as an engineer. Eventually, he makes a suggestion, which sounded more like a directive, “You should go back to China to find a wife. It’d make your mom happy. It is our people.”
I never responded to that suggestion with anything other than polite acknowledgement, though it quietly filled me with disappointment and a sense of betrayal. It was as if a billboard went off in my mind with the words, “Et tu, Brute?“
Being a Chinese outcast
It takes knowing about 2000 Chinese characters before you’re considered fluent or at least functional. Imagine needing to learn a 2000 letter alphabet in order to read the newspaper, magazine, or website. I took a Chinese 101 class in college where we learned around 130 characters and struggled to retain them; at that rate it’d take over 15 semesters to learn that many. I never learned enough to be fluent; it would’ve taken years of dedicated study. I knew enough Cantonese in order to converse with my mom, but she passed away some time ago and I’ve had fewer opportunities to speak it.
I grew up repeatedly called this term in Cantonese, jook-sing; it is their term for Westernized Chinese. It felt derogatory. In other words, to them, I was the cultural equivalent of a half-breed. However, I deviated a bit from their prototypical stereotype, like my ability to speak the language. Still in their eyes, I’m someone who had turned their back on their culture; that I should somehow aspire to learn intricate details about my Chinese roots. They may consider me part of the community, but not unlike Jon Snow of the house Stark.
Being an American outcast
My English is not perfect, but I consider my ability to speak and write in English to be at least average. When I speak, I do it without an accent. I am an avid baseball fan (Atlanta Braves, if you’re counting) and have spent far too many waking hours learning and watching baseball. I eat American food; just had a cheeseburger and hot dog for dinner. As I watched the Olympics, I identify with the United States. Being a child of the 80’s, I grew up with 80’s music and MTV. I’m American by most measurable standards.
However, that’s not what others see. They’ll conclude that I learned English strictly in a classroom as a foreign language, the way I may have learned Calculus. My interest in baseball is either a way to gain their confidence or an extension of Japan’s interest in the sport, because Asian countries are interchangeable. As for my food interests, wouldn’t I prefer ‘flied lice’? I can’t possibly be American or as American as they are. The best I can be is Asian-American, which is not the same as a real American.
But who am I?
Not every Chinese person sees me as a half-breed and not every American sees me as an impostor. That said, how many times do you need to hear, “Go back to where you came from” before it cuts and scars? To channel Mr. Miyagi in the Karate Kid, walking on the left or right side of the road is fine, but if you walk in the middle, eventually you’ll be squished just like grape.
The problem is that the people on both the left and right of that road are pushing us off the sidewalk onto the street. Each side tells us that we don’t belong. We can spend most of your time on the Chinese or American side of the figurative road, but eventually we’ll hear the one comment or observe the one behavior that crystalizes it. It doesn’t even need to be intentional or done with malice. They can say something like, “when you mentioned dating Justin, I assumed he was also Chinese.”
It doesn’t matter with which side we identify. Ultimately, that’s how they see us; that’s how they’ll always see us.
I’m not alone; I have a community
Growing up I only imagined that my struggles were unique; they’re not. Perhaps I was naïve to enough to believe that had someone endured this duality of identity, they would’ve solved it by now. However, it hasn’t been solved.
I believed that I was an outlier; I’m not. Sadly, the world is collectively cruel to many people; I’m not their only target. It is profoundly tragic that so many can only elevate themselves by climbing over others. Don’t fool yourself into believing this is an exception; it’s not.
There are many Asian-Americans out there that find themselves in the middle of that figurative road with Mr. Miyagi. The big struggle is that we’re isolated. Our individual experiences may be different, but we’re collectively similar. In this world think of American culture as Florida and Chinese culture as California. Each are large contiguous land masses far apart from each other; each disinterested in anyone else. On the other hand, Asian-Americans are like Hawaii, an archipelago of over 100 islands. We’re separate but together, different but similar. It may be tougher for us to reach each other, but it’s just the nature of our world.
And we rock! Who wouldn’t want to be Hawaii? 🌴
Unfortunately, there are no answers… yet
I try to finish each post with a clincher of sorts, an idea that brings it together. I don’t have such a resolution, not today.
For decades I carefully navigated the American side of that figurative road, carefully studying each crack on the sidewalk in order to avoid it. Meanwhile, as looked at my reflection in the mirror each morning, I could almost forget my Chinese identity. Any strange interactions with workmates subsequently dismissed as people who were quirky. I am American, like everyone else.
And this past year, the hate in this world finally made it impossible to ignore. You could be the Burmese father who brings his sons of two and six years to a Sam’s Club only to have you all stabbed in the face, because you’re Asian. You could be the eighty-four-year-old grandfather going for your daily morning walk, only to be tackled and killed in a parking lot, because you’re Asian. In short, it doesn’t matter what I do, that’s how some will always see me. I’m Asian first, the source of the “Kung-Flu”; nothing else matters.
Today marks the start of that journey I should have started many years ago. Fuck the right side or the left side of that figurative road. Tell Mr. Miyagi to shove it. If there’s no room for me on the sidewalk, I’ll walk down the middle of the road in unyielding defiance. I’ll simply inspire a few Asian-American kin and allies who’ll join me. Let’s huddle and dare everyone to squish us like grapes.
We are Asian-American; let’s find our voices together. We matter and have a right to exist in peace. We will no longer be dismissed. Who will join me?