And if America is a big melting pot, if America is a big stew of cultures and traditions, do our distinct flavors and backgrounds and personalities shine through? Or are we getting lost, hidden beneath the soupy, murky depths to become indistinguishable, assimilated into the plastic, television culture of white models, people who look the same and talk the same and like the same things?
I think I realized I was different when I was around six years old.
I was at a friend's birthday party at a nearby park, picking dandelions to eventually weave into a braided crown, when I suddenly realized that I was alone with my mother and another adult. All the other blonde and brunette six-year-olds were a few feet away, chattering about something or the other I didn't quite understand, when quite suddenly, I realized that I was different, alienated not only physically with my shiny, black braids and almond eyes, but also on a deeper level I had not previously realized.
Subconsciously, my great-grandmother became a key factor for my dislike of Asian culture. Due to male-dominance in Chinese tradition, she always favored my brother, giving him the best of the food, the most extravagant gifts, the most praise and attention. My brother was her clear favorite, and she lavished words, money, and care upon him.
I remember distinctly her prayer before a meal, her voice cracking with old age, trembling with passion. I must have been eight. She prayed blessings upon blessings for my brother, that he would grow up to be successful, healthy, and wealthy with a lovely family and a prestigious job. She mentioned how handsome he was, his good looks, his intelligence, his humor. Her voice droned on and on in the muggy heat, and my mind began to tune out her prayer until I heard my Chinese name.
"And as for Zhang Zai Roe," she sighed, "it'll be good enough if she gets married off."
I can distinctly feel the pain in my heart although it was ten years ago, the tears struggling in my eyes, the tightening in my throat. I can still picture the restaurant, the round table, the white tablecloth, the plastic seat coverings. I think it was then that my eight-year-old self began to defy Chinese culture. I had always seen myself as an American, but never had I hated my heritage as much as I did.
After that, I intentionally avoided the food my great-grandmother cooked for my family. I intentionally pretended not to understand her Mandarin, pretended to be more American to be as separate and distinct from her as I could. The degradation and humiliation I felt as a child cast a negative light on my entire heritage.
From that moment on, for the next five years or so, I purposely tried to separate myself from Chinese culture. I had always wanted blue eyes and blond hair, but now I would wince at my own words, at the accent that coated every sentence I spoke, at the manner of articulation that separated me from others. I trained myself to dislike more traditional Asian foods, simply because they were Asian. I felt embarrassed that my parents and relatives communicated in another tongue, embarrassed that I didn't grow up eating the same foods or watching the same TV shows as my peers, embarrassed that my household traditions weren't "normal".
And during that age of middle school awkwardness where we all begin on that journey of discovering who we truly are, I had to struggle with not only myself but also my heritage. Perhaps elementary and middle school kids did treat me differently because I was Asian. Perhaps that was all in my head. Whether or not I really was an outsider, I felt like an outsider, and I saw my ethnicity as a dividing wall, a Great Wall, if you will, that separated me from everyone else.
As a child, I used to hate visiting Taiwan because I saw myself strongly as American. When people there assumed I spoke Chinese or could use chopsticks at restaurants, I felt annoyed because I didn't want to be identified as Asian. I was American.
However, the last time I visited Taiwan before high school, something changed. Instead of trying to thrust everything from me, I began to see there was beauty in difference. Difference doesn't need to convey negativity, but rather, it can be something to explore and appreciate.
Perhaps I do not need to love everything about Asian culture, and perhaps my sense of pride in my heritage is still feeble at times. However, I no longer feel shame or embarrassment but rather, a deeper sense of understanding for those of my ethnicity. I have grown to enjoy more of Asian cuisine, to appreciate and empathize with my relatives who grew up in a different environment, and to live life with less preconceptions, with open eyes and an open heart.
My great-grandmother died a few years ago, and I'm sorry to say that I never understood her while she was alive. I saw her as someone who wounded me deeply and who represented everything negative about Asian culture. However, I didn't actually know her beyond her treatment of me and my brother. I failed to see her as someone who was deeply courageous, brave, and stubborn.
Decades ago, she escaped from Communist China with a baby on her back, selling her home and possessions, traveling across the country by train to meet her husband in Taiwan. She was an entrepreneur, buying property and running her own hotel, all without a formal education. Though she never learned to read, her determination and quick wit provided for my father, allowed my family to survive here in the United States, and helped her escape history's rough waters. She was a fighter.
Just like my great-grandmother, Chinese culture isn't perfect. It has its rough edges and harsh traditions, but it is also unique and precious in its own blend of culture, food, and language. Yes, I am American, but I am also Asian. I'm learning more and more that my heritage isn't something to hide or to shove underneath and suppress, but my culture is something to understand.
If I am being assimilated into the melting pot called America, I want to be aware of it. I want to know my own culture, to understand who I really am, to truly appreciate the path my ancestors created for me. It may have taken me eighteen years to reach where I am today, but my eighteen years have given me a curiosity and an interest to live not only half of my life as an American, but the other half as well.
