I’m sitting here writing the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

MY truth. This is a new experience for me. I’m not used to seeing myself
squarely, straight in the eye.

I’m not a writer. I hate writing and frankly, I stink at it. In fact, my com-
puter is telling me right now that this is 6.5-grade material. So much for an

expensive private school education. I couldn’t care less about grammar right
now because I hope that this will be known more for its honesty than for its
writing mechanics. And I know this may not be the most eloquent essay
either, but so far, this has made me feel better than any grade-A history paper
I will ever write. After bottling everything up for so long, it feels so good to
let it all ›ow. I feel like I’m telling, not writing, because that is what this is, the
telling of a story. My story, my life, is typical of many other Asian teens
growing up in America, but it is the similarity between our stories that gives
it power.
I am Chinese. Until very recently I would’ve been ashamed to say that
simple sentence. I believed that if I denied my roots I could grow afresh as a
Caucasian. Now I know I’ve been lying to myself for so long. You can dig a
plant up and plant it somewhere else but it will never grow as well as before
you dug it up. More important, though, no matter where you plant it again it
will not become another plant, another species. It took me eight years to learn
this. All eight years I tried so hard to ‹t in with “the American crowd.” I
didn’t succeed, and my failure to become American left me wondering why I
was cursed to be different. I resented being Chinese so much. I would often
ask God, the Western god, why I had been stuck with being Chinese, why I
had such bad luck.

I don’t know exactly when and where I started hating all things Chinese,
but I think many things had built up to create this loathing over many years.
They had built up inside of me like toxins, and I had never known how to
expel them. Right from the beginning, when I moved here at the age of five,

I was an outsider. Not just kept outside by a language barrier but by igno-
rance and hostility between the two cultures. I was all new, like an alien to

the other kids. How I spoke, what I ate, my attitude toward things—it was
all new to them and therefore unwelcome. I knew prejudice firsthand at an

early age, and it made me afraid of American culture. I didn’t notice any-
thing fundamentally different between me and them so I didn’t understand

the basis of their prejudice, but unconsciously I distanced myself from them.
Of course, this didn’t exactly help their understanding of me. As I grew up,
I started to notice my ethnic differences for the first time and for the first
time, I saw myself as the other kids saw me. Chink. Gook. I also learned
what popularity was. As a child, I hadn’t minded too much the fact that I was

an outsider, but as one grows older, acceptance from peers becomes increas-
ingly important. I blamed my inability to fit in on my ethnicity and my par-
ents (the two were perpetually linked in my mind). For me, my parents were

embodiments of ethnicity. They were the ones who didn’t let me watch the
popular TV shows, go to the movies, talk about boys, so they were the ones
that I resented on an immediate level. Although there are still things about
my parents I haven’t learned to accept, I have at least begun to understand

their reasons for being that way. And over the last several years, I’ve estab-
lished several “ties” back to Chinese culture that have helped me understand

myself.
Last year, I began doing Chinese dancing in Chinatown. These dance
classes, together with Chinese school, made me think anew about myself as
an Asian growing up in America. By comparing these two environments I
discovered that there were two different kinds of uprooted plants. The ones
from Chinatown were fiercely proud to be Asian. They defied the stereotype
that all Chinese are book-smart, but they had enough street smarts to know
how to take care of themselves. They were always so confident. Their
confidence amazed me. What amazed me more was that they didn’t ask for

acceptance from their American peers and therefore they were accepted any-
way, despite their yellow skin and ›at noses. On the other hand, many of the

kids at Chinese school tried to be American and forgot they were Chinese.
They were smart in a nerdy, school way but didn’t have social smarts. And

they never seemed confident despite their smart-aleck comments. It was hard
to believe these two groups came from the same place.
The last several years I went to China a couple of times to visit during
summer vacation, once by myself. The minute I stepped off the plane on both
trips, I felt like I couldn’t speak English anymore. I just couldn’t get it out. It
was like I was reunited with the little Chinese girl I used to be before moving
here, like she had reclaimed me. I had so much fun those two summers. I went
everywhere, ate everything, and everyone made a fuss over me. Even more
than that though, for the first time, I felt like I totally belonged, every bit of

me. I was accepted without question and I never had to pretend to like some-
thing or do something to get people to like me. When I came back the second
time, the changes in me were so obvious that my parents noticed immedi-
ately. They told me that I seemed much more con‹dent and assured. It makes

sense. When you spend a lot of time in a place where everyone loves you, of
course your morale is boosted.
When I was little, the first few years living in America I always felt like I
was missing some vital body parts. It was so weird. I would constantly check
myself to make sure I had all my parts. Now I realize that I was right. I didn’t
have all my parts. Something important was missing. I still don’t know what
it is and I don’t think there is a name for it anyway. But I realize now that that
little piece will always remain in China and that the only times when I will
feel completely whole are when I go to China and that little part makes its
way back into my body. This little piece will always anchor me to China. I
will never escape it and I can never cut it free. This knowledge has helped me
on the project of accepting my heritage. A while ago, I would’ve seen this as
a curse, but now, I simply accept it.
Last year, I read the most amazing book ever, and no, it was not Harry
Potter. It was called Paper Daughter, by Elaine Mar. I read it as a part of my
little phase of reading every English book written by a Chinese author on
being Chinese. These books included Wild Swans and books by Amy Tan

and Anchee Min. They were all helpful in educating me about Chinese his-
tory and culture, but Paper Daughter alone achieved a special distinction. It

made me cry. Positively bawl. Not even Amy Tan had previously managed
to induce a single tear. What was so different about Paper Daughter? It was
painful how truthful it was. It was told through the eyes of a Chinese teen. A
girl like me. What’s more, it was real. Paper Daughter was Elaine Mar’s own
autobiography. And she was so like me it was frightening. She too struggled
60 Asian American X

with generation gaps and fitting in. She shoved the ugliest, rawest moments

in your face. The early poverty and fight to survive in this “land of opportu-
nity.” The hardships that wore away at a family structure until its bonds

snapped from strain. The way a Chinese kid felt every time her parents told

her “try harder,” “always be the best,” or “still not good enough.” Yes, espe-
cially that last one. Elaine Mar hid nothing, and her truths made me see for

the first time that nothing I was going through was limited to me alone. It hit
me that so many other kids were feeling it too. I had always felt like I was the
only one being punished. I had always felt so lonely because of this. After
reading this book, I was consoled that other kids were just as lonely. This
book made me grieve not only for myself but for all of us. When I was done
with it, I felt a thousand times wiser. I want to say that I found myself in the
book, but I don’t know how that would make sense. That’s just the only
phrase that comes to mind. I think maybe a better description would be that I
saw my own life re›ected in the book. My past is in there, but I sincerely hope
that my future won’t be. Elaine Mar didn’t learn survival skills in time to use
them in life, so she put them to use by putting them in a book. To me that
book is a guide for generations of Chinese kids like us to come. I have learned
from it, and if I use it well, I will share no more of her pain and our paths will
diverge from here on.
All these recent connections to my culture taught me two essential things.
The first is that confidence and acceptance of yourself are the absolute most
important things you can own. Once you have mastered these two you will

master the world. Money, clothes, ethnicity—none of these make a differ-

is that you can be American without giving up being Chinese. If you accept
yourself both worlds are open to you. This idea was what had eluded me for
eight years. I had tried to jump from one world to another too quickly and

fallen short, which left me suspended in the chasm between the two, belong-
ing to neither. Once armed with these truths I tried immediately to use them.

Having once been self-conscious and afraid of others’ opinions, I now told
myself that their acceptance didn’t matter, it was me that mattered. I tried to
go about doing everything confidently, not caring what others would say.
Having once been afraid to speak Chinese when American friends showed
interest and asked me to say something, I now no longer hold back from
speaking in Chinese. I’ve stopped trying to hide my ethnicity, and as a result,
I have felt increasingly better about myself and I no longer care about being

popular. I’ve learned that popularity doesn’t mean anything and that in most
cases, popularity is not determined by what kind of person you are but by
petty things like money or boys. The changes in self have not been easy to
make. I don’t think I’ve reached my full self-esteem level yet. After all, there
are still painful differences between my family and American families that I
have not yet learned to accept. Further acceptance and clairvoyance is
another reason why I’m writing this. Sometimes all you need to do to ‹nd out
the truth is put down what you know already on paper. Then you realize that
you subconsciously already knew everything you needed to know. You just
needed some prodding to get it to the surface.
As a result of my late discoveries about myself and my ethnicity, lately
I’ve been feeling like I’m “becoming more Chinese,” if that’s possible. I don’t
understand how this is happening, but it amuses me in a way, because my
English has actually gotten worse lately. Believe it or not, I don’t read nearly
as fast as I used to and sometimes I have trouble thinking of certain words or
voicing my ideas. I can also hear an accent in some words I say. I don’t know
if all this is my imagination or if I’m simply noticing for the first time what has
been there all along. To me, it feels a bit like the time that I met these two
American men in a restaurant in China. When I tried to talk to them, it was
hard to get the English out because I had not spoken it at all for the two
months I had been in China. The only difference is that I’m not worried or

embarrassed about it this time. The times that I spent in China were the hap-
piest times of my life, and if my mind and my mouth think that I’m in China,

it’s fine with me. More important, it’s like I’m making up for lost time. I had
adopted English so quickly and rushed to become American so fast that the

Chinese inside me got covered up. Now it feels like a little bit of me is return-
ing to those days when I first moved here as a naive little five-year-old, so

happy, and very much Chinese.