I’m full Chinese, but the fact that I don’t know the language makes me question how Chinese I really am.
My mom came to the U.S. from Taiwan when she was seven. As an immigrant in the ’70s, she faced racism daily. So it’s puzzling to me when she makes highly questionable statements about other groups.
I’m not white. I’m also not not-white. So it’s fuzzy figuring out exactly what privileges I benefit from.
This clash reached a fever pitch during the election season when my grandparents’ support of Donald Trump caused full blown arguments between them and my liberal cousins and aunts.
Thankfully, family, tradition, culture, and language don’t just evaporate. They’re just below the surface, waiting to be rediscovered.
“In middle school, I came up with this brilliant plan to defy all Asian stereotypes. I was loud. I hid my high test scores… And I stopped speaking Chinese.”
People who are adopted aren’t always open about it. But I am.
As I discover who I am, I want to know more about where I came from. I have a unique story. This is because I am adopted. I am interested in why my parents chose to adopt. I wonder whether other adopted children have the same experience as I do.
Though the food was on the more expensive side, I have got to say, this was some of the best Chinese food I’ve eaten in a long time.