I am Chinese American!
This is the first in a series of posts about something that's been on my heart.
I am Chinese American. I love that fact. I'm pretty sure the Father loves that fact too.
Today I went to a symposium specifically for Asian American Christian leaders, and their talks about the need to rediscover the history of Asian/Pacific Islander Christianity have allowed me a chance to think about the uniqueness of my cultural identity, and my own journey.
This is my experience as a Chinese American girl:
I used to not love being Chinese. Especially when I first came to the US umpteen years ago, and I went to a private school where I was one of four Asians (they didn't even speak my brand of Chinese!). Actually, I wanted desperately to be white. They had the cutest decorated houses, they hold tea parties, and the white girls were popular.
I, on the other hand, had very little friends, and couldn't understand the teacher for the first year or so in school. I didn't like to drink milk, but the teacher forced me to, for some unfathomable reason. I thought "Bless you" was a curse, not a random kind saying at a sneeze. I brought crazy lunches to school, like dumplings and rice, and tried to hide it, because I was so embarrassed to be different and weird and ethnic.
Then, one of the biggest affirmations in my life: one day in second grade, my African American second-best friend (that was her title) sat by me, looked at my crazy ethnic lunch, and exclaimed: "Oooh, that smells good! Can I try some?" And I literally fed her my Chinese lunch everyday for the next three years. She loved it. She told other people she loved it. Other people tried my lunch. When my lunches started appearing in an equally crazy and ethnic steel lunchbox in a shape of an iron, everyone took it in stride, told me it was awesome. I felt so loved.
I finally was introduced to public school at age 11, and had culture shock when I saw the sea of yellow faces (I kid you not). Before, being Chinese was my distinction. Now, it was the norm. I had never had so many Chinese friends before in my life. My honors English classes from 7th to 9th grades was literally only filled with Asian American students (stereotypes always come from some grain of truth, I know). But still, being Asian was just something that was a fact. It didn't mean anything to me.
For some reason, suddenly my need to explore my cultural heritage hit me like a sledgehammer at the same time I was contemplating how to celebrate high school graduation. I begged my parents to send me to Hong Kong for a month. What were they going to say? No??? Hello, 1.5 generation child wanting to see the motherland. Couldn't get the tickets fast enough. And that summer, I got a chance to go to the mainland, see beautiful green landscapes, rivers, people. And from that moment on, I was in love with China. I was in love with the Chinese. I loved my Chinese identity. It's been a beautiful discovery process since then.
More to come later...
I am Chinese American. I love that fact. I'm pretty sure the Father loves that fact too.
Today I went to a symposium specifically for Asian American Christian leaders, and their talks about the need to rediscover the history of Asian/Pacific Islander Christianity have allowed me a chance to think about the uniqueness of my cultural identity, and my own journey.
This is my experience as a Chinese American girl:
I used to not love being Chinese. Especially when I first came to the US umpteen years ago, and I went to a private school where I was one of four Asians (they didn't even speak my brand of Chinese!). Actually, I wanted desperately to be white. They had the cutest decorated houses, they hold tea parties, and the white girls were popular.
I, on the other hand, had very little friends, and couldn't understand the teacher for the first year or so in school. I didn't like to drink milk, but the teacher forced me to, for some unfathomable reason. I thought "Bless you" was a curse, not a random kind saying at a sneeze. I brought crazy lunches to school, like dumplings and rice, and tried to hide it, because I was so embarrassed to be different and weird and ethnic.
Then, one of the biggest affirmations in my life: one day in second grade, my African American second-best friend (that was her title) sat by me, looked at my crazy ethnic lunch, and exclaimed: "Oooh, that smells good! Can I try some?" And I literally fed her my Chinese lunch everyday for the next three years. She loved it. She told other people she loved it. Other people tried my lunch. When my lunches started appearing in an equally crazy and ethnic steel lunchbox in a shape of an iron, everyone took it in stride, told me it was awesome. I felt so loved.
I finally was introduced to public school at age 11, and had culture shock when I saw the sea of yellow faces (I kid you not). Before, being Chinese was my distinction. Now, it was the norm. I had never had so many Chinese friends before in my life. My honors English classes from 7th to 9th grades was literally only filled with Asian American students (stereotypes always come from some grain of truth, I know). But still, being Asian was just something that was a fact. It didn't mean anything to me.
For some reason, suddenly my need to explore my cultural heritage hit me like a sledgehammer at the same time I was contemplating how to celebrate high school graduation. I begged my parents to send me to Hong Kong for a month. What were they going to say? No??? Hello, 1.5 generation child wanting to see the motherland. Couldn't get the tickets fast enough. And that summer, I got a chance to go to the mainland, see beautiful green landscapes, rivers, people. And from that moment on, I was in love with China. I was in love with the Chinese. I loved my Chinese identity. It's been a beautiful discovery process since then.
More to come later...
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