brrring.
It was lunchtime. That time of day where most students would rejoice because they could finally escape the boring confines of the classroom and go eat with their friends. But I did not leap out of my chair when the bell rang, nor did I jump for joy; quite the contrary, I dreaded lunchtime.
I was not like most students.
Being born in America to Chinese parents introduced me to the alphabet long before I could speak or write. ABC. American born Chinese. For me, the line between the two was clearly drawn. I was American, then Chinese, in that order.
Amid all the hustle and bustle of my school cafeteria, I sat alone, munching on 榨菜 (zha cai) I had brought from home. My grandma had just arrived from Beijing the night before, bringing with her all sorts of Chinese goodies and snacks, a window into my other world.
Describing zha cai in English does not sound appealing at all (literally translated, it means pickled vegetables), but to me, it was delicious. I took another bite before I was suddenly greeted by three smiling faces: Becca, Taylor, and Hope. I admired their blonde, curly locks, glancing at my straight black ones with disgust. As they sat down, somewhere inside of me, a little girl jumped for joy. They wanted to sit with her, not just use her to understand multiplication and long division. She finally had friends, finally wasn’t alone, finally felt accepted.
“What’s that?” Becca asked, nodding at my snack.
“That’s 榨菜,” I offered uncertainly, wondering if she would actually try it. Maybe they would become the new Fritos.
She accepted my offer and took little piece to try. My eyes carefully gauged her reaction: surprise, confusion, disgust?
“Ew! That’s gross,” she quipped, standing up and motioning for Taylor and Hope to join.
I started shoving the 榨菜 back into my purple American Girl lunchbox. Becca paused, and then scoffed.
“Why do you have this? You’re not American!”
I knew she was right. Disappointed, I sunk lower onto the bench, alone at my lunch table again. But my sadness quickly turned to anger. I was ashamed of being Chinese…why couldn’t I just be like everyone else in school? Why did I have to have straight, black hair and not blonde curly hair? And why couldn’t my mom just let me be like everyone else, and pack me normal American snacks like Fritos or Lunchables?
I turned back to my 榨菜, which no longer looked delicious. On my way back to class, I dropped the rest of the package into the garbage can. If only I could do that with my culture, too.
From that day onwards, I refused to eat 榨菜. I couldn’t look at it again without being reminded of how insecure and out of place I felt that day in the lunchroom. 榨菜 became synonymous with my Chinese heritage, something I continually suppressed in the hopes that I would finally fit in with the Beccas, Taylors, and Hopes of my school. I avoided anything that would make me feel Chinese. I watched Doug, Recess, and other American cartoons. I nagged my mom to buy me clothes from Limited Too, so I could be like the cool girls. I remember watching one US women’s soccer game against China, and while the rest of my family was supporting the motherland, I adamantly cheered U.S.A.
Meanwhile, my parents did everything they could to help me come to terms with my other half. We celebrated the Moon Festival and Chinese New Year. I attended a Chinese School my mom started every Sunday, learning not only the language but also familiarizing myself with the culture and traditions of my roots (though I didn’t attend voluntarily).
But the line between my nationality and my ethnicity was bolder than ever. I identified more with western culture, while Chinese school remained something I merely attended on weekends. Learning Chinese was a chore, reading English was a joy. A visit to China did not arouse feelings of comfort or familiarity, but rather their counterparts, distance and fear.
I had two lives, in one I was American, and in the other I was Chinese. One simply did not meet the other. The Chinese culture I participated in was isolated from the American community in which I lived.
But after I moved to China for high school, the line I had so intently insisted on drawing was ebbing away. I worried about dealing with that transition — how would it work anyway, two cultures coming together?
The first night we spent in Beijing, my mom bought a bag of groceries from a nearby Chinese supermarket. She made us Maruchan ramen for dinner that we had brought with us from the States. Before we sat down to eat, I rummaged through our groceries, fishing out a packet of 榨菜. And for the first time since that lunchtime incident, I ate it, savoring every taste, fully appreciating the fact that I was Chinese-American, not either or but both. Something that I had finally come to terms with.
I discovered that boundaries were not so easily discernible, and in reality, lines were not clearly drawn — they were purposely left invisible so I could sketch them out on my own.
Two years later, my family was gathered around the TV for the opening ceremony of the 2008 Olympics. Watching the montage chronicling Beijing’s initial bid and long journey to eventually host the games, I felt a distinct swell of pride for this country I had previously rejected. China was finally on the world’s stage, a chance to showcase their culture and accomplishments to the West.
They did not disappoint. The opening ceremonies (directed by the Chinese Steven Spielberg, Zhang Yi Mo) were absolutely breathtaking.
And during the USA vs. China Men’s Basketball game, I found myself cheering 加油 for Yao Ming and his squad. (Too bad we lost. Terribly.)
Now, whenever I visit home, the first meal we make is ramen and 榨菜.
After all, I can’t forget who I am.
