THE NARRATIVE ARC
When People Ask Where I’m ‘Really’ From, I Finally Have an Answer
All it took was a trip to a remote Chinese village and a DNA test
“Where are you from?”
Here we go again.
“The Bay Area.”
“No, where are you really from? You know, China, Japan?”
I stare at my questioner. Standing on the sidewalk, she cradles a baby doll and wears a dingy blanket draped over her head. While hardly a child, the woman studies me with an air of innocence.
“I was born in the United States. I am American.”
As she furrows her brow and begins to protest, I abruptly turn and walk away. My dismissiveness toward the homeless woman may have been unkind, but feelings of exclusion have left me in an unforgiving mood. Was she asking out loud what others privately wondered about me?
The encounter is a reminder of my own state of “homelessness,” the result of a lifelong, lonely journey juggling two cultures. My immigrant parents prioritized assimilation, believing we’d achieve more security by speaking English and adopting Western practices.
But maintaining an American identity while suppressing my Asian heritage was akin to writing…
