A string of jumbled words reached our ears, words that seemed familiar, yet so foreign—it was Mandarin. On a Friday night, my family sat in a Chinese restaurant, squirming awkwardly under the silence that was much different from the busy atmosphere around us. The waiter’s stare bore into us, making the cold leather seats feel more like hot seats. As second and third-generation immigrants, both my parents and I were born in the US. None of us spoke Mandarin fluently, using English to communicate in our day-to-day lives.
Finally, my dad decided to speak. In Mandarin, he ordered our food, mixing in some English for the words he didn’t know. The waiter gave us a strange look, almost as if saying, ‘Aren’t you Chinese?’ before leaving to give the order to the kitchen.
It didn’t take long for us to encounter another hiccup: the chopsticks. Although my entire family is capable of using chopsticks, we didn’t grow up using them regularly. It felt like eating with your knuckles: possible but unpreferable. We endured the strange looks of ‘Aren’t you Chinese?’ yet again as my mom asked for forks.
As we left the restaurant, we weren’t sure whether to say, “Thank you” or “谢谢” (xiè xiè, which is thank you in Mandarin). We exited with an unintelligible mutter.
Although I am an American-born Chinese, I have never felt truly “Chinese.” I’m not fluent in Mandarin or any other dialect of Chinese, and I even speak to my grandparents in English. I am a third-generation immigrant, which means my parents were also born and raised in the U.S. I eat with forks instead of chopsticks, and a majority of my friends are not Chinese. I like drinking ice-cold water instead of hot water, which is a common tradition based on Chinese medicine, and I’ve never been to China before. When I go to other countries and people ask where I’m from, I say I’m from the U.S., not China.
In Chinese class in both middle school and high school, the teachers often spoke to me in Mandarin at a higher level than the class, even though I told them I only speak English. They asked me what random Chinese characters meant or how to say a certain word in Chinese—even though we never learned it in class—and seemed disappointed in me when I didn’t know.
It can be difficult to balance two cultures and still be a part of both of them. Sometimes, I feel like I’m losing what makes me “Chinese,” like the only thing that keeps me connected to my heritage is my appearance. Sometimes, I feel more American than Chinese.
Yet, I still celebrate Chinese holidays and have a Chinese name. I call stir-fried pea shoots “豆苗” (dòu miáo) and Chinese scallion pancakes “葱油饼” (cōng yóu bǐng). I watch Chinese shows with my “奶奶” (nǎi nǎi, grandmother on my dad’s side), although I have English captions on. My entire family is Chinese.
I am Chinese.
I still try my best to embrace both cultures, to not forget my heritage. I take a Mandarin class in school to know the language better and eat the Chinese food that my grandparents make. I try reading the Chinese on menus or signs and celebrate Chinese holidays with both my close and extended family.
So, for those strange looks I get at restaurants: Yes, I am Chinese. But I’m also American.
