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This past July, I decided it was finally time to clean my room, something I had been putting off since I graduated high school. As I sorted through stacks of worksheets, lab reports and readings, I came upon a senior year analytical essay on Charles Yu’s “Interior Chinatown.” In it, I argued that the characters of “Interior Chinatown” demonstrated a sense of disconnect and displacement that is typical of the East Asian experience. It is easy to feel we are stuck in a double bind; we often do not feel integrated into American society but are also isolated from our ethnic roots. I smiled recalling the joy of reading the book, the work I put into the essay and the glowing feedback my English teacher gave. It also allowed me to reflect on how my own perspectives on the Chinese American identity had changed since I wrote the essay.
“Interior Chinatown’s” message of dual alienation resonated strongly with my high school self. To give a bit of background, I was born in the United States and moved to Hong Kong when I was 5. Though it gave me a greater understanding of Chinese culture and allowed me to experience a truly multicultural environment, I felt like something was missing. Living in Hong Kong was the first time I became aware of the concept of identity; I clung to my Americanness, longing for that place I still called home. That is not to say I was unhappy. I was accustomed to the narrow alleys of Aberdeen and the bustle of Tsim Sha Tsui, but America seemed like the place I truly belonged.
Years later, 14-year-old me stood in the lunch line, listening to the steady hum of conversation flowing beside me. Phrases like Avalon, Flyers and KOP went in one ear and out the other; I felt like I was learning English for the first time, unable to relate to the hobbies, interests and pastimes of my peers (what even is lacrosse?). At the end of the school day, Mom picked me up. I stared at the blur of quaint suburban communities and fancy country clubs, wondering what it would be like to call these streets “home.” I suddenly felt a deep longing for the hustle and bustle of Hong Kong. Time helped, but I still felt like an outsider looking in, never fully a part of my primarily white high school.
In “Interior Chinatown,” Willis Wu, the protagonist, is an actor playing a stereotypical, borderline racist side character aptly named “Generic Asian Man” in a cop show. As a child, he witnesses his father, a Taiwanese immigrant and actor himself, become disillusioned with his roles, believing he will never be promoted to the roles the white actors play (spoiler: he never is). Like Yu’s characters, I struggled to come to terms with the contradictions that seemed to follow my Chinese ethnicity and American nationality. The United States is a nation that (at least on paper) embraces cultural diversity. The country is both a mosaic and melting pot, but both external and internal pressure made me feel I had to conform to white American society. I created two rigid ideas of American and Chinese identity in my mind and inevitably, I felt I had to pick one or the other — Chinese, or American.
As societal pressure and expectations shaped my identity during high school and beyond, I repeatedly asked myself questions like “Am I American enough?”, or “have I become whitewashed?” I rarely talked about my Chinese identity with my white peers, instead opting for casual conversation about Philadelphia’s sports teams. Funnily enough, I eventually came to love them, but when I was with my Asian-American friends, I found my knowledge of sports did not match their own interests. This cultural duality made me feel like I had to compartmentalize different aspects of myself to be accepted in different social settings. Yet, in my attempts to fit in, I somehow felt even more incomplete.
As I grew, I learned to not confine my identity to a binary choice, but to embrace both cultures I grew up in. Slowly but surely, I began discussing my Chinese identity. Far from being excluded, I found that most of my peers were curious about traditions and culinary dishes. I started displaying my love for sports everywhere, rather than limiting it to specific scenarios or specific social circles. I realized one part of me could exist along with the other. I was happier, and bridging both sides of my identity suddenly seemed a lot easier than imagined.
Last winter, I attended a Friendsgiving organized by the parents of a high school friend. We substituted turkey with duck and stuffing with seaweed dumplings. Not wanting to miss the NFL’s Thanksgiving slate, I turned on the TV, and as the Lions kicked off to the Packers, my friend sat down next to me. Watching football as the sun set, I thought of how uniquely Chinese American this all was.
Today, I know my American and Chinese identities go hand in hand. Acceptance of one side does not involve the shunning of the other. Choosing one or the other would stunt my growth and prevent me from indulging in both Chinese and American interests, while binding myself to a rigid standard of what it means to be Chinese American would involve succumbing to stereotypes, preconceived notions and mold me into someone that I am not. After all, neither my Chinese-ness nor American-ness is based on predetermined qualifications.
Perhaps I can best describe my identity in this way: I speak fluent Mandarin, conversing with my parents in their mother tongue whenever I have the opportunity. I love Philly sports, soaking in the joy and agony of every victory and defeat. I embrace the curiosity I have about American cities, going down rabbit holes on Wikipedia whenever I feel bored. I collect stickers and magnets I consider important, making my devices and fridge a messy mosaic.
I will keep cheering for my sports teams, hoping to see the Eagles win another Lombardi Trophy or for the 76ers to finally conquer their playoff demons. I will continue to love American history and reflect on the good and bad of this nation’s past. I will also be proud of the food I eat, the mid-Autumn mooncakes I split with my family and friends and the values of hard work and respect my parents instilled in me.
MiC Columnist Bowen Deng can be reached at kbdeng@umich.edu
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