致十八岁的自己
My 6-year-old cousin was asleep in her red traditional sweater on the carpet. Her arms and legs stretched afar, resembling a Canadian Maple leaf. I stared at her scientifically interesting body – her back shifted its concavity back and forth as she breathed. Then, at that very moment, I felt jealous. Time, opportunity, and the “trial” from the oldest kid – what I have already lost and never had, she commands. I was jealous of that embryo of success, because she seemed so much happier and more resourceful than me, who is an adult, age-wise only.
Yikes, I am an adult now, legally enforced without my consent.
I feel mortified by the idea of adulthood, and I have no idea what it means or what should I do. Will the Twelve Labors of Hercules - responsibility, debts, contracts, maturity, works, etc. – just magically arrive with every chime at midnight? I have asked that question to many people; to my surprise, there are no magical transformations or revelations. “It is how it is.”
Speaking of magical transformations, I looked at my cousin and tried to compare her with my jaundiced impression. She certainly grew a lot. The last time I saw her was before I moved here. She used to remind me of a spring roll. Covered by yellow blankets like spring roll folds, she radiated that charming smell of baby powder. Now she transcends into a walking fountain of youth with novelty and hope. My aunt and uncle are very invested in her education – they hired foreign tutor on skype to perfect her English. She is an expert at her age in piano, ballet, and painting. Most importantly, her work ethics makes this ICU Senioritis patient very ashamed. She is a great reflection of the successful “Chinese” style parenting.
Then, I realized that I was actually more jealous of how she magically fit into the Chinese, the Wu family, mold effortless and naturally. For even to this day, I don’t fit under a “complete” Chinese image.
Well, sometimes more so, sometimes less so. When I dressed in my oversized grey suit and French hat for debate, one said: “wow, Ming, you look really Chinese today.” In English, I cringed when I raised my hand to indulge the rush of public speaking, then spent the next fifteen hours contemplating on my accent and mispronunciations – “I sounded awfully Chinese” I thought. Then in my Calculus class, I strongly felt that I am not as Chinese as one would assume.
As if there is this universal meter stick, judged by other and me, to tell someone how Chinese one is.
I feel my identity was struck in the limbo between Chinese and American. I still chat with my old friends online – and try not to alienate them with too much English “jargon”, else I may sound like a pretentious, rootless, and flashy “Chinese”. I guess I am somewhat popular here, but not “American” enough to understand any movie references or have splendid SAT scores without much studying. I complained internally: how unfair that test is for someone like me who can barely speak English. Those whines ceased quickly however - I am privileged enough to be tutored and “privileged” enough to ace the Math component.
My mom said that having English as a second language is not an excuse because she has so many friends, whose Children have 2300+ SATs. I simply didn't try hard enough, she said. I guess she is right, but to me, SAT is something else. In that 4-hour test, there dwelled a snide imp, stabbing me in the dark corners and telling me to “read more” and “listen to my ears”. Its name is “idioms”. I tried to walk the structured path of grammar that I memorized, then tripped and fell. It's an “exception”. It's not how people “usually talk.” In the reading section, I tried to use those tricks taught by my prep books, yet never really succeed. To add salt, those problems never repeat, therefore so hard for me to learn from my mistakes. Towards the end, I felt the entire English language is purposefully constructed to hinder me. I hated that language, its mechanics, its syntax, its vastness, how others are so good at it, and most importantly, I hated how my proficiency of that language determines my ability to success. Behind that blue booklet, I can almost feel the damp and stink breath of those old white males breathing on my face, chasing after me, and holding me tightly from where I am, no matter how hard I tried to wrench from it. After 6 months, I gave up despite I already signed up for it. In retrospect, that is one of the best decisions I ever made – I need my sanity.
That sparked my first identity crisis from years of condensation. Why am I Chinese, in America? I felt so bitter that there is literally no single perk of being Chinese. My height and my size, my appearance, my accent, my not seeing myself in English class and media, my being disadvantaged in the college admission process, etc. Ironically and cyclically, even being “Chinese” is part of the reason. For because I am “Chinese”, I am expected to act a certain way, enforced by the society, my family, and myself. “It's not a Chinese thing. It's not something runs in our family.” That culture is this convenient equalizer, a self-explanatory premise that will dictate the rest of my life.
“Oh Culture! What crimes are committed in thy name?!”
When people tell me to just be myself. I appreciate their advice, yet really want to slap them on the face for being so hypocrite and oblivious. Being myself comes with a grave price. My coming out signifies my parents coming in, that they will be in the shadows for the rest of their lives. At this identity limbo, I felt isolated. I am rejected by not only the foreign ones, but also my native ones. I wish I can persuade my parents, but it's absurd and naïve for one to believe that I could possibly hold myself against the current of 4000-years-culture, flushing down and rampaging across my life. Its water purifies and nurtures generations, then buries the old ones in mud. It polishes our edges away until we dissolve and become parts of the water, that our very own existences perpetuates the culture, the stereotypes, and everything else.
I look at my Chinese peers and try to give them a score based on the meter stick of being Chinese. I find that although our race alike, I am still very different compared to those ABCs or those who moved around elementary school and speak perfect American English. I therefore suspect that perhaps Chinese is not so much a race, but a social and culture construct. Which make sense – after all, aren't we told not judge others simply on their color?
Because I am Chinese simply because I am Chinese. I am eternally bounded by the Asian corpse, engrained in a certain type of collective unconscious, and cursed with my Asian name, which few can even pronounce. I thought of changing my name and abandoning my heritage, and I didn't. Cognitive dissonance or responsibility to my family, I don't know. I often hear my mother and my other friend saying the same thing: “If you can't even respect the cultural yourself, then you don't deserve any.” I wonder am I supposed to keep my heritage not because I cherish it, but only because I can regress it into so sort of tool that could elevate my social status or a better “fit” of society. That idea of culture sounds cheap, shallow, and utility driven.
My cousin woke up. She was so young and fresh, yet in some regards, had lived already. With all my heart, I hope my cousin to live a happy life on her own. Following that blueprint by my uncle and aunt, I saw her life like a trajectory in the lens of stereotypes and assumptions. At this point, I at least found some solace realizing that my identity crisis is no longer specifically Chinese, but something universal. It's almost taboo to suggest the illusion of free will and the concept of pre-destination. We are, at least expected to bind in our cultural and heritage. The most one can do is hop out his or her inner frame, yet continues to struggle and survive under the larger frame by the society.
I don't want to choose my heritage based on my burdens. I must carry the burdens of my heritage. I am an adult, unwillingly or not, and I hope there will be time for me to hop out of that frame.
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