Each individual has their own demons, their own struggles and internal battles. For some it may be heartbreak, a fallen friendship, that one final goodbye you never said. However, for countless other second-generation people of color like me, one predominant word haunted a vast majority of my life: different.
Like a tidal wave eroding a stone, the damage began as nothing, merely a little wound ingrained upon my heart. But the days grew long and before I could fathom, what was once an impotent seed blossomed into an everyday curse that echoes like a broken record within my mind. Although the initial taunts began when I was only in first grade, I remember the scene like it had happened yesterday.
Given that I was only 6 years old at the time, it comes with no surprise that lunchtime was the highlight of my school day. As my pudgy fingers delicately screwed open the pink Thermos, I was greeted by the pleasant waft of Xiao Long Bao, a traditional Chinese bun that my mother prepared for me early in the morning each day. Dainty in appearance and delectable in taste, I’ve always regarded the Xiao Long Bao as nothing but pure heaven. Slowly, I wrapped one hand around the Thermos, it’s warmth still soothing to the touch, and used my other hand to lift the steamed bun to my mouth.
“Hmm yummy..” I whispered joyously to myself.
Suddenly, a boy whom I have never spoken to in my life remarked: “Ew, what’s that nasty smell?”
Innocent and bewildered, I stated, “What smell?”
That’s when the boy peered down at my lunch and said, “Oh. It was your food.”
That was the first time I had experienced prejudice firsthand.
Time and time again, people made fun of the food I ate, my Chinese surname, the QiPao I wore to multicultural night. Days flew by and the dark cloud overhead only expanded the day. It fed off of the rude remarks of others and succeeded in doing so.
In third grade, my mom and I were wandering a nearby mall trying to find a dress for a party that night. At the time, shopping felt like a boring task and a waste of time. Plopping my miniscule stature down on a loveseat nearby, the inquisitive eyes of mine gazed at the surroundings– people with heavy bags slung over their shoulders, mannequins exhibiting only the finest garments to customers, and countless pictures of models shown across every wall. However, as I further scrutinized these photos, I noticed a similarity among them all: blonde hair, blue eyes.
Instinctively, my hands wandered to my own hair. Black… dark… boring.
It was then that I muttered to myself: “You are different.”
Little did I know, this feeling of discontent for my Asian features was only a beginning for something much greater.
In fourth grade at dismissal, all the students would line up in a single-file line and one by one, we were dismissed.
“Jacob… your mom is here to pick you up.”
“Maria… TLC Academy.”
Then it was finally my turn.
“Sophia Li… HuaYi Chinese Education.”
To be completely honest, I despised the feeling. The feeling of when the teachers called my name through the bullhorn. The feeling when all your classmates could go home and indulge in TV, I was obliged to learn how to simplify fractions. The feeling when you were an odd man out. Alienated. Estranged. Different.
The next two years went by in a blur of math textbooks, report cards, and an ever-increasing dislike for my |Asian bloodline. Soon, a whole new obstacle was approaching: middle school. A majority of my friends had such trivial things to worry about.
“What if my locker does not open?”
“Will we have the same classes?”
“What if I get lost in the halls?”
As for me, I simply wanted to rid myself of all the things that have made me feel like a stranger throughout grade school. I wanted to essentially conceal the Asian part of me. Personally, I felt like that was an easy task. I was no longer forced to attend my Chinese after school, nor did my mom order that I bring food from home.
The first few weeks were amazing. For the first time in forever, I was not the target of others hurtful comments and racial remarks. However, one night at dinner, my parents broke some horrible news to me:
“Su Fei, we signed you up for Chinese Sunday School.”
My mind went blank and a million thoughts filled my mind.
How could they?
Why were they robbing me of the one thing I wanted most: acceptance?
Afraid this change would cause the events in elementary school to repeat, I regarded my parent’s attempts at sending me to a Chinese after school with disgust and chose to hide my differences rather than embrace them.
At the end of sixth grade, I visited China for the first time in years. The first thing my grandparents stated when they saw me at the airport was, “苏菲，你长得不一样了”, meaning, “Sophia, you look so unrecognizable!” And I couldn’t blame them. Instead of a traditional Chinese red string around my wrist, there was a modern Kendra Scott bracelet that I purchased on a trip to the mall. In place of what was once a pair of sleek black flats were white converse that all American teenagers wore. All this time, I had been too blind to see all the things I’ve started to lose grasp of.
I hope that all the individuals reading my article can paint a better picture of the obstacles people of color like me face. We have our own differences and weaknesses, but we also have our strengths. The very things that we are bullied for are the exact things that are intrinsic to defining us, and dear all other Asian-Americans, never be afraid to present a genuine version of yourself to the world. Always remember that once you deprive yourself of individuality, you merely become a copy of someone else.
Image credit: Poi Beltran