Walking Two Roads: My Chinese-American Journey
By: Wj Fong
Tags: Asian American, Chinese American, Identity

Those of us who are the descendants of Chinese immigrants or are immigrants ourselves comprise a part of the fastest-growing demographic in America. As Asian-America continues to grow and come into its own, questions of identity, cultural exchange, history, and our unique blend of East and West have become more important now than ever. Chinese-Americans have come a long way from the railroads and Chinatowns of the early immigrants, and today comprise a diverse group both socially and economically. However, the question of identity remains: what does it mean to be Chinese-American? What is the relationship between our American cultural background and our ethnic Chinese heritage, and how does that influence our identity?

My Chinese-American Journey

I grew up speaking almost no Chinese at all. Because one of my parents was also born in America, and the other immigrated to the States early on, there was never any question that English was the default language at home. Despite lacking the language, I was still very interested in Chinese culture and media from a young age, and was encouraged by my parents to learn and enjoy being a part of the culture. In a way, I lived among two worlds: one was in the relatively diverse elementary-middle school I grew up in, and the other was at a Chinese church where I was surrounded by fellow Chinese-Americans. But early on I had already noticed that my upbringing was different from most of my ABC friends, whose parents were more recent immigrants. However, despite what I thought was a somewhat atypical Chinese-American childhood, I never really felt any tension at all between the two worlds I was living in. I was conscious of my Chinese heritage, but aside from small quirks such as not celebrating Halloween and never really understanding my white friends’ obsession with Santa Claus, cultural differences were never an issue for me. My world was at peace, and kids from all ethnic backgrounds flourished in harmony. That all changed, though, after I graduated from middle school and entered into freshman year of high school. I left a very small, diverse school and an idyllic, family-like group of friends, and entered into a much larger Christian private school that was about 99% white. Despite having the same religious beliefs, it was impossible to ignore my own ethnic difference when I could count the number of other nonwhite students on one hand.

In the midst of what I felt to be an alien culture, I became even more aware of my own Chinese heritage, and how it influenced my upbringing. From red envelopes to mooncakes and bai san among other things, I had inherited scattered fragments of Chinese culture from my parents. Media played an important role in shaping my cultural identity as well. Wong Fei-hung from the Once Upon a Time in China movies taught me to be proud of my heritage in elementary school. I pored over Wikipedia articles and books on Chinese history, watched too many Asian dramas online in high school, and started learning Mandarin in order to read Jin Yong’s wuxia novels. And the food; could anything have prevented me from enjoying Chinese culture when my mom cooks the greatest Chinese food in the world? I converted my friends to the gospel of dim sum, and only drew Asian heroes in art class to introduce my friends to wuxia. As I navigated a new environment, I could not see myself conforming to my new school’s sports-obsessed culture that seemed resistant to change and diversity. In response, I actually wanted to highlight my Chineseness, to stand out and assert my difference as being just as worthy of respect. And although I transferred to public school after freshman year, that attitude of striving to highlight my cultural heritage continued throughout high school. But in spite of my attempts to immerse myself in what I felt was a more authentic Chinese culture, I still felt that something was lacking. I still never felt that I could be Chinese enough.

This cultural disconnect became even more apparent when I entered university. I quickly realized just how different my upbringing was in comparison to the majority of my Asian-American friends. My group of mostly Chinese and Taiwanese-American friends had a much more “standard” 2nd generation experience than I did, speaking Chinese at home with recent immigrant parents, and coming from areas with much higher populations of Asian-Americans. In contrast to me, they most likely never felt any need to highlight their cultural identity for the sake of standing out, because they had always been more immersed in it. In comparison to them, I became the “white man” of the group — an opinion which they frequently made known to me in jest. Now I have nothing but love for my friends, but the joking still left an impression on me and made me think hard about my cultural identity. After years of asserting my Chineseness, my cultural authenticity was called into question. Suddenly I was not so sure if I could truly claim to have such a deep connection to my heritage. It didn’t seem fair to me; nearly all of us were born in the States and we all had pride in our heritage, but what was it that made them feel “more” Chinese than me?

Was it my lack of Chinese language ability? Surely language is one of the most important parts of culture, I thought. But on the other hand, I knew Asian-Americans who spoke their heritage language fluently at home, and yet were essentially “whitewashed” and wanted nothing to do with their ethnic culture. And yet the shame I felt at not being able to talk with some of my relatives in Cantonese, or the disappointment at not being able to understand Mandarin at church back home, were all legitimate experiences. How can I have pride in being Chinese when I can’t even speak with other Chinese people? What was it that caused this impassable divide between me and my heritage?

It was not until later that I finally understood the source of the disconnect between my own experience and the elusive goal of “Chineseness” that I sought after. Perhaps it was because it was so close to me all this time that I never realized what I had that differentiated me and all Chinese-Americans from what I thought to be authentic Chinese identity. I had to look to the other side of the Chinese-American hyphen to finally recognize that all along my upbringing was American, and that my culture is firstly American culture. I was not raised knowing the Confucian principles of Benevolence, Righteousness, Propriety, and Wisdom, but rather was brought up with the Enlightenment ideals of Liberty, Equality, and Justice that were instilled into American society. Having been born and raised an American, I suppose it was easy for me not to pay attention to the fact that I was actually immersed in American culture and shaped by its influence this whole time.

However, this realization only produced more questions. What does it mean to be culturally Chinese? And what then does it mean to be culturally American? It seems that Chinese-Americans, or Asian-Americans in general, occupy this peculiar cultural space in which we are neither one nor the other. We are neither truly American to mainstream America, nor are we fully Chinese to those from the countries of our ancestors (or even new immigrants). American society seems to present us with the false dilemma of having to embrace one identity while rejecting the other. And whichever identity we choose to embrace will determine if we are welcomed or rejected by mainstream American society.

The Myth of Authenticity

This false dilemma assumes that identity is an absolute, concrete thing which cannot allow for any kind of variation or diversity. To truly be Chinese, one must conform to “that,” or to be truly American, one must be like “this.” When the early Chinese immigrants arrived in America in the 19th century, they were treated with fear and contempt and dubbed the “Yellow Peril” precisely because they were considered too foreign to be integrated into American society. This xenophobia manifested itself through government policies such as the Chinese Exclusion Act (1882–1943), which has the distinction of being the only American immigration ban that explicitly targeted a specific ethnic group. This exclusionary policy was enacted in reaction to what was seen as an immigrant threat stealing jobs from white laborers, bringing alien culture, vice, and disease to an otherwise pure America.

Prevented from engaging with mainstream American society, the early Chinese-Americans were pushed to the fringes of the community into ethnic enclaves called Chinatowns. Just as Chinatowns provided a place for cultural unity and protection for Chinese-Americans, they also became a place that seemed to accentuate the cultural gap between “American” and “Chinese.” Just as much as the image of Chinatown emphasized the foreignness of Chinese-Americans, the idea of Chinatown also reinforced white Americans’ concept of their own normative Americanness. And in order to survive under the dominant culture, Chinese-Americans took advantage of the popular imaginations of mainstream America to develop things such as fortune cookies and chop suey in order to profit off of these orientalist depictions.

In some ways it is ironic that these things which were meant to fabricate and accentuate the exotic elements of Chinese culture ended up becoming distinctly American cultural products. From the aesthetics of Chinatown, to the works of prominent writers and artists, Chinese-Americans have attempted to use elements from their heritage in order to define themselves as a distinct community. However, such attempts to define an authentic cultural identity are inevitably shaped by the perceptions of the dominate culture, which in turn influence how we perceive ourselves. Just as I accentuated my Chinese cultural identity in high school for the purpose of distinguishing myself in response to the dominant culture, someone else may choose to distance themselves from their heritage or even to denigrate it for the purpose of fitting in with the mainstream culture. Whether it is done out of opposition or for the purpose of gaining acceptance, every attempt to affirm one’s own individual identity will always be dependent on something external to that person. Every attempt to distinguish oneself requires something that one must be distinguished from.

The process of solidifying any kind of fixed identity will always involve comparison to others, the establishment of an “us” versus a “them.” By giving ourselves labels of identity, we establish a set of attributes that delineate who is like us and who is the Other. However, we are confined to our own limited perspective of the world, and as a result we use ourselves as the standard by which we measure others. This act of distinction gives rise to labels such as “FOB” or “whitewashed” which are used to assert one’s cultural superiority and authenticity over those who are different. However, the relativity of each person’s own perspective renders such labels futile and insubstantial. Just as I tried to justify my Chinese cultural authenticity in contrast to the white American culture around me, my Chinese-speaking ABC friends believed themselves to have greater authenticity in comparison to me. Furthermore, recent immigrants from China would then insist that my ABC friends are still more American than Chinese, while Chinese people living in the mainland may contend that they are even more authentic than the immigrant. And even now, Mandarin speakers may believe that they are the bearers of authentic Chinese culture compared to Cantonese speakers, while Cantonese speakers would argue that their dialect preserves more similarities to the ancient Chinese of the Tang and Song dynasties than Mandarin. Ultimately, all such claims of authenticity become fractals in perpetual regression, propelled to clash and collide with each other in a frenzied kaleidoscope tumbling in circles forever. Faced with the absurdity of these labels that we create for ourselves, can anyone rightly assert their own identity to be truly authentic?

We must recognize that no one remains static, and no culture remains exactly the same. All things undergo constant transformation, and identity is no exception.

For Chinese-Americans who stand on the precipice between two cultures — American yet not American, Chinese yet not Chinese — perhaps it is our non-identity that may allow us to look beyond the confines of the false dilemma of American culture. By reconciling the two, we may be able to change the exclusionary definition of Americanness, when the notion of authentic identity is revealed to be meaningless.