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I am white-washed. Yes, it’s true, I am Chinese, but those who know me recognize that I lack certain cultural characteristics, like being fluent in any one of the eleven major Chinese dialects. Though to the untrained eye, I might look like your average Chinese girl who eats rice three times a day and feels constantly stressed out from the heap of soon-to-be-finished homework piling up in her backpack, I have another side entirely: white Kimmie.
As a Chinese girl living in an American world, my taste in food has been influenced accordingly. I favor eating Americanized “fake” Chinese food like orange chicken and sweet and sour pork from Panda Express or Rice Garden over the traditional rice porridge that hides a thousand-year-old egg in its chunky gloop. Even though every bite is packed and loaded with MSG that could most definitely give me a heart attack in a second, I would rather eat the food sitting on greasy trays adorned with English labels rather than point sheepishly at the hot racks of steamed cha siu baaus in a bakery on Clement Street, unsuccessful in communicating my snack order to the server.
Just like my acquired taste for brand-name food, the music escaping my iPhone sounds different from that of most Asians I know of. I choose rock bands like Linkin Park and Daughtry over high-pitched Korean pop singers like Rain and Se7en. In their music video “What I’ve Done,” Linkin Park addresses the irony of humanity and its destructive impact on the world, whereas Rain always sings about another tryst between him and his newfound crush. Seeing my Korean singer-crazed friends fawn over and become love struck by these singers makes me wonder why anyone would want to listen to the same old love ballad story again and again. Guy falls for girl. Girl’s too shy to talk to guy. Guy coaxes girl with bright red roses. After five grueling long minutes of hand-holding, the couple ends up together, happily ever after. This just screams unrealistic fantasy.
Others just tease me and that’s when it is plain embarrassing to be white-washed. The biggest critics come from my own flesh and blood. Most of my relatives ridicule me about my failed efforts to speak the family language. When I try to thank my grand-aunt in Cantonese for her homemade sweet rice treats, she always makes me say the name of the treat to her. “Boo-jih-go,” I attempt. Then she laughs at me, belittling me with each “ha!” she coughs out. Whenever my aunts and uncles speak to me in Cantonese, I try to avoid their gaze, prompting them to giggle with glee. The whole time, I nod my head, deaf to every single word that comes out of my relatives’ mouths with feelings of regret, knowing that I never took Chinese school seriously. My halfhearted attempts probably explain why I failed Chinese kindergarten and would have had better luck learning sign language.
Eight years old and still attending that dreaded Chinese school in North Beach, I remember my presentation of a Chinese skit to my schoolmates, feeling like an outsider to all of them. Even at an early age, I was mortified while standing in front of my fluent Cantonese-speaking peers, at a loss for words. My teacher had laughed, thinking this little kid’s mistake was cute. I could feel my face get hotter and hotter. Much to my chagrin, these embarrassing episodes have continued with me throughout high school, each more humiliating than the last.
Just last semester, even my good friend made fun of my language “disability” when I met up with her at her locker and asked “Hey, what’s that Ma guy’s first name?” raising my voice an octave higher over the “Ma” part of his name. Confused, my friend asked why I said his last name weirdly. Obviously, I was unaware that Mandarin is spoken with four tones and, in using the wrong one, I changed the meaning of the word from horse to a gab of gibberish. I realized my mistake only after tears of laughter flooded her eyes and an ear-to-ear smile cracked onto her face. I couldn’t help but feel peeved that I yet again was being teased for my inexperience in speaking Mandarin. Even worse, the mockery came from my friend.
While my lack of knowledge of Chinese customs seems like something to hoot about for my relatives and friends, I’m here to say that I’ve accepted this about myself. Laugh all you want at my Americanized lifestyle. Laugh at my mispronunciation. Laugh at my failure in Chinese kindergarten. While some may call it an identity crisis, I call it a way of expressing myself. After all, as long as I say “do-jeh” before happily munching on my grand-aunt’s rice treats, she doesn’t mind that I’m still an “honorary white.” Why should any one else? |
