A first-generation Chinese American woman shares her struggles navigating the world as a child of immigrants.
May 1, 2023, 11 am EDT
Written by Sarah Chu
When I was a little girl, my mom packed my lunch for school. As I sat in the cafeteria eating my stinky tofu, white rice, and bok choy with chopsticks, while all the other kids ate cheeseburgers and tater tots with their hands, I couldn’t help but feel left out. At some point, despite my love for Chinese food, I asked my mom to stop packing my lunches, so I could eat the same lunch as my peers. Despite being born and raised in the United States, I simply didn’t feel “American enough.”
The frequent microaggressions, from strangers asking me where I’m really from, to the kids pulling the soft skin by their eyelids to mock my appearance, were expected. Normalized. You don’t belong here was implied by their xenophobic actions. Go back to where you came from. These voices became internalized, seeping into the echo chambers of my being until the sounds were deafening.
Microaggressions are like tiny abrasions at the surface of your skin. It’s not noticeable at first glance, but if you put rubbing alcohol onto the wounded area, it’ll sting like a million hornets puncturing you all at once, until you’re numb and can’t feel anything anymore.
Unknowingly, these interactions impacted my perception of myself, and how I wanted others to perceive me. Shedding layers of my Chinese heritage as if it were a winter coat, I stopped wearing or doing anything that made me feel too Asian. In replace of my jade necklace — a family heirloom my mom gave me because it reminded her of home — I wore trendy beaded necklaces and rubber animal bracelets to school. I was embarrassed to go grocery shopping with my parents, fearing that speaking our native tongue in public would spark vitriol from strangers. I even stopped attending this Chinese art school that I loved going to in favor of taking swim lessons with my peers.
I became quiet. Agreeable. Submissive. Invisible. Like my parents and my ancestors that came before me, I was stripped from my humanity, chewed up, and spit out. Denied my American identity, I couldn’t help but feel sidelined from American society. I lost sight of what made me, me.
It was only until my senior year at Wellesley College, did I begin to understand who I was, and what I aspired to stand for. Thanks to Karen Shih, the Assistant Dean of Intercultural Education and Advisor to Students of Asian Descent at Wellesley, I learned to appreciate my cultural upbringing and its intricacies. I sought comfort in the familiarity of getting dim sum with my grandparents in Boston’s Chinatown. I found community through Wellesley’s First-Generation Network, a group of first-generation peers that taught me that I too, belong here, and deserve to take up space. Most importantly, I learned to love myself, let go of the years of incalculable trauma, and appreciate my upbringing as a child of immigrants.
As I look back on my childhood, I realize that assimilation came at the expense of honoring my Chinese American identity. As a young woman, I now see that there’s no homogenous way of being American. Or Chinese American. The beauty of this country lies in our commitment to holistically embrace each person’s identity, religion, and passion. These qualities make us unique.
For me, being a first-generation Chinese American woman means that I live life to the fullest, love my authentic self, and encourage others to do the same. Now, my identity proudly shines during holiday celebrations, where I cheer on lion dancers at the annual Lunar New Year parade in Boston, but it’s also prevalent in private moments when I have conversations in Taishanese with my grandparents in Chinatown.
My fate is entwined with the countless sacrifices my parents made for me so that I can pursue my academic ambitions and creative pursuits in ways that they couldn’t. Their unwavering faith in their American Dream — providing a better future for our family — is truly inspiring. They taught me to work hard and dream big, a mindset I carry to this day.
This Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month, immerse yourself in stories of the Asian American experience. From the Academy Award-winning film, “Everything Everywhere All At Once” which tells the story of a Chinese American immigrant mother struggling to connect with her alienated daughter, to “Dive,” an upcoming musical about a Korean princess, written by third-generation Korean American Julia Riew, Asian American representation in the media is becoming increasingly apparent. These stories are crucial in empowering the next generation to embrace their identities.
It’s an honor and a privilege to be Chinese American. I hope that by sharing my story, the Asian American and Pacific Islander community can begin to process our racial trauma, pay homage to our ancestral lineage, and celebrate our authentic selves.