Once upon a time, there was a little girl that hated who she was.
She hated her black hair, her almond eyes.
She dreaded making her way to the cafeteria at school because of her packed lunch and the cruel way her classmate's nose would turn at the pungent smells from her home-cooked meals. The way everything she did was different–even how she ate.
Who ate with two sticks pinched together, instead of eating with a fork like a normal person?
People threw rocks at her from far away, scratching the frame of her precious pink bike, too far for her to retaliate, but close enough to cause harm. People stuck sticks in the middle of her spokes in an effort to flip her over.
They made fun of her when she was growing into her body, because her parents didn't know American etiquette to buy her a training bra — forcing her to walk around hallways at school with arms forever folded across her chest, as if serious and not in shame. Classmates would try to get her to raise her arms and then they’d laugh at the underarm hair growing out–her parents never taught her, never knew, that she needed to shave her underarms to be accepted.
That little girl was me.
Growing up, my mom told me this story often. How I would run to her, crying, telling her I hated my heritage. How I hated how different I looked from everyone else in my class.
My parents emigrated from China, when I was two years old. They came with two suitcases and $1,000. This was the extent of what they could carry–oh, and me. And so they took that money and built a life here, resplendent with a house and a car in a white suburban neighborhood, which tends to denote a certain level of money.
But at what cost?
A certain level of limitations and diversity, for one. Where were all the people who also looked like me? Back then, my mom prioritized my assimilation into Western culture.
When I first came to the US, English was not my first language. I primarily understood Chinese. At school, when I was crying and unable to communicate verbally, my mom doubled down and took time off work to teach me English. She did this so I could communicate. So I would not stand out. So I would not be different.
We tried to speak as much English at home as we could.
Language did smooth many communication barriers growing up, but invisible barriers always exist. I was still different in this largely white neighborhood. Race is complex; I still looked different. I was different. And I was getting bullied because of it.
I hated it.
“Why do I have to be Chinese? Why do I have to have black hair?” I’d sob into my mom’s chest, soaking her shirt with my tears. “Can’t I be white, instead?” I’d beg.
Thinking back now, I can imagine how heartbreaking that must have been for my mom. For her daughter to reject who she was. It lit a fire in her.
She began teaching me about our Chinese history and legacy — how we were descended from the sun, how we invented paper, fireworks, and gunpowder. How China unified a fragmented nation with multiple different languages and ethnicities. How Chinese ceramics were so coveted by Western imperialists that they named all ceramics “china.”
All of our discoveries, literature, philosophy, culture — all that we contributed to the world.
On the weekdays she would work. On the weekends, as we traveled and explored different areas of the US, she would teach me Chinese.
The car headrest was her blackboard. Our canvas.
We would draw characters together, our fingers carving into the velvet as a way to practice the strokes. We would read out different passages, we would practice intonation. And my supportive father, driving steadfastly behind the driver’s seat as we scratched maddeningly against his headrest.
She would teach me mnemonics to remember things. Like how 森林 (sēnlín), the character for forest is just large groupings of various different types of 木 (mù) wood / trees. She would break down parts of the characters and tell stories about them, to help me remember.
Perhaps this is where my fascination with the anatomy of the Chinese language comes from.
I began to connect how so many cultures observed the claws and paws of earthbound animals to devise tools to eat.
How we observed sky-loving birds instead, and emulated the way they gripped food in their beaks–chopsticks. How we erected the longest man-made structure in the world, a Great Wall built across six dynasties originally meant to keep outsiders out, that now draws visitors in. How our method of language was so unique—putting together small pictures and ideas to form characters with larger meaning; so different from any language in the Western world.
My mom helped me fall back in love with my culture, my heritage, my language. It was her passion and determination to right this injustice, this abandonment of such a crucial part of me, to bring me back to starry-eyed wonder and an appreciation of my culture.
My mom is part of the reason we are here today, on this journey exploring language.
In Chinese, the phrase 从前从前 means "once upon a time."
The character 从 (cóng) is related to meanings of "the past." It’s comprised of two people, two 人 (rén) walking together. I like to think it’s two people exploring the past, together. Kind of like me and my mom. 前 (qián) often is related to looking ahead; forward, "the future."
And it's just another example of the poetry of the Chinese language—how only by understanding your past, can you begin to change your future.
This is beautiful. Also I love “rolling away from the haters”😂
So beautiful