When my parents’ Chinese restaurant was struggling because we couldn’t find a fried rice chef, I felt it was my time to step up and honor the family.

“Ma, Pa, I will be your fried rice chef,” 16-year-old Wendy declared proudly. Spatula and ladle in hand, I was ready to stir it up.

To my dismay, rather than receiving the satisfaction of a pat on the back for solving my family’s crisis, all I got were laughs and looks of disbelief.

“Oh, that’s sweet of you to offer, but you—you’re a girl! You can’t cook fried rice or lift rice pails or use such a big knife. That’s a boy’s job. I mean, if you were a boy, we would have taught you all that already, but it’s not suitable for you.” The words in Fukienese burned more than a deep fryer oil splatter on the eyelid.

Is it really my fault that I was born with XX chromosomes instead of XY chromosomes, preventing me from helping my family in desperate times? Or is it their own stubborn, sexist beliefs barring them from having one less problem to worry about?

Like most of society, my parents never thought to challenge the line between genders. It was neatly set in place, one side black and the other white. Trying to cross this line with my parents was like trying to find a race car in the girls' toy section. All I could find within the girls’ section were immobile, statutory toys that were better for display—just like girls. Trying to overcome this line was like trying to escape the butterflies, pretty flowers, superfluous sparkles and the pink and purple hues on all of my clothes.

I didn’t necessarily want all that; I wanted to play racing games on a PlayStation and run around screaming with my male cousins while playing tag.

“But Daughter, you must remember: we girls don’t play video games. It’s bad for your posture, and the games are too violent for girls. Plus, who wants a girl who has to wear glasses because she’s spent too much time in front of a bright screen?

"And Daughter, don’t be so rowdy like your cousins. They can be raucous and run around, but you should be a better, more mature role model. Sit here with us so you don’t get dirty or sweaty."

Don’t drive because it’s too manly of a task. Don’t cut your hair too short because girls should have long, pretty locks. Don’t run because it will build unattractively muscular legs. No girl wants to be that strong.

Leave it to the boys to be strong. Leave it to the boys to do the fixing. Leave it to the boys to decide whether or not they want to wash their hands after using the bathroom because, after all, they are boys. It’s fine for them to be rowdy and nearsighted and dirty.

With my mom’s vision of how a girl should look and act, I didn’t want to be too manly. At the same time, with her vision coupled with everything I was exposed to, I didn’t want to be too feminine.

As a little kid, I was already hypersensitive to the differences in gender such that I allowed gender to define me every day; I was already insecure about my femininity. Am I being too girly or am I being too boyish? Should I curl my lashes to look more girlish? Why isn’t my closet stocked more with dresses rather than with oversized T-shirts?

Here was a growing child, molded by the burden of how she was born—something uncontrollable. A growing child too preoccupied with the pressures of how she should be to the extent that her life had no room for the other aspects of growing up. This environment had already carved out a path for her, and she had to be wary to abide by this path.

A couple of weeks after my dream of becoming a fried rice chef disintegrated, I mused aloud to my parents, “Why couldn’t you have just treated me like a boy and showed me how to make fried rice when I was younger so that I could help you now?”

“You don’t have the muscles” was their only excuse.

I guess I have to apologize for lacking biceps and triceps and a trapezius and some deltoids. Surely if I were a boy, I would be equipped with these luxuries, and only then could I be of any use. Helpless. Hopeless.

So please, before you paint your daughter’s room pink and your son’s room blue, take into consideration that every child should have an equal chance to become a fried rice chef.