When I was a child, my mom would guide me in the art of dumpling-making as the exquisite voice of 邓丽君 (Teresa Tang) sang in the background.
As my mom monitored my every move with hawk-like precision, I rolled a ball of dough into an imperfect circle, placed a humble amount of pork filling in the center of the dumpling skin, dabbed an inkling of battered egg on the rim, and slowly pressed the pads of my fingers on the two sides of the skin to enclose the filling.
Whenever I fumbled, my mom would gently place her hands on top of mine and guide me through the correct motions of dumpling-making. Roll. Dab. Fold.
Many years later, my mom would guide my Chinese as I learned new characters and wrote essays, patiently correcting each grammatical mistake and changing fragmented sentence structures. She was the composition teacher, and I was the pupil that couldn’t help but implement components of the English language into my Chinese writing.
The combination of growing up in a Chinese household and attending an American school is an interesting experience to say the least: while our neighbors cooked turkey, ate sweet potatoes, and watched football on Thanksgiving, my family made 混沌 (Wontons) and watched a Chinese singing show. While other American families rang in the New Year with a collective chorus of “Cheers!”, my family chortled “干杯!” as we held our glasses to the firework-lit sky.
Yet when I went to school on the weekdays, I ate the hamburger and french fries served in the cafeteria, sang the latest English pop songs, and enthusiastically conversed about last night’s Glee episode with my peers.
It was this dynamic environment, a cultural hub of sorts, that shaped my identity: both Chinese and American, one incomplete without the other.
My American Chinese identity also influenced the way I verbally communicated with others. While my fellow students talked to their parents in English, I animatedly discussed my day to my parents with a flurry of Chinese and English, switching between the two languages every few words (or characters) to form sentences.
It would usually go something like this:
“Can you believe that my 老师 (teacher) is making me do 怎么多作业 (this much homework) tonight? It’s ridiculous! Doesn’t she know I have 其他 (other) classes?”
Chinglish, my parents called it.
Just like seeing mashed potatoes on the dinner table during Chinese New Year, just like wrapping dumplings for a Thanksgiving feast, I have learned to bridge my Chinese and American upbringing into a single identity: I am proud to be Chinese-American. And I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
