The sound of Tai Chi music outside my window brings me out of my peaceful slumber at six-thirty in the morning, reminding me that I am over seven thousand miles from my bedroom in Concord, North Carolina. Dalian, China seems to exist in a universe of its own, and I get to experience it for six gloriously dreadful weeks of my summer. This is the city where I was born, where my parents met, where my grandparents still live, and where I had to be begrudgingly dragged to during the precious days off from the incessant stress of school.
One week into the trip, and I already desperately yearn to be back in the United States, where I can pretend this nagging facet of my life attributed to being Chinese ceases to exist and can remain thoroughly hidden under the guise of American cultural standards. At this point, the jet lag has mostly dissipated, allowing me to catch some more shuteye for several more hours.
My mother's voice rouses me once again from my slumber when she says, "Tracy wake up, we're leaving to go to Xinghai Square with your grandparents in half an hour, get dressed and ready to leave soon."
As we make our way to Xinghai Square, I observe the city as it flickers by in a blur through the transparent car window, feeling a sense of personal detachment to the place that first welcomed me into the world.
I think to myself, "It's funny how my passport can say ' The People's Republic of China' when I couldn't be more of a stranger and foreigner here." An American tourist would hold more appreciation for Dalian than me at this point.
I have always been the Chinese girl in America, but somehow I feel like I stand out more in China.
My grandfather turns the car into a parking space, jolting me from my inner musings. We have arrived at Xinghai Square, or "Xīnghǎi Guǎngchǎng" as it is pronounced in Chinese. This is the largest square in the world, located on the coastline of Dalian. Its name quite literally translates to "the square of the sea of stars", a fitting definition for a cultural hub and beacon located where the city meets the sea. I originally wanted to remain indifferent - stifle any positive emotions or appreciation. A question forms in my head, echoing through my thoughts: "Why won't you let yourself enjoy it?" A half answer forms on the tip of my tongue, but it is too premature to be expressed in words.
The scene is picturesque. For once, the ever-present industrial smog is nowhere in sight, displaying the vibrant cerulean blue of the sky where clouds that are as white as the fluffy ear tips on a snowy pelted Persian cat occasionally make their statement. From where I currently stand on the bridge located in Xinghai Square, the ocean is a turquoise pool, gently reaching the edge of the city. Buildings climb towards the sky, dotting the coastline while their reflective glass paneling is still visible from a distance. A spirited breeze works its way through the tresses of my hair, intertwining itself through my dark ebony strands. The thump of footsteps behind me prompts me to spin my head around, putting my grandmother's petite but strong frame in view. She positions herself next to where I stand, leaning against the rail and taking in the sight of Dalian.
"You know, I used to take you here when you were a baby. After you took your first steps," my grandmother voices.
"Wait, really?" I reply. This was new information to me.
"Yeah, you used to love it here. Always tried to greet strangers and smile and wave at everyone who passed by," she answers.
Wistfully thinking, I tuck my hair behind my ear and respond, "That seems like a whole lifetime ago."
My grandmother lets out a gentle chuckle and expresses to me, "I think this view right here is one of the most beautiful in all of the city. I hope you'll always come back to visit. I know this is no longer your home, but it's part of your history." She pauses, taking a breath and tapping my forehead before finally saying, "Don't forget where you came from." Soon after her statement, she hears my mother calling for her to take a picture of her and my brother, leaving me to fester with my thoughts.
I cannot deny the fact that my grandmother's words struck a chord. After spending fourteen of my fifteen years of life in the United States, I have become a skilled cultural chameleon, openly embracing the ideals of my new environment.
In my efforts to blend in, I lost my original colors -- my roots.
At some point, I began believing the misconstrued idea that I should be embarrassed by my cultural identity. That when people ask me where I was born, I need to answer in hushed and subdued tones, almost apologizing that the answer is Dalian, China. No kid wants to be different or stray away from the status quo while growing up, so I always wished the answer could be someplace like "New York", "Arizona", or "Indiana".
I now realize the pointless rationale I once based my actions upon. Maybe, just maybe, there was never a choice. I never had to choose one or the other. I never had to pick which side I liked better: Chinese or American. There was simply no real reason to. Two different worlds, with two diverse sets of standards, could find a way to coexist in one artfully crafted agglomeration. Why would I ever need to sacrifice one part of my identity, so the other shines brighter? Through the wise words of my grandmother and the view of Dalian from Xinghai Square, my mindset has drastically evolved. I finally decided to choose me. I choose the girl who loves fireworks on Chinese New Year just as much as the Fourth of July. I pick the girl who would choose both dumplings and pizza as a comfort food. I feel lighter, liberated.
