The double escalator in New York City’s Jing Fong restaurant is magnificent. You’re pulled up into what I call dim sum heaven. Lustrous chandeliers hung above the main banquet hall, an enormous space that could seat more than 300 diners. I smiled at my friend and her family as we all ascended, excitedly knowing what awaited us at the top of heaven’s gates.
A teapot full of Bo Lei hit the Lazy Susan and an order card was slipped on the side of the table. The Friday afternoon dim sum crowd was chock-full of sluggish Asian elderlies, some of them accompanied by their kids and grandkids.
Waitresses pushing their carts full of food flocked to our table. Eager to make us an offering, they opened each lid of each dish. Steam erupted from the dishes and revealed everything from pork buns to chicken feet (my favorite).
Some spoke to me in Cantonese, banking on the fact that the only Asian sitting at that round table was the designated translator. Some spoke to me in broken English, linking my all-white party and my Western way of dressing to an ineptitude in any Asian language.
I asked questions in Cantonese, replied in Cantonese, and thanked them in Cantonese. Sure, a waitress or two shared a judgmental look and giggle as they mentally corrected my imperfect pronunciation. (Did you know Cantonese has six tones? You can say “ma” six different ways and it could mean anything from a horse to your mom.)
My friend and I dared her brother to eat chicken feet, a strange delicacy to Westerners and an everyday food to Easterners. I scanned the banquet hall and spotted the little toes just peeping over the edge of the dish. Calling the waitress over, I mentally rifled through my Cantonese dictionary to find the words for the dish. She pulled up to the table and my mind drew a blank.
The first thing that popped into my head was to imagine my mother saying it. I scrambled for the most recently memory of us going out for dim sum. In a split second, it hit me: “feng zhao.” She handed me the plate of feet and I placed it in the center of the table.
As I ate the “feng zhao,” I couldn’t help but to feel a little bad about forgetting the words for chicken feet. Sure, I don’t get a lot of chances to practice Cantonese in New York City, but it felt like an excuse. I felt like an in-between at that restaurant. My friends and those waitresses and waiters only think two things: I’m a white-washed, first-generation Chinese girl born and raised in America or I’m a Cantonese-fluent Chinese girl who either recently moved from the motherland or was born there. I’m not quite sure what whitewashed means anymore in terms of Asian Americans. Are we people who reject our culture? Can we fluently speak the languages our parents can speak? Do we dress differently? Do we speak in broken English?
I'm beginning to think people around me just aren't sure what to make of it. Chinese tourists in New York City will start babbling to me in Mandarin as I frantically try to explain that I only speak Cantonese at best. Subway goers will speak to me with wide eyes, exaggerated arm gestures, and over-enunciated words. My grandmother will speak in rapid-fire Cantonese, shaking her head periodically because she thinks that I can't keep up. My parents will speak to me in a mix of English and Cantonese, but Cantonese is mostly reserved for "you're in a lot of trouble" situations.
If whitewashed Asians are just a label that reflects the Western perception of what’s familiar and what’s not, what does that make me? If she can’t speak Cantonese, but eats chicken feet, has perfect English, but recently moved to from China to New York City, is the whitewashed? If she can speak Cantonese, hates dim sum, was born in California, but has a slight accent sprinkled over her English, is she whitewashed?
I’d like to think you can be any variation of these things, while still envisioning yourself under your own label. For me, I’m a Chinese girl who was born and raised in California, cursed (or blessed) with a love for chicken feet, tries her best to remain fluent in Cantonese, and will always decorate her apartment for Chinese New Year. Call me whitewashed or call me a FOB, it won’t make an ounce of a difference. Those safe, shiny labels often slip from the lips of people who aren’t really sure what to make of me at a first glance. For me, I’ll take that as as weird kind of assurance that the only valid judgement in my life comes from within: me, myself, and I.
