Seriously?!

I believe there is a serious problem amongst some parts of society in which individuals may be socialized to deny and misperceive (inadvertently/subconsciously or consciously) a person's ethnic identity. Growing up Asian-American, this has been repeatedly problematic for me, and at times I have felt as if I were at the fringe of American society, not yet having received my invitation. At times, I've been asked where I'm originally from, because I speak perfect English, as if being Asian and born in America was an unprecedented phenomenon. Or, because they heard me speak Cantonese, Mandarin, or Vietnamese, that I was absolutely, positively, not born in the United States. It could not be, that I (not only) look Asian, but ALSO speak an Asian language AND was born here. SHOCKING! It makes me wonder when more people will understand that the Chinese-American experience began BEFORE Columbus. When will history books say, during slavery, Chinese-Americans worked alongside Black and Latino slaves on the West Coast in sugar cane farms? Will the history of the Civil Rights movement include Yellow Fever, the Red Guard, Yuri Kochiyama, Richard Aoki, etc. as part of the mainstream rhetoric? In all of my 24 1/2 years of existence I have only witnessed one (relatively) accurate broadcast television show featuring an Asian-American family...and that was only given one season because the main actress (Margaret Cho) stood up to TV executives over their demands for a (mis)guided portrayal of Asian-Americans. 16 (!!!!) years later...we get a few roles here and there, half of which are where Asian-AMERICAN actors have to portray roles better fit for their FOREIGN counterparts (ie. Lost, Heroes). Seriously?! Maybe I should start wearing a name-tag that clarifies my city of birth....no.. I'm pretty sure I'd still get the, really, where are you from? (Insert identity judgment based on language/ethnicity rather than nationality/ethnicity)....

Definitely, so.

Spring break is over. Did I use any Mandarin? Definitely, not. Well, ok...definitely not at home. I did on occasion use it with a friend of mine who is Taiwanese, but did I go with my mother's suggestion from a week ago? Nope. It wasn't so much a coincidental thing, or a matter of forgetfulness...I simply chose not to. The first day I saw my mother, she brought up speaking Mandarin. My response was very clear: no. Why? I wanted to speak Cantonese with her. I told her it was just plain hard being in Monterey...but at least I'm taking Mandarin classes, and I speak more Mandarin than I do Cantonese. The opportunity to use my mother-tongue is rather rare, unless I go to San Jose or Los Angeles. I've realized language is not just a function of culture, but also a function of comfort. There is a comforting feeling as well as a nostalgic feeling that comes with speaking and hearing a language. Familiarity provides comfort...and maybe I'm just not familiar enough to Mandarin (comparatively) as I am with Cantonese to find the same amount of ease and solace in it. With time, however? Definitely, so.

Comfort

Before going home for spring break, I had spoken to my mother about school, progress with my classes, and what I was hoping to do over break. Eventually the conversation made its way over to the subject of my Chinese classes. Of course, my mother had to give me a repeat story-telling session about her Mandarin classes growing up, and the supplemental classes she took in the states after she immigrated. I've heard this story many times...from the amount of time she'd devote to practicing characters, to her Taiwanese professors in Vietnam, to her distaste for the Beijing accent...been there, heard that. Still, I let her go on. As tiresome as it sometimes gets to hear the same story over and over, I find some sense of comfort in her repeats. I guess it's not only the familiarity, but also the relational quality. We both shared some of the same struggles, especially with the interjection of Cantonese tones and pronunciation when using Mandarin. In that sense, it's helpful to touch base with my mother on my Chinese progress and struggles...her experiences are definitely valuable to my growth. Finally, at the end of the conversation, she suggested we speak mandarin when I arrive back in Portland...we'll see...

Experience and Application

I'm definitely a fan of experience. In day to day life, experiences are fundamental to the learning (and thus growing) process. They are much like flags or beacons; experiences are reference points...they may or may not hold explicit answers, but they definitely play a critical role. This is one of my most productive and useful approaches to learning Chinese. The more I experience the language the better I do. Some people have a learning style that is more aptly catered to memorization and repetition; I, however, have a very hard time learning vocabulary that way. Words stick when I experience them. What does that mean? For me, it goes beyond hearing it or seeing the character. Experience means application: seeing the word within a context, or hearing it within the crux of a story. The environment within which the words are applied is crucial. This helps me make associations and better commit the word to memory.

What's the context?

I have a short attention span. In many of my other classes, my mind tends to wander if the topic being discussed is something I find no interest in, or even if it is, I get distracted easily. Yes, I am one of those students. It isn't that I demand extra attention, I just have a different way of learning things. If a lecture is not engaging to me, I would rather take a few brief notes and re-learn the subject matter on my own. Now, mind you, this isn't so much the case in Chinese, as my interest in the language and history has no (foreseeable) limits. In approaching Chinese, my biggest problem is retaining information, which is why learning the language itself through stories and historical anecdotes bodes well for me. I've found that I remember certain words or phrases better if they are indicators of a bigger picture. I guess you could call it application...or better yet, contextual learning. Now, to find a longer attention span...

While some may think the hardest part to learning Chinese is the memorization of characters, I beg to differ. I believe the most challenging aspect of the Chinese language is its inherent culture. I don't mean Chinese customs or traditions, per se, I mean the culture of the language itself. There are certain connotations, intonations, and habitual applications that are difficult to teach and often harder to discern, especially if approached from a Western lens. This..."phenomenon" isn't particularly unique to the Chinese language, but it is definitely of a rare breed. It isn't necessarily something that can be taught, rather, it is something that I think is more easily understood by feeling, and stumbling through experiences. It's a bit difficult for me to find the words to describe my thoughts at the moment...but perhaps I'll come across them and expound as time passes...

Lotus Hearts and Mekong Tears

Moving to Monterey has definitely been a challenge for me. It is a different environment that is smaller and much less ethnically diverse than what I am used to. Although there is a relatively significant international student population on campus, there are very few Asian-Americans with whom I can relate with. On a daily basis - from an individual, personal, and oftentimes internalized basis - I am persistently confronted with my identity. This is not to say I am unfamiliar with adversity; much of my life has been colored by it. Here at MIIS, however, I struggle with reconciling who I have come to define myself as with my new environment. Perhaps the difficulty lies in the number of opportunities and amount of space here that are appropriate for the two to manifest.

These thoughts have been playing over and over in my mind for the last two weeks, and became more glaringly apparent as Chinese New Year neared. This was a conundrum, and I was thoroughly perturbed...from the thought of not having family and close friends around, down to the prospect of not getting to go to a temple on New Years day. Luckily, at the last minute, I had the opportunity to be in LA during the duration of New Years festivities. In retrospect, I know a lot of my frustration and anxiety stemmed from an apparent lack of a distinctly Asian-American community with which I could relate to. Everything from mannerisms to fashion to lingo seemed to matter more now than they did before. Even the way my fellow Chinese classmates interact or view me has become more striking. This phase in my life is still evolving, and as I am at this point unsure what direction things will take me, I am also unsure of a definitive conclusion to this entry. Instead, I leave you with a spoken word piece I wrote and performed during my undergraduate career, in hopes it may shed light on the evolution of my identity --

You Wonder Who I Am?

As a small child my soles were already weathered by the storms that
Rocked the leaky boats of my salient ancestry.
Pitter pat...pitter pat...
The drip drip drops of struggle dance and
Mingle with the blood red tears from the Children of the East.
Miles from here sometimes my father still hears the planes
Steel birds that painted the floral a striking orange
And red.
These colors permeate my family lines
Back to a time of revolution and upheaval my
Mother’s parents fled the forcefully inflicted persecution of their culture.
And you wonder why I stare, slightly disturbed and
Bitterly confused at those of you who
Choose to adorn the yellow, blood soaked, oppressive, and over imposing
stars of Mao?
The lines on my mother and father’s foreheads stretch back…
Past the tides that carry poignant stories of plight across
distant coasts and beyond the point where the skies kiss the seas back to the
…bamboo bridges and Mekong beauty.

And still you wonder who I am.

Through my soul courses the delta floods and the sweeping hills
Of a country whose spirit seeps in a hue of valor and in shades of pride as bright
As the hand stitched flowers of my grandmother’s vanilla silk blouse…
Time presides as witness…a sternly present reminder of
The waves of change and upheaval.
Your war, was not the same conflict as ours.
Clinging to their last strands of hope mine were a people
Of many thousand years of heritage…those vivid memories
rooted in Hue’s jade tablets, marbles tiles and dynastic ancestry
a people growing to embrace three yellow stripes not merely as a flag but
As the beat beat beating Heart of a struggle.
It was bigger than a war
Bigger than the hollow shells that littered and penetrated and
Pierced the lives of a generation…
Spilling past the vast depths of Almond eyes…
How would you ever know the price of Lotus hearts and Mekong tears?

And still you wonder who I am.

The child of refugees, mine is the story of hope.
A story of insurmountable sacrifice
A story preceded by the journey of a
Chinese daughter forced to abandon nearly all she knew
and the flight of Vietnam’s son…
whose new beginnings were thirteen separate flirts with death, away
Of two lives
torn apart and brought together
enduring the piercing glares of brash resentment
residing within the chain link and concrete confines…a nation of refugees
Juxtaposed on the brinks of their bridge to tomorrow.
Their soles glanced the shores of the bright city upon a hill…
Embracing a foreign land, stranger to their comprehension but a
Promise of brighter days
A journey embarked upon for the sake of their unborn child, they
Left behind a universe of familiarity
A lingering silhouette of a never too distant past.

And still you wonder who I am…

I am the two tongued descendant of yellow sons and daughters of dreams deferred
I am their vision of better days of
Liquid skies of blue…of a future rising above
Of pride…of a heritage parading past persistent obstacles
The beautiful product of the embrace of two cultures
So how can you take any part of my Asian-America
Away from me?
I am the result of bare foundations of ideals of chance of opportunity… of hope
And you wonder why I love this country?
I wonder why you hate it.

See….
My journey is one that spans proverbial miles criss-crossing and intersecting
the footsteps of who I’ve come to be.
My skin reflects the radiance of the sun
My soul, the flesh of the earth
And my heart, the blood of those before me…
Yet I am of no supreme ego my persistence is of a humble path
recognizing that my possibilities exist not as
Abstract notions of maybe…floating in seas of doubt…
But that my possibilities exist because I am hope
I am opportunity
I am the promise of America.

And still…you wonder who I am?