Home and Heritage

I think there is a certain, I guess, discomfort growing up as an Asian American in a small southern town. I was raised to eat white rice and xiaolongbao with chopsticks while all the other kids ate hotdogs and fries with their hands. Despite being born in Georgia and calling North Carolina my home for 15 years, I didn’t feel American.

Subconsciously, this impacted my perception of myself and how I want to be perceived by others. I became agreeable. Quiet. Obedient. I was disconnected from my humanity and denied the core of my American identity. I incessantly shed my Chinese heritage until I ultimately lost what made me, me.

It wasn’t until I got to UNC-Chapel Hill and took a CHIN course that I began understanding who I am and the bigger picture of my culture. I didn’t know Asian Americans were a part of the Civil Rights Movement. I didn’t realize the role Asian Americans played in agriculture, community organizing, and economic development. Leading up to that moment, the history I was learning belonged to someone else. When I finally saw myself in the American timeline, I started grasping what I aspired to stand for. I learned to let go of the years of incomputable trauma and appreciate my upbringing as a child of two Chinese immigrants.

It is a peculiar feeling to be a foreigner in your own country. However, I now see that there’s no congruent way of being just American. Or Chinese American. Being a first-generation Asian-American college kid is not a unique experience but definitely a humbling one.

My beautiful hometown: Guangzhou, China!