Chopsticks

*This piece is based on a writing final I had for a class centered around autobiographies. The prompt was to write about an object with significant meaning-- it should be something important and dear to you. Obviously, this piece is based on my own life and is a bit personal. Not exactly my best writing but an interesting start for something more.

I was born in the United States and when I was four my family moved to Canada. I was too young to know anything about fitting in when I was still in the United States, but once I moved to Canada, I realized it became more apparent than ever I was different. I was the new kid who was from California but looked nothing like the poster child for the typical LA baby. There were other children of Chinese descent in my school, but they were either from mainland China or were Canadian born Asians. I couldn’t blend in with either group of people who looked like me, and I knew that even if I did, I wouldn’t be as popular and well-liked compared to the constantly smiling white kids with their sparkly Sketchers. I became self-aware and easily knew that I didn’t fit in. Thus, in the 1st grade, I decided that the baby pink beige shade Crayola called “flesh” would be my new skin color as I left home lunches for cold pizza Lunchables and shoved the chopsticks my mother gave me for lunch down to the bottom of my Hello Kitty sequinned backpack. My first pair of light up shoes began my initiation with the cool kids and up until fourth grade, I avoided other Asian kids in fear that my Geox’s couldn’t hide what was painfully obvious when I stood next to someone like Mingming from Ms. Simpson’s class. I became the resident banana in my school. Yellow on the outside but white on the inside. kids of Caucasian descent, Koreans fell second, Taiwanese the third, mixed ethnicities next, and mainland Chinese last. There was a special place at the top of the hierarchy if you were American Born Chinese (ABC) because the ABCs were mentally the same as the Caucasian kids and were accepted by them. Anyone could easily join the likes of the Michiganders if they could forget their culture and replace it. The elite Asians were the ones who played volleyball, had Uggs, and ate pesto pasta for lunch every day with Crystal Lite.

Smooth and slender, the chopstick originally came in wooden form. Historians believe they might’ve been created for the means of retrieving food from pots, and were most likely twigs in their most rudimentary form. I never noticed the importance of my Chinese culture nor the stability it offered until I began to force my cultural identity out of myself.

I’ve lived in three countries and in eight different houses throughout my lifetime. Like a flock of birds, my family is constantly migrating and building nests, just to eventually leave them. We’d live in one house for a few years and then my father would make a good business deal, buy a better home, and before I even had time to settle into this home we’re out the door. With every move, you’d expect that my family would pack all of our belongings first, then move, but instead, we would only take a select few of our valuables then scurry into the new house as quickly as possible. In a way, that taught me not to be too attached to anything material. What could possibly be meaningful and valuable to a child? My mother would pick her favorite dresses amongst my baby clothes, and if I was lucky, I could select one stuffed animal to take with me on the move. After we settled down in our new home, my mother would then buy a new collection of clothing and toys for me so that the past and the things lost would be forgotten. The one toy I brought from my past life would soon become cheap and old compared to my shiny new collection of dolls. As a kid, I knew that anything could be replaced. That being said, finding an object that could act as a portal to my spiritual identity was extremely difficult— primarily because I’ve never owned something for long enough that it had spiritual value to me. Even my own identity was dropped, lost, and bought. Growing up, I was constantly shopping— either for new toys or a new cultural identity. The only thing that has been with me since birth until today, are my chopsticks..

At home though, it was a completely different story. At home, I was known as the champion of the chopsticks, I could pick up peanuts, seaweed, and any sort of seafood with my wooden chopsticks and watched Chinese dubbed Japanese anime after bath time. I was kept grounded at home because I knew I could shed off the label at the door and be loved for whatever I was by my family.

Then, we moved again.

I was born in the United States and when I was four my family moved to Canada. I was too young to know anything about fitting in when I was still in the United States, but once I moved to Canada, I realized it became more apparent than ever I was different. I was the new kid who was from California but looked nothing like the poster child for the typical LA baby. There were other children of Chinese descent in my school, but they were either from mainland China or were Canadian born Asians. I couldn’t blend in with either groups of people who looked like me, and I knew that even if I did, I wouldn’t be as popular and well-liked compared to the constantly smiling white kids with their sparkly Sketchers. I became self-aware and easily knew that I didn’t fit in. Thus, in the 1st grade, I decided that the baby pink beige shade Crayola called “flesh” would be my new skin color as I left home lunches for cold pizza Lunchables and shoved the chopsticks my mother gave me for lunch down to the bottom of my Hello Kitty sequinned backpack. My first pair of light up shoes began my initiation with the cool kids and up until fourth grade, I avoided other Asian kids in fear that my Geox’s couldn’t hide what was painfully obvious when I stood next to someone like Mingming from Ms. Simpson’s class. I became the resident banana in my school. Yellow on the outside but white on the inside. kids of Caucasian descent, Koreans fell second, Taiwanese the third, mixed ethnicities next, and mainland Chinese last. There was a special place at the top of the hierarchy if you were American Born Chinese (ABC) because the ABCs were mentally the same as the Caucasian kids and were accepted by them. Anyone could easily join the likes of the Michiganders if they could forget their culture and replace it. The elite Asians were the ones who played volleyball, had Uggs and ate pesto pasta for lunch every day with Crystal Lite.

I’ll never forget my mother’s eyes when I told her I wish I was white. I’ll never forget the sheer pain on her face when I told her that I wished she was white as I slammed my chopsticks at the dinner table down, broke them, and ran to my room with a wave of both frustration and guilt blanketed across my body. A new question was formed for me that night: who would I be if I wasn’t Chinese? Even if I wanted to be something else, my skin betrays me. How much longer am I going to lie to myself…

I stayed in China for high school and slowly reclaimed my culture after that day. Long nights of ginger tea and conversation with my family slowly mended the insecurities I had that birthed my reckless cultural confusion. I no longer felt the need to deny the things I loved, to hide with words my mouth struggled to articulate. Later years in my high school education and new friends also taught me that American does not necessarily mean white. Your identity is not solely dependant off of your what color you think you are. Eventually, I decided to apply to a school in New York City in hopes of reconnecting with my more American side, but to also experience a city that is considered a cultural melting pot. I know who I am now, so why not get to know who everyone else is?

And of course, my mother helped me pack a pair of porcelain chopsticks to bring to my new home. In an unfortunate accident, they were broken— and I bought new ones as soon as I could. My chopsticks may break but it doesn’t change the fact that I will always prefer chopsticks over anything.