On Being Chinese

My son Kevin's first-grade teacher phoned this week to tell me about a school incident. In class, they were discussing the richness of different cultures, and his teacher asked Kevin about being Chinese.

My son curled into a ball and didn't say anything. The teacher asked if he was OK, but Kevin remained silent, so she suggested I talk to him about his reaction.

When I tucked Kevin into his racecar bed that night, I spoke to him about his teacher's concern. He didn't respond. After much prompting, he finally said, "Sometimes people keep asking me if I'm Chinese." His eyes stared at the Mickey Mouse blanket at the foot of his bed, and his voice was barely audible.

I said, "When people ask you that, how do you feel?"

After a long hesitation, he said, "Bad."

I paused. I had come to the United States at age 6 with my mother, from Hong Kong. There weren't many Asians in the schools I attended, and it became apparent very quickly that being Chinese meant I was different. As a child, being different was the last thing I wanted, so I tried to fit in. I didn't want to be Chinese anymore, and even my mother couldn't make me speak the language at home.

Now, I barely recall a few Chinese words, and I have only begun to learn about the Chinese culture. My wife Quyen has helped me in this regard because she is so in touch with her Vietnamese background, and I admire her for it. I looked at my son, his blank stare indicating the depth of his cultural confusion, something I had helped perpetuate by disowning my culture.

So I said, "When I was a kid, I didn't want to be Chinese." My son's eyes showed surprise. "How come, Daddy?"

"Because it made me feel different. When people ask you if you're Chinese, does it make you feel different?"

He nodded.

I took a deep breath. "There's something I want to tell you, Kevin. There's nothing wrong with being Chinese. I'm Chinese. I don't speak the language, but I'm Chinese, and one day, I hope to learn it again." Kevin said, "But they keep asking me if I'm Chinese all the time."

I said, "If you want them to stop, what can you do?"

My son hesitated, his brow curled in thought. "Tell them to stop?"

"You can, or you can tell them you are Chinese, because there's nothing wrong with that." I scooted closer to Kevin at the side of his bed. "Kevin, don't ever let anybody make you feel bad about being Chinese. For me, being Chinese or Vietnamese or American isn't the most important thing."

My son looked directly at me, his eyes conveying the question why? I continued, "For me, the most important thing is that you're a good person, and nobody can ever take that away."

My son smiled and plopped his head onto his pillow.