The Colors of our insides, deep thoughts in Beijing
On belonging: Everybody listen, I’m not a banana. I’m really not. (Original Title by Author - Jessica Yong)
Let me paint Beijing a bit for you. Step into any street, and you will be wrapped in her high decibel current; an unapologetic tangled web of people, bikes, buses, cars, and flying phlegm. There are over 20 million individual wills that push and shove and generate a singular pulse. Simultaneously, the alluring juxtaposition happens when your senses are tuned into the intangible alchemy that floats within. There is magic here. A never ending rhapsody of unpredictable encounters, preserved and venerated stories, hues of facades, textured dialects, glowing minds, unquenchable spirits, and a vibrant clash of old and new. These are the sweet calamities we slowly sip in.
Growing up in the States I could always expect a curious:
“Where are you from?”
“Houston.”
"No, where are you really from..like your parents? You know, where are you from?”
“I’m Chinese if that’s what you’re trying to figure out.”
Between new friends in each school grade to almost every single uber ride to this day, this particular exchange was predictable and well rehearsed. Yet, transplant me in China, where I'm one in 1.3 billion, I still receive the same allegation. On the other spectrum the dialogue looks like this:
“Where do you come from?”
"I'm Chinese, from Beijing.”
“No you're not. Where were you born?”
"America.”
"Thought so.”
Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?
It seems like I never quite fit the mold on either side. In the tossed salad of America, I’m forever your token wonton strip, which, don't get me wrong, has been easy to sport in a diverse city like Houston. It was the gnawing guilt due to a lack of awareness towards my heritage that propelled me to make a move. And then in China, where I physically camouflage, I’m still considered an uncanny outsider in most eyes. My aunt rattled on over dinner conversation, “Us Chinese people call you Chinese Americans bananas. Yellow on the outside and white on the inside.” I never really quite knew how to respond when my grade school friends used to badge me with terms like that alongside with “Twinkie”, but years later, when I’m being told the very same thing by my closest family member, the remark lingered- until I tossed it back out.
Can’t you see I’m different? Can’t you tell that I’m currently taking a stride to learn about my heritage?
Although it may take longer for others to accept my clumsy and culturally confused character, I've already tricked myself into believing I belong in these waters, kind of like your dog who thinks it's human and attentively listens to every conversation. One ear up expecting a dinner plate, that’s me.
Belonging- It's a state of mind. It’s not patiently waiting for that sense to enter in. It’s a reminder alarm set in the morning that reads “Hey you’re here. Now get up and act like it.”
My father always taught me that it is better to ask for forgiveness then for permission (and I’ve taught myself that the former is most effective with some eyelash batting dashed in) Lovebugs, there won't be an invitation to live each day. You have to take ownership of where you are and who you are. After all, we each have an entitlement to exist. So everyday I choose to walk around following curiosity rather then fear, and multiple times it's been mistaken for confidence. While pushing through customs at the airport, an older women asked me for directions in Chinese, to which I immediately apologized, admitting that I'm illiterate. "Oh, you just seemed to know where you're going" she replied. That, my friends, is what happens when you believe it- others start to feel it. (What is also helpful is when your network provider doesn’t work getting off the plane and you are forced to have your eyes off the phone unlike everyone else around you. Blending in should be easy if no one’s paying attention though.)
But internally? How does one reconcile the authentic fears that squeeze their way in before bed, interrupt a daydream on a subway ride, or stay for longer than a handshake during dinner alone? The ones that tell me I’m an impostor and leave me seriously insecure. Can’t say I’ve dismissed the occasional identity pity parties, but there is something to be said in simply announcing to yourself that you are here, being vigilant to assess your surroundings, asking questions, and acknowledging that we grow by living in a constant state of slight discomfort. Search for those fortifying experiences. Be stretched. I gave myself small steps, beginning with finding a seat around the dinner table, being courageous enough to be a part of the conversation despite my accent. Next, seeking out neighbors, a church, and a web of expats. Arms were open, and it is in these little pockets of community that our multi faceted spirits find a belonging. Gradually, you start to accept your place in a crowded bus of strangers, and with time, this growing country of 1.3 billion.
Rather ironically, I’m gathering these thoughts over the most embarrassingly American meal I’ve had as of yet. I felt like this couldn’t go unmentioned. Creature comforts are real, guys. So here I am writing about fitting in China while -yes- a kale and quinoa salad, a glass of rosé, and an Americano (which I used to never drink at home) stares back at me. I also realized it’s the first time in over 2 weeks that I’ve held a fork and knife and been given a napkin that does not resemble a square of toilet tissue. Oh, the tiny wins.
Sincerely, your most basic banana eating China girlfriend