Culture

I am Chinese. I am White. I am of two races; and I am of none.

It is true that a culture is simply a way of thinking—in which case, I am probably White. I was born over here, grew up over here, and learned the values, roles, and stereotypes of Caucasian culture.

At the same time, I was a Caucasian kid who grew up eating rice and noodles every other day, who still knows a little Chinese, who was taught to work hard, and who could do multiplication and division in kindergarten.

When I was young, I understood who I was. I played with the White kids, and I played with the Chinese kids, and was accepted by both as a member of their race, who knew intimately what it was like to be one of them. I could tell stories about hearing another language at home, but I would never have to translate for my parents. I knew what Hello Kitty was and I knew what WWF was (and, to be honest, had an interest in neither).

One day, something happened. I and my friends hit puberty. Girls became the main attraction. Relationships became the centre that life revolved around. And we were taught that interracial relationships, while on occasion could work, would only add stress and complications.

It wasn’t like they needed to be told. Black people dated black people. White people dated white people. Hispanic dated Hispanic, and Oriental dated Oriental. It was true there was the occasional adventurous girl who would go for something a little more atypical; but their relationships never tended to last very long.

It was then that I learned the truth about who I was. White people thought I was Chinese; and Chinese people thought I was White. It was really hard to dispute either point. To a Chinese person, I acted, thought, and looked like a White person—I didn’t have Asian eyes, an Asian nose; I couldn’t speak any language besides English. To a White person, I had black hair and brown eyes; therefore, I was different.

Eventually, I got to college, where professors believed that all goodness in the world came from asking questions. I looked within, and asked, “Who am I?”

A culture is simply a way of thinking, impressed on each and every person from such a young age, that no one remembers the difference between themselves and their culture. I am a culture clash. This is who I am—a person who consists of two elements that don’t always agree with each other.

I want to look deeper. I want to strip away all the layers of culture in me, so that at the very bottom when it’s all gone, I can find myself. When all of the clutter is removed, I will be able to see the world without any pre-existing notions and stereotypes—I will see the world for what it really is. But I’m afraid that when I take away all my ways of thinking, I will instead become a vegetable, without any remaining mental capacity.

My culture is my blessing and my curse.