Changsha, China, I’m fourteen months old. My life has swiveled on its axis and turned west, towards the United States, a new life and new family. However, before I leave, I get one last dinner. One last farewell. I sit in my highchair, next to my new parents. Curious eyes searching the room for something familiar. Something I recognize. They land on dumplings. Hot, steaming, pork dumplings, fresh out of the chef’s kitchen. Perfectly made for me. Small enough for my little mouth to eat. Served to me by a waitress who speaks a language I can understand. My parents speak to me in their own tongue. I don’t recognize it. I do recognize dumplings, though.
There aren’t many Chinese restaurants in Hastings, Minnesota. I no longer recognize my native language. I no longer wish to be associated with being Chinese. With being different. With looking and acting different from my classmates with light hair and lighter eyes. My mother can’t convince me to learn Mandarin. I refuse. My father can’t persuade me to practice calligraphy. I refuse. What I don’t refuse is a plate of dumplings at Fortune Cookie. Poorly made but tasting like home.
I bring a cold lunch to elementary school. A peanut butter sandwich, apple slices, and a small bag of Doritos. I don’t think dumplings taste very good cold. If I had superpowers, I’d bring them and heat them up with my hands. Oh well. Beside me sits my closest friend. She’s South Korean. A completely different ethnicity than mine, yet, for some odd reason, no one can tell us apart. We don’t look alike. I’m nearly six inches taller than her, with chubbier cheeks and shorter hair— and still, I’m called her name nearly twice a day. There are over seventy children in this cafeteria. We don’t look like those children. If I had superpowers, we would. We don’t look alike.
San Francisco’s Chinatown smells of dumplings. It’s too bad I can’t taste them. My mother hates Chinese food. Our visit to Chinatown lasts only an hour, but I’ll remember that smell. Maybe when I’m older, taller, and more responsible, I can visit on my own. My own money will be handed to the shopkeeper, and in return, she’ll hand me a dumpling.
My high school doesn’t offer Mandarin as a foreign language. Spanish. French. Two options, to which I chose the former. Our assignment is to make an empanada. I can’t help but notice they’re oh-so-similar to my beloved dumplings. I’d like to say that to my friends, but I’d also like to avoid heads turning towards me. Heads with the corners of their eyes lifted by index fingers. They mock me. So, I keep my thoughts to myself.
My parents promise me a Chinese dinner when I get home from my high school graduation. Steamed dumplings, white rice, and Beijing beef. First, I need to make it through the ceremony. Second, I need to get over the nerves I feel as I stand before my classmates and their families. I know I earned this commencement speech. I worked hard. I studied hard. What’s nagging is something said to me weeks ago. They only chose you because you’re Asian. They needed diversity.
Three women sit in front of me with a plate of dumplings dividing us. Dumplings that they know as “gyoza.” Three women I consider my friends. They’re middle-aged, Japanese, and native to Kyoto; my sophomore year study abroad destination. Where are you from? they ask. We haven’t been friends long, maybe three weeks or so, but I feel safe with them. I don’t feel judgment, yet I can’t bring myself to answer their question honestly. I try to open my mouth and all I hear is my snow-skinned adoptive aunt claiming that the Japanese don’t accept Chinese people. Well, what does she know? She knows how to trigger my anxiety. I tell them I’m born and raised in America, perhaps that will save me. They smile, nod, and ask me about Minnesota. I answer. I talk. I lie.
___
Charlee Simacek is a Chinese-American writer based in Minnesota. She is currently an undergraduate student pursuing a degree in Digital Media Arts and Strategic Communication at the University of St. Thomas – St. Paul. This is her first published literary work.