For the first decade in my life, one question followed me: “Can you say something in Chinese?”
Technically, I could. I’d attended a Chinese preschool, spent a month in China when I was little, and could talk to grandparents in perfect Mandarin during our daily calls. But as I got older and went through elementary school, I began to focus more on English and transitioned away from using Mandarin regularly. I wanted to fit in, to be “normal,” and Chinese didn’t feel like it belonged in the new version of myself.
At first, it was small things: answering my parents in English, laughing off relatives’ questions with a shrug, as one usually does when they don’t know how to respond. Over time, those slight tendencies began to build up. The less I spoke, the more distant the language and culture became. The more foreign the language seemed, the less Chinese I felt.
During family dinners, I had sat expressionless in the corner of the table, watching as those around me laughed and cracked jokes. I could pick up a couple of things here and there, but I never fully understood them or was able to express myself.
When my extended family asked me questions, I needed my parents to translate for me. When my grandparents tried to tell me lessons, I answered them with a blank smile, not knowing what they were saying.
In fifth grade, I realized the depth of the cultural split during my biennial summer trip to China to visit my grandparents.
“Just write your name on the paper,” the bank teller said in Chinese. I could only stand there, staring at the jumble of characters, confused, pen hovering above the paper. The bank teller teased me, thinking I was from China.
“What kind of kid doesn’t know how to write his own name?” he asked lightheartedly.
Even today, the words still echo around my head. Standing there, the embarrassment and shame that had built up for the past decade had finally caught up with me. The emotional divide between my Chinese side and the rest of me was not brought on by some external force. It was up to me to change my course.
By eighth grade, I was set on taking Chinese in high school. I couldn’t stand sitting quietly at the table for another four years. I enrolled in online Chinese classes to prepare for the placement test in the summer, and eventually placed into Chinese 3.
I rediscovered the joy of speaking Chinese; working on projects with friends showed me that speaking Chinese wouldn’t make me different from others. I had finally found a space where my fears of speaking Chinese disappeared, and my second language started to feel more like a part of my identity rather than a thorn in my side.
The first time I held a whole conversation with my relatives again, I was 14 instead of four. During my sophomore Spring Break, I visited my relatives in China for the first time since fifth grade. Although I had occasional issues with my grammar and tone, I was relieved to finally be able to share my stories with the people I couldn’t connect with for the longest time.
Re-learning Chinese has taught me that I don’t have to choose between being “American” and being “Chinese.” I’m both. Being bilingual isn’t something that you should throw away: it’s an aspect of your identity that you should embrace and welcome.
Language is culture. I spent a decade losing my bilingual ability because I “wanted to fit in,” and it created a cultural divide that took me a whole year to repair. The next time someone asks you to say something in your other language, don’t shy away from the attention. Be proud of who you are, and answer in the language you once thought you hid.
