“I am my language” signifies an identity belonging to someone through ancestry, heritage, and upbringing. For me, a gay Chinese American born and raised in New York and Long Island defines who I am and the languages I speak: English, gay slang, and Cantonese, a dialect of Chinese predominantly spoken in Hong Kong, Macau, and the Guangdong Province in China. “Wild tongues can’t be tamed, they can only be cut out” (page 69) highlights non-English speakers having their tongues cut out because speaking perfect, standard English is the expectation in America (Anzaldúa 69). Growing up in a bilingual household with my parents flipping between English and Cantonese constantly in addition to my grandmothers’ limited and broken English, I ended up having to take speech classes because of my improper pronunciations of English words through elementary school, like how Anzaldúa took speech classes in college to get rid of the accents. By the time I finished elementary school, my Cantonese-English accent was gone and my pronunciation by American standards improved.

The term “gwei lo (鬼佬)” in Cantonese, my family’s native tongue, makes me feel me, but it does not necessarily bring me joy. Translated to English, “gwei lo” equates to “ghost man.” However, native Cantonese speakers normally use this term as slang for westerners or foreigners, especially for Americans. For me, I am a “gwei lo” when it comes to my Chinese American identity because this makes you stuck in the middle. So, I cannot solely identify myself as Chinese or American since I am American-born Chinese (“ABC”), a Chinese American slang used to describe the offspring of Chinese immigrant parents who were born in America. To an American, I speak English and have citizenship, but I am physically and culturally different. To a Chinese person, I am physically the same, but I barely speak the native language well and I am culturally different also with a lack of citizenship. Therefore, I am a “gwei lo” because I am a foreigner to the Chinese and American people due to my “ABC” label and upbringing with both cultures that makes me too much of a stranger to either identity. But like Anzaldúa and the Chicanos, growing up Chinese American resembles its own kind of culture. For some of my fellow Chinese Americans that I know and I, the culture represents a status of feeling disconnected to our ancestry, enjoying our native food, some native and American traditions, speaking our native tongue with no reading or writing skills, and a multitude of different things that somehow makes us Chinese Americans feel more connected to our Chinese heritage in an American society where we adapt to survive in a world where everyone does not look, act, think, or speak similarly to us or our parents. For example, Hong Kong style mahjong draws me closer to my Chinese heritage and brings me joy because the game of mahjong originated in China, the rules for this style came from Hong Kong where my grandmother comes from, and the game pieces itself have Chinese symbols and characters. In addition to mahjong’s Chinese origins, when I sit down to play a game of mahjong with my family or my friends I taught, I always use a mix of Cantonese and English to speak while playing which makes me feel extremely Chinese American due to the way my tongue functions throughout the game. Therefore, outsiders who do not have Chinese heritage would most likely not understand the game of Hong Kong style mahjong because the rules for mahjong varies by region, like languages, and the game utilizes Chinese characters and phrases. Overall, growing up Chinese American combines two identities to an extent where it feels impossible to solely identify with one; thus creating a new sort of culture and language consisting of weak Chinese skills and somewhat proficient English coinciding with a disconnected feeling to our Chinese heritage.