Enmeshed Between Two Cultures
As an ABC, born to a Fujianese father and a Taiwanese mother, I am often enmeshed between two clashing cultures. In the United States, I am taught to strive for my dreams, whatever they may be, but as a child of immigrant parents, I juggle between the traditional, more conservative values embraced by my parents, and the Western values of American society. More often than not, on my path to discovering myself, I willingly choose to follow the more traditional values instilled within me by my family. I am a cultural hybrid— a child of two worlds— but beyond that, I often find myself at a loss when trying to describe myself.
The Museum of Chinese in America (MOCA) presented a variety of Chinese individuals who have achieved fame and success for their accomplishments in their respective fields and careers. As I gazed upon the rectangular displays, I realized that I recognized many of these faces. In a matter of a few sentences, the brief descriptions accompanying the photos summed up the whole of their accomplishments. These are the faces of great Chinese Americans; faces that are proudly published, perhaps even flaunted, on Chinese and Taiwanese newspapers and magazines distributed overseas and here.
From childhood, my mother has posted newspaper clippings and photos of these famous faces— scattering them throughout our home to remind my brother and I who we can become. Before reaching for floss behind the three-paned bathroom mirror, I used to see the talented Yo-Yo Ma smiling next to his prized cello or Gary Locke, the 21st governor of Washington who is now the Secretary of Commerce, among others (Interesting side-note: It has now been replaced by the title of the highly controversial book on the superiority of Chinese parenting, The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother). That is her American dream— it is not the white picket fence that many of us have tied to this clichéd notion— it is for her children, the fruits of her tireless labor, to become accomplished, extraordinary, and perhaps, even famous and remembered. All Chinese immigrants have their very own American dream. Just ask any one of them and you will find that their responses are never quite the same.
Before going to the museum, I remembered my father’s own story of immigration to the United States. Unlike the many Fujianese immigrants studied by Kenneth Guest in his book, God in Chinatown, my father, the eldest among nine siblings, has a very different story to tell. Over thirty years ago, my father and his siblings arrived in New York City with the help of their father, who provided all of them with all the right immigration papers. In God in Chinatown, however, many Fujianese immigrants came here illegally as a means to survive, often using religious institutions based in Chinatown as their cover, with little opportunities left in their small rural hometowns. My great-grandfather was also a war veteran of World War II, which meant that immigration for his family into the United States was infinitely easier. Today, my family has established a modest Chinese takeout restaurant in Elmhurst, Queens.
So I’m curious…What are your families’ stories?
One response so far
Although I wasn’t raised in New York City, I’m a first generation American too. Your description of being a “child of two worlds” resonates for me as well. The clash I felt–and sometimes still feel–between my family’s values and what gets framed as “western” or “modern” values is something I understand. Better writers than I have engaged this issue. I now see this question of doubleness, of having to negotiate two identities, as more common than not. What my parents want for me (to become accomplished, even extraordinary) is what most parents want for their children. For me, the special part about my parents’ desire for my success was that, because they were immigrants–outsiders in the American milieu–they made sure I understood that any success of my own would also be theirs. This was also true about any failure; if I did something badly, or if I got into trouble, it would make all of us look bad. Those values helped keep me out of (serious) trouble, and they helped me keep my eye on the Prize.
It bothers me that when non-immigrants–and really I mean a bourgeois mainstream–see immigrants their narrative usually revolves around a notion of a people, always poor, struggling against a religious and/or political oppression that can only be relieved by integration into “America.” As Ying points out, her ancestor’s didn’t sneak into New York, nor were they uneducated. Like mine, they arrived in the United States with the proper papers and the dream many “Americans” dream. As I see it, the distinction a lot of people make between the dreams and values of immigrants and natives always turn into a question of race and class. Its as if white, Anglo-Protestants (and those others who feel equal and integrated among them), have forgotten that, they too, were once immigrants. Its ironic.
There are things I love about being a child of immigrants. One of them is food culture. My immigrant family taught me that what you eat is who you are–from this, I’ve come to understand that I am a rice-eating, pepper-pot-loving person who has to have black cake at Christmas. Some people need their cioppino, their rice and beans (not to be confused with peas and rice), their challah, or their dumplings during the holidays. Its all good. Its what makes us who we are AND it makes the United States, especially New York City, what it is.