“This I Believe” Rough Draft

“You were born in China.”

It’s a phrase; the start of a story I often heard my parents tell me while growing up. I’ve always known that I’m adopted. It’s a fact I fully embraced when I was little because it made me feel unique. That was, until my uniqueness became the source of my internal conflict.

There I was, sitting “crisscross applesauce”, as my teacher liked to say, on the vibrantly colored rug in my kindergarten classroom, awaiting the day’s lesson. To be honest, I have little recollection of what the actual lesson was from twelve years ago. What I do remember, is my teacher discussing nationalities and claiming that everyone in the room was American. Of course, at that point in time, I had no idea what the word ‘nationality’ meant, so I raised my hand to dispute her claim. In a proud, bright voice that only a child can muster, I stated that I was born in China, therefore, I am Chinese.

And that’s when she uttered the words that, amongst the foggy haze of my memory, remain crystal clear. “No, you’re not. You’re American.”

Those two short sentences had felt like a punch to the gut. A punch that sent me reeling backwards and away from everything familiar. I was left utterly confused, lost in a whirlwind of my own thoughts. Have my parents been lying to me? Am I not actually Chinese? Who am I?

It took a long time for me to understand what my teacher had truly meant by her words, but by then, they had already left their mark. Knowing the differences between nationality, ethnicity, and ancestry wasn’t enough to soothe my conflicted mind. My uniqueness that I had wholeheartedly embraced when I was younger suddenly felt too unique. I became more acutely aware of the fact that my physical appearance and genetics mark me as Asian. A stark contrast to my blond-haired mom, my dad with his light Irish skin that instantly burns in the sun, and my green-eyed sister. I began to understand that I was part of the minority in my vastly white community. It had never bothered me before, but now I couldn’t help but notice.

So, naturally, I turned to the small population of Asian Americans in my school. While some became my friends, I continued to feel like I didn’t belong. On the surface, I seemed to blend right in, but underneath on a cultural level, I felt like an outsider. They could speak another language, and I couldn’t. They would complain about “typical Asian parents”, and I would just smile and force out a laugh, pretending to understand their struggles.

I was stranded on my own little island. In the distance, I could see the mainland, but try as I might, I couldn’t figure out how to reach it. I believed that I needed to “fit in,” and I was drowning in my attempts. I was an imposter in my own life. And it wasn’t until I was forced to confront my own identity, in the form of the “who are you?” question on college applications, that I realized I was never going to “fit in” perfectly with one group and that was okay.

When I had pondered what to write, the only thing that kept rising to the surface of my mind was my parents’ voices lovingly telling me, “You were born in China.” The story I heard so often as a child grew clearer. It was the story of my beginnings. A drop in the ocean of my identity that I realized could not be confined to one, singular category. No matter how hard I try, I can never be someone I’m not. It’s exhausting to pretend, to fake smiles and connections that aren’t there.

Instead, I believe that the only category I fit into is myself. I believe that I exist in a unique place that only I understand because there is only one of me. In my mind, every person has their own unique stories that make them different. So, while I may live on my own island, I believe that I’m not the only island in the world.

*The conclusion is a bit messy and I know this is too long, so I’ll cut some things out later when I do my edits 🙂