By Mira Simonton-Chao
The Communicator Magazine
Ann Arbor Community HS
1st Place
Division 4, News Writing
Personal Narrative
Yesterday my mom told me that I needed to put my words out into the world. She told me that I needed to write to you because one insult can make a hundred compliments feel like trash — so I guess that’s what I’m doing. I’m putting all the admiration and pride I have for you onto paper, with hardcore printer ink, and sealing it in an envelope to send to you. This letter obviously isn’t going to change your life or make you have a deep spiritual realization, but maybe it’ll make you feel a little better — maybe it’ll make me feel a little better.
I am a 16 year-old girl from Ann Arbor, Michigan. My Dad is Chinese and moved from Taiwan to the U.S. during the ‘80s to be with his parents. My Mom is White and grew up in a tiny town in upstate New York. I don’t speak Chinese fluently; I’ve never been to China; and sometimes during family events I hide in the bathroom so as to avoid the uncomfortable family friend questions about how much Chinese I speak — not any more than the last time you asked me. Apart from me, the entirety of my family would be categorized on a shelf of families under “strangely linguistically talented,” meaning that the fact that I am not is weird. I, being the uncultured and somewhat delusional child I was, decided when I was five that I was “rebellious” and boycotted all forms of Chinese education. This included the mildly odd Chinese school — cow origami hosted in one room while another room held 20 children screaming Chinese nursery rhymes, held at our local elementary school — for what, more screen time? Closing in on ten years since the day I threw a hissy fit and “dropped out of Chinese school,” I can confidently say that I regret that decision almost every single day of my life.
I grew up on cable cop shows because my Mom thought those Disney girls were rude. And, on reflection, they really were. But by telling me that I couldn’t watch those shows, without realizing it, my mother made those girls cool. After the 50th viewing, Mulan had lost its magic and my eight year-old self was starving for a new role-model: the matter of whether or not they looked like me irrelevant. This “coolness” was really important and Hannah Montana was, according to the White girls in my first grade class, the coolest. And so while my Mom scoured day and night for a role-model for her young daughter, even going to the lengths to special order a Chinese Barbie, I already had my heart set on those rude White girls. The problem, at the root of all of this, was that there weren’t any for my Mom to find. I had seen the classics: had watched Wendy Wu and Mulan so many times they practically became religion in our family. They — Hollywood, Disney, the big dudes — gave us one television movie and a choppy recreation of a classical Chinese story and basically said good luck with the rest. So I was left to idolize those same rude White girls my mother disliked so and grew up wanting to be something I, essentially, could never be.
But through that all, I never really thought about what it meant to be a half-Chinese and half-Caucasian female until I got into high school. I was very oblivious, and had never really been forced to think about my culture or ethnicity in such a close and personal way. While it seems obvious to me that no two people are experiencing life in the same way, I slowly began to realize that many people, including some of my closest friends, were in fact oblivious to the matter. I like to think of this theory, whatever thing of mine, as a common assumption that is not directly intentional, but still hurtful.
It unfolds as a biracial POC, whether that mean African-American, Chinese, Native American or any other minority, finds themselves surrounded by so many White people that they almost forget their other half, and the importance of it. They contort themselves into a White partial version of their true self: an attempt to relate to their White peers who consequently begin to forget that their biracial/multiracial friend isn’t, in fact, solely White. And then, because they are so into this persona, this thing of their own creation, they, in example, drop out of Chinese school. They’ll eat White culture like breakfast cereal until they’ve forgotten what red bean soup tastes like.
Then that day comes. And suddenly they are all too aware of how oblivious they have become and how oblivious everybody else too has become. They make that damn assumption and they can’t even think about the other side, all they know is their White privilege and they are completely blind. It’s your fault not theirs. Why can’t you just see it like them? You’ve hit the identity rock bottom. You don’t even know what side you should be on not to even mention which side you actually agree with. You’re divided, not down the middle but, all zig-zaggy because all you really want to do is fit in, but suddenly you can’t. Because I mean, where do you really fit?
Identity is a huge deal. Whether you’re filling out your standardized testing booklet or simply just talking about your last name.
Identity is everything. But I feel like it’s almost something impossible to understand and interpret. Sometimes it makes you feel like shit, like you don’t belong anywhere in the world and that there is no right bubble for you anywhere, but sometimes it’s all that holds you up because somewhere deep in their you are in fact proud to be mixed.
So basically you, Chloe, no matter what last name you have, are a badass. A Chinese-American badass who is making things better for all us other Chinese-Americans who will follow in your footsteps. The last name you go by is irrelevant when you’re proud of who you are. So sorry this letter got a little ranty, but it was all leading up to the fact that I think you’re an inspiration. You’re out here blowing the racist Hollywood doors open for something I think a lot of people forget about. Mulan, Wendy Wu, Nikita — you’re up there with the stars. We really need you and we need more of people out there like you. And while we’re talking about needs, all us Chinese-American girls, biracial or not, really need Hollywood to stop being so racist, and you are helping us get there. I don’t know what these people are talking about, but Bustle got that hero stuff right on. You’re an inspiration, a role model, and someone for us young girls to look up to.