WRAPPED UP IN DUMPLING MEMORIES By Consuelo Le
W
hen my parents moved from Shanghai to the United States in the late-1980s, they made a conscious effort to explore American culture. They basked in the beauty of Niagara Falls and the nightlights of Times Square, participated in the quintessential American barbecue, and even found time to visit the White House. When I visited Johns Hopkins University with them for the first time, where they conducted their postdoctoral research, my parents brought me to PJ’s, a little pub stuffed into the basement of their old apartment complex. As we walked down a flight of stairs alltoo-familiar to them, they smiled, happily reminiscing in their memories. Our lunch was filled not only with food but also with stories of them eating buckets upon buckets of chicken wings in these exact seats with their college friends.
But even with all of these happy memories, I know they miss living in China, surrounded by their family and closest friends. When they moved to America, they knew they would grow distant from the culture that they had known for all of their lives. As a child, I had never contemplated the internal struggles they faced in merging their Chinese and American identities. Yet as I grew older, being Asian American became more significant to me. In these past few years, I have wanted to actively connect with my parents and their traditions, but I often feel as though I am not trying hard enough. After all, I have not visited China since I saw my grandparents six years ago, even though I used to visit annually as a child. Even though I tell myself that it is only because of my busy school schedule, the guilt comes creeping back every so often.
P HO TO: Je
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