The Only Chinese In The Room Cynthia Tu
Brown eyes and black hair a funny language, grotesque characters on the phone. Everyone wants to be seen while all I hope is to become invisible. 10 p.m. at the T station, leaning against the wall, Echoing in my head, a story that my friend told: “I heard a Chinese man in New York was pushed in front of the train and killed.” Eager stares in a silent room, questions flood over me like a November storm. During class a girl said, “I would never live in a place like China - I feel so bad for its people.” But how, how could you feel pity for me for living in the place I love the most? The place where people accept me as who I am, the girl who kept her head up, the girl brave enough to speak up. The place where mothers and fathers work diligently to send their kids across the ocean, hoping they will achieve big things
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