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

How would you feel, when the name of your motherland becomes a nasty adjective And people in this country suddenly decide you are the enemy. I know each country has its own flaws but why point your finger at me, like I am the one at fault?

They say the Chinese are taking over America, stealing wealth and jobs. Then tell me, why do I feel like white America has eaten my soul? Communist, dog-eaters, spies sent by the CCP Throw your stones at me, I don’t care anymore.

All my fears and pains, they burn to ashes. Tomorrow I’d still be the same person, the Chinese girl who speaks a beautiful language.

Her brown eyes and black hair, Olive skin and almond-shaped eyes; a gift given by her roots, what she forever holds dear to her heart.