On Board the Panda Express Written by Johnson Lin Edited by Alexander Nguyen Designed by Ceci Villaseñor Two and a half years ago, I wrote a final essay relating my Chinese American identity to Chinese takeout cuisine. A shortened version was adapted for Portrait’s first issue, titled “You Are What You Eat.” In the essay, I talk about the history of Chinese takeout cuisine, how the food changed to meet American standards, resulting in a food that is neither Chinese nor American, and how we as Chinese Americans similarly fall in that grey area. When I was writing that essay, I felt confident in my identity—although I felt that I was in between Chinese and American, I felt that I was closer than ever to bridging that gap. I had been studying Chinese for the past 6 years and I’d had so many meaningful conversations with my mom, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. I was set to study abroad at Peking University in Beijing and it was going to solidify my Chinese language skills even further, which is what I felt was the last thing missing for me to bridge that gap. I was going to be both Chinese and American. I am now a senior, back at Vassar College, a full year after spending five months in China. And I feel farther
than ever from bridging that gap. I used to think Chinese American meant being both Chinese and American. But now, I feel that Chinese is just an adjective to describe American. When I look back, it feels very apparent that I was naive to think that language is the only barrier that is stopping me from being Chinese. American and Chinese cultures are just extremely different. While I was there, I had friends who were locals and I realized that besides the difficulty of having meaningful conversations in a second language, we were just fundamentally different. We grew up watching different TV shows. We listen to different music. We have different ideals and morals. While I enjoyed the friends I made there, it was unmistakable that I was different from them. Even on a language level, it was clear that I was an outsider. My Chinese is obviously not perfect, but it took extended conversations for locals to realize I didn’t quite speak the same way. I’m more than happy with my level of Chinese at this point. But the biggest difference that never occurred to me was that to them I’m just American. There is no word for Chinese American in Mandarin. There is a word for Chinese diaspora. But to them, I’m just American. My parents are Chinese, but I’m American. In fairness, I was born in America. I was raised in America. I browse American sites and consume American media. I am American. But at the same time, they don’t even recognize how hard I’ve tried to be like them and be Chinese.
