Second Place Winner of the $250 Little, Brown Books library

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Katherine M.’s 2nd Place-Winning Essay:
Who Am I?

I look at the poster, a map of the world. Two people per continent, a boy and a girl. I look at it hard, and I look at it long, and as I view it I wonder…Where do I belong? My mother is from China, as Asian as can be; she cooks steamed pork dumplings and drinks pearl milk tea. My father on the other hand is an American bloke; he cooks macaroni and cheese, and drinks root beer and Coke. And I’m…stuck in the middle with no words to describe it…I’m half? I’m Eurasian? Or hey…I’m a hybrid?

During standardized testing, the hardest part for me is the beginning when I’m asked to bubble my ethnicity. Am I “White”, like my father? Or “Asian”, like my mother? And is to bubble one race to be a traitor against the other? I want to define myself, and believe me, I have tried, but I don’t feel like I fully belong on either side.

When I was young, Chinese school was a place I dreaded to attend, not the language o, or the learning, but because I didn’t have one friend. The girls would gather in a circle, ooh and ahh over their pretty pencils, pens, erasers, and stickers featuring Pochacco and Hello Kitty. Boys were even less like me; all they seemed to be into was running around hollering, “PIKACHU! I CHOOSE YOU!” I wasn’t into Sanrio, or Pokemon for that matter, so I would sit all by myself while my classmates were a-chatter. My teachers graded easy on me, making mediocrity into success, and all this special consideration made my peers like me even less. When the school had guests they brought them to my class for inspection, as if a half-American student was a ratre piece in their collection.

When I eat at a Chinese restaurant I get a different treatment too; one look and the waiter hands me an American menu. With fried rice, egg foo young, chop suey, Mushu pork: I tell him I eat authentic food, but he’s gone…to get me a fork. When the waiter comes back, I request in Chinese: “Qing lai yi shuang kuai zi,” “Bring a pair of chopsticks, please.” He nods and leaves but I can tell he’s surprised; I could only speak English is what he must have surmised. All the diners around me twist around in their chairs to see the “bai ren” who just spoke Mandarin, and I can feel their stares.

When I traveled to Colorado, where whites are the vast majority, at the only Chinese restaurant there, the roles were flipped on me. In contrast to Cupertino, where all the customers would be Asian, apparently my presence here was something of an occasion. As soon as we walked in, I attracted lots of looks; there wasn’t one other Chinese in the place, not even any of the cooks. The place completely inauthentic, to this I must confess. It was right up there with Mr. Chau’s, J&J and Panda Express. There were mountains of eggrolls greasy enough to give a heart attack, and on the paper placemats were printed the twelve animals of the zodiac. I felt like a VIP—all the patrons thought it was splendid. Some even came over with their menus to ask me what I recommended.

I’m used to being seen as an outsider when I roam, but I’ll never get used to it in Cupertino, which is, after all, my home. In Colorado I was Asian, but in the Bay Area, I’m white, and wherever I go people judge me by the impression at first sight. There are two kinds of people in this world: those to whom race does matter and those who care about personality; I’d rather know the latter. My close friendships are all free of racial complications; just look at our backgrounds, and you’ll see we form a mini United Nations. My parents, too, who didn’t care about race or the issues thereof, and I admire them for this…they married for their love.

I look at the poster, a map of the world. Two people per continent, a boy and a girl. After looking at it hard, and after looking at it long, I no longer have to wonder where on it I belong. My family and friends love me for who I am. I smile because I know that I belong with them.

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