I walk outside past the welcome mat and I’m reminded of how unwelcoming it is.
Even though I speak the language and I’ve lived here all my life, and probably will live here until I die, I am not welcome.
Even though I speak the language and I’ve lived here all my life, and probably will live here until I die, I am not welcome.
I can shove cheeseburgers down my throat and recite the pledge with my right hand firmly over my heart but no, I’m not American. Not really.
I do not fit a prototype. (Are you trying to act white?)
My family tells me it’s easy, it’s easy—you’re Asian American. You’re both.
I’m sorry if I’m a little confused. (You checked “Caucasian” instead of “Asian” on some form once. You’re more than confused.)
Because sometimes, I feel disconnected from my culture and I’m not sure where I fit, which pieces slide into place and which ones jut out at sharp angles.
I’m Chinese, but can anyone tell the difference? Do they care? (I care enough to ask you, but I’m not going to learn the difference.)
I’m Chinese, but can I navigate China without hesitation? (No, but you should be able to. Isn’t it just in your blood?)
I’m really from Hong Kong, but what’s the difference to anyone? (No difference, all we care about is that you’re different from us.)
I visit Hong Kong first. (You’re from Hong Kong? That’s the same as China, right?)
I walk into the airport after sixteen odd hours dozing in and out of sleep and I blend in. I do not catch every end of conversation and I have trouble reading the ads but I don’t get a second glance because my face is structured just so and the way I act is familiar.
Korea next. (Are you Korean?)
I walk into another airport after four hours of listening to American music (hard to break old habits) and I don’t understand an ounce of Korean. I practice saying “Hello” in my head. Annyeonghaseyo. I am welcome here, I blend in, but I do not feel comfortable.
Does that matter? As long as I look the part, does it even matter? (No, of course not.)
I can’t blame America. It’s diverse. It’s easier to hate, harder to accept.
I can’t blame Hong Kong or Korea. It’s nearly homogenous. It’s easier to accept, harder to hate.
The surface is easier to acknowledge than what’s underneath it.
I look Chinese, or Korean, or Japanese, Vietnamese, Thai— I look for people who look like me. (I do that too, you’re not alone.)
Culturally, ingrained and unshakable, I am American. Whatever that means anymore. (It means freedom and bravery and patriotism.)
I’ll never look the part (most people in America don’t look the part.)
Maybe it’s about less looking and more talking. (For example, you try saying “Hello” in Korean and everyone in Korea knows you aren’t Korean.)
Maybe I open my mouth in Hong Kong, say hello perfectly, but still have traces of a “Western" girl.
Maybe I speak my mind in America and people listen. (They’re shocked that you said anything at all.)
Maybe welcome mats are overrated and I’m overanalyzing.
(When it’s time to fly home, you’ll be sad that you can’t change perception and stereotypes.)
But it’s nice to be home, wherever that is.
Is home a feeling or a place?
(You are who you are, a combination of everything and of nothing.)
I thank the welcome mats.
(You’re welcome.)
I do not fit a prototype. (Are you trying to act white?)
My family tells me it’s easy, it’s easy—you’re Asian American. You’re both.
I’m sorry if I’m a little confused. (You checked “Caucasian” instead of “Asian” on some form once. You’re more than confused.)
Because sometimes, I feel disconnected from my culture and I’m not sure where I fit, which pieces slide into place and which ones jut out at sharp angles.
I’m Chinese, but can anyone tell the difference? Do they care? (I care enough to ask you, but I’m not going to learn the difference.)
I’m Chinese, but can I navigate China without hesitation? (No, but you should be able to. Isn’t it just in your blood?)
I’m really from Hong Kong, but what’s the difference to anyone? (No difference, all we care about is that you’re different from us.)
I visit Hong Kong first. (You’re from Hong Kong? That’s the same as China, right?)
I walk into the airport after sixteen odd hours dozing in and out of sleep and I blend in. I do not catch every end of conversation and I have trouble reading the ads but I don’t get a second glance because my face is structured just so and the way I act is familiar.
Korea next. (Are you Korean?)
I walk into another airport after four hours of listening to American music (hard to break old habits) and I don’t understand an ounce of Korean. I practice saying “Hello” in my head. Annyeonghaseyo. I am welcome here, I blend in, but I do not feel comfortable.
Does that matter? As long as I look the part, does it even matter? (No, of course not.)
I can’t blame America. It’s diverse. It’s easier to hate, harder to accept.
I can’t blame Hong Kong or Korea. It’s nearly homogenous. It’s easier to accept, harder to hate.
The surface is easier to acknowledge than what’s underneath it.
I look Chinese, or Korean, or Japanese, Vietnamese, Thai— I look for people who look like me. (I do that too, you’re not alone.)
Culturally, ingrained and unshakable, I am American. Whatever that means anymore. (It means freedom and bravery and patriotism.)
I’ll never look the part (most people in America don’t look the part.)
Maybe it’s about less looking and more talking. (For example, you try saying “Hello” in Korean and everyone in Korea knows you aren’t Korean.)
Maybe I open my mouth in Hong Kong, say hello perfectly, but still have traces of a “Western" girl.
Maybe I speak my mind in America and people listen. (They’re shocked that you said anything at all.)
Maybe welcome mats are overrated and I’m overanalyzing.
(When it’s time to fly home, you’ll be sad that you can’t change perception and stereotypes.)
But it’s nice to be home, wherever that is.
Is home a feeling or a place?
(You are who you are, a combination of everything and of nothing.)
I thank the welcome mats.
(You’re welcome.)