“I’m American.” “No, You’re Chinese.”
Who do you know yourself to be? And how did you learn that?
Growing up in the United States, I understood something very clearly: I was American because I was born here. I remember being about 10 years old and getting into an argument with a family friend who insisted that I was Chinese. I told him, “I’m American.” “No, you’re Chinese.” Back and forth we went until I was screaming at the top of my lungs, “I AM AMERICAN!” At that age, identity felt simple. I was born in America, therefore I was American. What I didn’t understand yet was that other people would look at me and see something different.
I was never really taught what it meant to be Chinese American. In my mind, identity was either/or: American or Chinese. As I got older, I began to understand that I could be born here and still be made to feel as though I wasn’t American enough. I tried hard to fit into the version of “normal” I saw around me. I remember looking through Seventeen magazine and absorbing its images of beauty, belonging, and what an American girl was supposed to look like. I didn’t realize then that much of what I was consuming had never been created with girls like me in mind.
Recently, the national conversation about birthright citizenship brought these memories back. It made me think not only about my own identity, but about how my family came to this country in the first place. I have been tracing my maternal family history, beginning with my mom and my Popo (maternal grandmother), who passed away several years ago, and going back to the great-great-aunt whose immigration helped make it possible for later generations of our family to come to the United States.
My mom has become our family historian, and through her I learned more about the journey that brought our family here. My grandfather and great-grandmother arrived after my great great aunt and great great uncle. My mom, my Popo, and two of my aunts came later. Before reaching the United States, my mom lived in Hong Kong for two years. According to our family history, corruption and demands for bribes delayed the paperwork that would allow them to leave China. My mom, Popo (maternal grandmother), and aunt worked in sewing factories to earn a living and help support the family.
They worked, sacrificed, reunited with their family in San Francisco, and generation by generation built a life here.
As a child, I thought being American began with the place printed on my birth certificate. Now I understand my identity differently. My American story also contains migration. It contains China and Hong Kong. It contains sewing factories in San Francisco. It contains women whose names may never appear in a history book but whose sacrifices shaped the opportunities I have today.
The history of the United States is filled with stories of migration, displacement, survival, opportunity, exclusion, and belonging. Some stories became part of the dominant national narrative, while others lived quietly inside families. Mine was one of those stories.
I no longer feel the need to choose between being Chinese and being American. I am Chinese American. Both histories belong to me.
And perhaps the more important question is no longer, “Which one are you?” It is: Who taught you who you were allowed to be? And what changes when you begin telling the story for yourself?
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