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Becoming an Immigrant "Again" in the Midwest

A Personal Journey Series - Part 3

By Frances Kai-Hwa Wang, AAV Contributing Editor

When I lived in Nepal and spent all day working with Nepali people, I looked forward to socializing with other Americans at night—where there was not so much explaining to do, less culture gap; I did not have to think about how to act appropriately, I could just act; I did not have to search for the right word or expression, I could just say it. The U.S. Embassy hosted an hour of videotaped news broadcasts every Friday night where the American and European expatriates in Kathmandu could watch, have a drink, and socialize. Some never left that compound, met any Nepali people, or interacted with Nepali culture. Others of us who did live and work in Nepali society occasionally felt guilty for enjoying this Western oasis where Nepalis and Indians were forbidden, but I was often so tired of functioning in a foreign language and acting conservative that I needed that space in which I could unfurl and simply be.

"Are you from the Philippines?"

When I returned to Michigan, however, I found myself facing another kind of culture gap, an isolation similar to what I experienced in Nepal as a foreigner searching for a bit of home. But this time, I feel lost among the Americans.

Back in Ann Arbor, I spent a lot of time with my two children at the neighborhood park, where I was often the only Asian among mostly white mothers. I would take a bench near the other mothers chit-chatting about their lives and children. The Midwest is the land of small talk, and that is what mothers of young children do while hanging out at the park. I would sit watching the girls, sometimes with a newspaper or magazine, but I noticed that unless I spoke first, the white mothers would not speak to me. Once I said something, of course, they would answer and we would have a normal conversation.…Well, after the requisite questions about where I came from and how come I speak English so well, that is. So they must have been afraid that I might not speak English. The Hispanic Americans, on the other hand, always spoke to me. They knew.

When my older daughter took her first dance class at the Parks and Rec, all the Caucasian mothers clustered to watch from outside the door and talked about the different dance schools in town. A Korean woman who also sat on the side came up to me and said, "Our daughters are in the same preschool class." We had a good conversation, and although we spoke English, none of the other mothers said one word to us for the next six weeks. She was foreign and I was American-born, but I understood her concerns about her daughter mastering English while retaining Korean. My children called her Auntie. The same thing happens in every class my children take.

I thought maybe once I had made more friends, I would not have to worry so much about strangers assuming I was a foreigner. After all, first impressions are just that. If I just spent time with people, we could get past concerns about whether or not I spoke English, and get on to more interesting conversations.

But sometimes even good friends surprise me. A Jewish friend asked me to explain to her son about "culture"—as if it was something only people of color possessed—and then sing a song in Chinese for him. An employer—who did not know I was six months pregnant at the time—went on and on once about how petite I was (My family is from northern China—I have never been petite in my life). After four years, a neighbor still confused me with the Japanese American woman next door ("No, I’m the other one.")

Of course, Asians will make cultural blunders and say crazy things, too, sometimes. A relative once asked if my Caucasian husband could smell better than us because his nose was so much bigger. But at least she was embarrassed to ask. I am often struck by how little Caucasian American friends know about other cultures. My African American and Native American friends may not know specific details about Chinese culture, but they are aware that radically different cultures exist within America. They will say, "In our culture…" or "In the South where I grew up, we…" Asians may not know the details of various American cultures, either, but do understand there are many different ways of doing things. Many Caucasians I know speak of "right" and "wrong" ways to do things. They do not say, "Our family always has Aunt Martha’s cinnamon rolls at Thanksgiving," but "You have to have cinnamon rolls for it to be Thanksgiving."

Sometimes I worry that I am overreacting—letting the careless words and ignorance of a few drive me out of myself, make me doubt myself. If only I had a tougher skin…

Then it will happen again. Yesterday, after I finished the first draft of this article and was wondering if it was too extreme, I drove out of the library parking lot, and the 300 pound parking lot attendant asked, "Are you from the Philippines?" "No," I said. Work on this article inspired me, for once, to refuse to engage in this game, but he went on. "My sister-in-law is from the Philippines and I love Oriental food! She tells me, ‘Don’t ask what it is, just eat it.’"

I smile politely, but after thirty years, I feel I should have made more progress than this. I am sure the people mean well, but sometimes I just do not feel like explaining my whole family history to a stranger when standing in line to buy hot dogs for my tired and whining children. I do not want to apologize anymore for the "strangeness" of Asian food. As in Nepal, I am yearning to be "normal."

"You Really are Chinese!"

While feeling distanced and estranged by local Caucasians, I am finding comfort in the company of immigrants and other minorities, especially of Asian background. This has not always been the case. I grew up with few APAs and little awareness of being Asian American. When I went away for college in Berkeley, my dad sat me down for one last lecture and said I should make an effort to make Chinese friends. I laughed, discounting it as yet another attempt to marry me off to a nice Chinese boy, but he was serious.

"The first day I join a new company, another Chinese engineer will always stop by my office to introduce himself and take me out to lunch. Chinese people take care of each other in a way that Americans never will."

I thought about it, and in college, I did try to befriend more Chinese (and I expanded his directive to include other ethnic Asians). But I did not experience the automatic feeling of kinship he had promised. There were so many variables in what made a good friendship; people I met came from such different backgrounds, and if they were foreign students, there were language and culture gaps to overcome. Plus feeling I ought to like them better put too much pressure on the friendship.

This changed after I had children. Last year, I went to visit the daughter of one of my mom’s childhood friends. A few years older than me, raised in Taiwan, she lived with us for a summer when I was in high school and she in college. Since we had nothing in common, she had spent more time playing with my grade-school aged brother than with me. Now that we both had kids, however, the culture gap and conversational pauses were gone. Then I started to meet more Chinese people through the Chinese American Society, Chinese School, and the YMCA. Unlike other immigrants I had known growing up (my parents’ friends, so a generation older) and other American-born Asians (always at least four years younger than me), these people are largely my age, and connections come easily: kids, food, aging parents, extended family, missing home.

Now, when the phone rings at our house, the caller is as likely to speak Mandarin Chinese as English (friends and telemarketers alike). For a lifetime I felt that my English personality was more "me" because it was more articulate and outgoing that my Chinese personality, the dutiful and obedient daughter. Now, my Chinese personality is suddenly maturing, becoming stronger, funnier, and bossier, too. The English personality is becoming more meek and quiet (probably because Caucasian Americans cannot seem to understand me, no matter how good my English is). Although I will always be able to express myself more eloquently in English, right now Mandarin can better convey the nuances and color of what I am feeling. It fits better, like a warm and comfortable sweater my grandmother knit just for me. It is the language in which I was mothered, and so it feels most natural for mothering my own children. I sometimes even feel I am using a borrowed tongue when I speak English with my children, as though because we are "Chinese," English is not "ours."

Other Asians hear my lack of an accent and know I am American born and what that means. They see my multiracial children and know I married a Caucasian. Hearing my third-generation children speak Chinese, they are impressed that the girls have retained Chinese rather than worried about whether or not they can speak English. They assume that I belong—that I am from Taiwan, like them—and upon learning that I am actually American-born, they still let me belong.

With other ethnic Asians, I also know how to behave properly without having to think about it. When I am invited to the Hsiaos’ home, I know to bring a gift of fruit or mochi, take off my shoes, protest that I do not want any tea, and never finish the last bite of food. At last, the etiquette has become natural, while I feel increasingly awkward and self-conscious teaching my children American etiquette. Don’t take off your shoes, put your napkin and your left hand on your lap, don’t hold your bowl, use a spoon to drink soup. Caucasian Americans stare at us because we are not "proper," and my seemingly barbarian children ask (loudly), "Why do we have to do things differently here?"

Of course, becoming an immigrant is not only about being awkward in America. There are things that immigrants do better than anyone, which as a child of immigrants I can appreciate and celebrate. Immigrants always know the best deal, no matter how long they have lived in America or how much money they make now. I am not good at comparing prices, but after overhearing a conversation at the Chinese School picnic I learned of the cheapest place to buy juice boxes for kids. We are now house-hunting, but instead of looking in the cool hippie-yuppie historic district where we currently rent, we are looking on the Asian and tract home side of town where the kids can go to the best schools with lots of other Asian kids being pressured by their parents to study hard.

My Asian friends and I nurse each other’s homesickness, without having to justify how anyone could possibly miss strange and obscure things like thousand year old eggs or smelly tofu. When my mother sends goodies from California like persimmons, Japanese pears, Chinese dates, or moon cakes, I share the bounty with appreciative Asian friends who ooh and ah and reminisce about how long it has been since they have had one. The week before Chinese New Year, when all the mothers give presentations or coordinate celebrations at their children’s schools, we compare activity ideas, exchange picture books, and help each other find red envelopes and lanterns (usually distant Chicago, or maybe so-and-so has extra). We trade recipes for favorite Chinese or Japanese dishes that are not available in Michigan restaurants. Best of all, when we go to each others’ homes, we get treated to good Asian food—yay! And how proud I was at my daughter’s fourth birthday party, when a new friend from Taiwan exclaimed, "You made three times too much food—you really are Chinese!"

Becoming an Immigrant or Just an Adult?

On a recent trip home to California, one of my mom’s friends asked me, "Do you feel more Chinese or more American?" Actually, I feel like I have become an immigrant.

In a way, I did immigrate here…from California. After ten years, the Midwest is still a foreign country to me, more so than Nepal; and an Italian friend and I compare notes to better understand the people and subtext of this place. I have traveled from feeling Chinese to Chinese American to Asian American to American, but now it seems I am back at the beginning...before the beginning, even, where my parents were when they first came to this country—young, far away from family, in a strange and new land, unsure of myself and my place here, treated like an outsider, meeting new people that I do not understand, finding friends, searching for a way to make this place home.

Perhaps the key is that I am searching for a way to make a home—not only for myself, but for my family. No longer responsible for just myself, but for creating a "family culture" for my children to live in, learn, and inherit. When I come home, tired and bruised, at the end of the day, I can no longer retreat into the bathtub to be alone with my thoughts. I still have to help the children grow up strong, smart, and proud. Am I becoming an immigrant, or simply an adult—and as all the adult role models I had growing up were immigrants, have I conflated the two in my mind? It pains me, as it does everyone, to think that I am turning into my parents, but perhaps I really am my parents’ child, now grown and finding comfort and "home" in the familiarity of their immigrant subculture.