Being Chinese

I always thought being Chinese was a curse. When I was growing up, I lived in a mostly black neighborhood and I had friends, but I didn’t fit in. At first, I didn’t think too much about my race. Then, in first grade, two boys started calling me “small eyes” and making some karate noises. At first I didn’t know what it meant. I was only 6 years old.

Much later, when I was watching a Bruce Lee movie and saw him making the same stupid kung fu noises, I finally realized that they were messing with me because I’m Asian. Their jokes were only the beginning. Growing up, I was constantly made fun of because of my name, my looks, the way I talk, everything.

Even my friends teased me. One girl would always say, “Yenny Yam, how about some egg rolls?” Another friend would say, “Chin chun chun,” and then squint his eyes at me.
I know that sometimes they were only joking around, but it really hurt my feelings, even though I never said anything about it. I don’t think my friends thought it was hurtful, but they knew it was embarrassing for me because my face would become red and they would laugh about it.

Most of my friends were black, and some never said anything racist to me and would defend me to others. But their help was not enough.

And the teasing wasn’t the worst of it. One very clear and sunny day, my cousin Amy and I were taking the long way home from school, walking through the parking lot of a Baptist church. We saw these two black kids we knew from school, Damien and Shawn.
They yelled crude remarks at us, like, “Chin chun, egg rolls, Chun Lee,” and some other mean words regarding our race. Amy yelled at them to shut up and go away. That was when they started to throw rocks at us. One rock hit me straight in the chest. It hurt so much and I got a huge bruise.

I was not just teased by black people, but by white and Hispanic people too. When I was 8, these two white boys would throw rocks and sticks at us and call us names. But often I was most angry at my black peers, because it seemed like they should have known better.
I am not writing this to disrespect African Americans. But I would wonder why blacks were making racist remarks to me when they should have known better than anyone that it’s not right. They should have thought of what their ancestors had been through— and their parents and grandparents, and themselves—and realized that they were doing the same thing.

When teachers would teach us about slavery, civil rights, and segregation in class, the black students would talk about how they are treated unfairly because of their skin color.

I used to sit in class and think they were talking a lot of junk. They would mess with me one minute and the next they would make an about-face. They would say crude things to my face, then preach that it’s wrong to judge by skin color.

I don’t think they realized they were being hypocritical. When people think “racism,” they tend to think “black and white.” But the
way the people in my school acted toward me was racist, and getting treated like I was not even worth the dirt they stood on really hurt me. It made me angry. It also made me feel ashamed of being Asian.

I have never been sure whether to fight back or stay silent. I am afraid if I do say something back, it will just make people even more cruel.

One time I did speak my mind, and it only made things worse. I was working in my family’s restaurant when a couple of guys started to say some perverted stuff about Asian girls. I got mad and started to argue with one guy. He ended up grabbing a container full of rice that we use as a paperweight and throwing it at my head. I ducked and it missed my head by inches.

I was scared, but I looked him in the eye, staring him down, trying to make it seem like I wasn’t afraid of him. Inside, I wanted to cry.

I think I’m too small to fight back, but I wish I could. I think people tend to believe Asians are a weak race and are not able to stand up for themselves, so it makes me feel weak when I make that stereotype true.

But at least my brother Prince always stands up for himself. Once, when he and his friend were eating pizza, two teens started to call them names, wanting to start a fight. They were surprised when he and his friend fought back. I’m not a person who likes violence, but I was proud that my brother fought them, even if he did sprain his wrist.

Even worse than feeling angry is feeling ashamed of who I am. When I was younger, I used to wish I was a white girl with a white girl’s name. I love their big, light eyes and light hair colors. Instead, I have plain, dark brown hair and small, dark brown eyes.

When I used to play house or hotel or school with my cousin, we would always become white and I would pretend my name was Elizabeth White. I also pretended that I was rich, because back then I thought all white people were rich.

I used to wish that I was able to change my name for real, because no one else had such a weird name—Yen Yam. I used to hate having my name called out because someone would always have a comment about it. It wasn’t until I moved to New York and started high school that I met many people with unusual names. Before, I felt like I was standing out like a sore thumb.

You might think with all these angry feelings that I would become bitter and hateful toward others. But I don’t treat people differently because of their skin color. I am a shy girl, and I get to know people before I have an opinion about them.

Besides, I’ve always known people who don’t judge by skin color. I want to be like those people, not like the people who have hurt me.

I know racism really comes from ignorance. I even see that in my own family. When I was growing up they would sometimes say that black people are dirty or bad people. I would always say that there are dirty and bad Chinese people too. But it’s hard to change old ways of thinking.

I think the way the older people in my family grew up has a lot to do with why they look down on other races. They grew up in China, where they knew only Chinese people. In the United States, they are unable to communicate with others. So they just think the worst, based on what they hear from their friends.

The people who were messing with me were similar, in a way, because they didn’t know anything about Chinese people. They based their comments on what they had seen on television.

Right now, I don’t know how I should feel, though. Should I still feel angry at the people who have done this to me? Should I get revenge? Should I feel sad? I don’t know. I’m confused about everything.

But at least I don’t feel like my heritage is a curse anymore. Over time, I’ve become more comfortable with who I am. But sometimes I still feel lost and alone. Sometimes I wonder, “Where do I belong?”

I was born in the United States and don’t speak much Chinese. So here I am different because of my skin color. In China, I would be regarded as an idiot, an outsider, because I do not understand the language.