Tan 
Confessions of a Culture Collage
“Wait, you’re asian?”
“But you look so white…”
“Are you kidding? I didn’t even know she wasn’t full Chinese”
Look, I get it. I didn’t choose to have the kind of face that nobody can seem to agree on. Wide eyes and a nonexistent nose bridge, freckles and round cheeks, I’m a mismatched puzzle made from two different sets of pieces.
But Little Morgan never used to care about that.
        She was more preoccupied by her Chinese friend making fun of her timid “ni-hao.” Say it again! Say it again! She laughed along, but it wasn’t funny. Why had she protested Mandarin school until her mom had relented? Why couldn’t she grin and bear it until she was blessedly fluent and not so… inadequate?
And there was more, too. It was the teachers talking about Chinese culture and the persistent feeling that she should know something but just didn’t. It was the red and gold chapter books about learning to love Chinese traditions, centered around girls who sort of looked like her, but whose lifestyles and experiences were utterly foreign. It was all of the celebrities, authors, and actors who sang the praises of representation and diversity, beaming into cameras and proclaiming, “I want little girls to see themselves in me and know they can do anything.” If anything, they only made her more insecure for her lack of Asian-ness. Between her inability to speak Mandarin and unawareness of foods beyond xiu mai, she always felt like she was playing catch-up with her Real Asian Friends- the ones who played instruments better than she could dream, complained about their tiger moms, and dutifully went to Saturday Chinese school.


And I wish I could tell you that the current version of myself encapsulates everything little Morgan dreamed for. Little Morgan, who desperately wanted her mom to give her more snippets of who she thought she was supposed to be. Little Morgan, who dreamed of feeling some sort of connection to the books with little girls eating moon cakes and hanging lanterns. I’m really truly sorry, little Morgan. I have no more idea than you what’s going on when someone calls you a twinkie and you’re hurt but can’t let it show. I’ve never celebrated Lunar New Year. I still eat hamburgers on weeknights. I’ve never even stepped foot on the continent of Asia where your friends go annually to visit grandmothers who teach them all about their culture. 
Please don’t beat yourself up. I know it’s difficult to see, but I promise there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. I’ve found something even better than becoming the Chinese-American-Girl you’d give anything to be. I’ve found a beauty in the culture forged by my family, all its own and uniquely perfect. One that can fit afternoon tea parties and hot pot into a joyous collage, one far more complex and beautiful than the cookie cutter you’ve bent trying to fit yourself in. There are differences between you and your classmates, yes, but there are far more commonalities. You don’t need to see other people with your same culture to be worthy of having it. There is such happiness around you, if you could just open your eyes and see it beyond the labels you hopelessly attempt to adhere to each component of your life.
I’m not always so secure in myself, not just yet. I still blush, embarrassed at my broken pronunciations of food. I catch myself inwardly wincing when someone starts speaking Mandarin. I still fear that I’ve become too whitewashed, a culture-less Wasian anomaly. But time and time again, I remind myself, and Little Morgan, that I am the daughter of more than just statistics in front of me. And that, time and time again, lets me take her broken heart and cup it in my hands, gently, slowly, molding it back together again.