On Dislocation, Disappearance, and Destiny

Dislocation

In 1995, my parents immigrated to Los Angeles, California. I was almost 2 years old and too young to remember anything from this time period. I actually don’t remember much from my youth. The only thing I can remember feeling is kind of lost.

By the time I entered the public school system, I felt textbook model minority myth. Physically dislocated from my country of birth and asked to act like an American even though I did not look like one. I wasn’t from China because I didn’t really speak fluent Mandarin at the time, nor do I remember being proud of any Chinese cultural customs. I also didn’t feel American enough because even though I spoke fluent English, I had limited access to pop culture and entertainment, and I definitely did not look like one.

I lived in an unincorporated area that had a predominant East Asian population. Because of this, I did not often feel like I was one dot of color in a sea of white, but the universe did find other ways to confuse me.

Yes, my peers looked like me and many spoke the same language that I did, but my friends had grandparents who walked them to school and aunts and uncles who gave them hong bao during Chinese New Year. They had cousins over on the weekends and big family weddings to attend on the weekends. They brought their family with them to this country. All I ever knew was my Mommy-ya, Daddy-ya, and later on, my baby brother, William.

I would often daydream about what it would have been like to have an extended family in California. I’d close my eyes and imagine aunts and uncles bickering with each other while they ate sunflower seeds or peeled green beans for a meal. I’d imagine a grandmother hobbling around, stuffing dollar bills or sweets into my and my cousins’ hand. As we got older, my cousins turned into my confidants and we’d practically be siblings, crying through speeches at each other’s weddings and going on group trips with our significant others. I’d ride home in the car and listen to Mommy-ya and Daddy-ya complain about their families lovingly, maybe endure a cold shoulder between aunts and uncles.

But when I opened my eyes it was just me, Mommy-ya, Daddy-ya, and William. It was always just the four of us.

I was so confused. Why didn’t we bring Nai Nai and Ye Ye over here to California? How come my parents never really talked to their siblings, not even over the phone?

As I got older, I discovered that our undocumented status was the source of a lot of tension, something spoken about in hurried whispers, because when people left China for the promised land, it was assumed that they became wealthy. My parents’ silence was taken as an unintended silent arrogance by their siblings and parents. After you keep a secret for so long, it makes lying much easier than the truth.

So I didn’t have cousins, aunts, or uncles who loved me, afar or near. I had never really met any of my grandparents. My mother’s parents had both passed on by the time I was born, so all I know is from stories that my mom tells. By the time I met Nai Nai and Ye Ye, Ye Ye was mostly gone from his Parkinson’s and Nai Nai felt like a stranger, someone I only recognized because we shared the same stature and smile.

Disappearance

So I disappeared. Or I should say, my familial connections disappeared. I wasn’t tied to a country or a culture and I didn’t have family roots here. I was just a faceless person trying to figure out why my parents were always fighting and why it seemed like nothing good ever happened to my family.

So I latched onto the most solid thing that I could think of: my identity as the eldest daughter. It became something I fixated on. My life’s purpose became a road map, directing me to the destination of perfection in performance. How well could I obey my parents, be patient with them, and shove aside my feelings in lieu of keeping the family together?

I became my father’s best friend. He frequently expressed his frustration and musings about life. I was a daughter and a confidant. 

I became my mother’s mood meter. I could sense when she was in a bad mood and tried everything to make her smile, doing funny impressions and talking in different accents.

I became my brother’s caretaker, babysitter, and parent all in one. I needed to make sure that he had everything that I didn’t have and then some. I was a disciplinarian but also had to try to be a friend and a sibling.

I also earned unofficial degrees in translating at parent-teacher conferences and telling my parents which (surprise) awards I had won at school.

So my identity became my usefulness to those in my nuclear, and really only, family I knew.

I was the model older sibling, a respectful daughter, and a smart kid that needed to get into a top university. As long as I held all of these titles and executed them well, I would be well on my way to earning the identity of a worthy American. A real “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” moment here.

Destiny

I wish I could tell you stories of matriarchs and strong women in my family. I wish I could tell you any kind of history beyond where my family is geographically from in China. Instead I have learned to make peace and love my independence. When I close my eyes now, I see a young girl standing behind me, peering out like a child hides behind their parent. Spoiler alert: IT ME. I look back and realize that I am exactly enough for myself and that drawing on the pieces that I do have is still incredibly meaningful. 

I inherited my love of working with my hands and reading from my mom. I learned how to crochet on my own from a young age, and any spare minute I had, I was reading. This is how I learned to sound wise beyond my years so that I could get on the phone and help my dad with our phone bill. Reading to me, like it is to many, was a wonderful escape that helped me pretend I was a witch, a heroine, and that I was loved for who I was and not what I did for other people. 

My dad taught me how to hustle like a boss and gave me my love for photography. In elementary school, I bought bead kits from Michael’s and sold friendship bracelets to make some spending money. All of this, he passed on to me during the small in-between moments of life that we so often overlook: while he dropped me off at school, when we ate dinner together on our little square plastic table, and Tuesday night McDonald dinners.

He is also the single most tenacious person I know, possessing an incredible amount of grit. I don’t think he envisioned it this way, but I would later use that strong sense of self and grit to come out in my early 20s as queer. I refused to let my parents’ disappointment and shock push me back into the constraints of heteronormativity. I would go to therapy, work through my trauma, regress through my anxiety, then redraw the boundaries again and again until they stuck.

William taught me a lot about being a parent. I do not have any current plans to have children, but if I do, I know that I will be a good parent because William let me make mistakes. He forgave me for stuff I did because I couldn’t figure out how to be a big sister without scolding him like a tiger mom.

Now, I close my eyes and visualize all of my ancestors, standing behind me. I look the hardest for the eldest daughters. I look for the tell-tale signs of watchful eyes that only look for others’ needs and for the strong necks that hold their chins up high in case their family needs protecting. I see quiet strength. I also peer with a hopeful gaze searching for my queer ancestors. Although I do not know what they look like or what their names are, I know that we all must have survived defiantly in the face of discrimination and isolation. Although I cannot physically fill in a family tree, all I need to do is to close my eyes and feel the hands of those that came before me, propelling me forward into the unknown.