On Finding My Roots

Growing up in the U.S., I’ll admit I’ve never experienced racism for being Asian. Then again, I’m only half Asian, so I do know what it’s like to feel I don’t belong. 

By the time my parents finally decided to settle down in the suburbs of California, I had changed elementary schools four times. I had been a happy, carefree child up until the 3rd grade. That’s when I started to realize that my family and I were a bit different. 

I’m half Chinese and half white. My mother was abandoned on the doorstep of an orphanage in Hong Kong. The orphanage named her Soo San. 

While still a baby, she was adopted by a Chinese couple living in California. They changed her name to Jennifer and she became a full fledged Californian living the American dream. She never learned to speak Chinese, never taught me how to cook, and can barely use chopsticks. After her parents passed, she lost touch with the rest of her adopted family, so I only met them once or twice.  

Other than the name I was given — Soo San, my mom’s Chinese name — I never felt connected to my Chinese heritage. I still don’t know the actual meaning of my name, or if it was even translated correctly. I don't look Chinese, but I don’t look fully white either. I was never pressured to get good grades or become an overachiever, although sometimes I wish I had been. 

I used to think that maybe, if I had grown up with more roots — with a family that knew where we came from and where we were going — I wouldn’t have felt so lost. Maybe, I would’ve grown up confident in who I was, instead of struggling with crippling social anxiety and low self-esteem. 

I don’t know if I inherited low self-esteem from my parents, or if it's because they encouraged me to be seen and not heard. While my sister mirrored my dad, I modeled after my mother. I learned to avoid conflict at all costs, bite my tongue unless it was agreeable, and work hard to become a nice, smart, good girl. 

Although I grew up in a predominantly white suburb in California, the first patriarchy I experienced was at home.

My mother worked as much as my father, but waited on him hand and foot. His computer desk was like a throne where he never had to lift a finger. She cooked for him three meals a day, cleaned, and took care of the majority of parenting responsibilities. Whatever decision my father made was final. It didn’t matter if my mother, or anyone else, disagreed. We were not to challenge, talk back, or upset him in any way, unless we wanted to be yelled at or punished.

One day, I overheard my father bragging to a white, male friend about his ‘Asian wife,’ how appeasing she was and that she didn’t mind catering to his every need because she ‘liked it.’ She was not ‘difficult’ like white women were. 

While my mom seemed fully content in her role, it filled my sister and I with an inner rage that would not be expressed until years later, as wild and rebellious young adults. 

In my freshman year of high school, we moved back to Hawaii, where my parents had lived and fell in love. There, being two or more races is the norm, and Caucasians are the minority. 

However, I still felt like an outsider, having to acclimate to a whole new culture and school system. 

Before I could find who I truly am, I had to first discover who I was not. It wasn’t until years later in my mid-twenties that I finally felt at home in Hawaii — and within myself. 

Now, looking back, I no longer wish my life had unfolded any other way. Although years of self-loathing and insecurity were extremely painful, it taught me invaluable lessons. I discovered that I was not my past, my race, or what other people thought about me. My achievements, or lack of achievements, didn’t define my worth. 

Now I’m capable of staying grounded and rooted from within, knowing who I am no matter where I live, or what is going on around me. 

I may never know exactly where my mom’s biological parents came from. 

I’ve only met my father’s family in Michigan a couple of times. And I’m not quite sure how I ended up on a small, tropical island in the Pacific, that I now call home. 

But what I do know is I come from a lineage of hard workers. From dreamers who desired more and journeyed far to find it. From a small, but tight-knit family that created its own traditions and life-long memories, while traveling and searching for ‘home’ throughout the U.S. While my parents weren't perfect, they did the best they could with the little they had. Now, I’m able to look back and appreciate all the broken but healing parts that have made me who I am today.