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't
I SHOULD HAVE BEEN JUST ANOTHER FACE IN
the blur of bodies that circled through the hotel
lobby in Zhang Jia Jie, a city in central China.
But my words singled me out.'
"Yun doll,' I repeated to the red-capped clerk, Maybe he
understood English: "Do you have a gym here?"
FOR THE PAST THREE YEARS, MY PARENTS' CIRCLE OF FRIENDS
The clerk blinked, studying the inco'ngruity between English words and my half-moon eyes, rounded nose, and midnight hair. Then he reached behind the counter and pulled
out an iron, as if laundry could substitute for exercise.
I smiled blankly. My brain rooted through my limited
Chinese vocabulary:After a minute of silence, my dad
strolled up. his eyebrows arched in amused triangles.
"She wants to know where the gym is," he supplied in
rapid.Mandarin Chinese, his native language. He turned to
me and explained gently, "Yutn dong is exercise. Sharon. Yun
dou means ironY
I mumbled a sheepish apology to the laughiing clerk and
glanced at my dad. Ajlook of recognition flashed through
his eyes: We had gone through this before.
Only this time, the tables
were turned. For the first time.
I realized how my parents must
have,felt throug4tout2their 27
i
i
I
years as American citizens.
~Chevy
t
Like strangers in their own
country.
0
0
I
WHEN I WAS YOLUNGER, I WOULD A
sometimes close my eyes and
try to imagine rny parents as
children. What were they li}ce
growing up in China.and
Taiwan?
-=
has arranged an annual trip to a different.region of China.
Like imy parents, the majority fled to Hong Kong and Taiwan as children. As young adults, they moved to the United
States to lead better lives. Now they return to China as a reminder of the past.
This was the first year my parents decided to participate
in the trip. They asked my older brother, Tim, and me to
join them on their six-city tour across the middle of China.
I almost said no. There were plenty of reasons not to accompany my parents. My brother couldn't go because of
medical-school courses. I recently graduated from college
and was itching to move from North Carolina to Washington. I wanted to start my new job at The Washingtonian and
settle in my Rosslyn apartrment.
Besides, I had already traveled through China; I spent five
months in Beijing on a study-abroad program my sophomore year of college. My next dream vacation was a backpacking trip across india, not a two-week sightseeinig tour
with my parents and 30 of their friends.
I cringed when Mom described details of the trip,
*which was shaping up td
be straight out of one of
Chase's "family vaca-
tion" movies.
g} ~
-~--
-
5''~'~
Everyone wear bright
pink or blue hat," she said
excitedly. "So no one get
Z.,
.
a_
t
f
..
lost.Suchgoodidea,dQn't
you think, Sharon?"
. >' \ ,
"Uh, yeah, Mom," I
replied, thankful she couldn't
In Septemb Sharon
see my grimace over the phone.
But I could only envision them in the grainy
Liao joined er parents,
I debated whether I could spend fwo 17-hour
black-and-white of their faded childhood picEric aiid Brhei
ida, on a trip flights trapped next to my parents, who shout
tures. It was not until I saw a photo from
to China, thielirhomeland.
stomach-sinking questions like "Sharon, need
1973. when my dad was 38 and my mom was
The visit waisfilled wvith
to go pee-pee?" in public places. The trp
24, that I could finally visualize them in vivid
unexpected dh
isights.
seemed like an impossible challenge. Those
color, clad in bell-bottoms and sniling in front
flights plus 17 more days of travel: Could I
of our North Carolina house.
make it out with my sanity intact?
My parents' pre-American life was an enigma to me.
But something inside urged me to go. I couldn't explain
Their childhood stories didn't match the people I knew. I
why,.after my jam-packed list of why-nots, I wanted to
couldn't picture rmy domestic mom, unsure of her halting
spend all my vacation time on my parents.
English, studying international economics at a Taiwanese
When the plane jerked to a stop in Shanghai, our first desuniversity. I laughed at the image of my stern father, an
tination, all of those reasons I decided to go materialized in
electrical engineer, chasing chickens in his Chinese village.
the expressions on my parents' faces. My mom folded and
I related to my parents' pre-American lives as only a seunfolded her hands impatiently iii her lap. My dad craned
ries of events, like facts for some high-school history exam.
over my seat for a glimpse out the porthdle window.
My dad fled to Taiwan in 1949 as a 14-year-old, after the
I was surprised and slightly scared to see my stoic dad's
Communists won the civil war, His father fought for the loseyes glimmnering,with emotion. He slipped,his hand, soft
ing side, the Nationalists. My mom's father, a Nationalist
.and spotted with age, in mine.
:
navy captain, also retreated to Taiwan. My morn grew up
"Last time I was here, more than 50 years ago," he said.
thinking that her family would eventually return to China,
"My parents goifig from north to south, away-from the
after the Nationalists reclaimed their homeland.
Communists. So much bombing. A lot of people starving.'"
That didn't happen. and my parents did not step onto ChiHe leaned close and nodded. "You very lucky, Sharon."
nese soil for more than 50 year's-after spending half their
That was my dad's line. When I would whine as a child,
lives in the United States and raising both of their children
my dad's response was inevitable: "Some people not lucky
as Americans. When they finally returned to the "mainland;'
as you." My brother and I would mimic those words in imithey brought along a product of their American life. They
tation of him, smothering our giggles.
brought me, their 22-year-old daughter.
. But I never cared about being lucky. I just wanted to be nor-
JANUARY 2001
57
:D' ;ss
mal. I wanted to be like the other American kids.
My parents, however, intended mrnbrother and
me to become model Chinese-Americans. They
planned for us to speak fluent Mandarin and
switch from American to Chinese culture with
the ease and grace of,diplomats.
It didn't happen. My parents struggled to teach
us their culture. Starting from age six, they
would drag me away from Saturday cartoons to a
Chinese church.
I would squirm in my seat while a teacher recited Chinese vocabulary. I d.utifully recited my "bo
po ro fo's-the ABCs of speaking Chinese, But in
my head, I rearranged the chalk marks that made
up characters into pictures of house s and trees.
When four o'clock inched by, I dashed out to
the front of the church to meet my parents. For
me, Saturday Chinese school wasn't the culturally.enriching experience it was intended to be. It
was a major drag.
When I turned nine, I declared I wasn't going
to Chinese school any more.
"This stinks," I yelled. "None of my friends
have to go to extra school and have extra homework. Why do I have to go?"
"Because.you Chinese,' my mom replied coolly.
"Then I don't want to
be Chinese:" I-shouted
back; my face turning
pink. 'It's notfair. I just
want to be normal." I almost stopped, but the
words were already out
of my mouth. "Why can't
you and Dad be normal?
Why can't you be like
everybody else's parents?
I wish I was someone
else's kid.'
I waited for my mom
to shout at me or drag me
t.
'to my room. But shejust
stared at me with tired
eyes. "If you don't want to go, don't .
have to'"she said, turning away.
I opened my mouth to say anything
that would erase that deflated look in
her eyes. But it was too late.
II
.
from across the country have flocked to Raleigh
for technolQgy jobs, bringing culture, diversity,
and development.
But during'my youth, Raleighresidehts spoke
mostly in soft Southern drawls. A cow pasture
framed mpy suburban neighborhood. and the grocery store was a 20-minute drive.. The Millers
across the street were known as "the black couple' and my-family was dubbed "that nice
Asian family."
In elementary school, I was one of two Asians
in my grade. James, a Korean-American, was
also born in -tlie United States. Classmates eyeballed him and me, then asked curiously, "Is
James your brother?"
"Nol" I responded huffily.
In the third grade, James and I were in the
same class for the first time. I avoided him more
than the other boys.
One day, James asked me,pplitely.for the scissors I was using. Turning to a friend, I rolled my
eyes ind hid the scissors in my desk until he left.
It made sense in my nine-year-old mind. If I ignored James, the simnilarities that singled us out
from the crowd would go away.
That was how I dealt with my Asian heritage.
Maybe if I ignored my differences, they
-E
:
0
>
I0
U
0
Tould disappear.
FOR THE MOST PART, I FIT IN WITH MY
peers. My friends and I-wore the same
brand of je,ns, dried our hair into the.
same frazzled messes, and wore identical bracelets as plastic. tokeifs of our
friendship.
But there were daily reminders that I.
was different. The pork dumplings in
my lunch. The way niy mom nodded
confusedly instead of answering a
question. My reflection in the bathroom
.miror.
'These two halves of
myself-the part that fit
*_
---Confused me. Where did
I belong?
;I remernber facing this
question on a fourth-grade
standardized-test answer
sheet. The directions read
FILL IN RACE. The three
choices made a neat row,
of pale green circles:
wHiTu, BLACK; and orHER.
I glanced at my best
friend, Sara. She crouched
over her sheet. darkening
AS AN ADULT, I WINCE WHEN I REMEM-
Eric Uao, the author's father,
ber my behavior. I want to lecture who
sits on his mother's lap in his.
I was thenr Tell her-not fo yell at her
-parents because they were different, be- native Qirigdao, China, in
1937. Onanda Liao; above left,
cause that is who they are. Tell her to
is with a friend at her 1970
listen when they teach her, Chinese, becollege giraduation inTaiwan.
cause that is vho she is.
But I can only delve into those past
the wHiTE bubble.
feelings of discomfo'tr and rationalize why I
I contemplated my options. I wasn't black. I
pushed away my parents' culture.
didn't consider myself an "other." Sara and I
I grew up in Raleigh in the early 1980s, before
were the same, weren't we? I picked up my inurn
it became a vibrant city. In recent years, people
.
S8 THE WASHINGTONIAN
.
. ..
,_
.
.
.x
ber-two pencil and filled in the wHITE bubble.
After the test, the teacher shuffled through the
answer sheets. She stopped when she reached mine.
"Sharon," she called, motioning me to the front
of the ro 6m. "You've filled in 'white' for your
race." She erased the bubble. "You should have
filled in 'other.'"
Heat reddened my cheeks. "I know." I said.
good price?" and "What's this meaning?".
Their parents chatted easily with each other and
our teachers. .Their parents understood dating, the
prom, and what it was like to grow up with the
pressures of drinking, drugs, and sex. Their parents asked them about their social and love lives.
My parents discussed only my grades, career,
and prospective salary.
Their parents knew the right things to say. My
HOW COULD I FORGET?
parents spoke in thickly accented English. My
At home, the differences that separated me
stay-at-home mom speaks English like I speak
from my peers were more obvious. Although my
Chinese: slowly, halting, and punctuated by
parents 'had lived in the United States for
"um'"s,and "ah"s. She becomes confused when
decades, they still led a Chinese life. They spoke
someone speaks English too rapidly.
to each other in, Chinese and read a Taiwanese
I recognize my mom's I-don't-get-it l,ook inpaper every morning.
stantly. Her mouth freezes in a
Only Chinese food covered
polite smile. Her eyes cloud
our dinner table. Breakfast
With confusion, and a thin line
consisted of watery rice with
traces across her forehead.
pickled vegetables and meat,
When her face molds into that
or fried eggs with soy sauce.
blank stare, I know it's time to
At dinner, I'd douse my rice
explain something.
bowl with ketchup and re.d f
About a month before we
mind my parents that Sara's
,\
*
left for China, I helped my
family ate hamburgers at
i
a
v
^
.,.mom
return a purchase to Walhome, not just at McDonald's.
D
y. r:
):W! .
Mart. The clerk rudely ignored
My brother and I laughed at
my mom's slow English,
my mom's attempts at Western In a 1979 family rtrait, Sharon
speaking to me instead.
cuisine. Her version of macaLiao is surrounde dlIby her parents
In,the car, my mom thanked
roni and cheese was a bowl of and older brother im.
me for my help. "Xie xie,
overcooked pasta topped with
Sharon," she said.
slices of American cheese. My birthday cakes reI kept my eyes on the road. "It's nothing, Mom,".
sembled frosted sponges until Mom discovered
She patted my shoulder. "I have good daughBetty Crocker's instant cake mix.
ter," she said. "Good Amdrican daughter."
At school and swim-team potlucks, Morn's floury
cookies outlasted even the wilted Jell-O salad.
IN THE AIRPORT BEFORE WE DEPARTED FOR CHINA,
We celebrated Christmas and Thanksgiving as
my parents' friends-many of whom I was meeta nod to American tradition. I listened enviously
ing for the first time- herded-around me. As is
I
as my classmates described their families' preChinese custom, they fired off one compliment
sents and holiday-feasts. In our dining room,
after another.
Thahksgiving consisted of stringy turkey served
"Such pretty daughter," they crowed to my'
with rice. Christmas dinner was an improvement.
beaming dad. "Good swimmer. So smart."
with steamed crab or a red snapper baked in
One man, my "Uncle" Liu, pulled me aside.
black-bean sauce.
.
"Your parents," he said, wagging afinger in my
My parents only vaguely knew about American
face. "So proud of you. Always tailing about you."
holidays. My mom, raised Catholic, explained
His words surprised me.
Christmas to my Buddhist father. But it was my
I felt like I barely spoke with my parents. Did
brother who introduced Santa Claus to my family.
they really know who I was?
I explained Thanksgiving's history to my parThen the question, the one I skirted throughout
ents, who showered me with questions like
my adolescent and college years, surfaced in my,
schoolchildren.
conscience. Of course I loved my parents. But
I did I really know who these people -were? Did I
AS I GREW OLDER,'MY PARENTS OFTEN TURNED TO
even come close to understanding them?
I
me with questiQns about American culture and
language. Sometimes I felt like ,the parent, teachTHE TOUR WAS A 17-DAY WHIRLWIND. BEGINNING IN
ing my mom and dad about an American tradi.Shanghai, we snaked across the middle of China.
tion or slang phrase.
We toured lakes laden with lotus flowers. snapI envied my friends' relationships with their
ped pictures of jagged mountains rising out of
parents. It seemed so easy for them. My friends
the Yellow River, and hiked up stone stairs to
didn't have to worry that their parents would
intricately painted temples.
embarrass them with questions like "Is this
Continued on page 168
I
*;
My parents
wanted my
brotherand me
to become
model ChineseAmericans
andswitch
from American
to Chinese
culture with
the grace of
diplomats.
II
I
JANUARY 2001
S9
A Daughter's Journey
Continuedfrompage 59
6 one-week residential camps:
* George Mason
* William & Mary
* Virginia Tech
* Wake Forest
* NC State
* UNCG
I
I saw beautiful things, such as rice paddies cut like square emeralds into the
mountainside. I toured interesting places,
like a factory where the employees spun
silk into sheets of gloss.
But the best part of the trip was watching my parents. They carried themselves
with an ease unfamiliar to me. They
blended into the
throngs of Chi-
tion's economy is developing rapidly, the
base standard of living lags behind what
I'm accustomed to.
It was hard for me to step off our airconditioned tour bus into a crowd of dusty
children clutching begging cups. Sometimes I felt guilty as I boarded our cruise
ship with my arms full of souvenirs. I felt
the employees sizing up my purchases.
It reminded me of a conversation my dad
and I had near the beginning of the trip.
"Guess how much our tour guide makes in
one year," he'd said.
x
-
"No? She makes 400
yuan a year. Can you
A believe it?"
I calculated the fig,I
out as two small
ures. The guide, a
dark figures inl
cute girl just out of
the crowd. Even
college, earned 50 US
parents'
my
dollars a year.
tacky
clothes,
Later, our group
and out of date
r _ toured a college camAmerican
by
pus in Nanjing. A
standards, fit in.
student let me inside
Their voices
her dorm so I could
America
to
grated
em
Eric
Liao
Brenda
and
auswelled with
thority. My mom from Taiwan in 1973. Thil y were married that use the bathroom. As
I walked down the
would translate year at a New York churc h.
hall to the toilet, I
the tour guide's
They.reminded
rooms.
at
the
dorm
gaped
voice.
Chinese in her girlish, unwavering
me of my two-person college room,
She whispered historical anecdotes she
about the same size with poster-covered
learned in school as we fell in step behind
walls. But six beds were crammed into
the tour group.
each room.
At meals, my parents answered my conThe student rambled on about her aspistant questions. "What's this?" I asked suspiciously about each colorful bowi that rations. "Everyone here studies computer
science, minor in English," she said. "We
would rotate by on the lazy Susan.
all hope to move to America one day. I
My parents chuckled at my response
when a waiter placed a bowl of soup on study all day so I can make good score on
GRE. Do you know GRE?"
the table. I was horrified to see the remI looked at this fresh-faced girl, barely
nants of a turtle floating in a clear yellow
out of her teens. "I could be this girl," I
broth. But the rest of the table shbuted
thought. Then I wondered, "What if I was
with excitement.
this girl? What would I be like if I grew
"Turtle soup, so fragrant!" exclaimed my
up here?"
dad. He ladled a generous portion into his
How very different I would be. Maybe
bowl. "I haven't had this since I was young."
more like my parents.
The other adults chimed in their stories
about the last time they tasted turtle soup.
, Y EXPERIENCE IN CHINA PIECED TOMy table cried in dismay when I 1et the
gether the puzzle I knew as my
soup circle past me.
For the first time, I saw
*
_parents.
<
turyou
can
have
only
time
this
is
the
"But
DateAble is
them in their entirety. I saw them in their
tle soup," Mr. Bai said, blinking indigrpantly.
a social group
culture, not in mine.
I placed my hand over my soup bowl.
for people,
I realized that many things I found em"That's okay. Really."
barrassing or frustrating about my parents
"Strange," Mr. Bai said in Chinese,
with or without
were normal in China.
shaking his head. "Such good soup."
disabilities,
I understood why my parents moved,
who seek new
talked, and acted the way they did. I uns
IN MOST TIERD WORLD NATIONS,
~frzenLds
XyL
derstood why my dad constantly remindscenes of poverty offset China's exed me I was lucky. My own face molded
and new
1AXquisite beauty. Although the nainto my mom's I-don't-get-it look. Even
Sharon Liao, an editorial assistant at The Washher attempts at birthday cake made sense.
| /t}experiences.
ingtonian, graduated from the University of North
Halfway through the trip, I craved cookCarolina at Chapel Hill. She recommends that
ies and sweets. In China, meals typically
readers take a trip with their parents if possible.
end with a plate of sliced oranges or pears.
Liao can be reached at sliao@washingtonian.com.
nese people instead of sticking
Service
Aiha
rt
ea
i1,'
M
K)
T
H
168 THE WASHINGTONIAN
PHOTOGRAPH COURTESYOF LIAO FAMILY
I was thrilled when I discovered one hotel
restaurant that offered Western cuisine. I
beckoned the waiter and ordered a slice of
cake. It was picture perfect: pale vanilla
swirled with chocolate frosting. 1 dug in.
My dad asked me how it tasted.
I made a face. "Gross." I said, managing
to swallow the dry mouthful. "It tastes like
Mom's.'"
He nodded in agreement. "No butter in
Chinese cooking," he said. "Not like the
soft kind of cake you used to in America.
Better stick to fruit."
Around here,
this is what
we call
rush hour ..
D
URING THE TRIP I BEFRIENDED
Rachel, the daughter of friends of
D
my parents'. We laughed over feelings we experienced as Chinese-Americans and griped about the toilets.
Rachel spoke flawless Chinese and read
off the characters on the karaoke screen
with ease.
"Your daughter speaks such good Chinese," my dad complimented Rachel's
dad, Mr. Chow. "And even reads it, too.
You must be so proud."
I felt awkward standing next to my dad.
In Chinese tradition, Mr. Chow was supposed to brush off the compliment and return it heartily. In this case, he slapped his
hand on my dad's shoulder and started
talking about the next tour stop.
I bit my lip. The interaction touched an
insecure spot, something I developed in
college. Was I not Chinese enough?
When I first arrived at the University of
North Carolina at Chapel Hill in 1996, the
number of Asians on campus shocked me.
I had never seen so many people like me
before. My classes included other sleek
black heads. It was a complete contrast to
elementary school.
There were Asian clubs, classes, sororities, and events. Here my Chinese-American background didn't isolate me. I took
pride in who I was.
I enrolled in a number of Chinese- and
Asian-studies classes to compensate for
the many years I ignored my heritage. I
read books on history and culture. I traveled to Beijing in a language program,
where I learned so many things about
China and myself.
But through it all, I still doubted myself
as a Chinese-American when I couldn't
answer a Chinese-history question or
speak fluently. I felt like an imposter in
Chinese skin.
N
TEAR THE END OF THE TRIP, MY PAR-
ents and I decided not to hike up
_N_ s the Zhang Jia Jie mountain range.
We sat and talked on a bench overlooking
the towering stone monoliths.
It was a few days after "the iron inci-
European charm and
unspoiled tranquility
nestled on one of
the Caribbean's
top ten beaches.
,.-
..
=.
./
11..I
-:
..
..
f
Escape to Aruba and
allow us to change your idea
of rush hour forever...
..
BUUUTI BEAICH
AAd atge
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dent," as my confused run-in with the hotel
clerk became known in our tour group.
"Too bad I don't speak fluent Chinese,"
I said wistfully. "I should have learned it
when I was little. I should have listened
when you tried to teach it to me."
Other apologies surfaced in my mind but
didn't make it out of my lips. I wanted to
tell my parents that if I could go back in
time, I would act differently. I would accept myself for who I was and them for
who they were.
But my dad looked at me with understanding. He gently covered my hand with his.
'It's okay," he said. "You learning it now."
My mom smiled supportively. "Never
too late," she said.
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170 THE WASHINGTONIAN
*
I
THAVE STRUGGLED TO PUT THAT TRIP, 19
days in total, into words. When I look
_back, I realize how much it changed
my life.
When I speak to my parents on the
phone from my Rosslyn apartment, there
is a mutual understanding. Our conversations extend past the two-dimensional
questions about where they went out to
eat or how my job is going. I talk about
my life. My parents talk about what they
were doing when they were my age, and
I can imagine them with crystal clarity:
fresh young students at Taiwanese universities.
Moving to Washington, with its large
Asian population, completes the picture. I
look in admiration at children on the street,
babbling in Chinese to their pa,rents. I
can't wait for my parents to visit so I can
show them Chinatown and the Chinese artifacts at the Freer Gallery of Art. I reflected on these things one day while
waiting for the Metro about a week after I
returned from China.
A middle-aged Asian man clutching his
young son leaned over to me. He made
friendly conversation, pointing to my jade
pendant threaded on a bright-red string
around my neck.
"Where did you get this?" he asked, his
words slanting in a familiar accent.
"Oh, my mom bought it for me in
China," I replied, sliding the cool bit of
green between my fingers. "I was there
just last week."
"I am from Hong Kong," he said. "You
are Chinese?"
X
"I was born here, but my parents are
from China and Taiwan," I explained. We
chatted about the places and sights I saw on
my trip. The Metro squealed into the stop.
"Nice that you went to China with your
parents," he said.
i
It was nice, I reflected, as I stepped onto
a Metro car.
[1
I am very lucky.
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
TITLE: A daughter’s journey
SOURCE: Washingtonian 36 no4 Ja 2001
WN: 0100100159008
The magazine publisher is the copyright holder of this article and it
is reproduced with permission. Further reproduction of this article in
violation of the copyright is prohibited..
Copyright 1982-2002 The H.W. Wilson Company.
All rights reserved.