What Is Your Nation? A Chinese American Woman's Journey to Remember and Reclaim Identity

By Eleanor Xiaoxiao Mehta

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hat’s your nation?” he asked her, his manner curious, interested, even friendly all of a sudden. “Arada…? Is you an Arada?” He waited. “Cromanti maybe…?” And he again waited. “Yarraba then…? Moko…?” (p. 167).

From Praisesong for the Widow by Paule Marshall

When I first picked up Paule Marshall’s novel Praisesong for the Widow this past spring, I was not expecting the story to strike me in profound ways. In the novel, Marshall describes Avey Johnson, a Black, middle-aged, middle-class widow from New York and her unexpected journey of reconciling her roots and heritage in the Caribbean. As I read the book, different quotes transported me in time, taking me on a journey of my own remembering.

The question of “what’s your nation” is a question that has long troubled me. Unlike Avey, I was not born and raised in the States but moved with my family to Atlanta, Georgia when I was fourteen. Growing up in mainland China, I learned Chinese history starting from the creation tale of “Pangu” to the series of dynasties that led to the establishment of the communist rule. The history lessons spanned over 5000 years were taught throughout my K-8 education. I knew China as my nation.

Similar to Avey, I returned to China for a visit after becoming an adult in the States. A naturalized U.S. citizen and a self-assured American, I found my identity challenged by my relatives and locals who lived there. What resulted was an identity crisis that I still find myself continuously unraveling.

“I’m a visitor, a tourist, just someone here for the day,” [Avey] said lamely. “I was on the cruise ship that came in yesterday.” (p. 167).

Avey’s words echoed my experience.

That summer when I returned to China after college, I found myself disguising as a tourist in public. When I was with my American friends, I would hide the fact that I could understand and speak Chinese fluently. But when I visited my relatives, I behaved like a Chinese local. It was easier for me to be either Chinese or American, either an insider or an outsider, but being a Chinese American is the ambiguous in-between space too confusing for myself to figure out. However, the more I went back and forth between the two identities, the more tiring it became. At the end of my time in China during that summer, I couldn’t wait to return to the States.

The recent anti-Asian hate in the United States has given me flashbacks of what occurred to me during that summer. Only this time, it is no longer me choosing between the two identities, but others in society placing the “perpetual foreigner” identity upon me. Violence against one’s identity is always painful and once again, Asian Americans find themselves stripped away of their wholeness and scapegoated in the political discourses against another Asian country. Epitomized by the experience of Japanese Americans in the WWII internment camps, and followed by the experience of Chinese Americans during McCarthyism and that of Asian American soldiers during the Vietnam War, the Asian American life has long been tainted by a constant fear of rejection.

I first encountered this rejection when I moved to the American South as a teenager.

No one really cared that I spoke fluent Mandarin and could recite ancient Chinese poems from memory. The cultural and linguistic knowledge I had was not going to get me inside the cool crowds. I started envying the ABCs (American Born Chinese) in my high school, who spoke English with a southern drawl instead of a Chinese accent. I remember wishing myself to be just like them, who seemed to be as American as apple pie, instead of being a “FOBBY” Chinese girl, cultural shocked, and alone.

“You know,” he said, “I watched you good last night at the fete and I can’t say for sure but I feels you’s an Arada, oui. Something about the way you was doing the Carriacou Tramp there toward the end put me in mind of people from that nation.” (p. 252).

Avey meets Joseph, a local elder in the Caribbean, and she is bewildered by how Joseph seems to know her more so than herself. Joseph’s character reminds me of the Korean grandmother in the 2021 film Minari, who also acts as someone who helps the younger generations to find their true identity. The grandmother is first rejected by her second-generation Korean American grandson, but nonetheless she knows the truth that we all need to hear— those cultural memories of belonging still live in our bodies. Maybe, the question “what is your nation” is not about choosing, but about remembering and reclaiming. Countless Asian Americans have come before, and a great cloud of witnesses have interceded for us. We don’t know our way until we remember; remembering leads to restoration.

God is still doing the work of restoration within me.

Whenever I find myself straining to choose between what seems to be fragmented identities in order to belong, God reminds me who I am and whose I am- that I am whole, and I belong to Him. I am a Chinese American woman, and I am a child of God.

On this journey, God also asks me to care beyond my own nation. I think of nation also as ethnos, not just a political entity, but a people, a tribe, a family. Growing up, I was taught that family is everything. One can sacrifice everything for the sake of family, but those who are outside of the family are treated differently. In the wake of the Atlanta Spa shooting, I witnessed incredible solidarity from the Black community in support of fighting against anti-Asian racism. We are never meant to do justice alone. “If one part suffers, every part suffers with it” (1 Corinthians 12:26) rings true in our multi-ethnic and multi-racial body of Christ. God is asking all of us to expand our understanding of family beyond our own generation, our own church, our own ethnos. His vision of family has always been border-crossing and boundary-breaking. It is in this vision, I can empathize with Avey’s journey, while recognizing the stark differences in our ancestry. One was stolen, bought and sold with their freedoms taken away and entire memories of language and culture erased for generations; another came for the hope of freedom, leaving the home they once belonged and crossing shores to build another.  

Finally, just as the moving wall of bodies was almost upon her, she too moved—a single declarative step forward. At the same moment, what seemed an arm made up of many arms reached out from the circle to draw her in… (p. 247).

At the end of Avey’s journey she partakes in this beautiful celebration called “Beg Pardon.” It is a picture of heaven where every nation and its people are remembered and embraced by name. The joy in the dance is irresistible for Avey to not being a part. It’s God’s invitation for you and me, as part of the greater Asian American nation, to join in the dance as well, to reclaim the identity that is uniquely ours and recognize the beauty in diversity and difference.  

Photo by Raychan on Unsplash

Photo courtesy of Penguin Random House

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Eleanor Xiaoxiao Mehta is a 1.5 generation Chinese American living in Atlanta, Georgia. She is the daughter of Chinese mothers and grandmothers who have given her a love for storytelling and teaching. Currently she is a doctoral student at the University of Georgia, studying to receive her Ph.D. in Educational Theory and Practice with an emphasis on immigrant families and children with disabilities. You can reach her at eleanor.liu@uga.edu.

Embracing Otherness

By Naomi K. Lu

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he COVID-19 pandemic has left a devastating impact on millions of lives around the world. Though the most devastating losses of a pandemic will always be the lives extinguished and the suffering of those left behind, this pandemic has also cost people everything from graduations and weddings, to homes and jobs. Though I was not spared from different, more tangible losses, the most impactful loss for me was the destruction of an idea. Because of COVID-19, I lost the American Dream.

As a third-culture kid, America was truly the land of dreams. In Mandarin, America literally translates as “beautiful country.” Despite being thousands of miles away, the third culture kids in the community where I grew up strongly identified with whatever country was listed on their passports. I vividly remember a youth retreat where the ice breaker was to divide up by country and cheer as loudly as possible for your motherland; Americans were by far the loudest, rivaled only by the Texans (they separated themselves) and the six Australians whose rousing cries of “AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE! OI OI OI!” managed to be heard despite the thundering roar of American cries. American patriotism was alive and well in our communities overseas, even though many of us had spent far more years in our host countries than back “home.”

Our lack of awareness as to the realities of what life in America looked like frequently resulted in massive disappointment and disillusionment upon returning to the States. Those who return either love it or hate it; I rarely meet individuals who fall between these polar opposites. To many, the American Dream goes as follows: Nice house, nice job, nice spouse, nice kids, with a white picket fence to tie it all together.

For me, this Dream was very different for a young, mixed-race, Chinese American growing up in Asia. I thought about America constantly. America was Cheetos and Reese’s peanut butter cups; rolling meadows of lush green grass, sunsets of pink, gold, and purple, and the flitting of fireflies at dusk on a warm summer’s eve. As a lonely child who didn’t fit in, America was a place of belonging and freedom. The greatest country on earth, where anyone could be anything. Where all were welcome. Where there would be a place for me. America was hope.

And then I returned.

The culture shock, isolation, and the identity crisis of moving from the only country I’d ever known were to be expected. However, I was completely unprepared for the kind of otherness I’d feel as an Asian American. I took pride in my status as a foreigner in the country I grew up in. I had no idea I was even more of a foreigner in the country of my birth. Never mind that my grandmother was white; she was the daughter of West Virginian coal miners, in this country so long that I don’t even know when she immigrated. My own confrontation with race took much longer than expected.

In high school, I was barely phased when someone told me they didn’t think I could speak English when we first met. Internally, I could justify these comments because I happened to be an Asian American raised in Asia. I suspect I would have understood racism, stereotypes, and microaggressions far earlier had I actually grown up in the United States. There would have been no excuses for such behavior, and I would have had to face the reality that one look at my face was all it took for people to think that they knew me.

There was no singular moment of racial reckoning for me. Just as a storm gives away its presence by a darkening sky and a strange smell that lingers in the air, the quiet dissatisfaction rumbling within me built over years. It was only after COVID-19 began spreading with a swift and deadly force that I was forced to open my eyes to a country that continues to view me—and my people—as “other.” Shock, followed by fear, spread through me as the most powerful man in the United States referred to the novel coronavirus as the “Chinese flu” and the “Kung flu.” Before COVID-19, I was used to being stared at by people, typically when I traveled outside of major U.S. cities, but I dismissed their gaze as simple curiosity. Now, every look from a stranger left a sense of unease that caused me to look over my shoulder constantly. Was I in danger too? My fears were not unfounded, the rise in hate crimes against Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders proves as much.

I was left to grieve the loss of an idea. The country I longed and hoped for as a child did not exist. My identity as an outsider would not have changed even if I had grown up here. I am torn between two worlds, yearning for somewhere, anywhere, to belong.

What remains after 2020 resembles the path of a tornado. Destruction is rampant, especially here in the United States. But 2020 was not purely a year of extremely bad fortune. It was a year where the dark underbelly of the United States was finally visible to the light. Division and prejudice are nothing new; 2020 just happened to be the year when inequality was made visible in such a way that the only way to ignore it would be to live as a hermit with no technology. Just because the America that I lost never existed does not lessen the pain of grief. I mourn, I accept, and I move forward.

 There is something holy in otherness. A lack of belonging in this world directs our gaze home—where our true selves are wholly accepted and perfectly loved. We yearn for what we do not have, and as Christians we have hope that what is to come is incomparably greater than anything we could presently possess. I have found freedom in this place. My life no longer needs to be dedicated to forcing myself into a box that was not made for me. The borders of my universe have infinitely expanded. My sense of purpose has been refined through this year, and I am constantly in awe of how God uses the darkest things to bring light.

This is not to downplay how detrimental and fundamentally wrong racism is, or to glorify injustice and suffering. It is also not meant to cover grief with toxic positivity. Though I believe that God can bring purpose to any kind of pain, that does not serve to minimize the significance of pain’s impact. An awareness and acceptance of otherness does not mean that we should stop fighting for equality and equity. For me, the reality of otherness brings me peace, as I no longer blame myself for my lack of belonging.

I think it will take time before I am fully aware of the impact that COVID-19 had on my life. For me, 2020 became a year of silence—a journey through solitude by an unwilling pilgrim. Though initially the isolation seemed like it would break me, it has proven to be one of the most fruitful periods of my life. Only in this quiet place was I able to fully confront my otherness. The lessons I have learned and the growth that I have experienced during this time will shape the rest of my life. I have a newfound boldness in speaking out about these issues of race and discrimination, while also experiencing the humbling realization that there is still much I do not know. Dismantling beliefs I had about this country and my identity also served to heal some of the false beliefs I had about myself: I am not less than because I do not belong. Embracing otherness allowed me to embrace myself.

I believe in a future where Asian Americans are no longer seen as perpetual foreigners, and our voices are valued and heard; however, I also find that there is relief in accepting that this is not the present reality. From here, I rest, regroup, and look for my role in bringing that vision to fruition. Though the night continues, I can see glimpses of the dawn as I rest in the promises of the Creator. “He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end” (Ecclesiastes 3:11, NIV).

Photo by ahmadreza jaffari on Unsplash

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Naomi K. Lu is a Chinese-American Third Culture Kid who grew up in East Asia. She has her B.S. in Integrated Social Sciences and will be entering graduate school studying psychology in Fall 2021. She is passionate about Asian mental health, depression treatment, and suicide prevention. She currently lives in California with her dogs.

On Grief and Birth: A Filipina-American's Tribute to Her Father

By Marilette Sanchez

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t was somber and almost peaceful at the hospital. Don’t get me wrong, it was gut-wrenching as well, but we prayed and sang hymns until the very end. In his last moments, my mom, my sisters, and I stood as witnesses to the moment my dad passed from this life to the next. On September 11, 2020, I lost my father due to complications from a rare bone marrow disorder called myelofibrosis.

In the six months since my dad passed, there have been ebbs and flows of joy and pain. Joy wells up as I think of the memories he created, especially with my five kids. Recently, my six-year-old daughter recalled one of our last trips together with my parents to the Jersey Shore. In her words, “I was crossing the street and Lolo (Grandpa) said, ‘Make sure you look both ways.’ and I ran across the street and hugged him. That was when he was alive.” 

One of my two-year-old’s favorite books is a children’s book titled Grandpa’s Wish List, which portrays a Grandpa and his big plans now that his new grandchild has arrived. Whether it is “go on a fishing trip” or “build a treehouse,” the book only highlights the things that are no longer possible for my kids to do with their lolo. Every time I have a sweet moment making new memories or laughing with my kids, the moment soon turns bittersweet when I realize my dad isn’t here to experience this with them and never will be again. 

Heaven Touches Earth

As a mother of five, I know the birthing process well. With the births of my children, though the process was slightly different for each, the same somber—yet joyful—atmosphere I experienced in the room when my dad died was present. As I endured the labor pains, there was a joy set before me that made the pain worthwhile: the moment my little one would transition and enter this world. With birth, there is a gravity to the moment as heaven touches earth, and we have the privilege to witness the ushering in of the supernatural. 

The same thing happened with the passing of my dad. As his body was withering away, his spirit was being renewed. Heaven touched earth in that moment that his soul left his body. We saw the peace on his face as he went. “Therefore we do not lose heart,” the Apostle Paul tells us. “Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16). 

A Father’s Legacy

My father grew up in a rural area of the Philippines, and quit school at a young age to pick up odd jobs to support his sick father. Despite his lack of education and upbringing in an area with not much opportunity, he went to a vocational school for printing, which eventually led to a steady printing job in Manila, the metropolis of the Philippines. Several years after marrying my dad, my mom had the opportunity to work as a nurse in New York City—without her family. She soon petitioned for him and my two elder sisters to come on a dependent visa. In April 1988, three months before I was born, my dad took the 24-hour flight from the Philippines to New York City, two toddlers in hand. His strong work ethic and love for people (and food) eventually led him to start a Filipino grocery store just outside New York City, creating community and providing my home away from home. 

When I think back on the legacy my dad left his friends and family, I am struck by how one person could touch so many lives just by living his life well. He was a surrogate dad and grandfather to those without, including my husband, Moses, as well as several young men at our church. My dad was a man of few words, but showed his love through his actions. Practical help was his love language. Gifted as a handyman, he loved doing household projects for his friends and family. Whether it was renovating entire bathrooms or installing new flooring, he was generous with his time and ability and never charged for the labor.

My dad always made sure that every person he met felt valued and cared for. He never met a stranger, especially a fellow Filipino. I remember many Costco trips during which he would greet strangers with “Hoy Kababayan, taga saan ka sa atin?” (Fellow countryman, where are you from back home in the Philippines?). Later that day, those same people would be over for dinner or at least for kape (coffee) and meryenda (snack). If you stepped in his home, he would badger you incessantly until you gave in to having something to eat or drink. I remember growing up in a three-bedroom apartment with my three sisters and grandparents—and still taking in newlyweds whose immigration status made it difficult to find a safe place to stay. 

My cousin reminded me recently of a saying that my dad lived by and spread to others. “Walang imposible basta may pangarap ka. Ang importante ay marunong kang magsumikap at higit sa lahat wag kang makakalimot sa Itaas,” which translates to “Nothing is impossible as long as you have dreams and aspirations. The most important thing is to work hard, and above all, never forget God.” 

My dad had his own dreams. He always told my kids about a farm that he would build in the Philippines, and after years of effort, despite his sickness, my dad made that dream a reality. My dad showed me perseverance in the way he pushed through his health issues and fought hard to not only survive, but to live his life to the full. 

I’m learning that grief is not one-size-fits-all; it looks different for everyone and there is no right or wrong way to grieve. In my experience of a few short months, grief looks like a push and pull of joy and pain, and usually hits me in the little, seemingly mundane moments, like storytime with my kids. I am comforted by these two facts: Abba, our Heavenly Father, experienced grief when he witnessed his one and Son suffer and die. And our Savior, Jesus, on the cross, experienced being separated from his Father for the first time in eternity. God can intimately identify with our grief and loss.

As I faced my first holiday season without my dad, comfort came as I was reminded of the Bible verse Hebrews 4:13. “For we do not have a high priest unable to sympathize with our weaknesses…”  The road of grief ahead has many unknowns. But I rest in the fact that God has gone ahead of me and knows exactly what is to come. 

Photo by OC Gonzalez on Unsplash

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Marilette Sanchez is a wife and mother of five young kids first, but put some coffee and a pen in her hand and she is unstoppable. She and her husband work for the Christian non-profit organization Cru, working alongside marriages and families. New York City natives and college sweethearts, they are known for their transparency and their ability to inject their love of hip hop and pop culture into their discussions of love, sex and marriage. Follow their parenting and homeschooling journey on Instagram at @bigcitybigfamily and Marilette's musings on womanhood and pop culture at www.MariletteSanchez.com.