Joyce Cheung

Memories of My Culture

I was one, when I was brought into a

world filled of red and gold, luck and happiness.

Immersed in my family who wanted only the

best for their first daughter. My grandmother,

despite being a little shi wang disappointed that

I wasn’t the grandson she yearned for, showed her

endless love for me in traditional herbal soups and dishes.

I was one when I learned my first Chinese word:

Jia. Home.

I was three, when my father took me to

China Town in San Francisco.

Stepping into the streets my ancestors walked before me,

soaking in sights of the friendly fire haggling in rapid mother tongue,

the mighty dragon street lamp, protector of the families, bringing

Yun qi, fu, chang shou.

Luck, fortune, longevity.

Surrounded by busy streets and the wonderful smells of wonton soup,

I was three when I decided I loved to be Chinese.

I was five when my mother insisted I go to

Bu Xi Ban, Chinese school.

I laughed and

cried with friends. Moments were tough when

I couldn’t memorize the tang shi, ancient poem

whispers of the past.

But there were moments of

happiness, giggling in the classroom, filling dumplings with

sugary red beans and other goodies sweet as those memories.

I was five when I learned the super magic power of being bilingual,

surrounded with my Asian friends who shared similar memories.

I was only seven when a blonde boy asked me,

“Do you guys eat dog?”

while using his hands to

taunt my crescent moon eyes.

My hands too small to

grasp the dagger behind his words.

My heart too soft to

bear the weight of his taunts.

I was much over seven when

my parents taught me that talking to boys like him was

Dui Niu Tan Qin, like talking to a cow.

I was ten when my family traveled to Ohio, where I was

frightened by the scarce of boba tea shops and fried rice,

the tastes of home lost in seas of hamburgers and fries.

However, it was the lack of people who looked like me,

who understood what it was like to be me, scared me the most.

I was ten when I realized that home was the

fragile bubble shielding me away from the world.

I was twelve when my shaking fears turned into fiery hatred,

Asian Americans forced under tidal waves of violence.

Drown.

Drown.

Drowning in sorrow and fear.

As if the global pandemic wasn’t enough to throw the world out of orbit.

In Zoom class, my Chinese teacher looked more than shang xin.

She looked at the screen with tired eyes and a frigid heart.

That’s when I wondered how many of us knew the ai yi,

auntie who got beaten up in the streets, or the shu shu,

uncle who got clashed with the swords of jagged words.

She is tired, she says.

We all are.

I was twelve when I decided to take a stand,

brush off the defying words in my head,

those telling me it’s senseless,

warning me to keep my eyes down,

to just mourn the lost in silence.

I was twelve when I led a school wide project,

with help from two school teachers,

and found grounding with friends who understood.

The whole school joined hands,

and we wrote letters to the AAPI community,

sharing the precious memories of our culture and wonderful experiences.

We stood together, and suddenly,

I was three again:

a heart filled with hope,

proud to be Chinese.

I was twelve when I learned to take a stand for change,

for the hope of my community,

for my culture,

for my life.

I am fourteen now, and I sit a little

taller in my seat when my high school teacher

tells the class that we’ll be reading Joy Luck Club.

I stand a little taller when I hear my peers talk about the

new Disney movie starring a full cast of Asians,

and I smile wider every day, proud to know that

My culture.

My identity.

My memories.

shape who I am today.

Inside is the little girl who is sculpted by

visits to streets hung with red lanterns,

scars of the past from harsh stones and words,

friends who stood by her side for change,

loving parents who inspired her to be who

she is today.

That little girl, she’s no longer ashamed of her own skin,

armed with knowledge about:

Patsy Mink, first Asian American congresswoman.

Michelle Yeoh, first Asian Oscar Award winning actress.

Maya Lin, the first Asian to receive the Presidential Medal of Freedom, architect.

All those brave women firsts.

Never the lasts.

I’m not scared to be mei lian no face, because I know the

many Asian women before me, who overcame these fears,

and I did too.

Now…

I replay their victories in my head,

I hold my ancestors in my heart,

and I live the memory of my culture within.