Unrelatable - A Personal Essay by Lucie Hafteck
I switched on the projector, and my powerpoint presentation immediately flickered onto the my teacher’s whiteboard. “Searching for Home”, the title read, and the background was a scenic view of the hills of LA. I made my way to the board, my heart beating at every additional step, and I turned to face my classmates as I forced a smile on my face. “This is my presentation on my identity.” I gripped my flashcards in my shaky hands and began.
My English teacher had assigned my class a project on the topic of identity. During our brainstorm session, my classmates immediately reached for their pens and began writing. For me, my brain was blank and I sat in my seat silently, listening to others scribbling down all about their families, passions, dreams, and futures. I didn’t know where to begin. I didn’t know how to write down who I was on a piece of paper. How was I supposed to show everybody who I am if I didn’t even know who I am myself? I contented myself to start by the same long story that I knew all too well, that I had to repeat every time someone asked me the dreaded question, “Where are you from?”
“My father’s family is from France and my mother’s family is Chinese from Hong Kong. Both my parents studied abroad for college and met in England. Then they got married, moved to South Africa for my dad’s job and had my sister, then moved because of rising crime rates to New Jersey, where I was born. Then we moved to California for my mom’s job”. I’d repeat this very abridged version of my family history, in four sentences. And if we had less time, I’d just tell them, “I’m from LA”, even though that isn’t really true. I’m the only American by birth in my family, and my parents are only labeled as Americans because they passed a citizenship test that I remember helping them study for when I was eight years old. I am American, but don’t really feel American during holidays such as Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July as I don’t celebrate them. My story is an unusual tale, and many people today still don’t understand the concept of interracial marriage, even in an “advanced and open” country such as the US. My classmates guess that I’m fully white, occasionally fully Asian. No one has ever guessed my real ethnicity. I have to tell them that I’m mixed for it to click.
Being mixed has caused me to struggle to internally pick and choose who I am. I grew up in a suburban white town and never appreciated my Chinese ethnicity as a little kid. At school I would hear a lot of racial “jokes” about Chinese people named after the sound of pots and pans, the Japanese money please song, and kids would mockingly pull their eyes back. I internalized the little comments and learned hide that part of me at school, and only mentioned my culture if I was asked about it. I felt partially relieved on Saturday mornings when I went to Mandarin school, but even there I felt out of place, because of the language. I spoke Cantonese at home with my mother but Mandarin had always been a struggle, more than it should’ve been-looking back, the reasons for why I hated attending Chinese school became clearer. Still, I enjoyed Chinese school for the culture, and that is where my love for dance started. Chinese folk dance was my favorite part of Chinese school. I also loved celebrating the Mid-Autumn Festival, the Lantern Festival, and the Chinese New Year, and every time I’d go back to Hong Kong to see my family, each time would give me more reassurance that I could call myself who I am, which is Chinese.
Being French was the easiest part of my identity. I’d always fully embraced my French heritage. It didn’t come with discrimination like being Chinese does, and I loved every part of being French(except when I learned in history class that French colonizers were not the best people). I like to think that I grew up in France as much as I grew up in America. Every summer, from the last day of school to the first day of school, my family boarded a plane and flew to go visit my dad’s side of the family. Going to France each year and seeing my grandparents and cousins motivated me greatly in learning how to read and write in French, and as soon as I learned how to read in first grade I began reading in both languages. My favorite series was “Fantomette”, books about a superhero girl who went on adventures with her two friends, Boulotte and Ficelle. I also spent my kindergarten year as well as my fourth grade year, CM1, in the village in France where we live when we go back.
Living in America sometimes makes me feel trapped in a place that I don’t consider as my home. For me, home is where family and tradition are. I don’t really know what would be home for me, but I think that France and Hong Kong are closer to that definition than America is. Although I have made friends that are like family, and that most of my academic career has been in America, I do not feel as if I am a part of the “American community”, and that’s gradually becoming more and more okay with me. Accepting myself is still difficult, but I have many benefits to being mixed. I can speak three languages fluently, and another one decently. I have traveled more than most of my classmates. I have experienced so much culture and celebrated so many other holidays.
My powerpoint image flickered off as I switched off the projector.
My classmates applauded me as I finished my presentation. No one had any comments, mostly because my powerpoint had been unrelatable for them. Inside I longed, just a little bit, for someone else to relate and validate my experiences, but I have learned that sometimes being unrelatable is not a bad thing.