A common question I get asked by both Asian and non-Asian people is: “Do you speak your native language?” With the expectation that I’ll say, “Yes, I speak the language of whatever exotic ethnicity I look like.” I always feel bad for saying “No,” when all I want is to follow up with sarcastic answers like, “Isn’t it great that I have the only dad that doesn’t beat me for not learning Chinese?” or “Aren’t I wonderful for being the exception?” Instead, I hide my shame for not having learned Chinese or Japanese. The reasons why I haven’t learned Chinese or Japanese become irrelevant because the question posed to me, or really the expectations the question puts upon me, shouldn’t be a burden to begin with.
I feel the need to prove my identity as a Chinese-Japanese American. Speaking an Asian language feels like a requirement, part of the ongoing check-list of “to-do’s” to get my Asian stamp of approval—right after knowing how to use chopsticks (sorry, mom), competing with all my smart Asian friends to get the highest test score (which I never wanted to do), having a singing rice cooker (and always using the secret “finger-method” to measure the water to rice ratio), and shopping at Costco more than twice a week to bulk-buy anything on sale (even if the brand sucks or there’s already twenty of that product in the garage next to a second (or third) fridge). But my ethnicity is not an argument. It’s a fact.
Somehow, I’m a lesser Asian for my inability to speak my native tongues to the point where “asian” doesn’t even deserve to be capitalized. I sometimes wonder if I should learn one just to shut people up. As an adult, I accepted that not knowing how to speak another language doesn’t make me less me, but shame still seeps in when I’m with my family, and I can’t offer to order dim sum in Cantonese.
When I was younger and needy for affection, I spent a lot of time trying to justify my “Asianness” as if it was something that had to be justified. Cooking the best-fried rice, having a library of instant noodles, knowing “off-the-menu” items, watching anime, reading manga, having Asian friends, and trying to learn Japanese. I remember when my Japanese teacher laughed at me for saying, “I am a banana,” when I meant to say, “I like bananas.” My younger self always thought that there was something I could do to make up for not knowing Chinese or Japanese and feel accepted. Worse, I was convinced by my own Asian community that I failed to, stereotypically, “bring honor to my ancestors” and my parents. I constantly try to rekindle this ancient Asian connection. I remember having my absurd collection of Asian “good-luck” charms and trinkets with Kanji that I couldn’t read from Asian gift shops. I still remember my brother and me naming our video-game characters “ramen-samurai” and “tofu-ninja” as kids. But the need to feel “Asian enough” has always been present.
I still meet Asian aunts, uncles, friends, neighbors, and strangers who’ve told me that they tried to learn an Asian language as an adult to overcome the cultural divide. I’m afraid to wake up and realize that I’ve wasted my time, money, and happiness by making it my mission to reclaim something that is inherently mine. Changing a part of myself doesn’t define my whole being. I want to dismiss the inner voice that tells me “I am not enough” and believe “I am enough.” And in many ways, I want to recognize that being Asian is just a singular part of my identity.
I’m not the only Asian person who hasn’t learned how to speak the language we “should” speak. Not speaking the language of our ancestors doesn’t make any of us less than the parts of us that are integral to our identity. I don’t apologize for spending my New Year setting off firework poppers as the ball drops on the flat-screen TV instead of making mochi. I don’t apologize for not going to Japan every year because, last time I checked, it was an expensive trip, and anyone related to me there is dead. And I don’t apologize for not knowing Chinese—except to that one older Chinese lady who was lost; at that moment, I wished I knew Chinese to help her navigate the unreliable suburban bus system. It doesn’t matter how or why I didn’t learn how to speak Chinese or Japanese. I shouldn’t have to explain those reasons to anyone for any reason.
As far as native goes, native is not where my ancestors come from. Native is where I am from, and as far as anyone is concerned, my family and I are from Elk Grove (below Sacramento, yes, that Lady Bird Sacramento), and my native language is English. It’s the language I use to speak, write, communicate, ask for help, and compliment a stranger on their lovely dragonfly brooch. It is my language of comfort, of poetry. With it, I tell loved ones that “I don’t understand, but I’ll listen.” But best of all, I use my native language to tell people—Asian and non-Asian alike—whenever they tell me to speak an Asian language, to “fuck off.” And that’s a direct quote.