From Buddha to Bubba

As one of the few Asian families in Smyrna, Georgia, my sisters and I learned quickly about the meaning of being Chinese-American, about “being different." When we were young, my parents penalized us a dime for every English word spoken in the house. It was their desperate attempt (against the odds) to help us speak Chinese and to maintain some connection to Chinese culture against the backdrop of our American-styled lives, which included high school pep rallies, Waffle House and pinball games.

My father listened to Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson and preferred hamburgers to Chinese food. My mother ate more often with a fork than with chopsticks. Amazingly, we seemed to find a balance between the two worlds of eggrolls and sweet tea. Despite our protestations, the Chinese-only language policy held firm.

Fortunately for me, their efforts were successful. Being able to speak Chinese meant more than being bilingual; it opened the door not only to learning about my own heritage, despite never having lived in China, but also the opportunity to share my “other half” to friends and colleagues.