I always knew where my mom was from, some place called Vietnam. I knew the Americans went there to help kill these frightening beasts called communists. I knew my grandpa lost four of his ten siblings there. I knew Saigon, where my mom grew up, was bombed almost routinely. I knew that my grandparents and my mom and a hundred other refugees boarded a dank, rickety ship in hopes of landing anywhere else, that high winds and choppy waters left them feeling as secure as dice in a gambler’s fist. I knew that pirates robbed them at knifepoint, plunging their daggers into whoever refused to comply and tipping their bodies into the sea. I knew that they shared a hut with twenty others when they landed in Indonesia. I knew that my grandparents wrote letter after letter requesting refugee status, that they were turned away by country after country until they received a sponsorship from a church in a city called Pasadena. In America. 

I’ve heard that story before, once, twice, three times, though only in fragments and pieces. With every addition, the story seemed more and more hellish, and I never felt right asking them to divulge their traumas to me. Every detail of their—my—origin came slowly, each anecdote coaxed out over the course of years. 

But it still felt like just a story. That woman who was jailed for unknown charges couldn’t have been my grandma, the woman who covers her furniture with plastic wrap and can never seem to work the TV remote. That man who guided boats full of hundreds of men, women, and children to safety couldn’t have been my grandpa, the 5’1” man who obeys his wife’s every whim and waddles from street corner to street corner. And surely, that child who learned English from Saturday morning cartoons couldn’t have been my mom, the fiercely independent, determined woman who’s an absolute pushover whenever our dog gives the slightest whine. 

I didn’t know much about Vietnam, just that I never wanted to go there. I didn’t bother to know where my family came from, because all I cared about was that we were here. I couldn’t point to Vietnam on a map, but I knew it was in Asia. I didn’t know what it meant to be Asian, either, but the other kids must have since they seemed to make a lot of jokes about it. Apparently, Asians learned advanced math, earned all A’s, and looked like me. So I guessed I was Asian. I must’ve been. And soon enough, I was the one cracking jokes about practicing violin until my fingertips bled or completing six math packets at Kumon, because that was a measure of how Asian I was.

And yet I adored America. I may be half Vietnamese and half Taiwanese, but Mom used to say I was “American through and through.” In fifth grade, Schoolhouse Rock! taught me the Preamble of the Constitution through song. Growing up, the Founding Fathers were practically gods in my eyes. And unfortunately for my parents, I loved playing the national anthem on my recorder. Repeatedly.

Being American came naturally to me. I knew what it meant to be American. America was about freedom and liberty and football and fast food so greasy you’d swear to yourself you’d never eat again before immediately taking another bite.

My Asian identity, however, felt like a vague list of stereotypes and obligations. Some things were simple, like taking off my shoes before entering the house or calling every Asian adult we knew auntie and uncle, but others failed to sink in. I didn’t see much point in having a dishwasher that functioned only as a drying rack. I preferred stories of heroism and genius over ones of duty and service. And after being pestered by every relative, I quickly decided that I would never become a doctor, lawyer, or dentist long before I knew what a mammogram, affidavit, or overbite was. 

Nonetheless, both Asian and American culture permeated nearly every part of my childhood. My brother and I were raised on Chicken McNuggets and chicken feet, Eggo waffles and egg tarts, Subway sandwiches and banh mi. At home we’d say grace before every meal, but at my grandparents’ house we’d light incense and bow to the Buddha. I’d gaze at the Fourth of July fireworks, my face illuminated by the flashes of light, and I’d squeal at the raucous popping of Chinese New Year party snaps, the floor coated in sawdust and paper casings. I took pride in being Asian-American. I got the best of both worlds.

I didn’t see an issue until a few years later, when I could now call myself a middle-schooler, a half a foot taller and perhaps a bit more introspective.

While waiting to get picked up from school, I shared light conversation with a fourth grader I tutored. 

When she saw my stepdad pull up, she asked, “Is that your dad?”

“Yeah, my stepdad.”

“Is your dad American?”

“What?” 

“Is he American?” she repeated. 

My confusion must have shown because she soon amended, “Like does he have light skin?”

I realized she meant Caucasian. She was asking if my stepdad was Caucasian. It was an innocent mistake, but it still weighed on me. I, like many others, am forced to tack on a prefix to validate my title of “American”—Asian-American, African-American, Latino-American, Native American—because true Americans don’t look like me. They look like him.

A year later, my family traveled to Mexico. As we walked down the cobblestone streets, we passed a woman holding a wooden rod with bracelets and watches fastened around it. She had the build of a wax figure left in the sun too long, her face sun-beaten and her hair grey. 

My cousins tugged on my aunt’s sleeve, eyeing the Hello Kitty bracelets.

“How much for the bracelets?” she asked. 

“Five dollars.” 

My aunt shook her head and turned to leave. I watched my cousins’ faces shift from excitement to dismay.

After a few moments, the woman chased after her and cried, “Okay! Okay! Two dollars!” 

My aunt seemed satisfied, handing her the money in exchange for the bracelets. My cousins thanked her, hurriedly tying them onto each other’s wrists.

We had gotten a good deal, a steal, really… so why did I feel so awful? It was a fair transaction; she wanted the money, we wanted the bracelets. What’s so wrong about that? But from the desperation in her voice, it felt coerced—it felt wrong. I felt awful because we had gotten a steal. We, the wealthy American tourists, didn’t need those extra few dollars as much as she did. We had cheated her—she knew it, we knew it—yet I was the only one who seemed to feel bothered by it. 

I thought about the people in China and Mexico (and other places out of sight and out of mind) who work a hundred hours a week in sweatshops. And I wondered, how much do I benefit from the exploitation of people less fortunate than me? People who could have been me? Is this what it meant to be American? To be oblivious to everything beyond sea to shining sea?

I thought back to all the times I refused to eat my vegetables as a child, and my parents would tell me, “There are kids starving in China.”

And I, irritated, would grumble to myself, “Do you want me to get an envelope and send it to them?”

I had the privileges that come with being an American. I had the privilege of food, water, shelter. And the privilege of being ungrateful. 

I am a child of immigrants, people who came from nothing. My parents deserved what they earned, but I don’t deserve what I received. I don’t deserve Christmas gifts or birthday parties. I don’t deserve music lessons or tennis classes. I don’t deserve to go to school or to eat three—maybe even four—meals a day. I don’t deserve to shower with hot water or to sleep under a roof that doesn’t leak when it rains. And yet here I am, safe and healthy in a well-to-do suburb in Southern California.

Was I an American? Did I deserve to be? Did I even want to be?

This past summer I volunteered in Tanzania for a public health program. A man greeted us, led us upstairs, forced open a door without a doorknob, and told us to take a seat. The room was lit only by a single barred window. Cracks in the walls had been hastily resealed, bulging like varicose veins. 

For maybe the twentieth time that week, we were told to introduce ourselves with our name and country of origin. 

“Hi, I’m Audrey, and I’m from America.”

He blinked, “Ah. America. And your parents are from?” 

“Taiwan and Vietnam.”

He seemed satisfied with that answer, so he moved on to the next girl in line. 

The whole interaction lasted maybe half a minute, but it made me realize that I didn’t look like what he expected an American to look like. But an Asian, I fit that description just fine. 

Except I really didn’t. 

Unlike most of my friends, my parents spoke exclusively in English at home, so I never picked up Taiwanese or Vietnamese. As I got older, waiters at Asian restaurants began to ask me what I’d like to order instead of my parents. But they’d always ask me in Taiwanese or Vietnamese, languages I didn’t speak. And then I would get flustered and they would get flustered and soon enough we would both start stammering and apologizing, all because I didn’t know the language I was supposed to. 

I can’t communicate with any of my relatives, but I feel obligated to at least be present when they visit. My brother and I would stand nearby as my parents spoke to them, nodding and smiling whenever they looked our way. And when they laughed, we’d laugh along too despite not having any idea what we were laughing at. Occasionally my mom would parrot sentences back and forth between us, but it always felt more of a forced, empty acknowledgment of our presence than a real conversation. When I did speak, I had to remind myself to be quiet, to wait my turn, and to keep my hands still. I was too loud, too overeager. Too American. I realized I couldn’t suddenly transform into either an Asian or American whenever it’s convenient, because my skin and my hair and my voice and my words could never reflect just one. 

To this day, I’ve never been to Taiwan or Vietnam. My impression of Asia is abstract and intangible; I’ve never felt its suffocating humidity, never heard the rumbling of its motorbikes, never marveled at Taipei 101, never bought from the floating markets of the Mekong Delta. But perhaps it’s better it remains that way. I would never pass for Asian. I would be surrounded by people with faces like mine, but people who don’t speak like I do, don’t dress like I do, don’t live like I do. 

Instead I’ve traveled to Mount Rushmore and the Golden Gate Bridge and the Grand Canyon and the Washington Monument. I’ve lived in America all my life, but I still wonder if I am more of an Asian American or an American Asian. This country—the country that passed the Chinese Exclusion Act, committed the My Lai Massacre, and supported more than a few oppressive regimes across multiple continents—was the same country that saved my family. The same one that raised me. My cultural identity—both Asian and American—feels like a guest I once welcomed but now couldn’t be rid of. So I live with one foot on each side of a compass, unable to part with either. 

I’m Asian-American. Asian. American. Just one would have sufficed, but now I don’t feel like much of either.