I’d like to address something I said in a past blog post. Last week, I talked about how a book that challenged cultural norms sparked outrage, and mentioned that I couldn’t relate to the idea of the “cultural clash” (traditional Asian versus Western parenting), because my parents were white. This is because I was adopted from China at nine months old.

Me and my parents, roughly seven years ago

China has a one-child policy, so I was given up at three months old. After just six months in an orphanage, I was adopted. Not long after that, my parents moved to Naperville, as it was supposedly one of the best places to raise children. However, Naperville, as I’m sure we all know, is not very diverse. Almost no one I went to school with looked like me, and those who did were raised learning about both American and Asian culture, and were most likely bilingual.

Because of my parents, I grew up with a cultural disconnect. My parents tried, they really did. When I was younger, they tried to have me learn words in both Mandarin and English, but because neither of them really knew Mandarin, it was extremely difficult. We’ve traveled to China once before when I was six and did the typical tourist thing: walked the Great Wall, ate every foreign dish we could, and bought jade jewelry.

But my taste of Chinese culture was fleeting, partially because the trip only lasted three weeks, but also because I was so young, most of it has become blurred in my memory. I barely remember the Great Wall, or even standing on the steps of the police station where I was placed in a cardboard box. But the thing I remember most is the feeling that I no longer belonged. I looked like the majority of the population and ate the same dishes as them, and yet, wherever I went, I was gawked at: the six-year-old Chinese girl with two white parents and a Chinese tour guide to translate for us. I was an outlier in Naperville, but was also no longer welcome in my own hometown.

To this day, there still remains a cultural divide. Besides knowing that red is considered lucky and the stereotypical Asian who does 40 hours of math per day, I know nothing about Chinese culture. I even turned down the opportunity to learn Mandarin through my school, opting instead for Latin. I make a lot of Asian jokes, including (but not limited to) bad eyesight/squinting, Asian stereotypes, and dog-eating. But because of my ignorance, I fail to understand how these jokes can be seen as offensive, or how they actually tie in with Asian culture. (Self-awareness, isn’t it great?) The title of this blog, Crazy Stupid Asian, is supposed to refer to me. It’s because of this lack of knowledge that books such as Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother and Crazy Rich Asians appeal so much to me. These books are rooted in the truth, but creative liberties have been taken. But for me, these texts capture a snapshot of the culture I believe I’ve missed out on.

I have been categorized more than once as a stereotypical Asian, my upbringing disregarded simply due to my looks. But throughout my atypical Asian life, I’ve learned independence, that one must define themselves as more than a culture. While a culture can help define someone, it must never be the only determination of one’s worth.