2022 BAAFN Creativity Award
Kayla Chen -
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Two Worlds
by Kayla Chen
Some days, being Asian American is like being stuck in a door frame, trapped between two completely different worlds.
From my place in the doorframe, I look to the left, straining my head to see the entirety of that room, of that world. I see bold red, white, and blue; the crooning of English words coming from the radio. I see my extensive collection of well-loved books; the fairytales of my childhood, the sci-fi of my present. I see my meager stack of textbooks, and within them, the thick pages of American history. I see, hidden away at the top-most shelf, a page torn out of my journals; a written piece of my life. I see a pile of empty pizza boxes, used napkins hanging out from the sides; an even taller tower of plates balanced precariously on top. I see white sneakers and blue jeans paired with a black hoodie, some brand name scribed across the chest of the garment. I see texts from my friends, notes from my classes, and receipts from the grocery store.
I look to the right, taking in the expanse of the room. I see the tiny red dress, etched in gold. A rod-like button is missing on its high necked collar; a string of red thread gently dangles from the seam. I see snips of brown, almost black, hair, and a flash of crescent eyes in the mirror. I see a table facing the full moon, covered in mooncakes and ti doi, enveloped in silvery moonlight. I see an elaborate wooden table for six, covered in glass and dishes. I see my family laughing, as they neglect the food-laden table, with its rigid seating, in exchange for flowing freely between the massage chair, the door, the ottoman, and the sofa. I see centuries of legends, superstitions and traditions instilled in my everyday life; the ever-present whispering of “don’t eat cold with hot” and “don’t write your name in red”.
But because I’m stuck in a doorway, I can’t move. I can’t flow as I wish between the two worlds; can’t let my fickle heart become whoever it desires to be. And on some days, I’m fine with it. I think it’s wonderful. On those days, these mixed worlds give me wings to fly, to soar in the sky. I twirl in my red New Year’s dress and black combat boots. I embrace the swirling lifts and choppy ends and rough undertones of my dialects, my languages. I welcome eating mac and cheese with chopsticks and rice with forks. I cherish family conversations that switch languages as quickly as I can blink. I proudly claim myself to be both Asian and American. Asian American.
And on other days, it’s awful. I hate it. On those days, those mixed worlds shackle my legs and arms, lock me down in chains. My wings are cut, and I fall, succumbing to the ever-burdening pressure.
Some days, I cut up my red New Year’s dress. I curse my dark hair, my dark eyes. I sneer at the thought of ever using chopsticks, or hearing the dialects, languages of my ancestors, of my family. I spitefully claim myself to be American. Only American.
Some days, I lock my combat boots in the darkest corner of my closet. I stuff my forks into the trash can and slam the lid closed. I throw the boxes of macaroni into a fire; watch it burn until only the ashes and charred remains are left. I burrow myself under my blankets and pillows until I can’t hear the tiny English-speaking voices in my head. I gasp for air as I stubbornly claim myself to be Asian. Only Asian.
So sometimes, it’s hard to be stuck in that door frame; to live in a country where I both belong and don’t belong. Where I see people who look like me, live like me, but not quite. Where I am in danger, targeted because of my appearance. But in the end, I let in the voices in my head, the ones that speak in English, the ones that make me
American. I look in the mirror and, I acknowledge, accept, allow, appreciate, my dark hair and dark eyes, red New Year’s dresses- the things that make me Asian. And even though it’s hard, some days, to be stuck in that door frame, I think it’s wondrous. Because even though I struggle to understand myself sometimes, even though it makes living just a bit harder, the joy and pride of being Asian American is most definitely worth the pain.
From my place in the doorframe, I look to the left, straining my head to see the entirety of that room, of that world. I see bold red, white, and blue; the crooning of English words coming from the radio. I see my extensive collection of well-loved books; the fairytales of my childhood, the sci-fi of my present. I see my meager stack of textbooks, and within them, the thick pages of American history. I see, hidden away at the top-most shelf, a page torn out of my journals; a written piece of my life. I see a pile of empty pizza boxes, used napkins hanging out from the sides; an even taller tower of plates balanced precariously on top. I see white sneakers and blue jeans paired with a black hoodie, some brand name scribed across the chest of the garment. I see texts from my friends, notes from my classes, and receipts from the grocery store.
I look to the right, taking in the expanse of the room. I see the tiny red dress, etched in gold. A rod-like button is missing on its high necked collar; a string of red thread gently dangles from the seam. I see snips of brown, almost black, hair, and a flash of crescent eyes in the mirror. I see a table facing the full moon, covered in mooncakes and ti doi, enveloped in silvery moonlight. I see an elaborate wooden table for six, covered in glass and dishes. I see my family laughing, as they neglect the food-laden table, with its rigid seating, in exchange for flowing freely between the massage chair, the door, the ottoman, and the sofa. I see centuries of legends, superstitions and traditions instilled in my everyday life; the ever-present whispering of “don’t eat cold with hot” and “don’t write your name in red”.
But because I’m stuck in a doorway, I can’t move. I can’t flow as I wish between the two worlds; can’t let my fickle heart become whoever it desires to be. And on some days, I’m fine with it. I think it’s wonderful. On those days, these mixed worlds give me wings to fly, to soar in the sky. I twirl in my red New Year’s dress and black combat boots. I embrace the swirling lifts and choppy ends and rough undertones of my dialects, my languages. I welcome eating mac and cheese with chopsticks and rice with forks. I cherish family conversations that switch languages as quickly as I can blink. I proudly claim myself to be both Asian and American. Asian American.
And on other days, it’s awful. I hate it. On those days, those mixed worlds shackle my legs and arms, lock me down in chains. My wings are cut, and I fall, succumbing to the ever-burdening pressure.
Some days, I cut up my red New Year’s dress. I curse my dark hair, my dark eyes. I sneer at the thought of ever using chopsticks, or hearing the dialects, languages of my ancestors, of my family. I spitefully claim myself to be American. Only American.
Some days, I lock my combat boots in the darkest corner of my closet. I stuff my forks into the trash can and slam the lid closed. I throw the boxes of macaroni into a fire; watch it burn until only the ashes and charred remains are left. I burrow myself under my blankets and pillows until I can’t hear the tiny English-speaking voices in my head. I gasp for air as I stubbornly claim myself to be Asian. Only Asian.
So sometimes, it’s hard to be stuck in that door frame; to live in a country where I both belong and don’t belong. Where I see people who look like me, live like me, but not quite. Where I am in danger, targeted because of my appearance. But in the end, I let in the voices in my head, the ones that speak in English, the ones that make me
American. I look in the mirror and, I acknowledge, accept, allow, appreciate, my dark hair and dark eyes, red New Year’s dresses- the things that make me Asian. And even though it’s hard, some days, to be stuck in that door frame, I think it’s wondrous. Because even though I struggle to understand myself sometimes, even though it makes living just a bit harder, the joy and pride of being Asian American is most definitely worth the pain.
