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2018 Creativity Award
Uncomfortable
by Yiming Fu
Uncomfortable
by Yiming Fu
Chimes rattle as I push open the barbershop door, and I instinctively shrink myself. I do a quick scan of my surroundings. The sleek, modern equipment and beaming wooden floors intimidate me. Employees with sharp grey suits and edgy, pompous hairstyles work with a laser focus. My eyes are drawn to an advertisement with colorful Chinese lettering. By piecing together fragments that I understand, I slowly decode a weight loss advertisement. I turn anxiously to my younger sister and bug my eyes out. “Here we go, here we go, here we go,” I thought. I’m a Chinese American who has been born and raised in the United States. I consider myself very comfortable moving through life in Brookline, Massachusetts; in an environment where English is the main language, where I wear clothes that blend in with everyone else’s, and my mannerisms are more or less appropriate. However, I feel ashamed of how uncomfortable I am maneuvering through my parent’s home country of China.
One of the barbershop employees comes to talk to my dad, who I wish to cling to like a little child. I get the gist of what is going on, because I’ve grown up listening to Chinese. Almost immediately, my sister is taken to get her hair washed, and my dad goes to accompany her. I am left alone to sit on the long, vacant waiting bench.
I fidgeted, prayed, looked up at the ceiling, and hoped nobody would sit down and talk to me. Then, my cover would be blown. I am extremely insecure about my Chinese conversational skills, and I wish I was better. I wish I had paid attention to and valued the many years of Chinese classes I had taken. In any situation where speaking Chinese may be applicable, my mouth has typically been glued shut. As someone who likes to blend in, and is very good at doing it in Brookline, my brain was spiraling with possibilities of judgement and unwanted attention. My grandparent’s town, Zouping, is a small and quiet one in comparison to the Chinese metropolises of Beijing and Shanghai. As a result, foreign visitors like me are a once in a lifetime, shooting star type of miracle. “Please, please, please no more new customers,” I thought.
“Ding!” the chimes attached to the front door start rattling again. I prepare to make myself small. I slide to the far end of the bench. Stare at my dad’s phone. I forgot mine at home. I can’t even open up the web. Searching something in english would blow my cover as well. I try to look occupied as a mother daughter pair sit down on the opposite end, and there is an awkwardness I know only I can feel.
I am thankful as I get called to get my hair washed as well, and I follow the employee into the washroom. As soon as my head hits the headrest, the questions start flowing. “Where in America are you from? Which country do you prefer? Which has the better food?” A teenage boy, maybe a little older than me, leans over and asks, “Can you say something in english?” I introduce myself in english. I then try to make a little joke in broken Chinese. I completely flub my delivery, trip over my words, and I know the intonations were completely off; I want to crawl into a hole when I see their quizzical expressions. But, I am no stranger to the justified curiosity of others followed by the fiery red shame that sometimes consumes me. Whether I’m an American in Asia, or an Asian in America, there are always the same questions, the same exotic appeal of being different. There’s always the same embarrassment of not feeling quite right. I’ve wished at many times to be just American, or just Asian like that one awkward day in the barbershop. The liminal space that I used to squirm around in is now a place I embrace with open arms. Instead of trying to run away from the individual parts of who I am, I need to bring them together in a way that makes sense for me. Now, I have realized that being Asian American means everything to me. I can never squash it down, or hope it goes away. It’s my identity, it’s my background, and it’s the beautiful culture that I regret not cherishing.
________________________________________
One of the barbershop employees comes to talk to my dad, who I wish to cling to like a little child. I get the gist of what is going on, because I’ve grown up listening to Chinese. Almost immediately, my sister is taken to get her hair washed, and my dad goes to accompany her. I am left alone to sit on the long, vacant waiting bench.
I fidgeted, prayed, looked up at the ceiling, and hoped nobody would sit down and talk to me. Then, my cover would be blown. I am extremely insecure about my Chinese conversational skills, and I wish I was better. I wish I had paid attention to and valued the many years of Chinese classes I had taken. In any situation where speaking Chinese may be applicable, my mouth has typically been glued shut. As someone who likes to blend in, and is very good at doing it in Brookline, my brain was spiraling with possibilities of judgement and unwanted attention. My grandparent’s town, Zouping, is a small and quiet one in comparison to the Chinese metropolises of Beijing and Shanghai. As a result, foreign visitors like me are a once in a lifetime, shooting star type of miracle. “Please, please, please no more new customers,” I thought.
“Ding!” the chimes attached to the front door start rattling again. I prepare to make myself small. I slide to the far end of the bench. Stare at my dad’s phone. I forgot mine at home. I can’t even open up the web. Searching something in english would blow my cover as well. I try to look occupied as a mother daughter pair sit down on the opposite end, and there is an awkwardness I know only I can feel.
I am thankful as I get called to get my hair washed as well, and I follow the employee into the washroom. As soon as my head hits the headrest, the questions start flowing. “Where in America are you from? Which country do you prefer? Which has the better food?” A teenage boy, maybe a little older than me, leans over and asks, “Can you say something in english?” I introduce myself in english. I then try to make a little joke in broken Chinese. I completely flub my delivery, trip over my words, and I know the intonations were completely off; I want to crawl into a hole when I see their quizzical expressions. But, I am no stranger to the justified curiosity of others followed by the fiery red shame that sometimes consumes me. Whether I’m an American in Asia, or an Asian in America, there are always the same questions, the same exotic appeal of being different. There’s always the same embarrassment of not feeling quite right. I’ve wished at many times to be just American, or just Asian like that one awkward day in the barbershop. The liminal space that I used to squirm around in is now a place I embrace with open arms. Instead of trying to run away from the individual parts of who I am, I need to bring them together in a way that makes sense for me. Now, I have realized that being Asian American means everything to me. I can never squash it down, or hope it goes away. It’s my identity, it’s my background, and it’s the beautiful culture that I regret not cherishing.
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