Hold On...

...to me as we go, as we roll down this unfamiliar road, and although this wave is stringing us along, just know you're not alone, Cause I'm gonna make this place your home. -Phillip Phillips

It's a strange conundrum, being able to blend in perfectly with a crowd and yet feeling so out of place.

On my hour long commute to church each Sunday, I can't really  do anything other than be alone with my thoughts.  I'll pull out some homework if I can find a seat, but most of the time, I stand squished between  my fellow passengers,  holding on the pole as the subway lurches back and forth. The subways are awesome and so convenient (and I can navigate them on my own, yay!), but being mechanically operated, breaking is anything but smooth.

Back at home, I don't often think  about the fact that racially, I'm a minority (except for when I'm thinking about auditioning for plays; race can limit the roles you play, but I accept that and have no more qualms about it). Even at Whitman, mockingly called "White Man College," it doesn't really register with me that most of my peers are in fact white. (Interlude: one of my fellow Whitties here mentioned Whitman in his Chinese homework, and our teacher corrected it to "white man." It makes me giggle.) Maybe it's because my friend circle is relatively diverse, but I also think that I'm just used to it. I've assimilated into Western culture to the point that I'm more comfortable among my American friends than in a group of Vietnamese people, I'm sad to say (perhaps I'm ashamed of my slipping command of the language, but maybe it's mainly that I can't fathom being completely immersed in an Eastern culture. Which is partly why I'm here...). It's telling that the only two white girls on the CI track are two of my best friends here, although I'm pretty close to my fellow Asian ladies as well. Of course, I'm intensely proud of my heritage and love to teach people about the traditions and values that set my family apart. I refuse to go by my English middle name no matter how many times my mother asks me if I'm sure, and I'm here in Asia for the first time, exploring what being Asian means to me. Which I don't think is actually answerable, but I'll let you know how that goes.

So as I stand alone on the subway, I am confronted with this Asian heritage. Without a group of conspicuously foreign students surrounding me, jabbering away in English, I appear to be just another Chinese person. It was a weird moment when I realized that while I still tended to be on the shorter side, I was no longer at chest level with everyone else around me. I could even kind of see over people's heads! I keep getting differing opinions as to whether or not I look Chinese, but that doesn't matter: when roaming the city yesterday with my tall Singaporean friend, I was the one that kept getting approached for questions. I still remain amused at my limited grasp of the language, but I wonder what they're thinking when I just smile and nod before walking away or letting a more fluent friend take over. Do they judge me? 

Coming from America's melting pot, it would be extremely hypocritical to assume that every non-Caucasian cannot speak English. Here, it makes sense that Oriental Asians are assumed to speak Chinese, and everyone else is assumed not to. At the English mass, I was indistinguishable from the English-speaking Chinese church-goers. Maybe what I'm actually uncomfortable with is being homogenized? Of getting lost in the crowd, but no longer because everyone else towers over me.

So my brain whirs as I stand silent, analyzing and processing the conflicting multitude of thoughts and emotions about my experience on this side of the world so far, and it is during these times that I get homesick. I usually don't get homesick, but I guess being in a foreign country for an extended period of time will do that to you. As my fellow subway riders (along with most of Beijing) roll out their suitcases and journey home to celebrate the Lunar New Year, I think of how my own family has gathered to do the same since before I was born. I think of how I will not be there for the third year in a row. How I am waking up as my family goes to bed, and falling asleep as they start their day. But it gives me something to hold on to as I grapple with being out of place in a place where I look like I belong: Hey, I think, I celebrate the Lunar New Year too! In America, it is a symbol of my unique cultural heritage; here, I embrace the fact that even though we don't speak the same language, the whole country is shutting down to  celebrate with me. It's a reminder that despite the differences, our cultures are intertwined, and gives me hope for a sense of home here these next 3.5 months.

Still missing this though (and by this, I mean singing with Owen, my pretty, pretty guitar. Those other guys are alright too, I guess):

<3 Myks