Ching chong ling long ting tong

Most people who don't know me would be surprised to hear me use the phrase “my distant Asian culture."

I am a second generation Chinese-American who essentially only relates to his culture through food. Chinese 1 at Duke was personally much, much more than the apprehension of language and the gradual appreciation of the distant Asian culture. As soon as a teacher from the East Asian studies department called me at home a couple days before orientation-week started, I knew my experience would be unique to many. The conversation began as she interrogated me in basic Chinese, trying to figure out whether or not my knowledge of the language was proficient enough to move me up to a higher-level course.

From the moment I refused to move up to a class filled with native Chinese speakers, I knew the decision would color by future Chinese-learning experience.

The first day I was in class, the teacher gave me weird looks as she asked me about my cultural background. She proceeded to refer to me to a different course for students much more articulate in the language. She could not comprehend how little I actually knew about my heritage.

My parents both moved to America from Hong Kong when they were young and spent much of their life acclimating to the vast cultural differences between the two hemispheres. By the time I came around, it wasn’t necessary to learn my native language or spend time trying to connect with my roots. I simply went about my life in America, trying to fit in as best I could in a small southern preparatory school in Durham, North Carolina.

During my senior year of high school I chose to go to Shanghai, China for 2 weeks as a part of my senior project. Nothing could have prepared me for that. Nothing. I finally realized how out of touch I was with my culture as I walked through the streets trying to find my way around the city thriving with a population over thirty million. People would try to converse with me, and when I couldn’t respond in the local dialect, Shanghainese, they would try speaking next in the more common tongue of Mandarin. When I still couldn’t reply they would give me peculiar looks and scream louder trying to get their point across. They couldn't wrap their minds around the concept that I could not understand them. I looked just like them, walked just like them, ate just like them, yet I still couldn’t communicate a word back and forth besides a brief introduction.

Being overseas, I truly realized how culturally distant I was from any other Asian American—even in my high school—and that the first step to getting more in touch with my roots was to learn the language. My first Chinese class at Duke was my attempt to draw myself closer to my family and understand where they are coming from. It has truly been difficult dealing with the homework, the studying and late night memorization of characters as well as getting past the judgment I receive from teachers for not understanding a word of Chinese, but its all worth the slowly diminishing distance to my culture. Better late than never.