Personal Narrative: My Racial Identity

“You are only allowed to make racist jokes if it’s about your own race.” This saying, which radiated through the halls of my middle school that prided itself for its diversity, managed to make me feel more comfortable in my own skin. Why did the ability to make fun of two different races, while many of my peers could only make fun of one, validate my own racial identity? I should not have wanted to tease my race and my ancestors but it helped me feel comfortable, even though I knew my knowledge of the cultures I was born into was lacking.
In my life, while my race is apparent to everyone on the physical level, I think it often goes unnoticed how important race and heritage has been in my life, both in the way I’ve been treated by those around

me and the way it has formed my identity.
It was easy for me to connect with my Caucasian heritage in my predominantly white neighborhood and my father’s Dutch-American, huge extended family with whom I am close enough with to call my cousins “siblings”. I was always proud of that part of my culture.
This was not the case with my Taiwanese roots.

The only connection I had to my Asian culture was my slightly darker, olive skin; my eyes that didn’t quite open as wide as the eyes of others around me; and the occasional conversation between my mom and her family in mandarin. This void was filled easily by the Asian jokes that seemed to follow me wherever I went. Whether within the walls of my school, throughout my neighborhood, on the sports field, and even within the walls of my own home; the constant reminder that I was Asian haunted me. I was so used to hearing steryotypes like, I should be extremely smart or a horrendous driver, that I began to share these jokes thinking that this was how I would embrace my race, my family, and myself.
My Asian heritage would continue to confuse me until I left the comforts of my own home and country, to a place where I didn’t speak a lick of the language. The thick, hot air of Taiwan stuck to me like a layer of lotion and was a constant reminder that I was no longer in my comfort zone. It wasn’t until I saw the small patches of grass sprouting between the cracks of concrete in the remainders of my Ahgong’s (grandpa) tiny and now non-existent ancestral home that I began to understand my cultural

roots.
The traits which I had poked fun at my entire middle school life suddenly were no longer humorous. My Ahgong’s success that was so often attributed to a “natural” intellect was, in fact, due to his constant hard work and persistence. I now saw my life in a different light, especially when I compared my situation to those that my Ahgong faced, whom worked to take care of his seven younger siblings while studying to gain entry to the most prestigious university in Taiwan.
I became a new person in the exact spot that my Ahgong had grown up and found success where he was told that he could not. As I walked around the small rural town, where half of my identity is rooted. I learned something. Not only was I wrong about my own culture, I was wrong about myself. I believed that I knew my culture and heritage because I knew the over-used stereotypes. My culture now shows me that hard work is the reason for success and that family is more important than wealth. A strong faith and an open heart are integral to the lives of my family.