Ingrained in my head, I hear all of it. I see all of it. My core memories rushing through in the moment.

Two-year-old me recited a Chinese poem. Every kid in China knows this poem by heart by the age of three; it is like how Americans all know “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Titled “Mín Nóng,” the poem is about the hard life of a peasant in Ancient China. When I was two, though each syllable was heavily ingrained in my head, I had no clue what this poem meant. I eventually vaguely understood that this poem was about having gratitude for our food, down to every single grain. I could imagine the sheer difficulty laboring through the summer afternoon sun in China and the effort these farmers had to put in for a successful harvest.

Four-year-old me sat at a table with my family members the day before the Chinese New Year. I wore a beautiful qipao, which is a traditional Chinese dress; it was in a stunning red color since red is an important color in Chinese culture. Our table was piled with auspicious foods in Chinese culture: fish for prosperity, rice balls for unity, and oranges for luck. I ate more than I ever thought I would. I received a red packet from my grandmother, which is a little red envelope with gold letterings in Chinese meaning good fortune, and of course, with money inside. I hugged my grandmother and thanked her profusely for the money.

Six-year-old me went to a new public school as a first grader. My ability to express myself in English progressed rapidly. I learned basic mechanics of the English language quickly. What is a noun, a verb, how to pronounce some difficult words, how English spelling works. My friends and I spoke English all day.

Eight-year old me cried at home because someone in my class dragged their eyes into narrow slits, saying they were Asian eyes. Small, narrow, and mean-looking. Other kids laughed along. I got made fun of by my last name. My parents come from China. I was born in America. I have an American first name by birth and a Chinese last name. They said, “Your first name is normal. But why does your last name sound so weird? It sounds so silly! I can’t imagine having that as my last name!”

Eight-year-old me then wanted to change my last name. Why does it sound so weird? It sounds so silly? I don’t want that as my last name!

Nine-year-old me forgot how to say a basic Chinese word I knew before. I forgot all of the Chinese poems I memorized as a kid. I still spent Chinese New Years with my family, but the so-called auspicious foods didn’t taste as delicious. It just seemed like a normal dinner, that’s all. My qipao remained untouched in the back of my closet, collecting dust. The abundance of red suffocated me. 

I became bad at Chinese. I can barely hold a conversation with my parents. I talked to my family in English all the time now. Maybe they’d try to ask me in Chinese, but I would always respond in English. They said, “Respond in Chinese, or else you’ll forget.” I didn’t want to respond in Chinese! I didn’t care if I forgot! Well, it’s too late anyways, it’s too late! I already forgot.

Last year, I opened up my closet. I dug through the layers of clothing. Low and behold, in the corner, was my qipao. It was the same qipao, but it wasn’t the same. The red seemed faded, or was it because it was covered from the layers of dust from just sitting there, unused. I ran my fingers through a part of it. The fabric of the qipao felt unfamiliar from the dust, having a coarse texture to it, unlike the smoothness of the fabric I was used to. I brushed off a bit of the dust, and the gray cloud of dust initiated a cough. Now, a sliver of bright red shone through where I wiped the dust off. The silky texture was what I remembered it was like, when I used to wear this qipao every Chinese New Year.

“Kuài xià lái chī fán!” my mom shouted. Come downstairs and eat!

“I’m coming!” I replied back. In English.

I always feel proud of getting a great score after days of dedicated studying. “Oh, you got a good grade? Well yeah of course, aren’t you Chinese?”

“C’mon, that’s really not that impressive.”

“That’s what you’re supposed to do anyways!”

A Chinese term then comes up in my history class. “Haha, that sounds so funny! Who would name their child that? Why do we even have to remember all these weird Chinese names?”

I see all of it. I hear all of it. All criticisms and jokes and derogatory comments, all the time, ingrained in my head.

Then why am I so offended?

“Please stop,” I reply.

I’m just a hypocrite.

This is the culture I tried to erase from myself. This is the culture I tried to mock myself for. This is the culture that I thought didn’t belong. So why am I mad at others for thinking the same way as I am? I’m just a hypocrite.

In there, somewhere, I still know and understand.

I cannot ignore my silent rebellions, my silent efforts to keep both.

I cannot erase my cultures. I will not mock myself. I do belong.

My qipao is still in my closet, with the bit of the dust uncovered, with the bit of the red shining through. It’s still there, waiting patiently, staying there for all those years.

Even though I tried to ignore and erase, it’s still ingrained in my heart. Not the mere syllables, but the meaning.

Now that I think about it, I don’t think I ever actually forgot it.

Mín Nóng

chú hé rì dāng wǔ, 

Harvesting grain in the summer noon,

hàn dī hé xià tǔ, 

Sweat drops fall on the dirt,

shuí zhī pán zhōng cān, 

No one knows that each plate of food,

lì lì jiē xīn kǔ.

Contains effort behind every grain.