First Draft

I was taught in a school workshop that the question “Where are you from?” is considered a microaggression because it assumes that the person is not from the United States. I have always questioned this, as it was something that I had been asked many times before. For me, it was not a matter of offense, but rather confusion on how to answer it. Do I answer in terms of my citizenship? My ethnicity? The region I live in? Or my parents’ country of origin? More often than not, I answer all of the above. I was born in the U.S., I am Chinese, I live in Queens, and my parents are from China.

Speaking to my classmates in high school Chinese classes, I was faced with the assumption that I was well-versed in Chinese culture and history because of the way I looked or how well I spoke the language. I found the reactions they gave quite hilarious when they learned that I had never been to China in my life. I could easily recite ancient Chinese poems, recognize which province someone was from by their accent, or list off basic facts about China’s geography and culture. However, it was ironic that I learned these through readings and social media platforms like the Chinese version of TikTok.

But does that make me more Chinese than I am American?

If I was asked this, I would deny the premise of the question. After all, I have lived in New York all my life. If I booked a plane to China, I would be affected by culture shock just as much as anyone else. At first, I may be able to disguise myself as a native since I don’t have an accent when speaking Mandarin. However, they will quickly realize that I have never seen a bullet train before, have trouble paying bills through facial or palm recognition, and am unfamiliar with the lack of a tipping norm.

One of my friends introduced me to some acquaintances from China through WeChat.They were from the same province my parents were from, so I had context on their cultural upbringing. The entire time, I texted them using Chinese, and we had no problems communicating. However, one of them posted on their story that they became friends with a “老外”. It roughly translates to “foreigner”. The term itself is not derogatory or malicious in any way. It only goes to show that the environment in which you live also plays a role in the way people perceive you, despite having the same origins and speaking the same language.

I like to think that my identity is formed as a union of my roots, my learning environment, and the collective experiences I have lived through as a person. Both my Chinese and American identities may play a crucial role in the way people perceive me, but more so in the construction of my own perspective. Going back to the question “Where are you from?” I still have difficulties answering it, not because I feel like an outsider, but because my identity is a bridge between two cultures, one that is unique and cannot be summarized by a single location

Final Draft

I was taught in a school workshop that the question “Where are you from?” is considered a microaggression because it assumes that the person is not from the United States. I have always questioned this, as it was something that I had been asked many times before. For me, it was not a matter of offense, but rather confusion on how to answer it. Do I answer in terms of my citizenship? My ethnicity? The region I live in? Or my parents’ country of origin? More often than not, I answer all of the above. I was born in the U.S., I am Chinese, I live in Queens, and my parents are from China.

When I spoke to my classmates in high school Chinese classes, many assumed I was deeply familiar with Chinese culture and history because of my appearance or how well I spoke the language. So when I mentioned that I had never been to China, their shocked and disbelieving expressions were priceless—and honestly, pretty amusing. Although I could recite ancient Chinese poems, identify someone’s province by their accent, and list basic facts about China’s geography and culture, the irony was that I learned most of it from books and social media platforms, like the Chinese version of TikTok.

But does that make me more Chinese than I am American?

If I was asked this, I would deny the premise of the question. After all, I have lived in New York all my life. If I booked a plane to China, I would be affected by culture shock just as much as anyone else. At first, I may be able to disguise myself as a native since I don’t have an accent when speaking Mandarin. However, they will quickly realize that I have never seen a bullet train before, have trouble paying bills through facial or palm recognition, and am unfamiliar with the lack of a tipping norm.

One of my friends introduced me to some acquaintances from China through WeChat. They were from the same province as my parents, so I had some context for their cultural upbringing, and they knew I was living in the U.S. The entire time, I texted them in Chinese, and we had no trouble communicating. However, one of them posted on their story that they had made friends with a “老外 (lǎo wài),” which roughly translates to “foreigner.” The term isn’t derogatory or malicious in any way, but it made me feel a bit out of place. It wasn’t surprising, as I was used to this kind of reaction, yet it still reminded me that, despite sharing the same origins and language, my environment also shaped how I was perceived. In a way, it made me more willing to embrace my dual identity as both American and Chinese.

I like to think of my identity as a union of my roots, my learning environment, and the collective experiences I have lived through as a person. While my Chinese and American identities both influence how people may perceive me, they play an even more significant role in the construction of my own perspective. Going back to the question “Where are you from?” I still find it difficult to answer—not because I feel like an outsider, but because my identity bridges two cultures. It is a unique blend that cannot be captured by a single location or simple explanation.