The Middle Kingdom
This week, the Chinese community arounds the world celebrates Chinese New Year. We herald in 2019 as the rest of the world did over a month ago, but more importantly than the practical function of this holiday is what it represents for the over 1 billion Chinese around the world. Chinese New Year is a holiday that celebrates family. As that one emotional video about chopsticks got so right (if you’re Chinese, you’ve seen it), on Chinese New Year, the elders, the children, those who live near and far, come together for a meal and celebration, complete with dumplings (which symbolize good luck and unity) and other Chinese delicacies. Older family members hand down red envelopes to the children as a way of symbolically passing down good fortune from the top down (how’s that for trickle-down economics?). Ancestors are honored and neighbors are invited over. Bright red sayings of goodwill are plastered on every door, and, as this is the year of the pig, porcine imagery abounds. The way community comes together and the joy of the celebrations exude a beauty that words struggle to define.
During this holiday, it becomes that much harder to be separated from my family. In Morocco, the exciting red “xing nian kuai le!” decorations are nowhere to be found, the air is not clouded with the snaps and smoke of firecrackers, and the smell of dumplings cooking is strangely missing from the kitchen. I’ve never had to think about what it meant to be Chinese in the past; it was a part of my life I took for granted, handed to me on heaping plates of my mom’s zha jian mian. Though I grew up in the suburbs of Los Angeles alone with my immediate family rather than surrounded by generations in Ningxia as my mother did, there was still so much around me with which I could indulge my Chinese side. There are boba tea shops, Chinese bakeries, and xiao long bao shops on every corner. There are entire cities with more Chinese characters present on signs than English words. Being Chinese was something I never had to question, so much so that I would identify myself as American rather than Chinese-American, because I took my Chinese half for granted to the point where I thought it didn’t matter to me.
Unexpectedly, since coming to Rabat, my Chinese identity has grown so much stronger. The nearest decent Chinese restaurant is a four-hour drive away, bubble tea is nonexistent (a travesty!), and not only is it not normal to see my Chinese brothers and sisters somewhat represented in the culture, my Chinese face is sexualized by Moroccan men on the streets of my own neighborhood. I don’t have a community anymore to build my Chinese identity for me anymore; it’s become something I’ve had to work hard to find within myself. I started listening to Mandopop for the first time. When I met my new sister in Morocco, I called her jiejie, because I miss those words leaving the mouth of my younger sister. I find myself constantly describing dreamy Chinese dishes to her in attempts to conjure them up in my own memory, because that’s the only place they’ll get to exist for a while. I’m starting to seriously consider studying abroad in China instead of France in college. I consummated my marriage to the “subtle Asian traits” page on Facebook, and I’ve been creepily stalking the not-yet-open Chinese cultural center near my school so much that the doorman had to come out and have a conversation with me. flinch when I have to reveal that I am Chinese to strangers and cab drivers, for fear that they would misidentify what being Chinese means. I’m scared of being just an “exotic” acquaintance for them. Being Chinese is so special to me that I am afraid of any misinterpretation of it by those who don’t understand and who rely on stereotypes.
It took flying over an ocean and a continent for me to finally see how much China lives within me despite my blue passport. It will take longer for me to find a balance between my pride in being a part of such a special people and my fear of sharing it out of protectiveness over those people. The nuance of being Chinese-American in Morocco is a gift of revelations I never expected to have. I'm not that girl who went on a gap year abroad to "find herself" (in #africa? no thanks, Barbie savior!), but rediscovering a part of myself that was always there will always be a special, unexpected, and lasting surprise of this trip.
