Chinamerican

     JESUS LOVES ME, SO THE BIBLE TELLS ME SO!!!  I had a surprisingly loud voice for a three year old. I swung my legs through the holes in the Target cart's toddler seat. I was proud of my proclamation.

      Emma, honey, not so loud. My mother's voice was strict.

I can only imagine what she was thinking at the time. Something about how horrifying it was to be carting around a baby singing about Jesus, when we weren't even remotely religious as a family. It's not that my mother abhorred Christianity, she just didn't want me singing about it in public places. Yet thanks to Mustard Seed, my preschool, my voice never quavered when preaching my devotion to the Bible.

      Why my parents sent me to Mustard Seed, I don't really understand. Upon asking my dad about it, he said, "Well, it was the only preschool that didn't require us to put in volunteer hours." I guess when making the decision of where I would be spending my days, there time was more important than my ensuing religious beliefs. Nothing seemed to be wrong until the school started sending me home with paintings that held no visible mistakes or splotches, with my name written neatly in the corner. It was pretty obvious that the teachers had done most of my work for me. In addition to the over worked artwork, I was singing hymns to anyone who would listen. This was not a sign of the independence and personal expression my parents expected me to foster while in preschool. 

      My mom and I were part of a mom's group for the first year or so of my life. All the toddlers and babies were girls, except one boy named Roy, and his dad. It was at the mom's group that my mom heard about Pacific Rim International School from my friend Maddie's mom. My parents were immediately captivated by the idea of me learning Mandarin, as my Taiwanese babysitter Wen-Jin had already taught me a few phrases. And so after only one year at Mustard Seed I packed up my crayons and prayers and moved to PRINTS.  

Ni hao. Wo de ming zhi shi mei ai ma. I smiled.

The women giggled in response. Ni shi hen ke ai!

 I blushed, I wasn't trying to be cute. I was just introducing myself.

            No matter how often I received this response, I could never control my embarrassment. I later learned that the laughter of Chinese women is often just their way of expressing delight or interest, it is never meant to be degrading.  They just weren't used to seeing a blonde girl speaking Chinese. But to me, I wasn't any different than my Asian peers.We all played together, we all ate the same food, we all laughed at the same jokes. The only difference I could find between me and some of the full Asian students was that that they spoke two languages at home, and I only spoke one.  

      Although the school predominantly held students with some sort of Asian heritage, there were still a considerable amount of just plain white kids. We were the kids whose parents wanted a different route for their child. We were the daughters and sons of artists and intellectuals - people who were intrigued by the prospect of their child learning Mandarin or Japanese, or simply developing in a Montessori environment. As for me, my inauguration to PRINTS came about due to an avoidance of God. 

            Pacific Rim was divided into three sections: Infant Community, Children's House, and the more mundane, Elementary. Stage two in the educational experience was Children's House. This is where I began. Children's House is a misleading title, as it is not a house of children, but rather two large rooms joined by one removable wall. Aside from the discrepancy in the name, we performed typical childlike tasks in Children's House. There was your bean pouring: pour pitcher of beans into another pitcher of beans, pour beans back into original pitcher, repeat. Then there was your water droplet dropping: gently squeeze one drop of water out of eye dropper into small indentation on a round disc covered in many other small indentations, repeat until all indentations are filled. Then, of course, there was your hair braiding station: take lock of red yarn attached to board, braid, repeat with yellow lock and blue lock (feel free to try various styles!). Yes, we had some quality training for the housewife business between the ages of four and six. However, looking back, I think these skills were fundamental in improving my problem solving abilities, or maybe not. 

            Children's House passed in a blur of napping and Barbie stealing, and then it was on to Elementary, realm of the Big Kids. 

            There were no grades at my school, but lesson groups depending on age. When I was in around what you might call second or third grade, we began studying ancient cavemen. During caveman time, every year, students participated in the Great Hunt, as one could call it. This was when all of Elementary went out onto the play structure and tried to find and retrieve food hidden all around the yard, without getting "eaten" by various mammoths and saber tooth tigers (aka our teachers). This lesson was meant to teach us about the gathering side of a hunter-gatherer's life. We ate whatever we had found for lunch that day instead of the typical fried rice and teriyaki chicken. 

            Emma, you have to eat EVERYTHING you gathered. Mrs. Gwin leaned over me, firmly commanding me to finish my food.  But there was absolutely no way I was going to eat brussel sprouts. Okay. I smiled. But as soon as she turned away, I shoved the three leafy orbs deep into the pocket of my overalls. Cavemen wouldn't have eaten their brussel sprouts either.

            Yi, er, san, si.... with each number the recording of the woman's voice changed pitch slightly and with each number every kid in the room would stroke a different area around their eye. On one we rubbed our eyelids, on two the sockets under the eye, on three the temples, on four we would draw invisible lines down our cheeks, and finally on five we would stretch our eyes to the side - fortifying the Asian stereotype of almond eyes. The lights were out, and the soothing sound of the woman's voice was all we heard. Eye exercises were the most relaxing, and one of the funniest, parts of the day. In China, all schools perform eye exercises at some point during their academic schedule, it's routine.  But to us there was something hilarious about a group of six to ten year olds sitting around ferociously rubbing their eyebrows. Our school seemed to have a lot of quirks that most elementary schools didn't have. The eye exercises were just one of these fun characteristics. Not to mention the fact that we were required to write with fountain pens. I swear the callous on my right hand ring finger still has ink stains. Yes, I guess you could say our system was the ultimate blend of Chinese academics and English mannerisms. Who could ask for anything more? 

            The first day of my third year in Elementary, I felt good. I knew what was up so to speak. I knew where every bead frame and abacus was meant to be, I knew the names of every fish in the fish tank, I knew where the cool tables were. What I didn't know was that we had a new Chinese teacher - again. It felt to me like the position of Chinese teacher was a revolving door. No one seemed interested in staying for long. 

            On this first day, I was bustling around the classroom like a hen in her coop. I went to my cubby, took off my jellies, put on my slippers, and slid along towards the table filled by my friends. As I rushed from point A to point B, I failed to really watch where I was going. Absentmindedly I ran right into a young Asian woman (though I want to say girl, she was miniscule at best). 

Bu ke qi. I chirped in my overly sweet polite voice. 

She giggled. I stopped and blushed, angry that she would laugh at me when I was obviously in the know. She looked confused, not impressed or amused. I guessed that this giggle was not related to my blonde haired blue eyed self speaking her native language.

And then I realized what I had done. I had just said, "you're welcome" instead of Dui bu qi ("I'm sorry"). And then I did some simple math: Asian + woman = new Chinese teacher.  Oh my god. I had just sounded like a snotty eight year old saying your welcome to my new teacher for running into her, as though she deserved it or something. I turned a brighter shade of red. 

            The icing on the cake of my trans-cultural education was our annual Chinese New Year celebration. Every year Pacific Rim and our sister school, Pacific Rim (but in San Mateo, not Emeryville), would combine efforts in creating the ultimate Chinese New Year production. We held this event at the Mormon Temple of all places - talk about cultural melting pot. There were dances, stories, quick plays, and singing. The Japanese students would always perform a cherry blossom dance, in honor of nothing since it wasn't technically their new year. The Chinese students would always sing gong xi fa tsai (happy new year) and receive the little red packets that contained a monetary surprise. The show culminated in the greatest spectacle of all - the dragon dance. We were supposed to alternate years in doing the dragon dance, so that one year Emeryville would do it and the next San Mateo would. But for some reason Emeryville kids always ended up being the dragon, except one year when parents did it for some unknown reason. Rehearsals for the dragon dance would start months before the performance - we would spend countless hot afternoons moving sticks left and right pretending that they were holding disjointed pieces of a fictional reptile. I loved it. There was always at least one fight over who would get to be the coveted position of the pearl. The pearl holds a giant colorful pearl like shape on a stick and runs in front of the dragon head leading the dragon all around, entwining it amongst itself. I was always content with being a vertebra. Nothing compared to the rush of running down the Mormon Temple's aisles to the pulsing beat of a drum and the clashing of cymbals as we collectively became a dragon following an elusive jewel. 

            Obviously, I wouldn't be who I am today without PRINTS. But now, my Asian self is hidden away in a pocket, like a secret treasure that not many people know about, but a treasure that holds the power to change my outlook on things, and to change the way others look at me. I guess you could say I'm like a Happa wearing a white suit. I'm not really Asian in any way, but oftentimes I feel like a select insider allowed to experience and embody a culture that I can't even begin to describe with just plain words.