Society Put Us in Boxes, but We Are Outsiders

From the clothes I wear to the food I eat, to the way I talk; my identity has never been perceived as ‘crisp cut’ in the way it may be for others. Some people can say that they’re American or Asian or Italian or Mexican and it rolls off the tongue so easily for them. As someone who has a conflicting cultural identity, it’s not as simple for me.

I speak two languages but only one of them well. My Vietnamese is broken, and never mind that I get A-pluses in English, I get made fun of by my relatives for not being able to maintain the language I learned as a kid. It’s not that their teasing words hurt me, no, it’s the fact that when my grandfather hands me a slice of his cake, I can’t articulate the words to say that I am thankful for his affection and his efforts to make me happy.

When my friends ask if they can come over, they don’t understand when I say that my mom has strict rules about visitors and doesn’t like strangers in the house. My friends don’t understand my discomfort at being called the “smart kid.” They don’t understand the kind of pressure this loaded compliment puts on me.

I grew up eating American food, and don’t have the best stomach for certain kinds of Asian cuisine. When my birthday comes around and my uncle asks where I want to go, I have half a mind to ask for American food because it’s what I can eat. But on the other hand, I see the hopeful eyes of my grandparents, and I say that I want Vietnamese food, even if it makes my stomach churn and most of my meal ends up in a Styrofoam to-go container by the end of the night. It will be forgotten as mine and taken as my mother’s work lunch the next day.

Some days, my identity feels like a battle. Some days, I feel like whatever I do I’ll be disappointing one side or another. It is a perpetual cycle of trying to satisfy someone impossible to impress, and the only constant is that my happiness is never a part of the decision.

My only comfort was throwing myself into my work. I decided that since I didn’t fit one label, maybe I’d just swap it out for another one. I started writing. I needed a new place to fuel my anger and frustration and the words were there to give me solace.

I wanted to prove that I was more than just this weird title that didn’t feel like it fit me. Now I was a writer. Now I mattered. I wanted to show that my circle overlapped in the pi chart of life. I was human, just like everyone else, even if I had to change out my label to feel a small sliver of satisfaction.

My label of “Asian American” turned into “Writer.” I should have been happy then, but I still wasn’t. I realised that I wasn’t happy because although I swapped the label, my abilities hadn’t changed and I realised I was finding it hard to separate the cultural aspects of my identity and the way in which I wrote. It almost felt like there was pressure to throw away my Asian family, American friends, and the hazy memories of my childhood speaking Vietnamese slurred with English, the warm honey words of my mother, and the sizzling sound of my grandmother’s cooking. Why did I have to throw it away? Why did I need so badly to fit? Why is identity, the first thing that people ask you about when they meet you, something that has to be restrained? Why am I okay with being suffocated by the weight of my worthiness?

Society puts us into these boxes and tapes the lid shut because it is afraid of us escaping and showing the world that the rainbow has been hiding in the shadows. It is afraid of change. We all are. But the world has never been cookie-cut lines, so why should identity be this way?

My identity is too large to be outfitted in a cardboard box stamped with the words “Writer” or “Asian American” or “Smart Kid.” Regardless of the label, the box is too small and I know that my flame will be snuffed out if I remain.

I am Asian. I am American. I am a writer. I am a student who doesn’t always get things right on the first try.

Society tried to put me in a box. Society tried to put us in a box. I suppose it never realized that some of us were always born to live outside of them.

I tear open the lid and feel that I can finally breathe.

I am a dozen different things at once, and I am an outsider.

And if you are too, I welcome you with open arms.

By Cindy Tran

(she/her)

Edited by Makella Ama

Graphic by Daija (@freshed__squeezed)