second generation

On the block of the first house I lived in -- so different from Taiwan!

 I've started to teach/tutor again at a local university this semester, helping students with their pronunciation and conversational English. For one of the first sessions, I was called upon to lecture on the topic of "American Culture." While mulling over what exactly I would speak on for one short hour, the irony of it struck me that in a sense, much of my knowledge of American culture has come to me in bits and pieces, blended into an odd mixture with my own parental heritage. I've grown up American, yes, but not quite so in the truest, most authentic sense. I know how Americans celebrate Christmas and New Year, and I know a little of the experiences, values, and traditions that weave the fabric of their lives. I know that when mid-September hits, American mouths crave all things pumpkin and spices such as cinnamon and nutmeg, but it has only been since college that I've actually experienced the logical connection of such things to the season of Fall, to the changing color of leaves, to apple-picking, and the sweetly sticky, subtly tart taste of apple doughnuts. I have experienced the tree-decorating, light-stringing, carol-listening traditions of Christmas, and yet I've never had a taste of what it's like to visit or be visited by aunts, uncles, cousins, or grandparents during such homecoming holidays. I know what it is to have turkey in the oven and sweet potato casserole for Thanksgiving, but I also find it perfectly natural for us to have 油飯 (fried sticky rice) and 炒米粉 (fried rice noodles) on the side. I know the familiarity of pizza and hot dogs and string cheese, but I also know the sting of young classmates' wide-eyed stares and exclamations of disgust at what my mother packed for my school lunches. Yes, I know a bit of the American culture, but it is through the eyes of one from the second generation, who grew up fluently speaking the language, but endured years of people mispronouncing her name so that she gave up correcting them long ago. This is the reason that, when I got up in front of a room filled with 30-some chattering college students to speak on the culture of the land of my birth, I had to inwardly suppress a chuckle or two.

 Last week I started reading a book (lent by a friend) called "The Namesake." Having no prior knowledge of this story (or the movie it made), I was slightly misled by the synopsis on its back cover to how moving and profound it would be. It has given me much food for thought as a child born to immigrant parents, and I often wonder myself with what culture my own children will identify the most. As I read about the long, lonely nights the immigrant wife spent preparing home food in her foreign kitchen, thinking her present existence in an alien land only temporary and wondering when she would be able to move back to her true home, I found myself able to relate. At this time in our lives, B and I imagine ourselves heading back to the States after med school if given the opportunity. Our ties from across the ocean pull on our hearts and we naturally gravitate towards what we know best. But I also know that the longer we stay here the more ties we will form on this soil, too, and who knows what may happen once our family starts growing. These are thoughts I often dwell upon these days. Will our children grow up accustomed to eating steaming meals on a greasy aluminum table in a sweaty noodle shop next to the busy road? Will they run around in cramped parks and mildewy playgrounds, and only dream about having the same kinds of adventures Daddy tells them from his own childhood, of exploring great forests with winding creeks? Or will they grow up playing in a lawn with a driveway, a swing on the tree in the backyard?

 I realize that as always, in our humanity we cannot see our futures played out as God will have them, but I do find an appreciation for the voice of people like Jhumpa Lahiri who express the beautifully jumbled, ironically juxtaposed, hauntingly searching perspective of the second generation. I am appreciative of what my parents went through in raising their daughters in a strange country, taking the good from two cultures and mixing them as they knew best. I thank God for the life He's given to me, for this chance to experience life as a foreigner in my parent's birth country. There will be stories to be told, surely, and all the while I only pray that whatever "generation" label my children may fall under, their undying sense of belonging and identity will be in Christ and His Kingdom.