Belonging by Kim

Belonging by Kim - June 2019 Scholarship Essay

I was adopted from southern China when I was eight months old. For the longest time I had no interest in learning more about my heritage. I remember in elementary school when my parents enrolled me in Chinese school. I remember going to a nearby high school every Saturday morning to listen to an old, cranky Chinese woman drill characters into my head. I hated it, and finally convinced my parents to let me drop out after a month. Looking back, it wasn't necessarily the drills that made me dread going there, but the cold voice in my head that would whisper, "You don't belong here." I was surrounded by Chinese kids who had Chinese parents. I remember the embarrassment that rose into to my cheeks when my white parents would come pick me up. I remember feeling isolated by my peers who seemed to view me as not being a "real" Asian. After that experience I decided to avoid my Chinese roots all together. It wasn't until sixth grade that I exposed myself to it again. I enrolled in Chinese class at my middle school, but not because I wanted to learn. All of my friends were taking Chinese, so I figured it would give me a free period to goof off with them. I was very wrong about having that assumption. Little did I know that a middle-aged woman named Mrs. Pang would not only push me beyond what I thought I was capable of, but she would also be the one who taught me to appreciate the culture and the history of the country I came from.

My first year of Chinese was a hard one. Sometimes it felt impossible to remember the character strokes of new words, or speak without sounding like an idiot. One incident that stands out in my mind is a day that I didn't do my homework. It wasn't because I forgot to, but because I thought it was too hard. I remember scrambling to write down random characters on my sheet of paper, hoping she wouldn't look too close when she walked around to check it. My heart beat faster and faster as she approached my desk. I could feel her presence behind my chair as she scanned my wrinkled homework. My heart skipped a beat when she snatched it from my desk and examined it closer to her face. I wanted to melt into my chair. She ended up calling me out for what I did, and I can still feel the shameful heat that colored my face red. I remember wanting to cry, but I didn't. That was the first time I had ever did something like that, and I couldn't bare the guilt I felt. That night I erased my homework so hard that I left holes in it. I spent hours looking through my notes, and realized that the assignment was challenging, but not impossible. I redid the assignment and handed it in to her the next day along with a note that had a hand-written apology for trying to fool her. That was the first and last time I ever tried to lie to Mrs. Pang.

By the end of my last year of Chinese with Mrs. Pang, I had grown to enjoy writing characters and enjoyed the lessons she taught us. She would show us Chinese movies and play Chinese songs to help us understand cultural lingo (To this day I still watch Chinese movies). What truly made Chinese with Mrs. Pang memorable was the trip she had arranged for our class of sixteen students. She gave each of us the option to go on a tour of Beijing, Shanghai, and Xi'an during the summer after eighth grade. I had never been out of the country after coming to America, so of course I wanted to go. Also, many of my friends were going as well. I'll admit I had no idea what I was going to think about my home-country. I was excited, but I was scared to expose myself to the heritage that I identified with on the outside, but not at all on the inside.
Before I knew it, I found myself climbing up the Great Wall of China. The steps were steep and seemed to never end. It was relatively crowded and I was nervous about getting lost. Eventually we reached a milestone where there were concession stands selling water and coke. Half of us wanted to continue up higher while the other half wanted to stay where they were. My teacher and the other chaperone decided to split into groups. The idea of staying on the level we were at was tempting, but for some reason I agreed to go up higher. That climb was even harder than the first, and I had to stop multiple times to catch my breath. By the time I reached the top I let out a gasp. I looked out and saw endless hills of green mountains, clouds, and vibrant blue sky. I felt larger than human and could see people who looked like ants moving around on the ground. A cool breeze refreshed me as I gazed in awe at the country that surrounded me. For the first time in my life I felt a connection with my heritage. I felt like I belonged.