Content warning: The following article contains details of addiction and sex trafficking that could be triggering.
“So ashamed that the ancestors of eight generations can even feel it.” – Chinese Proverb
I hate myself! This was one of my earliest thoughts as a Chinese boy in the United States. I wasn’t white like those I saw on television. I wasn’t Black like those in my neighborhood. I was an Asian immigrant. I was an outsider, a foreigner, the “other.” It was 1976 and I was 4 years old. I hated looking different, speaking different, and having different customs and traditions from mainstream America. The first English words I recall hearing were, “Ching, chong, chong!” Not exactly the most welcoming reception. The first question hurled our way was whether we ate rats or dogs. I cringed and began distancing myself from my Chinese background.
This cultural contempt and self-loathing became evident when my parents spoke to me and my brothers in Chinese and I responded in English. I was embarrassed and ashamed of our heritage. I winced when they spoke Chinese in public. I wanted nothing to do with them in any setting, public or private.
In addition, the values of Asian collectivism and groupthink that my parents and other relatives tried to impress on me and my brothers clashed with American ideals of independence. We were being taught at school to speak up, question authority, and think critically, while at home our parents stressed the importance of obedience, harmony, and never questioning authority figures like teachers, elders, and parents.
How would all of this impact our sense of identity and shape how others viewed us or how we saw ourselves?
I was enamored with what TV could do to me. It transported me to another world, where I could escape the fear of crime and trying to navigate this country on my own. I was the first in my family and extended family to go to school in the U.S. I was trailblazing both for myself and the entire Louie…
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