A Burst of Memory

“I refuse to eat Americanized Chinese food. You wouldn’t understand.”
I always pondered why my father so vehemently asserted this statement. At the age of 12, I had been taken to many different Chinese restaurants by my friends’ parents; I thought the food to be quite delectable. I simply shrugged and reasoned that my father was tired of Chinese food after eating it for years and years.
Not until the age of 15 did I finally realize why my father did not step foot into a Chinese restaurant in America. At this age, I finally returned to China.
Many people are shocked to hear that I came into the world in such a frigid place as Alaska; some are quick to claim that I am lying. I neither deny nor agree with their statements, for I only spent 9 months there before moving to China to be raised by my grandmother. My parents were still in college and therefore unable to watch over me most of the time. My grandmother, on the other hand, was a retired, venerable old woman, sure to bring me up as a delightful young woman.
The first four years of my life were spent in blissful ignorance. I was told that I rarely asked about my parents and enjoyed the company of the local Beijing children. When I was 5, my parents brought me back to the United States. Within a year, I lost my accent and became completed Americanized.
It shames me to say that I forgot every single bit of my Chinese; I could only understand the language now, unable to speak, read, or write it. My taste buds had become accustomed to the oily foods that are McDonalds and Burger King.
Though I did not know it then, I had lost a part of myself: a crucial part that would keep me from feeling whole for the first 15 years of my life. I had lost my culture.
My mother travels to China 2-3 times every year for her job; during the summer after I turned 15, she brought me with her. I was shocked and awed the moment I stepped foot off of the plane. The tall skyscrapers, the different yet pleasant smells, the sound of laughter and Chinese drifting through the air: this pleased yet shocked me. I was disappointed to find that I could not reply to anyone who spoke to me. I could not order anything in restaurants because I could not read the characters; I could not tell my grandparents about my time in America; I could not even talk to my childhood friends.
What irked me the most, however, was that I could not remember the names of all the delicious food I ate. I finally understood why my father only ate Chinese food made in China. The flavors were completely different: slightly too much oil, a stronger and longer-lasting aftertaste in your mouth, a longing for more even after you’ve swallowed. However dissociated I may have felt with my culture, food managed to bring me back just enough. Just enough that I forced myself to re-learn Chinese. I refused to have this hole in my life any longer.
For the next three years I studied till I could study no more. I only spoke to my parents in Chinese, I went to Chinese school, and I memorized and memorized. There is only one way to re-learn how to read and write Chinese: that is memorizing the thousands of characters that make up the Chinese language. Needless to say, frustration ran through my veins whenever I couldn’t remember a particular character when I was writing an essay.
At 18 years old, I once again traveled to China. This time, I was determined to go to as many places as I could in order to taste all the different kinds of food there were. That summer I went to Hangzhou, Beijing, Shanghai, Weihai, Yantai, and Hong Kong. It amazed me how different the people and dialects could be at each place. Then again, the cooking was also completely different. Beijing style favored a tangy, somewhat spicy taste that satisfied you even after you’ve finished your meal. Hangzhou style is light and herby, yet still delectable. Shanghai food is bursting with strong flavors that make your taste buds explode with pleasure. In Weihai and Yantai, it is all about the seafood. Weihai obtains fresh seafood every day; there are many ways to cook a wonderful meal with this seafood. The shells can be steamed, boiled, or marinated and cooked. Fish can be flavored with many sauces. But my favorite will always be hot pot at a restaurant called “The Fat Cow Moves with the Wind.” Hot pot is a style of eating where each person has his or her own bowl of boiling water. The water stays boiling, and you place raw food into the water; it cooks itself in a matter of minutes. Then you dip the cooked food into a small bowl of flavored sauce and eat it. Hot pot can be done with vegetables, seafood, meat, fish, and just about anything that comes to mind.
Though I’ve never felt completely integrated into Chinese culture, authentic Chinese food has taken me further than I ever would’ve thought to go. The different styles of food represent the diversity of Chinese culture. If I had never taken that first bite of Chinese food, I might’ve never known what I was missing. Ignorance is bliss, they say, but I would rather be unhappy yet know what I am missing. I will always strive to better my Chinese and visit China as much as I can. Food was beginning factor of this motivation, and it is one of the things that keep me going strong.
Some people claim that they know how Chinese food tastes, and that it isn’t their style. I challenge them: go to China and see if you can still say that. I guarantee their opinion will change.


Image 1: http://watersecretsblog.com/archives/Beijing-skyline.jpg
Image 2: http://www.pages.drexel.edu/~xl25/chinesefood1.jpg
Image 3: http://www.isb2010.com/htmlfiles/food/Mongolian_Hot_Pot.jpg