I.

It is November 2019 in Farmington, Connecticut, and I am at the library with Eliza. I am on a Zoom call, discussing the next stage of my research project with my professor.

From across the table, Eliza observes my meeting with a raised eyebrow, a smirk, and frequent, failed attempts to suppress laughter. It is a meeting that demands seriousness, yet Eliza, who is not even prone to laughing when watching “The Office,” is teetering on the verge of hysterics. Perhaps she has an unorthodox sense of humor? Perhaps I am speaking with a strange accent? Perhaps I sound unintelligible?

“That’s what I have for today. Why don’t you fix your analysis, and let’s plan to meet again tomorrow at the same time.” The meeting approaches its end.

“Sounds good.”

Eliza, no longer able to contain her amusement, bursts out laughing the moment I remove my AirPods.

“Do you realize how many times you said ‘sounds good’ during that 30-minute meeting?”

The phrase rolled off my tongue so effortlessly that I didn’t realize I was saying it until Eliza pointed it out.

“I couldn’t hear what he was saying because you had your AirPods in. All I could hear was you saying ‘sounds good’ every 20 seconds."

“But isn’t that what people in America say to show agreement?”

November 2019 was my third month in America. Having left Beijing, where I had lived for 14 years, life across the ocean proved to be radically different. The moment I exited the JFK airport in September, I immediately experienced what historians in postcolonial discourse often refer to as cultural shock.

A passing elderly lady smiled and said, “How are you?” I was terrified. I couldn’t believe I was already being targeted by a predator on my very first day in the States. Pretending not to have heard her, I stared straight ahead and walked briskly past, pulling out my phone to call my father’s friend in Boston (the only person I knew in the States). Having grown up in a city notorious for its crowds, I was wary of strangers, and the idea of speaking with one was unfathomable. It wasn’t until a couple of months later, after I had become more familiar with American culture, that I finally realized the friendly nature of the lady’s overture and felt regret for my unwarranted reaction.

Little did 14-year-old me know, America would stun me in many ways beyond its affinity for the ubiquitous exchange of “how are you?”

II.

November 2019. Two months into my first year in America, I became acutely aware of the impact my new environment was having on my thinking and behavior. It was as if America had entered my consciousness and was remaking it.

The Romance of the Three Kingdoms and Wolf Totem sank to the rear of the bottom shelf of my bookcase, supplanted by framed photographs of Kendall Jenner and Bella Hadid. I would never have admitted that I wanted to replicate the lifestyle of supermodels (the embarrassment!), but there I was, wearing myself thin with the effort of emulation because all the girls around me idolized the Hadid sisters. At the same time, I was becoming increasingly angry at myself for my complete submission to high school conventions and my lack of audacity to embrace individuality.

Everything about life in America stood in stark contrast to the life I knew in China. I saw students in my high school “what’s up” each other in passing, dump ice into their glasses in the dining hall, and hang posters of supermodels in their dorms.

The first time I heard the phrase “what’s up” directed at me, I was walking to my Spanish class. Struggling to comprehend its meaning, I found myself attempting to conceal my lack of comprehension. Unfortunately, the lopsided smile I hastily put on to dilute the awkwardness of the situation only amplified it. This embarrassing incident was seared indelibly upon my memory. Afterward, every time I walked to Spanish class, I was reminded of my failure to respond, and I flinched. I wished ardently that I would never embarrass myself again. But my hope never solidified.

Three days later, I had my first family-style lunch. Family-style lunch is a tradition at my school. Each student is randomly assigned to a table with six other students and one faculty member. After we sat down, the faculty member offered to pour water for everyone. There were two options: iced and room temperature. But I was only accustomed to drinking hot water.

“Is there hot water?” I asked.

A pause.

“Do you mean room temperature water?” The faculty member looked surprised.

“No, hot water.”

“Like boiling water?”

My table looked at me in intrigue. In front of each of them was what appeared to me a cup full of ice.

I gave up, “It’s OK.”

“Would you like to ask the dining hall staff for hot water?”

“No, it’s OK.”

This incident was embarrassing on two levels. First, I had distinguished myself by making the odd request for hot water. I hadn’t even explained why I wanted hot water out of fear that doing so would embarrass me more. Second, my responses teetered on the edge of being rude. I hadn’t said please, and I hadn’t thanked the faculty member when he had tried to help. My presentation of myself suggested a lack of education and consideration for others.

Moments in which I felt embarrassingly distinguished recurred. My American peers all decorated their walls with posters of supermodels, Vogue covers, beach pictures with friends, and framed pictures of major cities of fashion. In stark contrast, the walls in my room were bare.

“This is just sad, Alice.” I knew my friends were joking. But they were right that my room looked different. The feeling of rootlessness was etched into my muscles like the soreness that sets in after intense exercise. I hid my slippers, my hot water bottle, everything about me that was distinctly Chinese. I didn’t want to leave incriminating evidence around, revealing my difference. I began to emulate their lifestyle, their enthusiasm for the Hadid sisters, their passion for
sports, their love for “The Office” and “Friends.”

I began to emulate their speech. “Sounds good” was the first phrase I adopted. It’s the perfect phrase to throw out to replace the awkward nods or “OK” that I used frequently to mask my lack of comprehension. Over my first year in America, I came to realize the full potential of the phrase. It can be used anywhere, anytime, and with anyone. It has just the right amount of friendliness and informality appropriate for any occasion.

I was proud of my almost flawless emulation of the people around me.

III.

December 2020. During my sophomore year, I realized that I was not alone in my concerns about “fitting in.” During almost every campus tour I gave to prospective international families, the young student always posed similar questions: “Are the people here nice? Do you find friends here?” Apprehension was written all over their faces, in the tightening of their brows and the compression of their lips. I saw my freshman self in them, yearning for acceptance. Yes, I wanted to tell them, it is possible to feel integrated into the community, but you will certainly encounter bumps along the way.

I walked into the bathroom one afternoon. It was May 2020, and freshman year was approaching its end. While drying my hands with a paper towel, I caught a glimpse of a figure in the mirror. At first sight, I didn’t recognize her. A face peered back at me. Fatigue was etched into her features, in the dullness of her eyes and the dryness of her lips. Little by little, my efforts at emulation had morphed me into the portrait of Dorian Gray.

I had copied their lifestyle because I thought that doing so would allow me to fit in, which would in turn yield external validation and make me happy. I craved external validation, because I had never received it. Throughout elementary school, my teachers called me r*tarded. At 14, teetering on the verge of adolescence, the dangerous phase of life characterized by insecurities, I yearned for external validation, which I equated with acceptance, with “fitting in,” with being “one of them.” Ironically, my attempt to fit in exhausted me. The mounting gossip associated with my name burdened me as much as the labels my elementary school teachers levied on me. Staring at my utterly exhausted face in the mirror, it suddenly occurred to me that my effort to “fit in” was pointless. Sure, I had many friends, but almost all of them came at the cost of a false image of myself. Ultimately, obscuring myself did not enable me to truly fit in or be happy. Perhaps I needed to stop burdening myself with emulating other people. Perhaps there is value in the clichéd admonishment “be yourself.” Perhaps I could just be me.

A couple of months after being me, I still found myself relying on “sounds good” for its usefulness and versatility. But I was also making progress. I finally saw my life with estranged eyes, and suddenly my past struck me as wildly colorful and exotic. What had once seemed to be the most intolerable portrayal of my difference was now transformed into a rich and empowering history.