Tell the truth. Seek the truth. — Dad. 

* * *

Honglingjin. A red scarf. Piece of the flag. Symbol of the Young Pioneers (1).

On Monday, all students stood unwaveringly in the wind, Honglingjin gracefully swaying in front of our chests. Swoosh, swoosh. The bright hue of red danced to the steady rhythm of our hearts.

 As the national anthem started playing from the loud speakers, the quiet chattering immediately vanished. We solemnly watched the flag of the People’s Republic of China climb up the pole. The cold was forgotten.

“Wo men shi gong chan zhu yi jie ban ren,” we sang patriotic lyrics loud and proud, “We are the successors of communism” (2).

My heart drummed its own beat. Swoosh, swoosh. Carried by the wind, the flag at the top of the pole joined our silent dance. 

Five yellow stars among a sea of redness. 

National Pride.

* * *

My father did not cry when he sent me away on a flight to the U.S.

“Make us proud,” he patted my shoulder, “learn well so you can come back and serve the country.” 

Of course, I muttered, of course. Where else would I possibly go? 

I turned around and headed toward the security check, already missing home while I still stood on the land. I was twelve. 

* * *

“What’s going on, why are we walking so fast?” my friend tugged on my sleeve, forcing me to a stop. She was out of breath. 

“I’m hungry!” I yelled with pretend excitement and picked up my pace again, dragging her past the bustling crowd at Times Square. Faster. Faster. My brain yelled. I did not have the time to take in the glamor of the city; the vibrant colors from the huge screens made me dizzy. The image flashed into my head once again. 

“We want all Chinese communists dead!” The neon green words in bold scrolled across the screen on the side of a white van. 

I wasn’t a communist, but panic had poured over me like spilled honey, creating a syrupy mess that refused to go away. I had hidden beside my friend, hoping her blond hair and blue eyes, her Americanness, could shield me from the men smoking and laughing next to the terrifying words. They were not paying attention to me, but I suddenly wished they had. 

Guess where I’m from? I wanted to yell at them. I’m the one you’re looking for, right in front of you!

* * *

China. 

Communism. Lies, Authoritarian, Evilness.

When there no longer stood a wall (3), I learned the history of my motherland erased in textbooks. 

1989 Tiananmen Square (4). A Chinese-American friend told the story of his father, the story that billions of people pretend to have forgotten about, the story that never happened. 

The blood that seeped into the tiles that I had walked on. My footprint, among countless others, marked its presence on top of it. Layer after layer after layer of those. Tears, flesh, and cries buried underneath. 

More stories. Phantoms in the collective memory. Lies I pretended were true. 

For the first time, I was turned away from my country. Seek the truth. 

How? Where?

Democracy. Freedom, Rights, Equality.

America. 

* * *

“Aiya, America is too free, too dangerous,” a drunk relative committed at the family gathering, “drugs, guns, black people, transgender people, it’s too much…”

“How could you say that” I was flabbergasted, “I can’t believe…” 

My attempt to counter her racist and transphobic remarks was cut off by my uncle, who waved his hand dismissively and shook his head, “She’s corrupted by America. Too politically correct.”

They laughed and moved on as if it was just a fleeting joke. Communist songs from the 80s were sung around the table again (5). I couldn’t leave. It would be a gesture of disrespect. 

I was mad, mad at what they said, but even madder at the fact that most people in China would respond with the same thing. 

Come back and serve the country. My father’s words rang in my head.  

How? How could I come back to a country that rejects everything I believe in? A country that took films off the web just because they were too “American,” too “gay,” or too “politically correct?” A place where I could not be “me”?

* * *

Je viens des états unis. I introduced myself to my European classmates. I come from the United States. 

We were tucked away in a tiny classroom in Nice, France, grappling with the foreign language rolling off our tongues. Des états unis. The consonant-vowel liaisons made the word extra difficult to pronounce. Almost a tongue twister. 

De la Chine would have been so much smoother. 

I could sense the confusion in my classmates’ eyes. One of them opened his mouth but said nothing after a pause. A feeling of satisfaction flowed through my body. The less I say, the more they would be fooled by my “Americanness,” despite the facial features that clearly set me apart from everyone else.  

I tried to justify my words. Not to my confused classmates, but to myself. I told myself I spend more time in the States than in China now. But really, I knew I was just afraid. Afraid of the assumptions that would arise if I proclaimed my Chineseness, the hot shame that would pour down on my face when that happened. 

To rip off communism, I had to rip off my Chinese identity. 

* * *

I love Chinese food. I would never voluntarily eat pasta if I had any option for Chinese food, even if it was a plate of stinky tofu. 

I was savoring a mouthful of dough drop soup my father made while updating him on my online classes. Covid gave me the chance to spend most of my time at home and indulge in the richness of Chinese delicacies every day. 

“Good, good,” he commented, acknowledging the valuable skills learned from those lessons,” I’ve always told you that American education is better. Keep learning like that so you can come back and serve the country, yes?”

A beat of silence enveloped the room as I drew a deep breath.

“Actually I’m thinking about staying in the States after college.”

“I did not send you to America to become American.”

“I’m sick of the lies here. We don’t know anything. And people are too xenophobic. America is more free and open,” I tried to maintain my composure, but a hint of hysteria still slipped through. 

“Free and open, huh,” he said with a mix of anger and disappointment, “Free and open. Check what they’re saying about Covid in China, about everything in China.”

Horror stories. 

From column features in WSJ to random tweets, I found myself a product of communism, a hapless sufferer. No freedom, they said, living like a prisoner under COVID regulations. The images painted a city I couldn’t recognize. 

“That is not true!” I cried out to my father, feeling betrayed by a country I thought I belonged. Once again.

“Exactly. Always seek the truth.” 

* * *

What is the truth? 

How can I find the truth when day after day, I find myself entangled in the contradicting narratives spun by newspaper articles, one from NBC and one from China Daily?

* * *

Perched on the comfy couch on the second floor, I bit down on my pen while trying to prove Fermat’s Little Theorem—an unexpectedly good way to spend the summer. 

My thoughts were interrupted by a piano playing from the other side of the room. It took me three notes to recognize the song. 

The National Anthem of the People’s Republic of China. 

A group of ABC (American-born Chinese) boys, who made up the majority of the math camp (of course), were gathering around the piano, snickering as they played the piece. 

They didn’t mean anything malicious, but a sudden surge of anger bubbled within me, urging me to say something. You’re supposed to be serious and respectful whenever the music plays! Do you know how much the song means to our people? To your parents or grandparents? To the many that came before us?

I wanted to say more. I wanted to say that there was nothing else in the world that could bring me as much pride as the Chinese national anthem. Not even the magnificent arrays of American flags downtown on Veterans Day, or the festive crowd that huddled at the lawn of Montgomery High School for the unforgettable fireworks on the night of Fourth of July. 

But I couldn’t. The words remained lodged in my throat, unspoken and unheard.

* * *

Over time, my complicated relationship with news somehow led me into the realm of journalism. As the editor-in-chief of The Revere, I visited the campus Rabbi for his approval and guidance on navigating the delicate subject of the Israel-Hamas War.

“We want to honor neutrality, reliability, and accuracy,” I told him, “we will make sure to send the articles to both JSU and MSA for review so that the final product can be approved by both sides” (6).

“Approved or disapproved? Because if both parties are unhappy about your articles, doesn’t that mean you’re actually closer to the truth?” 

* * *

After all, perhaps I could never get rid of my Chinese identity. 

I had just arrived at the Universitat de Politecnica de Catalunya in Barcelona for summer research. The front desk lady at the lab enthusiastically greeted me in Spanish, to which I responded with a defeated shake of my head, signaling my failure to comprehend her.

“Did you fly here from China?” She switched to English, enunciating each word with extra force. 

 “I flew here from New York City,” I told her, “I’m from China though.” 

“Oh yes, it’s just your eyes are like this,” she pinched the side of her eyes. 

* * *

You can love someone without loving every part of them, my mom had told me. 

I love China. I love America. I don’t have to love the political ideologies to love the country and the people. I don’t have to be communist to be Chinese. And I don’t have to be a Democrat/Republican to be American. 

Or do I? 

I look Chinese and I think American. I eat Chinese and watch American shows. I go to Buddhist temples and drop by Christian churches. In my body, there runs both Chinese and American Blood. 

I am both Chinese and American. I am neither.

I read and write, write and read. 

I am part of the truth. 

I am the truth.

I’ve been torn apart and found, pieced together and lost. 

* * *

Truth is truth is truth is truth is truth.

Notes:

1. All students enrolled in Chinese public primary schools are required to become a member of the Young Pioneers and wear Honglingjin. At the age of fourteen, all students exit the Young Pioneers and some outstanding members are selected to be in the Communist Youth League, which is under the direct leader of the Chinese Communist Party. 

2. The lyrics are from the anthem of Young Pioneers. 

3. The Chinese government has installed a firewall to monitor domestic internet through censorship. The firewall blocks access to almost all foreign social media and selected websites, including foreign news outlets. 

4. On June 4, 1989, the Chinese government deployed troops to quell the students who had been holding demonstrations at Tiananmen Square for the past few months in request for democracy, freedom of the press, and freedom of speech. Around 300 civilians died from the incident. More than 1000 demonstrators were arrested, and many students fled to other countries, mostly the United States, for political refuge.

5. It’s a common cultural tradition in China for the older generation to sing communist songs from the past at social gatherings as a way to entertain and reminisce about the past.

6. JSU stands for Jewish Student Union; MSA stands for Muslim Student Association.