Noodles, Nostalgia, and Identity Intertwined

I am nostalgic for the days as a little girl when I would wake up from the fragrant aroma of my mother’s cooking, the all too familiar scent of spices and curry floating from the kitchen to my bedroom. I remember thinking to myself, “She made my favorite!” and immediately leap out of bed from a mix of utter joy and hunger. Khao Poon (ເຂົ້າປຸ້ນ), a Lao red curry chicken noodle soup, has always been my favorite home made dish by my mother growing up. It was the dish I longed for while away in college, particularly during my late night study sessions and internship abroad. Every flavorful bite of vermicelli noodles and slurp of warm broth would soothe the spirit of my child self. If my mom made Khao Poon (ເຂົ້າປຸ້ນ), then by definition it was a good day.

Growing up, my parents never wanted to discuss our family history nor where we came from. They would say, “Chee Chee (my family nickname taken from my Chinese name), we’re Chinese. If someone asks you what you are at school, say you are Chinese,” and they left it at that. As I entered middle school, my mother divulged she was from Laos and my father from Thailand, but by no mistake, we were ethnically Chinese. It was very puzzling to me as a young girl. I grew up near Little Saigon with Vietnamese classmates, attended Taiwanese school to learn Mandarin on weekday evenings, celebrated Chinese New Year annually, brunched on Sundays by way of dim sum, and regularly enjoyed the local eateries specializing in Vietnamese, Chinese, Thai, Lao, and Taiwanese cuisines. 

At home, my parents would speak Chinglish (a mix of Chinese Mandarin and English) to my sister and I. To each other, they would converse in Lao. Dining in Vietnamese restaurants meant my mom would speak in Vietnamese where on the other hand, dining in Thai restaurants meant my dad would speak in Thai. At home, the sound of Cantonese dramas my mother consumed became a familiar comfort.

I would ponder to myself, “So, are we Chinese or not?” It felt strange to say I was “just Chinese” when classmates would ask me the inevitable, “What are you?” because there were so many parts to my family’s history and the cultures we took part in. When I received this question from classmates, I began to say, “My family is Chinese, but my mother is from Laos and my father is from Thailand.” Some classmates, even other Asian classmates, would look at me bewildered and ask, “What is Laos?” 

After I graduated college, I took a trip with my family to visit Thailand. It was my first time there and my father’s first time visiting in over twenty years. I had never seen him so joyous. Joyous to be reunited with family, to see how much Thailand changed, to be home. 

For a long time, I felt out of place and craved a sense of belonging. I wanted nothing more than to be seen and understood. I was Asian enough to belong in the Asian American community but within it, there were few to none people I found that could relate to my family’s identity. To some peers, I wasn’t “Chinese enough” because my parents weren’t from China. 

It wasn’t until that trip to Thailand that I experienced a sense of familiarity, connectedness, and peace. Maybe it’s because Thailand has the biggest Chinese community outside of China. Maybe it’s because hearing Thai and a variety of Chinese dialects is common there. Or maybe it’s because it was my first time seeing so many people who look like me.

As I take time to reflect on AAPI month, I think about how much my perspective on my family’s identity has changed. As an adult, I now understand my parents’ refusal to share our familial history with my sister and I was a protection mechanism, not an act made out of shame. My parents wanted us to assimilate into the socio-cultural fabric in America without having to belabor in conversation with classmates’ parents and neighbors when answering the “What are you?” and “Where are you from?” questions. But more than that, they wanted the pain of leaving their home countries to remain in the past and starting anew as a thing of the present. Where I used to shy away from explaining the extension of my ancestry, I now proudly state with fervor. I recognize the complexities of where my heritage can be traced and the cultures I identify with are facets of my being that should be honored, rather than hidden. Choosing to honor it every day is to honor my family with pride.