Read an answer yesterday that touched me, thought I should put it here to keep it with me.
This is what it’s like being Chinese:
“You learn an instrument when you are 6, performing whenever a guest comes around.
You learn poetry when you are 7, memorizing lines that will take you decades to appreciate.
You are told to be the best, even though you know you can’t always be the best.
You are put into a school, and from then on you feel you shoulder a grave expectation.
Your teacher calls your parents because of your falling grades.
Your mother yells at you while your father stays silent.
You catch your mother weeping and decide to do your best.
You stay up late to prep for the entrance exam to junior high. Your mother comes in and gives you a glass of warm milk. She does this every night. You realize you’ve never told her you love her. You open your mouth but nothing comes out. You see the white creeping into her hair. It stings you.
You get into High school. You fall in love. Your teachers are all against it but you don’t care. You know it’s going to be forever.
You break your heart.
You study all day and all night, complaining about Gaokao while writing your 3rd practice exam for the day.
You feel like you’re going to die from the stress.
You don’t.
You go off to university, maybe somewhere far away.
Your parents see you off.
You feel lonely and lost. And for the first time, you appreciate the stress of Gaokao, the camaraderie forged in that fire will be memories for life.
You rarely come home, busy with your own stuff. Even on the phone, it’s hard to find things to say. But you try your best when it’s Chinese New Year.
You see your relatives. They comment on how tall you’ve grown.
You don’t recognize half of them, but they seem keen on knowing every detail about you: Have you found somebody yet? Do you have a job? How much does it pay?
You remember this road, but was that store always there?
You get nervous butterflies when you’re finally about to enter your old home. 近乡情更怯，不敢问来人。Huh, so the old poets had a point after all.
Your mother is in the kitchen. Your father is drinking tea on the balcony. They look older. You don’t mention it. They rush to greet you, asking about your life. You’re fine, you say. You’re fine, you’re fine.
You eat as much as you could, but your parents tell you to eat more. You’re not used to this much affection. You don’t know how to react.
You notice your mother washing the dishes. You go up to help.
You are back in your old room, on your computer late into the night. You hear someone step in. A glass of warm milk is put on your table. You feel something rupture.
You wait until she leaves the room, lean back and stare up at the sky…
You’ve grown up.
And unfortunately, that’s all I can say for now since I’m 20 myself. I could write more but it won’t be real. (Not that this is, but it should be relatable to most).
But being Chinese is much like being anything else. You laugh when you’re happy. You cry when you’re sad. You sometimes feel like you can’t go on, but then you notice in the horizon, the clouds washing over the sunset, like the cold winter waves over the beaches of summer. And you realize how beautiful it all is and you pick yourself up and move on.”
Beautiful.
Catharsis in Commencement 