Tenseless, untenable

Kind of chaos

Admitting that I want to be a writer frightens me because it feels as though I would have to relinquish my own temporality.
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Recognizing my white privilege

The Half of It

As I unpack the implications of doing racial justice work as a white-passing womxn, I realize that recognizing my white privilege does not invalidate my identity as a Chinese womxn and a person of color.
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Dumplings full of culture

The Half of It

The childhood memories associated with food always remind me of the significance of my Chinese heritage that is erased because I’m mixed. Even when the world may not perceive me as Chinese, these memories of cooking with family and friends affirm my connection to China.
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Becoming Jewish

The Half of It

Coming to terms with a cultural and religious identity is a long process, but I’m determined not to let anyone else’s perception of Jewishness dictate how I define my Judaism.
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Chinese enough

The Half of It

I realized, walking through the streets of old Guangzhou, that China is my home. There’s no one way to “look” Chinese or be Chinese, and that any way I feel is true to me should be sufficient for everybody else.
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Not your exotic trophy

The Half of It

But I am not a doll for anyone to parade around and brag about. I am not a dish spiced mildly enough to round out a white man’s palate without challenging his Eurocentric views.
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The names they’ve called me

The Half of It

“Oh God, not again,” I thought to myself as a new Tinder match messaged me. “So… what are you?” I could honestly make a living from charging $5 every time I’ve been asked this question. My ethnic ambiguity is so confusing to people that they feel entitled to know exactly
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Call me by my (full) name

The Half of It

Learning to embrace my name has been a constant struggle. In both China and America, people attempt to use modified versions of my full name to make me palatable. I no longer, however, am compelled to break myself into pieces to fit in. Both my Chinese and Jewish-American heritages are central to my identity.
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Model Minority

Cal in Color

Seared into my memory is the first time I fought with my friends. We were in ninth-grade world history when my friend offhandedly joked, “Yeah, but Rona’s Asian and has a big house, so she wouldn’t get what we’re going through.” “Excuse me?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
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