Empty lanterns hang outside in Old Town, Shanghai.
Growing up Asian American has been a lonely experience for me as a second-generation and only child.
My mom’s side of the family has all stayed in China, with both of my cousins growing up in Beijing, countless generations preceding them. I spent my summers with my extended family in Beijing during my childhood, but when COVID spread around the world in 2020, I couldn’t return for several years.
This winter break was my first time returning after five years, and I was left finding my place, having grown into my Asian American identity and relearning how to communicate in my rusting Mandarin. There were aspects I found familiar like I had never left, and other facets that made me feel as if this homeland was foreign to me. Both are true in their own right, and in that process, I documented my trip as a way to rely on a medium that feels native.
Sunset hour lands outside Shentangyucun. The mountains are lined with the Great Wall, lit up for New Year’s Eve. I see my grandfather, grandmother, uncle and youngest cousin for the first time in five years; it seems to make the sunset more beautiful.Three generations of my family play mahjong on New Year’s Eve in Beijing. After photographing a little bit, I reluctantly joined and learned myself. Moments like these remind me of the dissonance of my upbringing in America as opposed to my cousins in China.As my mom and I wander down streets of little shops, I stop and admire the black vinegar-pickled garlic I grew up eating.I look for koi in Old Town, Shanghai, and think of my uncle’s koi pond outside his house.Passing by more shops, I stop to watch the ladies hand pulling noodles. I wonder how I would be different if I grew up amongst my cultural food — I was often chastised by classmates when I brought in homemade meals that looked and smelled different.Two women sit behind their selection of cured meats and zongzi, sticky rice dumplings with sweet or salty fillings. The cities of Beijing and Shanghai are as busy as ever, almost as if the no-COVID policies were a distant memory rather than just a year ago.I came back to the U.S. with my first qipao, to which my mom asked when I’d wear it. I ask that question myself, finding it sometimes difficult to etch a place for my culture and identity.A wall and wood-crafted ceiling of love notes dangles in the midafternoon. The sky is clear and sunny, but the polluted air is still noticeable in my lungs.
