Girl in Pieces

Graphic by Christina Hara.

It’s a shock to many people when I tell them I don’t know how to speak Chinese, considering I am Chinese.

It’s something I’ve gotten used to, and over the years, I have perfected my response to those questions. The fact is, I’ve never been exposed to the language or the culture in depth. I’m adopted, and in my nineteen years of life so far, I’ve barely scratched the surface of my culture, where I come from, and “who I am.”

For the longest time, I thought having an identity came from your parents, and you shared it in your bloodstream.

Was I another angsty teen going through the typical identity crisis that hits when you reach the ripe age of wanting to suck the marrow out of life but not knowing how? Or was it something deeper, something I couldn’t put into words, but wished others could step into my body to feel the way I do whenever I’m standing amidst a crowd of people that look like me — yet the most we have in common is physical features?

I believed that because of who your parents were, they were also a part of you.

I always thought that I didn’t know who I was or who I was supposed to be, all because I had no idea who my biological parents were. I blamed my nameless parents for me not having an identity or sense of self; because what is the sense of self if not tied to the people who raised you and shared your DNA? When you are born into this world you don’t just inherit the looks, or even the personality, of those that bore you. You inherit their flaws, insecurities, strengths, and moments of success. You inherit everything they once were at your age, and everything they wished to achieve but never did.

You are the person to carry on the legacy left behind by those older, and wiser.

Growing up, I felt a piece of myself was missing, but I would always disregard my thoughts by thinking, “How can you miss something you never had? How can you miss someone you’ve never met?” I feel like when I talk about my past, it’s me not appreciating my present or my future. I never wanted to seem ungrateful, but I didn’t want to die knowing I had questions left unanswered, or my story left unfinished. How silly to think only a single writer writes a story, foolishly not giving credit to the editors and the publishers who put in the work behind the scenes. 

I am not who I am solely by being me, I have had help and guidance — both positive and negative — to craft me into the human I present myself as today.

I shouldn’t have to shoulder the burden of crafting the perfect piece of literature that is my life on my own.

Others will come and go as life gives and takes, but I know my story is far from over. 

I’ve always felt it was important to know who I am and get closure for a chapter of my life that I didn’t even write. I’d ask myself before I went to sleep why I was so unlovable that my parents decided not to keep me. Things have changed since those late nights, and I’ve learned about the terrible things that occurred in China that affected my life and my future. Why were things I wasn’t even present for affecting me so strongly to the present?

Where was the fairness in that cruel act? 

I feel like I could blame a lot of things on China’s “One Child Policy,” and of course, there will always be a piece of me I’ll never reclaim. The tiniest fraction of myself was stolen when I was still a baby. But I won’t let it define me, I will not attach my identity and worth to one moment in time when I have the rest of my life ahead of me. I know harboring feelings of resentment and regret will only alienate me from reconnecting with my past and push me farther away from my goal. A goal of creating a future where I won’t grimace in a crowded room or be bombarded with questions I don’t have the luxury of finding the answers to. 

Writing has always been a hobby of mine. I can travel around the world and share stories of cultures and societies that people would not be able to learn about otherwise.

Because of the way adoption is stigmatized and not fully understood by the broader population, how it is talked about, seen, and regarded needs to change.

I want people to see the good and the bad, how humans interact with one another, and why we do what we do. Part of life is capturing the good, bad, and ugly; and it hurts, but life has never been forgiving.

I always thought my identity was being a baby girl adopted from China, but it’s only one piece of the puzzle of who I am: I’m a daughter who wants her adopted parents to know just how much she appreciates and loves them, a big sister who would defend my sibling to the grave, a student who constantly asks questions and seeks to figure out what the purpose of things is, a former dancer whose worries would dissipate after performing on a stage in front of hundreds, a friend who would drop everything for another friend — and more.

I wish I could say I was always confident in my identity, but that isn't the case.

This is a fresh development, a new lesson I’ve been exploring and learning from. I realized identity is something that can shift and grow over time. Your identity isn’t just one label that you’re branded and stuck with for the rest of your life; in fact, I try to be a different person every day.

I try to be a better person than I was the previous day; and because of that one small aspect, my identity keeps evolving. I never want to put myself in a box, and say just because I don’t know my birth parents I don't deserve to build something for myself.

I can’t fix the past, and I’m starting to come to a firm conclusion: why would I want to?

But I do have the capability, drive, and most importantly, the heart to better my future. 

I know that figuring out who I am and what I’m meant to do is far from over, but each new day is an opportunity for me to recreate myself and learn. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that it is never too late to find yourself, and choose yourself again, and again, and again.