It is relatively obvious my roots are Asian—Taiwanese to be more specific. But, if you get a chance to speak with me, you wouldn’t think I had a drop of Asian blood in me. I merely look the part, something that I truly regret in my life.
My Mandarin Chinese skills are quite under par with no traces of an Asian accent—which in some cases is a good thing. I don’t even celebrate the Chinese New Year—my German roommate last year had to remind me what date it was. I can’t speak to any of my grandparents because they only speak Mandarin. I regret this greatly as they probably have a lot of wisdom they could share with me personally. Despite not speaking fluent Chinese, I am still one of their favorite grandsons, which boggles my mind sometimes. To put it bluntly, I am a bad Asian.
For the past few weekends, I took a trip with a couple of my very close Muslim friends (Sadra Azizi ’09 and Abderrahmane Benghanem ’09, if you must know) to a mosque to celebrate Ramadan. I felt more comfortable in the mosque than I did at any of the large Chinese New Year parties I attended back home. The people there were very cheerful, happy to see someone like me learning about their culture first hand. Even the food was remarkable, despite my taste buds’ aversion to new foods. It was a great experience and I would not mind going again. Does this mean that I am going to convert to Islam? Slow down there, Abder. The unity among people of the same culture is precious and difficult to break.
For those who think church, prayers, fasting, and other such traditions are chores, think of it this way: These customs are what glues a family together. I cannot stress how much importance family holds, being a person who has always been apart from his family most of his life—a probable side effect of being so distant from my culture. More importantly, when all else fails, you have your roots to fall back on. This connection is stronger than most of you may think; don’t take it for granted.
