Finding X (finding Nemo)

Find "x".  This phrase doesn't just serve as race's stigmatized mantra, but also as my heritage.  That elusive "x" is attached to my identity—both literally and figuratively.

It represents thousands of years and countless generations that have overcome economic and political turmoil.  It represents my yéyé, who once headed a company, yet now struggles to remember his own address.  It represents my wàigōng, whose legacy lives far beyond the grave in all the lives he's saved.  It represents my father, whose calloused hands tell a story of his pre-American lifestyle; from the hard, physical work he did on a countryside farm to the quick-thinking he used while driving a military ambulance—unlike the busy streets of Beijing where he studied, or to the United Nations where he worked—he's truly done it all.  It represents my mother, who has a scar on her right hand from the time she had to build her own school, who raised her younger sister while their parents were working all day and night at a hospital, who tells hilarious tales of the time she gorged herself on crates upon crates of the most delicious grapes imaginable.  The "x" that appears on the top corner of all my papers, my birth certificate, my driver's license...represents more than just me.  It references all these people and more; it pays tribute to every sacrifice and accomplishment others have done to get me where I am today.

But it's more than even that.  In a paradoxical way, nothing represents my American heritage more than my Chinese name.  Like I said, "x" tells a story—one that wouldn't be complete without addressing my parents' immigration to a land "where it is possible to start anew; where it is possible to escape the rivalries of the Capulets and the McCoys."  It tells a story of the clash between stingy communism and careless capitalism...

It tells a story of how my mom cuts her own hair, a post-communist frugality present decades later.  It tells a story of the stoicism and the "I love you"s that are as wrapped up and hidden like the meat of homemade dumplings.  It tells a story of my frigid house temperatures in the winter ("just wear more clothing!") and sticky uncomfort in the summer (apparently air conditioning is for wimps).  It tells the story of Sunday Chinese school, piano lessons, and my father's obsession with succeeding in the American school system.  It tells a story of the (truly inedible) "brownies" my parents used to make without sugar because "American food is always too sweet." It tells a story of the plastic utensils my parents use and reuse.  It tells a story of eating bacon with chopsticks.  It tells a story of the empty pickle, yogurt, and cashew containers under their new identities:  sugar, sponge, and soap containers.  It tells a story of adversity.  It tells, or rather, shows, me that if my parents can start from nothing—little money, minuscule social awareness, and limited communication skills—there's no reason why I can't succeed, too.

My name gives me both the confidence of historical backing and the optimism for future endeavors.  It builds the framework of my identity and is the linking bond that reaches across thousands of miles (specifically, 7,100) and back thousands of years (specifically, 4,087).  I haven't found "x;" it's found me.

I really, really, really like this gif for some reason