One of the earliest and most vivid memories I have is of my being bullied. 

I was five years old, and I was at a gurdwara (a Sikh temple) for a summer camp. Linking arms with my cousin, we walked amongst the crowd of kids into the room. I scanned the room, taking in every detail with wide eyes. I had never been inside there without my parents, and with the room filled with kids, it had been completely transformed. The area seemed open, spacious, and full of possibilities—good or bad, though, had yet to be clear.

We skipped to an empty spot and hurriedly sat down. Scooting closer to the safety of my cousin, I shyly peeked over at the girl sitting next to me. With a jolt of excitement, I remembered that I had heard some other kids call her “Jasmine”. I had never met anyone else with the same name as me before! Drawing my eyes up to hers, I found that she looked older, and… was looking straight at me? She then asked me something in Punjabi. Confused, I tilted my head and looked at my cousin, my eyes asking her to translate it for me. But before she could, the older girl made a noise of surprise and asked, incredulously, “You don’t know Punjabi?” 

I turned back around, and was greeted with the sight of her eyebrows up so high it almost disappeared under her thick hair. I shook my head, folding in on myself with a thread of shame. I had heard the same question from my great-aunts, great-uncles, and friends of my grandparents. 

The other Jasmine scoffed, and asked me, “Are you even Indian?” 

I flinched. Even being five, that still hurt. It made me feel like I was wrongly impersonating someone, and it gave an opening for some insecurity to worm its way in. Hesitating, I said, “Well, I’m Chinese and-”

But before I could say that I was Chinese and Indian, she jumped up and ran to an adult, pointing at me and loudly saying, “She’s not Indian, she’s Chinese!”

That was the first time I realized the difficulties of being a child of two different cultures. 

Over the years, I have witnessed people looking surprised at the fact that my Chinese mother was the mother of an Indian-looking child. I have had my cousins ignore me and older relatives yell at me because I cut my hair, which is forbidden to do in their religion. In school, I would see Chinese-looking kids speak Mandarin, and Indian-looking kids speak Hindi. Some of the latter would approach me and ask what Indian languages I speak, to which I would have to respond with, “I don’t speak any Indian languages; I speak Mandarin.”

These interactions, especially ones like the summer camp example, have always made me feel a little out of place, as if I don’t belong to either culture. Specifically, for me, the main barrier seemed to be the languages. In my experience, if you speak the language, it helps you better fit into the culture, because communication is, most times, key. Throughout the past few years, though, I have discovered that not knowing a language isn’t some horrible thing, as languages aren’t a mandatory requirement for people to be included in a culture. I have also come to understand that only knowing Chinese and not Punjabi or Hindi doesn’t mean I’m betraying my Indian heritage. 

I have applied this realization to how I behave nowadays, too. I’m no longer shackled by the fact that I am not just Indian, or not just Chinese, but instead I’m learning to embrace that fact—that I’m just the amalgamation of both cultures. And although I’ve been learning Mandarin for around eight years, and my level is one of a third-grader’s. I’m more focused on learning it than I have ever been before. I’m also trying to learn Punjabi—not just to fit into the culture, but to also enjoy the language itself.