My interests and subsequent jobs were difficult to explain to non-speaking Chinese relatives. For example, there was no equivalent at the time for a “nonprofit,” which became directly translated in Chinese as a “no money business.” Not exactly something my parents wanted to boast about to Chinese friends. Instead, my parents introduced me as their “Harvard Missionary Girl.” After I won local public office, I became a “village unit leader.” Since I was interested in health and  sustainability, my mother nicknamed me a “tree-hugger” and “greenhead.”  In light of Chinese tradition and sexism, I felt very lucky. My parents gave me choices and the support to create my own destiny.

Growing up in the Deep South in the 1970’s, my family and childhood experiences seemed ahead of the curve in a lot of ways–settling in the city before it was Hot ‘Lanta; opening the first Chinese restaurant in a mall and being the first to use a steam table; turning chicken wings from being meat discards to a national fast food trend (sweet and spicy Asian wings); teaching Chinese cooking when soy sauce was not available in the local grocery store and wonton soup was considered exotic; having friends from different backgrounds when racial tensions kept some groups separate.

Being in front meant sometimes taking the brunt — of resistance, stereotypes and glass ceilings. Being the first also meant opportunity, innovation and resourcefulness. We were met with a mixture of curiosity, novelty, envy, friendliness and suspicion.

As an Asian American kid growing in the Deep South, being different was positive and negative.  I felt special and excluded at the same time.  I had friends but never felt like I belonged. I was a pretty girl but never got asked out. I tried to adopt American fashion and looks but still got called a chink. I got mostly A’s but had to study hard and was no Asian whiz kid. I hated the prejudices between blacks and whites, Asians and blacks, Chinese and Japanese, but didn’t know how to confront it or my own biases.

These were formative years that laid the foundation for my career path and graduate work in social justice and multicultural relations, and ultimately, my decision to return home to Atlanta to start a family history project and new business. The scars would become strengths and the stories would become insights for celebrating and appreciating culture and community…

Sister Fun(Smyrna, GA)

Some memorable cross-cultural bloopers and funnies heard in our family:

* Who’s at the door? “Look through the pee hole and check who it is.” (peep hole)

* Where’s Frank? “He’s downstairs getting ready. He takes a long time pimping himself!” (primping)

* “We used to have an old Volkswagon Beetle so I know how to drive a car with a stick and a crutch!” (clutch)

* While reading People magazine, “I can’t believe Angelini and the Pitts are trying to have another baby!” and “I think Bandino is very hot [Antonio Banderas]!” (Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt)

* As my sister was putting tokens in and ushering her kids through the subway turnstile, she waved quickly to her last little one to go through saying, “Hurry up, go, you’re free!” Reluctantly, the child slid under but not without protesting, “But mommy, I’m four!”

As I watched the Winter Olympics in Vancouver, it brought back my memories of taking ice skating lessons when I was a little girl in the 1970’s at Ice Land skating rink in Smyrna, GA. My jacket was adorned with dozens of skating patches and sometimes I walked around in my skates at our restaurant at Cumberland Mall!  I remember the smell of the ice arena, a mixture of exhaust fumes from the Zamboni rink machine, cork flooring and popcorn.

I liked the skating but dreaded the social atmosphere. Some of the girls were mean-spirited and snooty. They would call me names and poke fun of my clothes and gear. I wore pants instead of a skating dress and carried stuff in my dad’s old bowling ball bag. Perhaps hip now, but not cool then! I was also the last one in my group to move off of worn, brown suede rental skates. I dreamed about the day I would lace up white skates, of any brand, and I had my eye on a pair in the Sears Roebuck catalog. The skates in the skate shop were completely out of the question, costing ten times more.  The day came when Santa granted my wish on my birthday!

Years later at Vassar College, I had the opportunity to fulfill another dream – to skate like Hans Christian Andersen, outdoors on a frozen lake or river! It wasn’t smooth and I tripped on a few ice bumps and frozen branches, but it was exhilarating!

Growing Up All (Asian)-American

Cuttlefish jerky. Blood cake. Grass jelly. Beef essence. Beancurd dregs. Love jade jello. I’ve eaten all of these products and while the translation may torture product marketers, they’re some of my favorite snacks and double as great band names!

Being a Chinese Southern Belle, we spoke “Chenglish” sometimes and I’ve heard my share of American idioms gone awry, non-translatable Chinese jokes, Mandarin with a southern twang and different variations of pidgin English. While traveling in Asia, I came across some funny messages: “Salute to the tourists who keep the public hygience;” “The civilized and tidy circumstance is a kind of enjoyment;” and “Heaven destroys CCP.” What we would have called smog, was referred to as “fog” by locals in Shanghai. Hmmm….

In the spirit of Reader’s Digest and Laughter is the Best Medicine, which I grew up reading, here are a couple amusing anecdotes from our family:

“GOU, not GO!”
My sisters came home looking worried and sullen. “We wrecked Mom’s car,” said Leigh. “It was your fault. You were driving!” blurted Pearl. Leigh glared and quickly defended, “But you told me to GO!” “No,” Pearl clarified. “I said ‘GOU’ in Chinese which means ‘enough’ because we were sitting in traffic, you were distracted and our car was sliding forward. I told you, ‘enough,’ because we’re about to slide into the car in front of us!” Well, they both got grounded and as mad as my parents were about a totaled car, they couldn’t help but shake their heads and chuckle in disbelief over the bilingual mishap.

The Pants Story
We hung out a lot at Cumberland Mall growing up since that’s where our family restaurant and jade store were located. My sisters and I worked at the restaurant and often went shopping on our breaks. One day, Pearl came back to the restaurant, out of breath, and asked my dad to loan her some money, fast. “What for?” replied my dad. In Chinese, she said, “I don’t have time to explain, they’re holding my pants!” My nai-nai (grandmother on the father’s side), who didn’t speak English, overheard this and laughed in puzzlement. Well, in Chinese, “they’re holding my pants” means…they’re holding your pants! Later, my dad explained the concept of “layaway” to granny!

Stay tuned for more “Lost in Translation” tales….