Since infancy, whenever I went out with my mother, others would see a young Chinese girl accompanied by a tall middle-aged Caucasian woman.  I am adopted (a result of China’s “one child policy”) but culturally identify 100% as an American.  In the summer between fourth and fifth grade my mother, after reading many parenting books, decided to bring me back to China.  Her reasoning was that it would allow me to get to know my birth culture and I would perhaps find comfort in the experience of being around people who looked like me.  We joined a program that lasted three weeks: two were spent in Beijing, where we learned to speak Chinese with other adoptive families and saw all the biggest tourist attractions.  For the final week each family split up and traveled to the child’s respective hometown, making sure to visit the local orphanage.

You’d think visiting the orphanage would bring up a surge of emotion and leave a lasting impression, but it was my daily interactions with the Chinese people that stuck with me.  Everywhere we went we were a spectacle.  The trip took place before the Beijing Olympics when China was still emerging from its long isolation.  A group of white people invited stares and questions.  Naturally the Chinese people, noticing the foreigners, would come up to us children and question us in Chinese.  I couldn’t understand a word they said and I remember being not only apologetic at their disappointment but also feeling confused and startled by their assumed familiarity.  This happened everywhere we went and was often only sorted out when our translator stepped in. On the streets, our group was constantly stared at and harassed by beggars who associated white skin with generosity and wealth.  This meant that we were treated like celebrities at the local restaurants; servers frequently brought out foods that were not on the menu.  The cooks clearly wanted to show us the best China had to offer and I could tell that they, like any Italian grandmother, took deep satisfaction in watching our eyes roll back in enjoyment.

Despite the many daily activities, I found time to swim at the local pool with Mimi, a Chinese-American adoptee friend I had made.  My mom later told me that a friend of our translator, not realizing we were in her program, examined us saying, “Those two children look Chinese and yet aren’t Chinese.” He noticed that Mimi and I were doing underwater handstands and splashing while the other children swam laps; In China, playing at our level of noise and spontaneity was restricted to toddlers and babies.  Together Mimi and I stood out more than I did by myself, even among Westerners.  As we rode the elevator back to the hotel room a middle-aged British man overheard our conversation and profusely praised our English.  Now I can understand his assumption: Asian-looking people you see in China are native Chinese speakers.  At the time his approval of my English felt odd and alienating; apparently I was an anomaly to everyone.

Once we had traveled away from Beijing, on our way to my hometown, I began to interact with other Chinese kids. The train we took was packed to bursting.  The strategy of the railroad company seemed to be to sell as many tickets as possible regardless of any fire code or number of seats available.  Although my mother and I were traveling alone we drew the usual crowd.  As it happened, this was a vacation week, so most of the passengers were school teachers and children going out to the countryside for a respite from the heat of the city.  To pass the time my mother had brought travel-sized Connect Four, a tic-tac-toe-type game, and since the concept was simple enough I soon found myself competing against all the other children who’d been drawn by the sight of the game.  After our translator explained the rules the parents would push a child forward to take on the American.  I won most of the time, since I was the most familiar with Connect Four.  Some parents took pleasure in simply watching the game play out, happy to be entertained during the uncomfortable ride; others expressed frustration when their child lost.  One man even dared to insult me calling me Japanese. It was in this environment that I felt the most comfortable.  I wasn’t being treated like a foreigner but like an equal.  No one was bending over backward to show us a good time or pestering me with questions I couldn’t understand.  There was no conversation: the onlookers were in rapt attention, their love of amicable competition transcending the barriers of language and culture.  All the parents, not least my mother, shared in the universal experience of rooting for their own child.  In rural China, where English was non-existent and white skin still exotic, I felt we were understood.