Over the past few days (or years, rather), I’ve struggled with understanding the differences among Chinese-American communities and whether or not there is such a thing as a pan-Chinese identity or even one definitive Chinese-American identity.  Oddly enough, I cannot define Chinese-American identity, and more often than not, I see the Chinese-American identity being lumped under Asian American identity.  After reading Aihwa Ong’s article on “Cyberpublics and Diaspora Politics,” I recognize that there’s a difference in those who perceive themselves as members of the Chinese diaspora–”diaspora” in the traditional sense of the word, where previous or historic exile or the inability to return home is connoted–and those who fall into the contemporary Chinese transnational community–”transnational” in the sense that there are constant cross-border flows.

But while Ong argues that “transnational communities” encompass both the descendants of traditional diasporic communities and members of contemporary transnational communities, I would argue that there is a clear difference in identity among members of the Chinese-American community.  However, the result of the influx of recent Chinese immigrants, who are often times professionals in search of economic opportunity, has led to a common perception of Chinese-American identity that is not at all representative of the entire Chinese-American community.  Furthermore, the disproportional representation has not only further contributed to the myth of the model minority but has created an unrepresentative hierarchy of authenticity defined by socioeconomic power among Chinese-Americans.

In scenes of Americana, one might have seen the earlier immigrant making way for the American identity and letting go of the old.  Just a few generations ago, it was a mark of pride–an expectation–for one’s child to speak English, to socialize with American friends, to wear American fashion, to aspire to become an American.  Generations ago, Chinese immigrants might have looked forward to the idea of a new identity, a new life for their children who would be born as Americans.

Or, in my family’s case, we were already Chinese on the move; for the last three or four generations, none of us have been born in the same country.  And on top of it, my family had not hailed from the most glamorous of histories or the wealthiest of countries.  My father’s family had fled China when the Communists came, and they were never able to see China’s rise or its glory days.  My mother’s family had moved from India to Pakistan, making a living from selling homemade noodles and sauces.  They were not well-connected individuals or government officials; they were simply another poor Hakka Chinese family looking for work and a new life.  My family’s story is no different from that of many other diaspora Chinese, and I would argue that many diaspora Chinese families embrace assimilation as a rite of passage for immigrant children.  However, our stories no longer define the predominant conception of Chinese-American identity.

Taking on an American identity seems to invariably mean a trade-off of one’s Chinese identity for the American identity.  That being said, bilingualism has become a huge marker of maintaining one’s Chinese authenticity and has permeated into the predominant conception of what it means to be Chinese-American.  In particular, there is greater authenticity attached to speaking Mandarin.  Those who speak only other dialects rather than Mandarin are oddly not quite “Chinese enough,” even though Cantonese,

okkien, Chaozhouhua, Taiwanese, and Hakka are definitely major Chinese dialects and languages spoken among the Chinese diaspora.  Among the Chinese-American community, a huge emphasis has been placed on Chinese schools where Mandarin is the language of instruction and extra-curricular classes, such as SAT prep, instrument instruction, ballet and martial arts–all of which are classes that are perhaps more valued by a certain socioeconomically secure class of Chinese-Americans and Chinese immigrants.

As a child, I attended one of these Chinese schools for a year or two to learn Mandarin, even though all of my family members spoke Hakka.  I remember asking my father why I had to learn Mandarin instead of Hakka, and his response was, “No one speaks our language.  Mandarin is more useful, more powerful.”

It was at this school that I realize that there was a difference–an us and them, a power structure–even among Chinese-Americans, and a lot of it was so based on bilingualism and the identity attached to one’s bilingualism.  Most of my bilingual classmates’ parents were highly educated engineers or doctors or researchers; neither of my parents had finished high school and instead owned a Chinese-American restaurant (it would have been impossible to find any other profitable work that would support three children).  My classmates excelled in math and science and had supplementary classes because they flew through their school work so well; I struggled with almost every subject except English.  But most importantly, I did not speak Chinese–Mandarin, that is.  The fact that I didn’t speak Mandarin seemed to offset all my other “flaws,” making me a Twinkie.

What gives bilingual Chinese-Americans the power and privilege to call others Twinkies?   On the surface, the obvious answer seems to point out that one group speaks Mandarin while the other does not.  But I would argue that there’s certainly power that comes with the ability to speak a dominant language.  In retrospect, Chinese school was not  just extra-curricular; it was an attempt to maintain a sort of Chinese authenticity in the Chinese-American identity.  And for those of us who do not maintain or conform to that “authenticity,” we are condemned to being Twinkies, ABCs, bananas, white-washed.

And yet, so many of us non-Mandarin-speakers make up the global Chinese diaspora–and yes, that’s diaspora in the traditional sense of the word.  We come from backgrounds of exile, refugeeism, human trafficking, situations that truly force individuals to push aside the question of “authentic” identity to make room for assimilation in order to survive.  Language may be lost, but memories and history are not.  However, that seems to be such a small factor as the Chinese-American identity becomes increasingly and disproportionately defined by the more contemporary transnational Chinese-American community.  And as the two communities meld together to comprise the Chinese-American community, I can’t help but feel that something is lost in the process.