Between Two Worlds

Between Two Worlds: My Journey as an Asian American in Rural South Carolina

Growing up as an Asian American in rural South Carolina meant living in a constant state of in-between. Neither here nor there. Too Asian to be American, too American to be Asian. My identity was a complicated puzzle with pieces that never quite fit together, no matter how hard I tried to force them.

Roots and Wings

In 1988, my parents arrived in the United States with dreams bigger than their suitcases could hold. They believed in the promise of America—opportunity, education, a better life for their future children. They settled in a small town in South Carolina where farmland stretched toward the horizon, a landscape vastly different from what they had known back home, constantly reminding them of just how far they had traveled.

I was born into this duality. At home, we primarily spoke Cantonese—its tones and rhythms forming the soundtrack of our family life. We removed our shoes at the door and ate foods that filled our house with aromas unfamiliar to my classmates: steamed rice, sesame oil, and soy sauce replacing the scents of vinegar-based barbecue and fried foods that permeated the air outside our home.

But step outside, and everything changed. English became my armor, my passport to acceptance. I learned to code-switch before I even knew what that meant—transforming my language, my food preferences, my very being to fit into spaces that weren't designed for people who looked like me.

The Constant Question: "Where Are You Really From?"

"South Carolina" was never the right answer. The question always came with an unspoken expectation that I should name some distant foreign country—a place I had only visited in family stories or brief summer trips. How do you explain that you can be from ‘here’ while still carrying the ‘elsewhere’ in your blood?

In school, I oscillated between invisibility and hypervisibility. Invisible when it came to representation in textbooks, movies, or leadership positions. Hypervisible when it came to stereotypes—the assumed math and science genius, the perpetual foreigner, the exotic “other”.

Food became a daily reminder of my difference. While classmates unwrapped peanut butter sandwiches and traded Lunchables, I would carefully open containers of leftover stir-fry or dumplings. "What's THAT?" became a question I dreaded at lunch tables. Some days I wished desperately for the typical American foods that wouldn't draw stares or judgemental questions. Other days, I fiercely defended my mother's cooking as superior to anything packaged in plastic trays, even as I felt the weight of being different with every bite.

Language created another divide. In the hallways and classrooms, my English was flawless—sometimes deliberately more polished than my peers', as if perfect grammar could somehow make me more American. Then I'd return home to Cantonese conversations with my parents, my tongue sometimes tripping over words I should know but had begun to forget, creating a growing gap between the person I was becoming and the heritage I was expected to maintain.

A Moment of Fracture

Of all the memories that haunt me from my upbringing, one stands out with particular clarity and pain. A memory that I continue to reflect on with regret and guilt to this very day. I was in high school, playing football—that quintessentially American sport I had embraced partly out of passion, partly out of a desperate desire to belong and prove others wrong. My parents owned a small Chinese restaurant in town, which meant their schedules rarely aligned with my games or other school events. But despite the demands of running their small business, they always made sure that at least one of them was there to support me—my mom slipping away during the dinner rush or my dad opening late the next day to recover from staying out to cheer me on. Their dedication never wavered. This one night, however, was different.

Both of my parents had managed to close early to come watch me play, a rare occurrence they had planned as a surprise. I didn't know until after the final whistle, when I saw them rushing onto the field along with the other parents. They were beaming with pride, calling to me in Cantonese, their voices carrying across the field. Yet in that moment, all I felt was shame and embarrassment.

"Shh, not so loud," I hissed, switching to English. "Everyone can hear you. Can you just speak English? Please." The words came out harsh, dismissive. I remember the light dimming in their eyes, how quickly their smiles faded, but I was just too consumed with what my teammates might think to fully register what I'd done.

It wasn't until later that night, passing by their bedroom, that I heard the muffled sounds of crying. I paused at the door, my heart sinking as I realized they were crying because of me—because I had been ashamed of them, ashamed of our language, ashamed of the very thing that connected us.

That moment crystallized the pain my identity crisis had wrought. In trying so desperately to fit in with one world, I had deeply hurt the people who had sacrificed everything to give me the opportunity to straddle both. My parents, who had given up their homeland, family connections, and the comfort of cultural familiarity in China—to build a new life in the US. My parents, who worked grueling hours in their restaurant and weathered far greater prejudice than I could ever imagine, deserved better.

The shame of that moment 17 years ago has never truly left me. It follows me like a shadow, a persistent reminder of how deeply I wounded my parents in my desperate attempt to belong elsewhere. Even now, years later, I can still see their faces crumpling, still hear the muffled sobs through their bedroom door. That night carved a deeper divide in my already split identity, creating a wound that I've acknowledged but never fully healed from—a scar I carry as both a burden and a lesson.

Ongoing Reconciliation

The journey toward reconciling the various parts of myself still isn’t complete and is an ongoing process. An ongoing process that led to many revelations: reflecting on my most painful memories in therapy, discovering Asian American authors whose words felt like finding home on a page; connecting with other children of immigrants who understood the untranslatable feelings; learning to speak about my experiences without apology or dilution.

I’ve finally begun to see that my identity wasn't fractured—it was fluid. The very in-betweenness I had struggled against became my strength, my superpower. I have the ability to bridge worlds, translate experiences, and hold multiple truths simultaneously. 

Reclaiming My Narrative

Today, I understand that my story is distinctly American precisely because it doesn't fit the narrow definition many hold of what "American" looks like. My experience in rural South Carolina—with all its complexities, contradictions, and painful moments—belongs in the tapestry of American stories.

The regret I carried for so long has transformed into something else: a determination to speak honestly about the complexity of belonging. To create space for others who might recognize themselves in my journey.

Because ultimately, identity isn't something to resolve or simplify—it's something to embrace in all its beautiful, messy complexity.