Born in America, I spoke English, not Chinese, the language
of my ancestors. When I was three, my parents flashed cards with Chinese
1 at my face, but I pushed them
2 , my mom believed I would learn
3 I was ready. But the 4 never came. On a Chinese New
Year’s Eve, my uncle spoke to me in Chinese, but all I could do was 5 at him, confused, scratching my head. "Still
can’t speak Chinese" He 6 me, "You
can’t even buy a fish in Chinatown. " "Hey,this is America, not
Chinese. I’ll get some 7 with or
without Chinese. " I replied and turned to my mom for
8 . "Remember to ask for fresh fish, Xin
Xian Yu," she said, handing over a ＄20 bill. I 9
the words running downstairs into the streets of
Chinatown. I found the fish 10
surrounded in a sea of customers. "I’d like to buy some fresh
fish," I shout to the fishman. But he 11 my English words and turned to serve the next customer. The laugh of the
people behind increased 12 their
impatience. Withevery 13 , the breath
of the dragons (龙)on my back grew stronger—my blood boiling—
14 me to cry out. "Xian ShengYu, please Very Xian
Sheng," I repeated. The crowd erupted into laughter. My face turned 15 and I ran back home
16 , except for the ＄20 bill I held tightly in my
pocket. Should I laugh or cry They’re Chinese. I should feel
right at 17 . Instead, I was the joke,
a disgrace (丢脸) to the language. Sometimes, I laugh at my fish
18 , but in the end, the joke is on
19 . Every laugh is a culture 20 ; every laugh is my heritage (传统) fading
away.