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