My Story as a Chinese-American

It’s a bit ironic that my journey into understanding the depth and global influence of Chinese history and arts began not in China but while living abroad and traveling across the UK and Europe. In my essays I’ll write about those learnings but in this introduction I will dive into my story of being Chinese-American. I hope there are some common threads similar to yours but also hope we can embark on this journey together to discover and learn more about the history, heritage, roots and the many threads in between.

My name is Annie Lin. I was born and raised in New York and currently live in London. My name is simple, not that I want it to be, but it is quite literally, short and simple. “An” means “safe,” and “ni” refers to a young girl. “Lin” directly translates to “forest”, a word and history I’ll explore more in a later essay. So altogether, my first name means “Safe Young Girl.”

The immigration story of the Chinese to America in the 20th and 21st centuries is one many in the United States are familiar with. My parents, Ci Guang Lin and Lan Jin Guo, immigrated to the U.S. on January 20, 1989. Like many Chinese at the time, they were seeking better economic opportunities, chasing their own version of the American Dream and on a path that was uncertain but full of hope.

Mom and Dad didn’t have it easy. They worked hard, extremely hard, like so many immigrants do. They spent long days and nights working in a Chinese restaurant, living in cramped dormitory-style apartment with a dozen other young Chinese immigrants who were all on a similar journey, hoping to carve out a future in this new land called Mei Guo “beautiful country”

They came from Fuzhou, Fujian- a place known for producing entrepreneurs / business owners. There’s also a rich historic context which I plan to dive into at a later time. It’s no surprise then, that my parents eventually worked their way up, saved enough, and dreamed big enough to own a restaurant of their own and later, several other businesses.

I grew up in a big, vibrant and hard-working family. With Mom and Dad working six days a week, often 18-hour days, parenting responsibilities some times fell to my older brother, my da ge, Wei Lin. Ten years older than me and born during China’s one-child policy, he was a teenager tasked with watching over his younger siblings: Jenny, also known as “Pearl Little Girl,” me, “Safe Little Girl,” and our youngest brother Henry, or Hen Li Jia Cheng (his name is purposeful and certainly not simple, I’ll explore the weight of naming sons in Chinese families another time).

Our household was loud, bustling, and full of energy. From a young age, we were constantly in and out of our family’s restaurants, cafes and warehouses. We had a front-row seat to the hustle… watching and learning from the adults who ran and worked at those establishments. I was always the curious, noisy one. I’d often found my way into the middle of conversations about finances, business decisions and the many struggles my parents faced.

Being a “Lin” came with a sense of duty and pride. That was something my family, especially my father made sure we learned. We were taught to be proud of our heritage and our roots. But I’ll be honest, it wasn’t always that way. Like many children of immigrants, I went through a phase where I felt disconnected from and even embarrassed by my culture. In the New York of the ’90s and early 2000s, being Chinese wasn’t considered “cool.” Our food was weird, our people too loud and our customs too foreign.

Thankfully, that sense of shame didn’t last long. I was lucky… I grew up seeing and living in both parts of the world. The Chinese-American experience in New York and the Chinese experience in China. In hindsight, that was a big privilege. It became a turning point in how I saw myself, where I came from and what shaped my cultural identity.

In 2001, I traveled to Fuzhou with my older sister, da jie, Pearl Little Girl. We spent the summer with our paternal grandparents, maternal aunt and maternal grandmother. It was truly magnificent but strange at first. I stepped into the country of my ancestors and surprised to find myself in a sea of faces that looked just like mine and all speaking the same language my parents speak at home. It was surreal but deeply grounding at the same time.

I was lucky to return again and again. Throughout my teenage years, I spent almost every summer in China. While I was a Chinese-American in New York, in Fuzhou, I was American-Chinese. I felt at home. I listened to Asian music, spoke in Mandarin, bargained with street vendors across markets in China. I belonged.

Between 2007 and 2010, as I was growing up, so was China… right before my eyes. In 2007, I was living in China the summer before the 2008 Beijing Olympics. I watched the country’s skyline and spirit transform in real time. I didn’t realize it then, but China was stepping onto the international stage. It was like a rising phoenix. Perhaps I began a metamorphosis along with it.

In August 2008, my sister and I were staying in Nanjing, one of China’s ancient capitals. We didn’t attend the Olympics in Beijing, but it didn’t matter. The entire country was buzzing. It was as if we were riding a wave, gathering momentum, then cresting at the very top. The street filled with traditional decorations, the Beijing Fuwas (five cute, yet symbolic mascots during the Olympics) and the “Beijing Welcomes You” song playing all over the radios across the city.

Those summers gave me a deeper understanding of and connection to China. This was an understanding I never would’ve gained had I only lived in New York. When classmates or strangers made fun of Chinese culture, called it backward or strange, I knew, deep down, that wasn’t my truth. I had lived it. I had seen its vibrance and its complexity. I started to develop my very own point of view.