WRITING for REAL:
Writing in the Service-Learning Contact Zone

I think it would be safe to say I have a healthy glow. After all, I am a California girl. Following a few years of varsity tennis and recreational swimming, my skin shows no sign of pastiness. I never questioned my natural tan. I never thought much of my brownish, fine hair. Growing up in a multicultural suburb of Orange County, CA, I found that it did not take much to fit in. Minorities of all varieties resided in the area, and this diversity embraced all cultures. As a Chinese-American, myself, I looked forward to embracing my own culture during our family vacation to Taiwan last winter. For years, I had studied at Chinese school, and now I would have the opportunity to reconnect with my relatives, culture, and heritage. For once, despite being a tourist, I could blend in. In addition, Taiwan was the home of my parents. However, when I visited last year, I felt anything but at home.

My aunt was excited to receive us as guests. I certainly did not feel out of place at first. I recognized my relatives, and the city was simply a larger Chinatown. The cuisine reminded me of what my mother cooked at home, and there were juice bars and boba on every corner. Beyond the food and nightlife, my aunt also insisted that I take studio pictures and put together a photo album, complete with the amusing, grammatically incorrect English captions and poetry. I walked into the studio with anticipation and expectation.

Yet, I certainly did not anticipate nor expect the exclamations from the hairstylist. Wah! Ni sai le zhe me hei! She asked me why I was so dark. Frankly, she asked me why I was black. I remember looking down at my arms, seeing nothing wrong with my familiar skin tone. As she proceeded to work on my hair, she declared, Ni to fa zhe me shao! It seemed I lacked the plentiful, thick, dark, standard Asian hair; and so she affixed a wig, which would balance out my face shape, which was not round enough. My troubles continued in the dressing room, as I set about the task of selecting dresses for my photo shoot. As the assistant asked me questions about what I wanted, I smiled and replied, "It doesn't matter." Question after question, I was open to everything and often repeated, "It doesn't matter." When the assistant's eyebrows rose, however, I turned to my mother for an explanation, who laughed at me and said my choice of Chinese words translated to an indifferent "I don't care." Bu guan. Shui bien. So I realized my Chinese

was not so Chinese, after all. And then, there was still the problem of my tan skin. The makeup artist shook her head as many others did, and echoed Ni sai le zhe me hei! I bit my tongue and stood bewildered as she proceeded to paint my body with concealer and liquid foundation. Painted white, with fake hair on my head, I was finally "beautiful" for the camera.

Before that winter, my friends were always shocked to hear that I had never "been back" to Taiwan. However, I often wonder how I can return to a place to which I probably never belonged, a place where ideals and images differ, a place where my native tongue fails me. This place was a "contact zone," just one example of "social spaces where cultures meet, clash, and grapple with each other," as Mary Louise Pratt describes in "Arts of the Contact Zone" (607). While I never thought of myself as anything other than Chinese-American, my trip to Taiwan made me doubt the "Chinese" half. Despite my assumption that I would easily fit in, I was still the tourist. I did not quite blend in, and my grasp of the language was not enough to protest in defense of myself.

My family was the blueprint I built upon as a child. My parents were my first education, my first culture and lifestyle. My first words were in Chinese, and I cannot even recall a time that I did not know how to use chopsticks. And yet, I remember when I first learned to sing "America, the Beautiful" in preschool. I learned how to play "Duck, Duck, Goose" and I discovered what jeans and denim were. I also saw that the matching hot pink sweat outfits that my aunt sent me from Taiwan were not only grammatically incorrect, but fashionably out of place. Education brought about a separation in my life. The change was minute, at first, and incomprehensible to me initially. I merely saw this new half of my life as acquisition of knowledge. Academically, my English slowly replaced my Mandarin, and I brought home random trivia about the Pilgrims and the Presidents. Simultaneously, my social life changed, as I strived to fit in with my new friends. According to Richard Rodriguez, author of Hunger of Memory, this separation is a necessary one in every person's development. In order to participate in public life, we must leave home and familiar ways of communication and perception (652).

However, I never found a complete separation, as I held on to both halves of my life. I identified myself simply as Chinese-American, never realizing for most of my childhood that the hyphen between these two words could truly symbolize a very real difference or distinction. In the innocence of my childhood, I grew up eating Frosted Flakes for breakfast and steamed rice for dinner. I learned to build model airplanes and stack up Legos, but I also dedicated my spare time to Origami and Chinese knotting. Like many other second-generation Chinese-Americans, my life has always had two cultures, two lifestyles that separate themselves and sometimes intermingle. Finding the right balance is an issue that I have often dealt with, imposing a live "contact zone" within myself. Although in my childhood, I was oblivious to this contact zone, perhaps further education widened this gap, as Rodriguez predicts (654). Although speaking English was never enforced, as in Gloria Anzaldua's case in "How to Tame a Wild Tongue," I found myself consciously speaking only English at school and in public areas. If my mother asked me a question in Mandarin, I would loudly reply in English, somehow proving to the world that I was fully American. And yet, I found myself pouting in Taiwan, upset that I was dismissed as merely an American tourist, rather than a fellow Chinese member of the community. Despite being raised to embrace all cultures and backgrounds, I was defining myself narrowly. It shocked me to realize that every time I claimed a certain background, I was stereotyping the other. In one case, I did not want to be the "fresh-off-the-boat" Asian. On the opposite hand, I did not want to be the ignorant tourist. In both instances, the underlying fear was being the outsider.

When we identify with two cultures, and yet struggle to find acceptance in both, we are perhaps held in suspension between the two. At times, through internalized identification, we are lulled into believing we completely belong to one or the other. And then a brief incident of exclusion, such as the physical differences and language barriers I encountered in Taiwan, recoils us back to reality. As observed by Anzaldua, this "voluntary (yet forced) alienation makes for psychological conflict, a kind of dual identity." From Anzaldua's story about finding acceptance as a Chicano in both Mexican and American cultures, many people of color can related to this struggle, where we do not totally identify with one culture or another. Instead, we become a "synergy" of the two, perhaps feeling that one cancels out the other, leaving us with nothing (43).

And so, drawing from the Chicano experience, Anzaldua notes that often the only recourse left is to create a language, and thus, a culture of one's own. "Chicano Spanish sprang out of the Chicanos' need to identify ourselves as a distinct people" (37). The author picked up Pachuco as a language of rebellion against both Standard Spanish and Standard English (38). Likewise, many Chinese-Americans discover our own Chinglish, an affectionate term for saying things in both languages by adding an "ing" to every Chinese base verb, and interjecting a wah!, bah!, or ah! whenever we so please. Yet, unlike Pachuco, Chinglish is not so much a language of rebellion. Used with fellow Asian-Americans, as well as family members, the language is an accommodation and perhaps a manifestation of identity. Anger and defiance are not my motivations. And unlike Rodriguez's assertions that a separation must occur, and that two opposing cultures cannot peacefully mesh, the Chicano culture and my own show that a compromise can occur. I am simply driven by the desire for acceptance and thus reconcile my two cultures to develop a personal uniqueness.

"Shame. Low estimation of self." Anzaldua diagnoses these as symptoms in Chicanas who grow up speaking Chicano Spanish and who have internalized the belief that they speak poor Spanish (40). In the same way, I can barely hold my head up when I struggle with my Chinese, which tumbles out with an accent and misusage of words. Nonetheless, I do not believe that I speak poor Chinese. I know that I speak poor Chinese, and I am willing to admit that fact. I concur with Anzaldua when she states that "for a language to remain alive it must be used" (40). Thus, although I may occasionally sound like a fool, I will continue to study and utilize my grasp of languages, hopefully working my way up from my Chinglish.

For Anzaldua, "ethnic identity is twin skin to linguistic identity" (40). Her language defines who she is, and pride in her language is a prerequisite for pride in herself. Contrary to this, I find pride in myself first. As a Chinese-American, I am neither just Chinese, nor just American. Although the hyphen between the two words can be a separation, it is also a link. I am both, a combination that is inherently mixed, and if I accept that as who I am, I will never be the outsider. I will just be me, connected to the best of both worlds. With self-respect, pride, and a genuine wish to understand various cultures and those around us, we can look past the stereotypes and barriers.

Perhaps respect is all I was asking for when I visited Taiwan. I wanted to feel accepted and encouraged. I wanted to utilize and improve my limited Mandarin. I wanted to experience for myself the city-life, the local foods, the traffic, and the crowds. However, I never expected to be immediately cast off as the foreigner.

Communicating through my shaky Mandarin was awkward, and my outsider status was only aggrandized when I was told that I did not look "right." In addition, when the proofs of the photographs were developed and it was time to choose my package, my mother told me to keep my mouth shut, or I would ruin the bargaining process. I had to sit quietly throughout the negotiations as a mere observer. But these are the instances of ignorance and incomprehension that Pratt warns against in the contact zone. It is easy to forget the positives and beyond the rage and pain, we must still recognize the "exhilarating moments of wonder and revelation, mutual understanding, and new wisdom &endash; the joys of the contact zone" (617). Perhaps my follies were realized when my completed album was presented to me. Lining many of my pictures were witty love poems and phrases: "Fantastic Heart are not had as a gift, but hearts are earnedŠJade stone of the side. The agonized side of green atom." Apparently, our struggles with language and cultural differences are mutual, which is a comfort to know that my difficulties are not singular. In retrospect, I still took away with me from Taiwan a firsthand encounter with a different culture. Although I was initially discouraged at my lack of acceptance in the relatively homogeneous setting of Taiwan, I am only challenged to learn more.

"The greater the obstacle, the greater the glory in overcoming it." I probably found that inspiration off a freeway billboard, but nevertheless, I have adopted it into my own view of life. If it takes a better grasp of Mandarin to better relate to others in Taiwan, then I will continue to study the language until I have the opportunity to visit the country again. As Pratt explains, "communication across lines of difference" rests on mutual respect and a concept of "cultural mediation," in which conflicting cultures adapt to one another (618). Too often, we may find ourselves becoming comfortable with our own separate worlds, content to speak only one language, or rely on one standard of beauty. Yet, we will always put distances between ourselves unless we seek to understand our differences. With my Chinglish, in my own motley way, perhaps I can earn that respect. Instead of shutting my mouth and allowing myself to be the outsider, I will continue to enter the contact zone, to show that I am the inquisitive student, the curious person, not just another tourist. While Rodriguez depicts the "scholarship boy" as one that remakes himself, he is made into one who cannot straddle or reconcile two cultures of his life (666). I, however, do not choose one culture or identity over the other. I will use education and language to simply reinforce myself as who I am. I am a Chinese-American, with an emphasis on both words, and I will continue striving to be both of the two halves that complete myself.

Anzaldua, Gloria. "How to Tame A Wild Tongue." Writing for Real. (course reader for "Writing for Real"). Ed. Carolyn Ross. Stanford Bookstore: Stanford, CA. 2002. 36-48.

Pratt, Mary Louise. "Arts of the Contact Zone." Writing for Real. (course reader for "Writing for Real"). Ed. Carolyn Ross. Stanford Bookstore: Stanford, CA. 2002. 604-623.

Rodriguez, Richard. "The Achievement of Desire." Writing for Real. (course reader for "Writing for Real"). Ed. Carolyn Ross. Stanford Bookstore: Stanford, CA. 2002. 651-673.