Standing out: a Cross-Cultural Journey of Self-Discovery

By Angela Lee Chen

"It held my interest from cover to cover." – Qat Wanders, editor and bestselling author.

Poignant and wry, Standing Out is, at heart, a profoundly human story that explores the nature of belonging and finding one's place in the world.

Angela was born in New York City to Chinese parents. The loss of a brother when only seven, and her parents going on to adopt two more, made for an ever-changing family dynamic.

Decisions her parents made played out across three continents. At the age of three, the family relocated to Kenya in East Africa for her father's UN job, where she grew up surrounded by international expats' children and traveled with her parents on home leave to China every two years.

With a quiet, authoritarian father and a distant mother, she learned early to find affirmation outside the home. She flourished academically, graduating with a biology degree from Yale and a doctorate in acupuncture and Chinese medicine. The sudden death of her father caused a major shift in her life as she inherited the care of her mother's Alzheimer's.

Through life's inevitable turns, Angela's resilience and love of people show through.

"The author has led a fascinating life, but this book brings it all back to what really matters amidst all the glamour and exoticism. Her introversion, the last years of her parents, imperfect families with oh-so-different siblings - it all rings so very true to life." – Stephen Brightman, professional editor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Peony Publishing
• Release date: Mar 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781945490033

Angela Lee Chen

Angela Lee Chen is primarily a doctor of Chinese medicine, but she is also joyfully writing, singing and creating among a diverse community of transplants. She lives in Myrtle Beach, SC. You by visiting her website, angelaleechen.com.

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Angela Lee Chen

Standing out

a Cross-Cultural Journey of Self-Discovery

First published by Blue Peony Publishing 2019

Copyright © 2019 by Angela Lee Chen

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

First edition

ISBN: 978-1-945490-03-3

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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Contents

Dedication

Preface

Introduction

I. WHERE AM I FROM?

Part I

So, Where Are You REALLY From?

Not From Around Here

New Guess

Even in New York

More Assumptions

Beyond the Adjectives

II. BLENDING IN

Part II

Look Like a Local

Tibet

When You Gotta Go, You Gotta Go

Jeddah

Destiny

Mount Kenya

Loita

About Travel

III. THREE URNS

Part III

The Highest Point in Florida

The Unexpected

In Transit

Orlando

Dad’s House

Proof

Big TV

Short Sale

Dad’s Memorial

Starting a New Life

The Space Between Words

Up on the Roof

Second Opinion

The Final Moment

The Thinnest Line

IV. TWO NEW BROTHERS

Part IV

Beijing

The Overseas Chinese Hotel

And Repeat

Family of Five

Tokyo

Seoul

Home at Last

The Naming

New Responsibility

Time with Dad

Unmitigated Rage

Unexamined Grief

Alex

Dad Home Early

What’s in a Name?

Clearing the Air

Freedom

Planned to the T

Not My Family

Parallel Lives

V. ARTIST AND CHEF

Part V

Mom

Caught Between Cultures

Heart of Darkness

Artist in Repose

Exhibition Day

A Tale of Two Parties

Mysterious Disappearance

Mom Knew How to Have Fun

Flown the Coop

Smothering

Artists of a Feather

Mom’s Secret

In Retrospect

VI. RELATING TO DAD

Part VI

Knowing my Parents

Clearing Out the House

Music Lessons

Room for Laughter

Highway Patrol

Afterschool

Rebellion

Solitary

Mysterious Urn

The Big Picture

VII. STANDING OUT

Part VII

Making Frogs

Floating

Awards

Academic Achievement

Self-Motivation

Dumplings for One

Owning Fear

Meaningful Work

Forging my Own Path

Competition

A Jury of Peers

Final Thoughts

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Works

Dedication

Dedicated to you who are holding this book—because you are my family.

Preface

When the goal of life is attained, one achieves the reparation of all wrongs, the healing of all wounds, the righting of all failures, the sweetening of all suffering, the relaxation of all striving, the harmonizing of all strife, the unravelling of all enigmas, and the real and full meaning of all life—past, present and future.

―MEHER BABA, Life at its Best

Introduction

THIS IS A BOOK about my experiences growing up Chinese in Kenya. It also traces my family’s lives beyond Africa: international travel during our time there, our lives after leaving the continent, and elements from the past that shaped a move so dramatically unusual.

I initially set out to write the definitive answer to the question, Where are you from? If someone asked me, I could point to the book and nonchalantly inquire, Well, how much do you want to know?

Along the way, however, I discovered a more universal question about belonging. How do I fit in and still be myself? How do I define myself when my own family keeps shifting, when the truth about my parents is still a work in progress—even after they are gone?

Parallel to my trying not to stand out, a different track was developing, a track of choosing to stand out—where skills I learned were bringing me attention and recognition.

Even so, that is not the whole of me. I don’t live solely to earn money, to be admired, to gain popularity, or to somehow be a lifesaver. Attention and wealth are welcome, to be sure—I am not that saintly. But on their own, these attainments cannot fulfill me.

I am more than my appearance, my past, or my own story. I am even more than my skills, attainments, and usefulness to those around me. My self-worth and my humanity are defined from within. When I tap into creativity, enthusiasm, and kindness, these attributes percolate outward, infusing joy and purpose into the activities of living with passion.

I

Where am I From?

Part I

Circa 1987, Mombasa, Kenya: Angela (~age 16) in a contemplative moment [photo Mom]

So, Where Are You REALLY From?

WHERE AM I FROM? The question is surprisingly complicated—how do I answer when my life has spanned three continents? Maybe you can help me out. Multiple choice:

A: China

B: Kenya

C. America

D. All the above

About Choice A. China

Yes, I look Chinese, was raised by Chinese parents, spoke Chinese at home, and ate traditional homestyle Chinese food with chopsticks—every day. I have been dragged around China, border to border, and been taught her history, art, and architecture on location. I have attended the Beijing Opera and Kunqu in Shanghai, and even studied a Chinese instrument called the erhu for four years. My mother was a calligrapher and Chinese brush painter, honored with several one-woman exhibitions. I studied Tai chi for more than 25 years, and my profession is Chinese medicine. For decades, my practice has been my full-time livelihood: to teach and apply Chinese wisdom.

One of the benefits my dad enjoyed from working with the UN was biannual home leave for the whole family. However, other than these two to three months of travel and visiting family within her borders, I never called China home. I have never experienced a true celebration of Chinese New Year, where a whole village or city or country comes together to live out that tradition. I have never learned the games and songs known to every Chinese child in her youth. I have never attended a Chinese funeral, birth, or graduation.

At the one Chinese wedding I attended—that of my American cousins in San Francisco—I asked another guest where I should put the gift I had brought. You don’t give gifts at a Chinese wedding. Didn’t you know? You bring an envelope of money! His cheerful Caucasian eyes flicked casually toward a red cloth-covered table, furnished with a large gift-wrapped box on its side, an obvious slot cut out of it. Just as I focused on it, he was already gone, rushing out to meet the groom, leaving me alone in that side room. No, I said quietly to myself, I didn’t know that.

About Choice B. Kenya

What? But you don’t look Kenyan! That’s a response I have occasionally received. And not untrue, en faite.

From age three to eighteen, I lived in Nairobi, Kenya. Within Kenya, I have visited Mombasa, Lamu, Lake Turkana, Mount Kenya, Loita, Nakuru: in other words, I have toured all around her beautiful lands. I have entered the home of a deaf Kenyan man to teach him English, and have spent a long weekend living among the Maasai, partaking of freshly slaughtered goat meat.

We lived separately from the locals, though, by dint of being expat diplomats. At my international school, at least fifty-five nations were represented, dispersed throughout each grade. Most of my fellow classmates stayed one to four years before moving on, their parents pulled to new diplomatic assignments in other countries. I am the only one I know of who stayed in Nairobi long enough to be a student at the International School of Kenya (ISK) from grades one through twelve.

About Choice C. America (or as the rest of the world sees us, the USA)

I was born in New York, and because ISK teachers were mostly from the US, my accent is generically American. Well before entering high school, I knew I was headed to America for college. Attending Yale, I spent my formative years immersing myself in the social body of my peers. I later studied acupuncture and Chinese medicine—but in the English language. Communicating with Chinese-trained doctors can feel like speaking a foreign language.

Still, not having grown up watching the movies my American peers did, or witnessing the ceremonies of births, weddings, and deaths, I am still deficient in common cultural practices. I missed all this growing up abroad; the peers my father socialized with didn’t marry, bury, or give birth while abroad. They returned home for those big events.

Saying I’m from New York, or I’m from Myrtle Beach (now that I live in North Myrtle Beach, SC), guarantees the follow-up question: "Okay, but where are you really from?"

About Choice D. Everywhere

Everywhere! may indeed be the easiest answer to where I’m from. With part of me taken from each continent, just one answer does not suffice and only leads to more questions.

* * *

I have no secrets, but I am introverted by nature. I like people. I am outgoing. But, I prefer conversations to mostly be about you, not me. When I am asked the question, Where are you from? I know the person means well and wants to connect in some way, to make small talk. But if I try to answer the question, inevitably the reactions get uncomfortable.

Sometimes the responses are blunt: I had no idea you grew up in Kenya! Well, how could you know? I wouldn’t know either if I’d just met myself sitting across the coffee table.

Curiosity is common: What was that like, growing up in Kenya? How do I answer that question? It is the only place I grew up. I flourished, but in a place not of my choosing. When people ask that question, they imagine life in Kenya as an adult: driving, working, interacting with Kenyans as peers, negotiating the political and security climate, going out to restaurants and shopping in modern malls. I did very little of those things, being merely a child.

Others have exotic notions: Did you live in a treehouse? Did you have tigers in your back yard? Unfortunately, I inherited some of my father’s disdain for silly questions. Calm, breathe, I have to tell myself. Just answer the nice lady’s question.

"Was your dad a minister? I suppose that is a fair question. I personally have never met many Chinese Christians, although apparently evangelistic Chinese are a thing. But picturing my anti-religious father as a Christian minister is so far removed from reality that this usually leaves me speechless for a sputtering moment. No, he worked for the UN," I try to deliver quickly and efficiently, trying to hide my irritation. How could they know what I am irritated about? It isn’t their fault.

Then there are the clever ones who think they can guess. A worldly and well-traveled Persian man challenged me: Ok, let me guess, I always get it right. Are you from Taiwan? Malaysia? Hong Kong? There are lots of Chinese in the Philippines. I shake my head to each. You’ll never guess my life story, I laugh. As he names more places, I repeat, Guaranteed, you will never guess! My parents are Chinese, but I grew up in Kenya! He is astounded. With wonderment in his voice he exclaims, I never would have guessed! Yep, I know, I think to myself, didn’t I already tell you that? My story seems to engender big reactions, yet it is just my story—unimpressive to me because I lived it.

Only once have I encountered a couple who didn’t bat an eyelid or pause in their conversation upon hearing my background. I thought maybe they didn’t hear me, or that my French was that rusty (they are French Canadian, and I was practicing). Oh, yes, we heard you. When we were living in Singapore, everyone was from somewhere else. I found myself letting out my breath, realizing that I had been bracing for a bigger reaction.

I am still learning to embrace every possible reaction when I tell someone where I am from.

Not From Around Here

A VOICE OF ROCKS AND GRAVEL—raspy—belonging to a Caucasian man making Gulla palm-frond roses for tourists in the seafood restaurant parking lot. The air smells of deep-fried fish and car exhaust.

Hey, where are you from? calls the rose-maker. He did not ask the same of the Italian-looking couple who preceded me on the way out. I have been singled out, my Asian face the culprit.

I am exhausted and irritable. It has been a long day of listening to patients and friends alike complain about their day, their jobs, their lives. That’s one thing you can count on: People always have something to complain about. It doesn’t matter where—Third World, First World—the grass is always greener, and life is tough at every age. I barely look at the vendor, tossing a cursory New York over my shoulder, hoping that will satisfy, but knowing it won’t. I tense as I hear his next call.

But where are you really from? Yep. There it is.

I roll my eyes and pause mid-step. Turning partway to face him, I can see the dirt clinging to the wrinkles on his face, his faded Hawaiian shirt and lawn chair tattered and broken from exposure to the Southern sun. Does this man really want to know where I am from? I am sure he doesn’t want the whole story. Instead, I answer, You mean like where are my parents from? They’re from China.

China! Huh, that’s a long way from here!

My heart sinks as I think to myself, But I was born here! And I grew up in Kenya! I turn away without responding—it would take too much energy to explain the whole story—and I retreat into the privacy of my car. He’s not wrong though. China really is a long way from here.

New Guess

You wonder where I sleep/ I sleep within your heart.

And all the world is mine/ but I’m yours…

IT’S A LOVE BALLAD written by Bob Brown. The mic sends my voice out, softly caressing the audience.

I’ve prepared for this mini-concert for weeks, working diligently with a metronome, matching up a good finger-pick pattern for the song on my ukulele. In a creative spurt, I have sewn in Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On as a medley. As the last chords ring out, the room is silent. I love it—they have been moved by the song as much as I have. Soon, a single person starts clapping, and the room follows, breaking out in enthusiastic applause. I look up slowly and blink happily for a moment, nodding and saying quietly into the mic, "Thank you, and Jai Meher Baba!"

The song ends the set, and I start fussing over my equipment. Ready to unplug? I ask Cliff, my life partner, tall and athletic, and a professional drummer, who has accompanied me for the set. He nods as he fusses over his own gear and I stow my ukulele snugly into its red hard case, bought especially for this trip. I walk between the seats to take it outside, but I am stopped by a man grinning with delight.

Hey, that was really nice! Are you from Hawaii?

His glee is smug, like a cat who has killed and dragged home an unwelcome dinner. He is congratulating himself on his sleuthing skills. Thrown for a moment, wheels spinning, I realize why. Must be the ukulele.

Mmm. Excellent detective work. How did you know? I play along.

We were just on vacation in Hawaii, my wife and I, he begins, indicating to his pretty wife who is eagerly nodding by his side. We saw ukuleles all over. And you look kind of like a Hawaiian! Hawaiian? That’s definitely a new one.

Even in New York

I JUST GAPE AT HIM, dumbfounded, pained at the thought that this might be my tennis partner for the rest of the evening’s social doubles. Maybe you didn’t hear me. I asked if you’re from the same place as our opponents? Turning to see where he is gesturing, I note the Asian faces of the complete strangers across the net, and am floored by this man’s ignorance.

How would I know? I have never even met them, I say through gritted teeth. Taking a few practice swings with my racquet, I silently pretend his head is the ball.

Oh, weird. I just thought you would know them.

My mind is ablaze. REALLY?! Does everyone with an Asian face just know each other? Like there’s five of us in the whole state, and we’re all in the same social club?

I become furious below the skin, wishing there was some question I could smash back at him that would make him feel just as rattled. Stumped for an appropriate response, I choose to self-preserve and ignore him. Palming some practice balls from the bench, I pick the ad side and, nodding to our smiling opponents, begin warming up short court.

More Assumptions

I’VE JUST GREETED TING IN CHINESE, a simple Hi, how are you? As she bobs with birdlike movements in my direction, I watch a certain confusion descend over her small face. Now that I have her attention, I keep going, again in Chinese.

I heard about you on Facebook. My name is Angela.

Ah, you must be one of those… don’t speak Chinese very well, she says in heavily-accented English.

No, my parents are Chinese. I speak okay, I protest. Ting looks me up and down, then says in rapid-fire Mandarin, Yes, your Chinese is pretty good. Just a minute, I have to meet David. Turning her attention to the man on her left, who towers above us both by over a foot, she looks up in full concentration, her black bangs sweaty and her too-big, black-framed glasses sliding down her nose. Not seeing me, the man who I presume is David shifts his body weight between us, flattered by her unwavering attention as she nods and smiles in short, staccato movements. Finding myself suddenly outside of their circle of conversation, unable to hear what they are saying over the noise of the crowded Meeting Place, I conclude that I have been dismissed and slink away to meet the Spades players in the communal kitchen.

Hey, Angela, there’s a Chinese woman here! You know? You should meet her! says Betty, dealing me into their next hand.

Yes, I did—meet her already, I reply, deadpan.

Oh hey, do you speak Chinese?

I roll my eyes. Yes.

What kind? The kind that restaurant owners speak all over the country, or that other one?

Now my irritability becomes apparent. How do I know what restaurant owners ‘all over the country’ speak? I only know the restaurants I’ve been to! I sort my cards into suits, noticing the lousy hand I have been dealt.

Oh, it’s like pulling teeth with you, isn’t it? Betty says archly, triumphantly playing her trump card and winning the hand.

Beyond the Adjectives

WHEN I GET FRUSTRATED with a conversation about where I am from, I think back to a teaching story I heard as a college student in a Tai chi class.

* * *

I haven’t been expecting anything out of the ordinary, walking across campus between summer classes, enjoying the pleasant sunniness, the heat beaming down and warming the tip of my nose. It is an uncommonly beautiful day, the air heavy with the fragrance of lilacs, the flowers in full bloom. In my backpack, I carry supplies for Drawing 101 and Music Appreciation—classes that are a pleasant change for a biology major, yet fulfill my requirements to graduate from Yale.

That’s when I notice them—a small knot of mostly women doing Tai chi on the lush grass. I’ve seen the motions before many times.

As a kid, my dad had a Chinese friend who would teach my parents Tai chi on our back lawn. He worked for the UN also and would stay at our house once or twice a year. He was older by decades, but had so much more spunk and joy for life. Whenever he heard music playing, he just loved to dance—and all his dance moves looked like Tai chi movements. As soon as he was gone, however, their zeal for the practice would slowly evaporate in his wake.

In a fit of nostalgia, I move closer, shyly lurking just beyond