(This essay uses fictional names in accordance with the Guidelines)

My friends have turned it into a game: how badly will the substitute teacher butcher my name? So far, “Qianqi” has been mangled into Kyankey, Chonky, and Jonjee, as the most egregious errors. The actual pronunciation in Mandarin Chinese is “chian-chi,” but I usually spare them from further embarrassment and tell them to call me Roger instead.

Roger is my middle name. It fits my background as someone born in Nashville, Tennessee, and spent his entire life in the United States. Qianqi fits my face, even though I spent years wishing it didn’t. My unpronounceable name seemed to flag me as a foreigner whenever people tripped over the consonants. Among the Steves and Kates at my school, I was the odd one out.

Some people might have embraced their cultures more out of defiance, but I was uncomfortable about sticking out from the crowd. Since my town had a large Jewish population, I ended up knowing the dates for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur better than Chinese New Year or the Mid-Autumn Festival. I attended my friends’ b’nai mitzvah ceremonies, all while refusing to bring any home-cooked meals that might have smelled weird to lunch. Although I could carefully control many aspects of my life, one thing troubled me the most: my name.

Finally, I went to talk with my parents about legally changing my name. The mispronunciations, misspellings, and stereotypes associated with having an Asian name had created a constant feeling of isolation as if I hadn’t lived in this country all my life. I felt that my own name was stripping away my American identity, leaving only the narrow perception of my Chinese ethnicity, a part of me I had grown to be ashamed of.

To my surprise, my parents were not upset; instead, they patiently spoke about their intention behind giving me a unique name like Qianqi. They had hoped it would shape my individuality and encourage me to carve out my own path in life. “We know you are American,” they told me, “and you should be proud. But you are also blessed with a rich Chinese heritage. We take you to weekend Chinese classes so that you can learn the language of your ancestors. We teach you Chinese history so that you can understand where you came from. We immerse you in Chinese traditions so that your life can be enriched by another culture. We hope all these elements will set you apart, just like your name.”

At that moment, I began to see “Qianqi” in a new light. Rather than striving to fit in as one of 425,514 Rogers in the United States, it is more meaningful to be myself as Qianqi.

The newfound appreciation of my name took me on a journey to not only embrace my heritage but also celebrate it. Once I accepted Qianqi, I started to fall in love with the name. I began to learn the meaning of the two Chinese characters that make up my name. Qian, the first character, means “one thousand,” while Qi means “wonders.” “When you put Qian and Qi together, it represents many wonders,” my mom tells me with great pride, claiming that it suits me perfectly, because it reflects the worth and potential she sees in me. I learned to write the two Chinese characters stroke by stroke in their block-like structure. Dating back thousands of years, Chinese characters are logographic, meaning each character has its unique stroke order. Now whenever someone tries to pronounce my name, I would welcome the chance to teach them how to say “q” in Chinese: it is a soft “ch.” It’s that simple.

Heritage is everywhere in my multi-generational family. My grandfather, or Laoye as I call him affectionately, grew up in an impoverished village in the northernmost part of China. As with all babies in his village, he was named by “The Master,” one of the few people who could read. As the oldest boy in his family, Laoye was given the precious opportunity to go to school. “Even though my father couldn’t read, he gave his all to support my schooling because he knew education was my only way out of poverty,” Laoye says with deep gratitude. When he was seventeen, he was given money to go into town to have a photograph taken for his college application. He had heard about a workbook of advanced math problems in the town bookstore. By walking the ten miles to town and back and skipping lunch, he calculated he could buy the workbook with the money saved. He came home late that night with a huge smile holding the math workbook, exhausted and starving. It became his most prized possession. He worked through the workbook so many times that he memorized all the questions. Despite insurmountable obstacles, Laoye was admitted to the best university in China and went on to earn a doctorate in applied mathematics.

There is the tale of the two eggs, which shows the scarcity Laoye had endured when he was younger. I look forward to my birthday every year because I get to pick out a birthday cake. Laoye also loves my birthday, not only because it is a celebration for his favorite grandson but also the few times he’s allowed to eat cake - Laoye has diabetes, unfortunately. One year, with our mouths stuffed with marble cake with jam filling and butter icing, I asked what Laoye had for his birthdays growing up. The answer: eggs. Two to be exact. Once a year, on his birthday, Laoye got to have two eggs. “It’s the best thing that I look forward to all year long,” said Laoye with such a craving that you’d think he was talking about lobster. I remember thinking, “How odd, cakes are much better!” Little did I know, Laoye didn’t know what cake was until he went to college.

There is the account of diabetes, which makes Laoye the unluckiest guy in the world. Growing up in a family of eight siblings, Laoye never had enough to eat. He didn’t ask for variety; he just wanted to be full. At this point of the story, Laoye would pause and lick his lips. “I was always hungry,” he said. “You don’t know how all-consuming hunger can be.” His childhood trauma of always being hungry has had a lifelong impact. “I gained thirty pounds the first semester in college on scholarship!” Laoye would burst out laughing. From then on, Laoye has not stopped eating, especially at free meals. To him, it is a crime not to stuff oneself and a sin to waste food. Naturally, he became a home chef. In our house, we don’t serve food on plates; we use salad bowls. Bowl after bowl, because Laoye’s definition of a good meal is not expensive food but extensive food. His greatest joy is to watch everyone so full after each meal that we need help getting up. Laoye enjoyed two decades of carefree eating until his diagnosis of diabetes in his early forties. Even now, he’s delighted to see us stuff ourselves.

To no one’s surprise, Laoye forces me to study math because he loves the subject and considers it the foundation for all academic disciplines. “You are so fortunate to have everything handed to you – why aren’t you spending every minute at your desk studying? When I was your age, …” Laoye would once again launch into one of his stories. His desperation used to annoy me, but I now understand how it is shaped by his childhood. Though he firmly believes in education, he always sees it as a sign of security or financial stability first and foremost. In these moments, the deep generational and cultural gaps yawn between us. I don’t need a good education to save my life; I want a good education to find who I am. Shaking his head, Laoye says that’s too much fluffy nonsense for him.

My grandmother, or Laolao, shares a similar viewpoint. She was born during World War II, with both her parents fighting in the People’s Liberation Army against the Japanese military. They left her with a stranger’s family shortly after her birth and did not reunite with her until she was three. Thousands of Chinese children did not return to their families after the war; I’m grateful my Laolao was one of the lucky few. “You should feel a deep sense of obligation because many people gave their lives for the peaceful time you have today,” Laolao repeats constantly. “You owe them to study hard!” I know, I know, I’d say in my head, again feeling those gaps. Everything she’s witnessed – the violence, the anxiety, the separation from her family – is such an abstract concept to me that it could hardly serve as a motivation.

My parents grew up in middle-class families with the privilege of having great educational opportunities. However, because of the Chinese educational system, neither of them was allowed to explore their passion. My mom wanted to be a lawyer when she was growing up, but Laolao advised against it because the judicial system in China was undeveloped. When my mom became interested in business, Laoye intervened, “Study hard and do well in STEM, so that you can find a good job easily.” So my mom majored in biology, got a Ph.D., and spent over a quarter of a century in an academic job that she didn’t like.

“You know, Qianqi, my biggest regret is at fifty, I never had the chance to dream or discover my true calling.” Mom’s disappointment was evident.

“Then why do you force me to do the things I hate?” I ask.

“Because often you have to bite the bullet and do the hard work, as I did growing up, to be successful.” Mom suddenly turns serious, adding, “Whether you like it or not.”

“But, what about finding my passion that you just talked about a minute ago?” I ask in my head, too afraid to say it out loud.

Even still, knowing all these stories makes it much easier to understand when Laoye yells at me for slacking off in calculus or my mom pushes me to finish my essays. It’s easy to fall into internalized stereotypes, mocking my family for their “typical Asian parenting” without knowing where this perspective came from. For my grandparents, education meant a chance to get out of poverty, and for my parents, a chance to see the world. I grew up in a traditional Chinese-American family, with regular piano practices, math workbooks, and intense weekend Chinese school. I used to complain about not having a carefree childhood, but as I matured, I saw the value of such an upbringing. At the same time, I struggle to find myself. I feel like a train steaming full speed ahead, yet not knowing where I am going.

In the past, Chinese Americans were disenfranchised by the Chinese Exclusion Act and further marginalized by the strict institutional and cultural norms. It is a vastly different America today, a true melting pot. But I can resonate with the Chinese American youth from long ago who considered themselves Americans, only to be called “others” when they ventured outside home. Am I an “other” still, if only within my own mind?

I have struggled with this sense of in-betweenness for as long as I can remember. Just as Qianqi and Ye both carry ties to my background, so does Roger. As first-generation immigrants, my parents hope to pass on the traditional Chinese values and philosophy that have lasted for over five thousand years. But I was born in Nashville and grew up in New York City – American youth culture is the only one I have been exposed to. Within me lies a combination of the influences from my Chinese family with all its strengths and flaws, my personal perspective shaped by the individuality and rebellion inherent to American teenagers, and the broader world with all the assumptions people make when they see my name and face.

The richness of American and Chinese cultures has contributed in incredible ways to the Qianqi Roger Ye that I am today. The Roger in me speaks English and enjoys being a typical American teenager. The Qianqi in me shows my distinct Asian DNA and attaches me to my ethnic background, even as I try to break away to find my own identity. Rather than seeing the struggle as a betrayal, I now see that the process exists in every generation and in everyone. Born Chinese by heritage and raised American by culture, I carry both the legacy of my ancestors and the opportunities of this great nation. In balancing the two cultures, I will keep looking for my equilibrium.

Just as I am typing these last words, a call comes in from my best friend Srijit.

“Do I look too Muslim?” Srijit asks, voice shaking.

My heart sinks. I know why he is asking the question: he’s been attacked, again. Since the Israel war began on October 7, Srijit has been called a Hamas supporter and spat at. I also know how he is feeling: confused and afraid, just like how I felt after COVID-19 fueled anti-Asian racism and xenophobia. His question cuts straight to the core of my being, because I, too, used to tell my parents I hated my narrow eyes and pushed-in nose, features that make me look too Asian.

The Islamophobia ignited by the Israel-Hamas war is all-too-familiar to me in the wake of COVID-19, with the onslaught of anti-Asian hatred. My face has made me a target for racists and fearmongers. People who look like me were in the national news because they were harassed, beaten, killed. Asian Americans were portrayed as threats, even as we became the victims. It doesn’t matter that I was born in Nashville and lived my entire life in the United States. It doesn’t matter that I love American football and English literature. My eyes and my name mark me as an outsider.

Srijit’s family is from Bangladesh. His appearance should be something he takes pride in. Instead, he wants to cover himself up so he can feel safe. So he can live his normal life.

The reality that Srijit and I, in the 21st century, find ourselves wishing to dissociate from our background because we don’t want to live in fear isn’t tragic – it's enraging. I am angry, really angry. It’s a primal rage that questions the very fabric of progress and challenges the facade of acceptance in our society. It’s a collective frustration, a cry for change in a world that clings to stereotypes and biases.

Do I cover my face and accept the label of “other?” Do I remove Qianqi and pretend to be Roger?

If that’s the price for belonging in America, then it isn’t the America I’m interested in belonging to. Writer and poet Audre Lorde writes, “It is not our differences that divide us. It is our inability to recognize, accept, and celebrate those differences.” To heal a divided world, we need to acknowledge our individual and collective differences. Acceptance is always our choice to make, after all. And I hope we choose to see people as they are. Before judging the hijab, let’s face the fear of the unknown that makes us uneasy. Before dismissing the accent, let’s confront the subconscious biases that make us speak differently. Before silencing the voice, let's challenge the assumptions that make us ignorant.

For me, acceptance begins within. The people who hate us for how we look and where our families came from want us to turn away from our background. So instead of rejecting mine, I choose to celebrate. I celebrate my parents’ accents, my face, my unpronounceable name.

I’m Qianqi and Roger. I am not either-or, I am both.