Asian American, I Am
<p>You know those little fortune cookies that take-out Chinese restaurants give out? The ones that come wrapped in plastic with a string of “lucky” numbers and a fortune that, for me — a 15-year-old — always seems to have something to do with romance. (Not gonna happen — trust me.)</p>
<p>I could never eat those anyway, I’m allergic to cornstarch. Still, I would always break them open — just to see. My ongoing story of growing up as a third-generation Asian American is exactly like a fortune cookie — split in half with a cryptic identity inside, waiting to be discovered and unraveled. Welcome to the disjointed thoughts on the racial identity of an average American teenager who is more fluent with his chopsticks than the language of his immigrant grandparents. I hope you’ll stick around for this journey with me.</p>
<p><a href="https://medium.com/the-narrative-arc/asian-american-i-am-c3e142fde6bf"><strong>Website</strong></a></p>