Many Asian Americans I know are familiar with what I call “the cafeteria scene.”

It’s the horror of opening up your thermos at lunch, scared that the contents inside will look weird and smell different. The disgusted look from your peers, their mouths overflowing with hateful comments as you push aside your emotions and frantically shove your lunchbox back into your backpack. 

After a long afternoon, during which your stomach whines for food, you go home and throw away your mother’s lovingly prepared dish. Instead, you ask her for a mass-produced, preservative-packed, American meal to bring to lunch.

As a Taiwanese and Chinese American, I have experienced this scene too many times. 

It wasn’t until recently that I found a term that described how I felt every time I encountered this situation: a “perpetual foreigner.”

The perpetual foreigner is the stereotype that members of marginalized ethnicities will always be seen as the “other,” regardless of where they were born or how long they have lived in the United States. 

My Experience as a Perpetual Foreigner

I was born and raised in Poway, California, a predominantly white city tucked into the suburbs of San Diego. Since I was little, I knew I was different from everyone else. My appearance clashed with my peers’, standing out in a sea of colorful eyes, lightly-shaded hair and fair skin.

My physical attributes made it easier for others to treat me differently. People jokingly bowed when they greeted me. They stretched their eyes in an attempt to mock mine. When I tried to defend myself, they only teased me more. 

Slowly, I gave up. I began to laugh with them. I began to laugh at myself. Because when everyone around you teases you for looking and acting different, isn’t it better to just try to “fit in”?

I was desperate to be seen as someone other than “the Asian kid,” even if it meant stripping myself of my cultural heritage and reconstructing who I was around my white peers’ expectations.

The summer before eighth grade, my mom took me to visit Taiwan for three months. At the time, I had suppressed almost every aspect of my Asian identity. I recall thinking that, in a country where my ethnic appearance wouldn’t matter, maybe I would naturally fit in. But that idea was quickly shut down. 

In Taiwan, my almond eyes and golden skin mattered less, but my behavior made it apparent that I was not a native. I could speak Mandarin without an accent, but without native grammar skills it was easy for others to uncover my nationality. 

Once they realized this, I was made to endure the same feeling of isolation I felt in Poway. A place where I thought I could find belonging became nothing but another strange unknown. In America, I didn’t fit in. And even in Taiwan, I was treated like a foreigner.

This realization made me ask myself: Where exactly do Asian Americans belong?

We Belong Here

For me, the term “perpetual foreigner” doesn’t just apply to marginalized ethnicities in America, but in their home countries as well. For Asian Americans, we can be made to feel not “American enough,” and simultaneously “not Asian enough,” leaving us floating in a gray area. 

Our multiculturalism has long been perceived as a hindrance, when it is one of the most unique parts of being human. We are infused with many cultures, and that, in itself, is beautiful. 

Truthfully, I am still healing from my past. But as I continue this process of unlearning and acceptance, I will welcome multiculturalism into my life. Instead of stripping myself of one culture in favor of another, I will look for a balance of all worlds. 

I am no longer scared of not “fitting in.” I am no longer ashamed of my unique ethnic features. I was born and raised American, but my ethnic roots reach far beyond the white communities surrounding me. I will never take that for granted. 

To anyone who resonates with my experiences, I want to remind you that we are not alone.

Millions of Asian Americans have walked where we have walked. Our parents, our grandparents and generations of Asian Americans before them have established America as our home. 

As we approach Asian American and Pacific Islander month in May, I hope everyone in our community can commemorate the beauty of our cultures.

We are more than the shame burdened upon us by racism and xenophobia. 

If not for ourselves, then for the children who follow in our footsteps — we must wear our culture and life with pride. 

We belong here, and we should be proud of it.