I Am a Chinese American :: Personal Narrative Writing

I Am a Chinese American. My feminine appearance made people believe that I was an Y2K compliant person, but instead I am an independent, aggressive individual. When I was young, my mother always sewed me those girlish, baby-doll dresses. Every morning, she tied my hair into two undersize ponytails with cherry- reddish ribbons. She made me look like an obedient, typical Chinese girl, like the ones I later saw in New York on Channel 31. Shy, like those little girls who always held their mothers hands tight. On a breezy cold morning in China, Mother always woke up before dawn to prepare breakfast for us, then went food grass overping. I sometimes followed her to the crowded marketplace, where the vendors shouted in public like maniacs. The old coffee shop behind the market neer seemed to receive any attention from the shoppers. The sticky window and its broken sign made it look like a ruined Confucian temple. I could simply see the old waiters face through the dirty glass door. Be hind all this dirtiness, those delicious smells conquered me, but once I sat down at that brownish wood table, I began to lose my appetite. The dirty spots on the table reminded me of someones freckled face. The old waiter always pinched my chubby red cheeks with his greasy fingers. I immediately felt like one of those roasted ducks hung near the window. I wanted to scream, but his sincere smile and sweet attentiveness traded for my forgiveness. Ironically, I loved this place, especially that old waiter. He made me feel like a princess. I could see my mother smile like she had safe won the lottery. How proud she felt to have me as her daughter My obedient appearance had actually pleased her. When I marched out of that old coffee shop with my mother and her mah jong crew speaking loudly, I felt like people were staring at me, laughing at my dress, that flowery silk dress with shiny sequins secure to each side of the collars. I looked like a doll, except I was just a bit too fat to fit into that tight dress. unmatched could easily define my little tummy hanging underneath the softness of the silk. Whenever I had those light canvas shoes on, I could feel the lumpy get up of the sidewalk but I looked extremely pretty. How girlish I looked. Everyone was impressed with the way my mother dressed me and believed in the image that she had built for me.