Now beyond the torment of my 20s, I ponder about my roots. Why did my parents come to the United States? What was it like for my grandfather when he passed through when he was young on his way to Peru? What did my family think about all the non-Chinese people here? How was it like to be in a land where Cantonese was not spoken? What was strange to them? Why did my uncle’s brother open a Chinese restaurant in the middle of nowhere in Michigan? Did it feel like betrayal?

I know some of the answers. The most common answer: opportunity. But what was it like to be somewhere they had never been before, knowing that they never would return…or even want to return to their childhood home?

But perhaps there’s no answer. Their home in China was not the same anymore after the Cultural Revolution. But the question remains. I am at that age where I find it difficult to uproot myself and start over somewhere else. And maybe that’s luck and luxury here. I am content with what I have and if I do uproot myself, it would only because the momentum was caused by something exterior to me—fellow peers, the rejection of this American society, my comfort disconnected, or just fleeing something so inconsequential.

And so quite naturally, I was intrigued by The Fortune Cookie Chronicles—an exploration about the history of simple post-meal treat in American Chinese restaurants. Here’s the spoiler: it does not originate from China.

Then today, I saw Searching for General Tso, a documentary film exploring the history of General Tso’s Chicken. Much like the fortune cookie, it didn’t quite originate in China. Rather, it wasn’t even a dish eaten by General Tso, but a dish originally named for the chef’s role model of integrity and strength.

For me, I have felt uncomfortable with the mix of American culture and Chinese culture. I am born here in the United States. Yet, I am not quite white-washed, but I am not the enamored of the Chinese culture. When I was younger, I rejected the entire culture—it was the other. The proof that I couldn’t blend in with my Caucasian-dominant school and the curly brunette girls (who oddly were Jewish) who teased me mercilessly. But in school, we read books like the Under the Mango Tree and Woman Warrior, books of Asian culture, but that didn’t appease me. I was awkward and couldn’t relate to the characters. My parents, being Westernized and raised Catholic in Hong Kong (a British colony during their childhood) lacked much Chinese superstition. 4 wasn’t a bad number and nor was 8 a good number. Ghosts didn’t haunt us at night. I didn’t even know all of this until I read The Joy Luck Club. And eating Chinese food was my least favorite thing—instead I preferred spaghetti with meatballs and tacos.

Who was I? I always keep reminding myself that I am just me. Of all the experiences, it’s difficult for anyone to categorize me as an ethnicity or a nationality. I am made out of my experiences. And so when I hear the question “where are you from?” I hesitate and say only my current home: “San Francisco”.