I Was Recently Diagnosed Chinese

I open TikTok and a new trend emerges.
She is wrapped in porcelain cups, red envelopes, and the smoke of incense.
She smells like garlic, ginger, matcha tea, and steamed apple.
She sounds like violins and pianos, like my Duolingo owl singing,
“wǒmen jīn shēng zhù dìng shì cāng sāng.”

I watch.
I smile.
I am slightly confused.

Since when did my race become a trend?
Since when is Chinese culture something you can slip on like an oversized Adidas “Mandarin” jacket?

I remember primary school. I was nine.
A classmate turned to me out of nowhere, and said:
“You look like a monkey.”
It was the first time I learned that my race was not something to be celebrated.

I remember the birthday parties. At eleven years old, the class sang Happy Birthday in fake Chinese.
They pulled their eyes into thin slits, stared at me, and laughed.
”Now we look just like you.”

I remember lunch break in high school. Thirteen years old, eating my typical Dutch bread and cheese.
Two older boys approached.
They grabbed my arm, turned me around, and said:
“You have something here.”
Their fingers traced my neck like reading a label:
“Made in China.” They quickly ran off. Their laughs echoing into my life.
Sometimes I can still feel the hairs in my neck they touched.

I remember biking home from school at fourteen.
Two strangers followed me for twenty minutes, kicking my bike and shouting “ching chong” and “ni hao.”
Eventually, our ways parted.
Much like how I parted ways from my race and the culture that came with it.

I remember being asked in a fake Chinese accent if we sold rice and sambal (which isn’t even Chinese) while standing behind an ice cream stand.
I remember being asked if I ate dogs or bats.
I remember strangers touching my skin and calling me the “China virus” or “Kung Flu.”

I learned to laugh it off. To ignore it. To remain humble and polite, like the Chinese girl I am supposed to be.

Those are the five things I learned since being diagnosed Chinese.
POV: you’re Chinese and people ridicule your face and culture wherever you go.
Except for when you are a certified, newly diagnosed Chinese baddie whose skin is more like freshly made congee than the hóng chá now brewing in your fancy tea pot.

Why can you now live by your Chinese astrology sign without the endless comments on your stinky lunch? Or weird looks when eating pig’s skin and chicken feet?

Being Chinese is not just an aesthetic.
It is confusing.
It is painful.
It is lonely.
It is heavy.
It is generational trauma, grandmas that stay silent, fear of speaking up.
It is being taught to smile, to stay quiet.
It is racism.
It is political.
It is shame.

Don’t get me wrong. I am glad Chinese culture is finally being recognized instead of ridiculed. And in a way, the trend has helped me to embrace the Chinese culture more too! As if only now that the fitness influencers do their acupuncture, their Tai Chi, and drink their Chinese herbal medicine, I am finally allowed to embrace it too.

I already knew that being Chinese is messy and painful.

But only now I learn that it is also beautiful.

So, yes. You can borrow our aesthetics.
You can use our songs, cook our dishes, practice our medicine.
But you do not get to tell our story.

Being Chinese is not a filter.
It is not a trending sound.
It is not content you put in your “wellness” folder.

It is lived.
It is remembered.
It is ours.

Published on Substack