I Am a Chinese American :: Personal Narrative Writing

I Am a Chinese American. My feminine display do people believe that I was an tame person, but sooner I am an independent, aggressive individual. When I was young, my mother always sewed me those girlish, baby-doll pluckes. Every morning time, she tied my hair into two critical ponytails with red ribbons. She made me look exchangeable an obedient, typical Chinese girl, interchangeable 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 c aging morning in China, Mother always woke up before dawn to coordinate breakfast for us, then went food shopping. I sometimes followed her to the crowded marketplace, where the vendors yelled in public like maniacs. The old burnt umber shop loafer the market never seemed to receive any attention from the shoppers. The sticky windowpane and its broken sign made it look like a washed-up Confucian temple. I could barely see the old waiters face through and throu gh the dirty glass door. Behind all this dirtiness, those delicious smells conquered me, but at 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 compliments 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 near 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 sewn to each side of the collars. I looked like a doll, except I was just a bit too spicy to fit into that tight dress. One could easily define my little spate hanging underneath the softness of the silk. Whenever I had those light canvas clothe on, I could feel the lumpy surface of the sidewalk but I looked extremely pretty. How girlish I looked. Everyone was impressed with the way my mother dressed-up me and believed in the image that she had built for me.