I’d just been introduced to a fellow employee my age, a young Asian guy in a crisp long-sleeved button-down shirt, 501 Levis, and wire-rimmed glasses, an olive cast to his skin. Glancing at the name plate resting atop his office partition, I noted the common spelling of his name and smiled knowingly. Without hearing him say a word, I knew immediately, he’s third generation, an American-born Chinese from southern China like me.When he heard my name, he smiled impishly and extended his hand. Before I could, in a tone of easy familiarity, he asked, “So, are you a King Wong or a Yellow Wong?” Continue reading “Chinese Enough”
Chinese Enough
