An irritating noise lingered in my ears for a few seconds after my mother released her hand from the steering wheel. "Of course, it's an Asian person", she said as we drove by. Cars cutting each other off, pedestrians horrified, yelling, and honking. This was the image my white mother painted of her experiences in the chaotic streets of China. I believed her explanation of this stereotype because she's my mother — she's always right. My eight-year-old brain though I was going to be the first best Asian driver because I had a white person to teach me.
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Banana
Non-FictionBeing a biracial Chinese person raised by white people in a western society, I have always found it difficult to find my place. In this small collection of flash creative nonfiction, I explore the way I am perceived by others versus how I perceive m...
