"Never make your home in a place. Make a home for yourself inside your own heart. You'll find what you need to furnish it - memory, friends you can trust, love of learning, and other such things. That way it will go with you wherever you journey." - Tad Williams

I was born under the Star-Spangled Banner to first-generation Chinese immigrants. Growing up, everything from reciting the Pledge of Allegiance with passion and devotion in my kindergarten classroom to eating KFC take-out in the car has made me more American. In the state of Kentucky, it would be realistic to say that there weren't many Asians in my community and Asian culture was not as profound as it would be in a State like California. Even the kids I hung out with slowly injected their American ways into my Chinese brain. While reminiscing about the past, my mind always goes back to the days spent cheering at the Kentucky Derby to running around in my spacious, green backyard and drinking tomato and goldfish soup with the kids next door. However, I still stayed true to my Chinese roots and culture. We mainly conversed in Chinese at home and ate with chopsticks. I remember my grandparents would travel from China to Kentucky just to be with us, even though they disliked the constant car traveling and the fact that they could not speak a word of English. Instead of trying to force Chinese culture into my life, my parents brought a piece of China to America. 

Now, when I look back, I have fond memories both with my Chinese friends and family and my Western friends and family. It was simple then. I was the pinnacle of Chinese-American, and had no doubt about 'who I was' and 'where I came from'. But my understanding of my identity was about to change when my dad accepted a new job offer.

When I first arrived in Hong Kong, I felt lost in such a new and mysterious place halfway across the world from where I grew up. In Asia, everyone looked like me. Gone were the spacious roads and large, multi-story houses. Instead, a small, cramped apartment and a fast-paced society greeted me. Out of place and alien were just two of the many words that could be used to describe me. I tried so desperately to fit in with everyone else, but it never quite seemed like I belonged. Confusion plagued my mind. We spoke Chinese at home, and the culture was definitely integrated in my life. Our home was a fusion of America and China, mixed with memories from both places. So why wasn't I comfortable in this "familiar" place? I decided to give it time. Time, I thought, is on my side. Time is my friend. So I waited out my unease, and slowly became adjusted to the Hong Kong lifestyle. I made friends at school, travelled and explored the hidden delights of the small island, and started creating memories and moments. Over the span of the six years living in Hong Kong, I finally was able to call it my home. There were some experiences that I savored and relished, due to its uniqueness. Before, walking through Wan Chai Market, the boisterous yelling of street vendors and the distinct and pungent smell of fish disgusted me. I cringed at the blood dripping down the side of the dirty tables and wanted to throw up when I saw the internal organs casually placed and waiting for someone to buy them. Now, I appreciate the distinctiveness of the experience that cannot be replicated anywhere in the United States. 

While growing accustomed to the complexity of Hong Kong life and Asian culture was a very positive aspect of my life, new conflicts were born out of this newfound love for my new home. Am I more American or Chinese? Where do I fit in? Who am I? Both the US and Hong Kong felt like home, places filled with the people and things that I loved. Both held warm memories that have changed and shaped me as a person. I started feeling like I was floating in between, not exactly fully American but not exactly fully Chinese either. 

Last winter vacation, I visited the States. When I arrived, strangely, I felt like an outsider. Months of not being immersed and surrounded with American culture and people had made me slightly detached. I marveled at the endless rows of food at the supermarket, and stuffed myself full with the extra large portions at restaurants. The sudden conversations struck by strangers at random places surprised me. Walking down the street, I felt lonely without the usual hordes of people squeezing me like in Causeway Bay. People I met were quiet and reserved, yet polite and cheerful - unlike the busy and rushed Hong Kongers or the rowdy and disruptive Mainlanders. We drove everywhere, and the rental car became a necessity of life. A seven-hour road trip from Vegas to Los Angeles made me carsick, and the high altitude of the (artificially) snow capped mountains made me feel nauseous and spacy. The dryness of the freezing air made my skin cracked as I surprisingly longed for the Hong Kong humidity.

Although there were moments where I felt out of place, I still was ecstatic to be back and thrust into a very different environment. My brother's spacious and comfortable apartment that we temporarily stayed at was located in a very nice community in Santa Monica. Outside, it was quiet with the occasional chirp of a bird or the sound of footsteps pounding as a jogger passed by. We were close to a small movie theatre and a street filled with restaurants and clothing shops. It was a nice escape from the loudness and quickness of Hong Kong life, and let me slow down to enjoy life's small pleasures such as taking a stroll down the street with my brother as we reconnected and talked about school and work. People did not shove past me or chatter loudly on their phones, and instead we were given privacy, something so simple yet underappreciated in our busy lives. Nevertheless, something felt different. Perhaps it was because I now had something to compare my American ideals and surroundings with, or I had been away for too long. But something had changed, and I no longer felt like I had quite belonged as I used too.

American culture aside, I've also had issues with connecting in China with my Chinese relatives and culture. Last Chinese New Year, I visited Hangzhou and Yu Yao, the hometowns of my mother and father. When I met up with my maternal relatives, I was happy to be united with my loving grandparents, my generous aunt (who loved to spoil me), my childish yet entertaining uncle, and my cousin who was only two years younger than me. We laughed, chatted and ate together, but my slightly broken Chinese hindered our communication as they could only speak Mandarin. I know they were just teasing when they pointed out that I didn't know many words, but I couldn't help but feel isolated and unalike with my simple vocabulary. Translating words in my head on the spot made me afraid to mess up, and I became more like a robot instead of having natural conversation. Culture wise, I also felt like there was a block in our path. A lot of conversation was centered on school, and more specifically math, which I felt ashamed to talk about. My entire family is filled with mathematicians, and even my brother excelled in the subject despite his American upbringing. However, math was my weakest subject while music and writing were my more favored ones, which I could talk about passionately for hours. It seemed as if nothing was relevant to me. Instead, I decided to awkwardly stare at my chopsticks.

Through the events of my life, it has become clear to me that I am a mix of both Chinese and American culture. But, like I said earlier, time is my friend. Time has given me opportunities to reflect and for my cultural identity to grow. My identity is something that evolves and changes over time as I experience new things and meet new people. I am still young, and I have an uncertain future that holds many opportunities for me. Over time, I have realized that there's something beautiful about being a global nomad. There is something beautiful about speaking more than one language, eating more than one cuisine, and living in more than one place. I carry my identity and home with me, in my heart. No matter where I travel, and what possessions I gain, my home is made up of my memories and experiences. Home is not necessarily a physical location, with bedrooms and bathrooms. Home is something I bring with me wherever I go, and is constantly growing. My diverse life has made me aware of global issues, which going to an international school helps me study more in depth. If I were still living in Kentucky, I never would have been so interested in Occupy Central or have such a global world view.  I am proud of my heritage, yet I truly appreciate the move from North America to Asia. Everything from my mom singing Chinese songs around the house to emailing my two best friends from summer camp (one lives in India and one lives in Vermont) about travelling to Thailand for interim has made my life more meaningful. The places I go to, the friends I make and the experiences I have all add on to my definition of home. And because of this, as I watch the brilliant fireworks of the 4th of July surrounded by the hot, summer Californian heat, I cannot help but be reminded of the vibrant fireworks going off during Chinese New Year. Both are beautiful.