Orchards

By: Collin Wang

I often think of people as trees.

Every tree grows in the soil of its culture and under the care of its environment. I see Chinese people like apple trees, thriving in one kind of orchard, and Americans like orange trees, suited for another. Each requires a different balance of soil, sunlight, and air to grow alike. Then there’s me: an apple tree planted in an orange orchard. I grew up surrounded by orange trees, in soil and weather meant for their kind, yet I am biologically an apple.

I've grown to look and be something different from both the apple trees and the orange trees. In both orchards, I seem out of place. It makes me wonder: what orchard was I truly meant to call home? Where can I grow and feel a genuine sense of identity? Where can I find other "different apple trees"?

In my experience, this kind of feeling is difficult for many mainland Chinese people to understand. Words like 假中国人 (jiǎ zhōng guó rén, fake Chinese person), 香蕉 (xiāng jiāo, banana, meaning yellow on the outside and white on the inside), and 外国人 (wài guó rén, foreigner) are often thrown around lightly, even casually, within the community. I have personally been called all of these names, by all kinds of people, from strangers, from new friends, even from family. The words sting not because they are meant as insults, but because they carry implicit judgments about where I belong.

Why is it so common, and seemingly accepted, to say such things? I want those who use these terms lightly to think deeply about their own biases. What defines someone as “more Chinese” or “more American” than another? What gives one the right to talk down to someone else based on a metric no one can define? Why is it okay in some circles to question the authenticity of someone’s identity?

I don’t blame specific individuals for these views entirely, though. I blame the system, the environment, the orchard. After all, these beliefs are often deeply ingrained, passed down through generations as a way to foster national pride and community bonding. Understandably, people want to protect their culture, especially when it faces pressures from the outside world and other cultures. And I know that it's somewhat unconscious; I don't think people, especially friends and family, are spewing insults to make me feel less than. But this form of national pride is extremely unhealthy and toxic, for both Asian Asians and Western Asians.

There is a concept in Chinese culture called 崇洋媚外 (chóng yáng mèi wài), which can be translated to “glorifying foreign things and flattering foreigners,” that represents a sort of double standard: while many mainland Chinese criticize Asian Americans like me as “fake” or “foreigner,” there is often a near-reverence for Westerners and Western culture. This creates a very confusing space where Asian Americans are caught in between: we are criticized for not being “Chinese enough” yet not fully embraced as American.

There are also clear cultural differences that shape our experiences. Growing up in America, I was taught to be open with others, to take pride in my achievements, and to share my successes confidently. It is seen as a very positive quality to be outgoing and certain in one's abilities. In Asia, however, these behaviors are often seen as boastful and inappropriate. When I act according to American cultural norms, I can feel the disapproving eyes of those who expect humility and reserve digging into my back. Their sideways glances remind me that I don’t fully belong in their orchard.

Life in the orange orchard isn’t necessarily better or easier. People are generally less blunt, but the feeling of being “other” persists. No one calls me a “fake American” or “foreigner” to my face because of the current social norms; awareness and sensitivity surrounding racism are more prevalent now, which is very beneficial and in the right direction. But I still notice a subtle tone of exclusion. When topics about China arise, I notice the quiet snickering, the dismissive looks, the immediate rejection. The political tension between the United States and China feeds into a narrative where China is seen as an enemy, and by extension, Asian Americans are frequently viewed with suspicion or distrust.

After years of hard work and accomplishments in fields stereotyped as “Asian,” such as math, music, and STEM, efforts from Asian Americans are often dismissed or overlooked. In college admissions and job applications, we face the reality that it is harder for Asians to stand out simply because of the number of similar applicants. While I completely understand the importance of diversity for everyone's benefit, it feels unfair to be forced to differentiate myself from "all the other Asians” just for a fair chance to play the game that is life.

This complex reality is also difficult for my parents to grasp fully. When I tell them someone called me a racial slur ( “chink,” “ching chong,” insults of this sort) in America, they agree that such language is unacceptable and not “just a joke.” However, when someone in China calls me a “foreigner” or a “fake Chinese,” it is regularly shrugged off as normal or justified. "Grow thicker skin," they say. I think this difference comes from their experience growing up firmly rooted in the apple orchard, their cultural home. They want to support me, but sometimes it feels like they cannot fully visualize the struggles I face in the spaces between orchards. But I kind of get it.

They notice the discrimination Asians face from white Americans, but often overlook the subtle, yet significant, bias that Asian Americans can encounter from other Asians. There is also a frustrating double standard: many Chinese people who have moved to English-speaking countries believe it is racist for someone to say, “You’re in America/Britain/Australia/etc., speak English,” yet they don’t see it as wrong when someone in China tells me, “You’re in China, speak Chinese". Although I understand Mandarin, the fluency and cultural cues just aren't there. It is harder for me to pick up on jokes, sarcasm, and express myself to fit in casually with others. I think that this unspoken communication with others is a big part of connection, and it just isn't possible without knowing the intricacies, references, and complex nature that is developed through living in a country.

Despite all the difficulties, though, I am very proud to be an Asian American. I appreciate how the American education system allows me to explore my interests and develop my passions freely. At the same time, I deeply value my Chinese heritage, especially the emphasis on education and family, two core values in many Asian cultures. I don’t see myself as fully Chinese or fully American. Instead, I am a unique blend of the two, a hybrid identity that I embrace and celebrate, as I should.

There is a common saying in Chemistry, “like dissolves like, ” meaning things with similar qualities or characteristics naturally dissolve each other and form bonds. It applies to many of the friendships and connections I have. Most of my closest friends are Asian American, not necessarily because I exclude others from my friend group, but because we share similar experiences and cultural understandings. Many of my friends are also American-born Asians from different backgrounds, and I often feel a stronger connection to them than to those who are fully Chinese or fully American.

Yet, the rising political tensions between the U.S. and China cast a shadow over our community. It feels like we are caught in a storm that is impossible to evade.

Where are we supposed to go? What orchard can truly be home to those of us who carry both cultures in our roots?

Places like Singapore and Hong Kong, which blend Chinese and Western influences, seem like ideal orchards, but they are out of reach for most because of rising costs and other barriers. Other potential “solutions” each have their own problems. Moving to more diverse coastal cities in the U.S., returning to live with family in China, or even finding entirely new countries with large overseas Westernized Chinese communities are all ideas that have crossed my mind. But American cities still operate within the same cultural divides, returning to China often makes one’s Western upbringing stand out even more, and moving to yet another country simply restarts the cycle of trying to fit in.

Even if you are not Chinese American, I hope you can understand the issue I'm trying to voice. These feelings of navigating between cultures and belonging to neither are also not unique to me alone. Many Asians who grew up in Western societies, whether Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese, Malaysian, or otherwise, share similar experiences, whether they spent their childhood in Britain, Australia, Canada, or are international students. We carry the weight of two worlds, learning to balance them in ways that are both messy and fulfilling. This struggle is not just my story; it is a story for anyone who has ever felt trapped between identities and longed to find their own orchard where they can grow without apology.

Where can we find a place where we are understood and accepted? Not because we look a certain way or speak a certain language, but because we are allowed to be ourselves? Shouldn’t the ability to feel culturally connected be a universal right?

Today, I'm seen as a foreigner in the U.S. because of the color of my skin and a foreigner in China because of the color of my passport. This duality places many like me in a unique space that isn't confined by one orchard or the other, but standing at the intersection of both.

And maybe that is our strength. We are not limited to one identity or one narrative. We are the new orchard: one where apple trees and orange trees grow side by side, their roots intertwined, becoming stronger together despite our differences.

So what do we do?

We forge our own path.

We grow resilient and proud wherever we are.

We claim our space and create communities that celebrate complexity.

We carry forward the best of both worlds, shaping an identity that is uniquely ours.

This world is where we belong. This world is where we thrive.

8.13.2025