An All American Girl (maybe)

I was blessed with a "normal" name.
Ashley is a normal first name. Qing, my mother's first name, is not.
Thompson is a normal last name. Yang, my mother's last name, is not.
At least not in America.
I have always been relieved with the fact that no one could ever immediately identify me as Chinese. No one could ever just look at my name and say "oh, she must be Chinese." Ashley Thompson is an average, American name, and as long as I do not join the Asian student alliance, eat rice and pot stickers, or associate myself with any Chinese stereotype, everybody will think I am American--one of them.
However, my face has betrayed me.
I do not look like Mulan or what you probably imagine a Chinese person looks like. I do not have "squinty" eyes, I am of average height, and I have an American nose (thanks dad). But there is something different about my face that makes me look Asian, especially when I smile with my teeth. I try not to smile with my teeth. Perhaps it is my lips and my round face. My mother thinks they are a good thing; she says I inherited them from her.

My mother is Chinese. My Dad is American. They divorced when I was two. A year or two later my mother married a very American man, my step-father--George. My dad married a very Chinese woman, my step-mother--Mae Sie. My primary custody went to my mother.
She is not easy to get along with; her normal voice is a yell, when I was little she was always in bed, talking to her Chinese friends, and she killed my pet rabbit and ate it for dinner.
When I was three my mother, step-father, and I lived in Ohio. I went to pre-school. They didn't speak mandarin or Cantonese there. English became my primary language, and my step-father became my primary parent.
He took me everywhere; he told my that my B's were backwards when I learned how to write; he tickled me and told me stories. He told me that I was American, and American is the best thing to be. He taught me how to do things the American way: fast food, cars, t.v., movies and pizza on a Friday night.
My mother made me frog legs when I was little. They tasted just like chicken, but Americans do not eat frog legs, so I spat them into my napkin when my mother was not looking. Once, I had a birthday party at my house. The pizza guy was late, so my mother served my friends dried seaweed, drumsticks, and fried rice. My friends loved it, but I was humiliated. I never had a birthday party at my house again.
When I was fourteen, I allowed my mother to go to a school function. She asked parents what grades their kids got, how much their house cost, and how many bedrooms they had. I never let her go to a school event again; but that was okay with her, she thought they were all snobs anyway.
When my mother and I go grocery shopping, she takes at least ten plastic forks, knives, and spoons, plus a stack of napkins from the counter. She only buys clothes from Nordstrom, so that when the season is over, she can return them. She detests American food and complains out loud about the prices so that everyone can hear. She tells me that when she was young, always when she was young, she was smart--the best in the school. I do not believe her. "This from a person who uses double negatives and has never been able to help with my homework once," I say.
My dad, my biological dad, whom I visit every holiday, is the parent I look up to. In my mind, he knows everything. He has speaks eloquently, he is presentable and up to date with the world, he is wise. This man, with an IQ of 150, is my father, and I'm proud.
In class a couple months ago, we were discussing nicknames or something and I exclaimed: "My dad calls kids turkeys!'" Some kids laughed, but a boy sitting across from whispered to his friend: "It must be some Asian thing." I replied: "My dad is from Kansas!" And in my mind I thought: "That's right, I am an American, just like you are."
But maybe I am wrong. Maybe I am seeing things from a different perspective than I need to. I speak like an American; I speak English. I do not speak Mandarin or Cantonese anymore. I think in English, my mother thinks in Cantonese. Maybe if I learned to speak Cantonese or Mandarin and think in her language, my mother would be smarter. If my dad were to move to China and speak a foreign language, I bet he would not sound all that intelligent either. I bet I would look up to my mother, and my father would be the one I was embarrassed of. Maybe, mom, I need to give you another chance.