Manya Zhao

I find myself incredibly grateful now, finally, for things that I always should’ve been grateful for.

And it’s looking back at the memories, at how much we’ve changed this past year, when I truly realize the magnitude of the impact you have had on me.

The road since the start of this year has been long, but as a Chinese American student here, I think I’ve finally come to love my honey and silk.

I’m long past caring about censorship only when it comes to Snapchat, but I’ve found a new appreciation for the ability to use social media as I wish.

I quickly came to learn that the “s-word” was something to tip-toe around at home, something we acted like didn’t exist, that was fully off-limits.

Though I have been able to leave behind much of my need for white validation, my discomfort with the feeling of never fully fitting in remains.

On the first day of class, my professor explained that he’s done drugs and has had multiple wives, and ergo, should be deemed “cool and hip” in our eyes.

The label of being the “model minority” — one that I rarely find any Asian American actually taking pride in — is more discriminatory than it is flattering.

English, to me, felt trendy, international. It slipped out of my mouth as smooth as caramel. Chinese was awkward, bulky, mundane, like chewing coffee beans.

We were too young then to realize how abnormal this was — how unreasonable it is to expect a barely chubby child to stay below a certain weight for looks