People have asked me what percentage of me is Chinese and what percentage is Western. I never know what to say to that. I suppose cultural identity isn’t as simple as a pie chart.

Americans are often surprised to learn that I grew up in Shanghai, curious about why I have no accent. Chinese people I’ve met in the US or Canada are quick to point out the same, adding that they didn’t think I’d be able to speak Chinese at all.

I was delivered into the world by a white doctor in a quiet suburb of Vancouver, Canada. I opened my eyes, took my first steps, and spoke my first words in the Western world, yet I was nurtured and cared for in a Chinese household. Dr. Seuss, Nickelback, Barq’s Root Beer (life-changing), Chuck E. Cheese, and ice hockey versus Chinese poems, Confucian parables, home-cooked Shanghainese meals, and mom’s obsession with 王力宏 (singer). Two worlds, one childhood.

I was brought to Shanghai the summer before I turned 7, speaking fluent English and with my Game Boy Advance in hand loaded up with Pokémon FireRed. Even as a child it immediately felt familiar. The food I ate, the language I spoke, the history and customs I studied — it all made sense now. Then my parents taught it at home. Now I was immersed in it.

大饼油条 breakfasts in the alleys of Qibao, grabbing 嘉兴肉粽 on our 9-hour drives down to Fuzhou, picking up Shanghainese swear words from the bus drivers and playing 象棋 with my dad — my world had flipped. Still, for reasons I don’t understand, I glorified Western culture. Whether it be Kobe Bryant, Green Day, or the American kids in middle school who all had girlfriends, it felt like everything from the other side of the world was cooler.

As a kid my eyes lit up whenever we went to the imported goods stores. There was one called CityShop. One time, while waiting to be picked up after swimming lessons, I spent an hour walking up and down the same three aisles, drooling over what felt like endless shelves of colorful snacks and sodas. I wished I could take it all home.

I also loved American pop songs. There was a dedicated radio station called 87.5 Hit FM. If there was a really good song playing but I knew I’d have to get out of the car before it was done, I’d scribble down the lyrics and then search them up to find the name of the song when I got home. Despite how immersed I was in Chinese culture, the Western parts of my life managed to fit right in.

Growing up in Shanghai, I attended international schools. I recall my American teachers often using the term “third culture kid” to describe us and help the kids from Michigan understand what was happening in their lives. Being Chinese, it was nonsense to me. I looked Chinese and spoke Chinese. Therefore, I was Chinese. If someone asked me, I didn’t have to think twice about who I was or where I was from. I’d just say in Chinese that I was born in Canada and leave the rest to their imagination.

But then I got to college, and that’s when I realized how roundabout my story sounded when someone asked me where I was from. Yet while I’d say “I’m technically Canadian but grew up in Shanghai, and so Shanghai is home,” and other kids would simply say “oh I’m from Jersey,” or “I grew up in Pasadena,” I didn’t feel all that different from them. At least in terms of my interests and hobbies.

Despite growing up in opposite hemispheres, we’d somehow played the same video games, watched the same TV shows and movies, read the same books, and listened to the same songs. On the surface it was surprisingly easy to relate to each other.

But then slowly, I found myself hesitating to call Shanghai home since that was no longer where I went back for Thanksgiving, Christmas, or summer break. My parents moved to the US as well when I started college. No more Chinese New Years, Tomb-Sweeping Days, or delicious 鲜肉月饼 during Mid-Autumn Festival. I saw my grandparents less and less.

While my friends went home during school breaks to hang out with their childhood friends, mine were scattered around the world. I think that’s when I first thought about my bicultural upbringing. And to think that millions of people — children of immigrants, mixed heritage, or expats — are navigating the same in-between is something I find endlessly fascinating.

A few years ago, following four years of college, COVID lockdowns, and visa restrictions, I returned to Fuzhou for the first time in nearly 10 years. As soon as I arrived, I was embraced (metaphorically, since we don’t hug) by my grandparents, aunt, and relatives, with everything they had to offer. They were elated to see me. They picked me up from the airport, bought a prepaid phone for me to use, and took me to fancy restaurants and tourist sites. I was treated like royalty.

Noticing how much older my grandparents had gotten and seeing how difficult it was for them to say goodbye, not knowing when we would see each other again, was heartbreaking. It reminded me that even after all these years, to them, I will always be the grandchild they loved and cared for all those years. I cried uncontrollably as I sat at the airport gate, realizing that while I am across the world, with them far removed from my daily life, they are still thinking of me. From the love they gave me, I was reminded that I have a family I can call my own in Fuzhou.

When I left China for college, I never stopped to think that it would likely be permanent and that the life I had always known growing up would not be coming with me. Yet leaving behind what I grew up with and rediscovering it has made me that much more appreciative of it all. Living in the US today with no plans to move back, each time I taste my favorite childhood dishes, call my grandparents, or have a chance conversation with a stranger in Chinese, I’m left feeling bittersweet.

As I realize how my contrasting cultures have shaped who I am today, I wonder how my identity will continue to change as I chart out my own path. I think of my future children, born into a world with their own cultural milieu, inheriting bits and pieces of everything that I carry — a language, a flavor, a way of seeing the world — and making it entirely their own. Our roots don’t disappear with us. They grow, adapt, and spread, passing themselves on quietly through each generation. And that, I think, is one of the most beautiful parts of life.