Annapolis families at the New Jersey FCC Chinese Culture Camp.

Learning To Be Chinese In America
By Lynn Schwartz

Most Saturday mornings, I join four other mothers at the back of the class while our daughters learn that hong means red and shu bao li youshén me asks, "What's in the backpack?" Our daughters, adopted from China, ages 7-11, sit attentively at the front of the class translating Chinese characters on flash cards. I watch my daughter, Ibbi Fei Yan, and her classmates with awe and pride as their young minds grasp a new language, for the Chinese characters, although exquisitely beautiful, remain a mystery to me.

Presiding over our Chinese education is Katherine Hsu Haas, a fourth grade teacher, who gives up Saturday mornings for our daughters. The daughter of a German mother and a Chinese father, Haas was raised mainly in China until she was 11. She tells of growing up in China-the good and the not so good. Passionately and patiently, she guides us through raising silkworms, brush painting, legend, song, and the recipes for bao tze and congee. She also addresses the student protests of 1989 in Tian'anmen Square and the Chinese tendency to favor sons.

"I'm in the unique position of seeing the pluses and minuses of both cultures," she says. "I want to share it. It allows the children to get a taste of their heritage. As they grow, they can toss it or hold it." From her own experience, Haas also understands the issues of identity and belonging. "These girls have each other. It's a good thing."

I don't expect Ibbi at 7 to become fluent in Chinese anytime soon, but she is learning, as an American in Annapolis, what it means to be from China. It is something she loves.

When I adopted Ibbi, I was a single career woman in Manhattan. I spent my 14 "waiting" months consumed with researching and reading. I attended panels and lectures given by psychologists, older Korean adoptees, and doctors. They all agreed on this: when a family adopts a child from another country, they need to embrace not only the child, but the child's ethnicity and culture. This does not mean extreme immersion or an exaggeration of differences. It means acknowledgement and appreciation.

In 2005, Americans adopted 7096 children from China; more than 95 percent were girls. The Chinese government's "one-child policy," implemented in 1979, penalized families producing more than one child. This, along with greater value placed on male heirs, led many families to abandon infant girls. The overcrowded orphanages contributed to the government's decision to allow international adoptions. Adoptions to the United States began in 1992.

Most of us have little information about our daughters' past. I do not know which city Ibbi is from, who her birth parents are, or even her exact birth date. I know one thing-Ibbi was born in China. So this is what we pay tribute to.

Families with Children from China (FCC), a national organization, was founded out of this need. Its purpose is to offer a network of resources and community that honors our children's heritage, celebrate the diversity of our families, and advocate their acceptance and respect. The Maryland chapter consists of about 200 families. An informal Annapolis gathering group has more than fifty families.

Last summer we, along with several other Annapolis families, attended the New Jersey FCC Chinese Culture Camp. Since this was our second summer at camp, my husband, Jeff, and I knew the drill. This weekend, rain or shine, with no alcohol or espresso drinks, we would fall asleep in sleeping bags in a bare-bones cabin without electricity but with plenty of bugs. Ibbi would attend classes in mask making, paper cutting, and rice bowl painting and some not-so-Chinese activities, including horseback riding and canoeing. My husband and I would be busy with lectures, shopping from vendors selling related books and products, or trying our hand at brush painting. As a family, we would attend Chinese acrobatic performances and disco dance parties and eat American kid-friendly food, including s'mores. Despite the rustic environment, or because of it, we will happily go again until Ibbi says no more.

I am sometimes troubled that I am attempting to foster a culture that I do not know. I will, however clumsily, continue to try, for in Shanghai, as I held my new 11-month-old daughter in my arms, I took an official oath to preserve her culture. One year later in downtown Manhattan, I held Ibbi's right hand up as she, along with 300 other immigrants, adults and children, pledged their allegiance to the United States of America, in a citizenship ceremony. The photo of this day is one of Ibbi's treasures.

Certainly my daughter will grow up and realize that my bao tzes are not shaped well. That I have mistakenly served fish on Chinese New Year's Eve without its head and tail intact, therefore not properly inviting a favorable beginning and end for the new year. That Jeff and I, even with intentions born out of love, have adulterated timeless traditions into something unrecognizable like Americanized Chinese food.

Lynn Schwartz and her daughter Ibbi Fei Yan.

Recently, while waiting for Ibbi to finish her martial arts class, I met another mother, Lisa Lee, an American of Chinese ancestry. As often happens when mothers confide their parenting worries, I found relief and permission from a stranger's words. Lisa reminded me that it is about being Chinese-not how you celebrate. There isn't one "right" way of celebrating or observing traditions. Today, Chinese families can include many generations and cultures (Mandarin and Cantonese, for instance) and Americanization here and abroad has caused celebrations to vary from household to household.

My own household's unconventional celebrations, which include Chinese New Year, Christmas, Passover, and the Fourth of July, are not authentic copies of the original. But they will be Ibbi's childhood memories-an honoring of many cultures.

Ultimately, Ibbi's life will not focus on being born in China or being adopted. This is only one piece of who she is and who she will become. Her future is just beginning to unfold. Perhaps one day she will keep her current promise, "I will always live next door to you and Dad," or she might choose to live in China, where she will easily ask, "What's in the backpack?" I hope that the foundation of love that Jeff and I have set down will help her build a sense of self strong enough to be comfortable in any environment she chooses. She will know that, with our blessing, there is an invitation to further explore what she wishes.

Already the adoption issue, which we once discussed frequently, is just a normal fact. Last summer, on our community beach, I watched Ibbi fly through the air on a swing with other neighborhood children. When I called to her, one child looked at my red hair and freckles and was bewildered. "Is that your mother?" she asked. My daughter pumped higher and proclaimed, "Yes, that is my mother. I was born in China." Her boasting inspired the other children. "I was born in the Republic of Georgia," said one boy. "Well, I was born in Alaska," said another. In that moment, they were impressed with themselves and each other. The moment moved on, their attentions devoted to the business at hand-digging in the sand, catching crabs off the pier, swimming in the river, swinging high into the sky.

Lynn Schwartz is a freelance writer. She teaches fiction at St. John's College and has formed Writer's Wordhouse, which offers writing seminars by conference call.

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