Between Two Worlds

We live in a world that often expects us to fit neatly into one box. One race, one culture, one identity. But for people like me, that’s never been possible—or fair. I’m Chinese and Jewish, and for most of my life, I’ve felt the pressure to choose between the two. But our identities aren’t either/or; they’re both/and.

When I was younger, I didn’t think about my identity in pieces. I just thought of myself as me. At home, Chinese and Jewish traditions coexisted peacefully: dumplings on Lunar New Year, latkes on Hanukkah, red envelopes and Shabbat candles. But once I left home, I began to understand that the world didn’t always see those cultures as compatible.

From kindergarten through sixth grade, I attended a Jewish day school on the Upper West Side. My parents enrolled me so I could learn about my Jewish heritage. And I did: I celebrated the holidays, learned Hebrew prayers and felt connected to Jewish traditions. However, despite embracing the culture, I never fully felt like I belonged. I was one of the only students who wasn’t fully white. I didn’t look like the other kids, and eventually, that difference became harder to ignore.

In fifth grade, I experienced what poet Elizabeth Alexander calls “a shock of delayed comprehension.” One day in science class, a boy pointed to a picture of an animal in a textbook and said it looked like me because of the eyes. He laughed. I laughed along, even though I didn’t think it was funny. I just didn’t want to be left out. Inside, though, I felt confused and embarrassed.

I didn’t have the words at the time to call it racism. I didn’t know if he meant to hurt me. But his words did. And it didn’t stop there. Later, he joked that he couldn’t understand me when I was speaking plain English, as if I had a foreign accent.

That was when the world started to change for me. Until then, I hadn’t thought of myself as “different.” But suddenly, I saw myself the way others did—othered, not quite fitting in. A part of my childhood innocence slipped away.

I started to wonder: Was I Jewish enough? Too Asian to belong? Did people see me as not truly either? I felt caught between two worlds, unsure how to exist in them both. But I’ve since learned that I don’t have to choose. Being Jewish and Chinese isn’t a burden or contradiction; it’s a privilege. It means I get to carry two histories and two perspectives. And that’s something to honor, not hide.

Now, I carry my experiences with me as a lasting reminder to be thoughtful with my words, because I know the effect that words can have and how deeply they can hurt. I also try to make space for others who live in the “in between,” who don’t always see themselves reflected in multiple communities.

Being both Jewish and Chinese hasn’t always been easy, but it’s mine. And I’ve stopped seeing it as something that divides me. Instead, it’s what makes me whole.