CAUGHT BETWEEN CULTURES: DISORDERED EATING IN ASIAN AMERICA
Written by Serena Li
Lunar New Year, 2018. My family of eight was gathered around a table piled high with traditional Chinese dishes—glistening meatballs nestled in steamed bok choy, chilled lotus-root salad, delicate poached fish garnished with ginger, shiitake mushrooms swimming in savory brown sauce—the best that diasporic Asia had to offer. But on my plate lay a diminutive scoop of rice; a few withered leaves of bok choy, from which I had scraped the sauce; and a sad portion of braised pork belly—which had once been my favorite food.
Picking up my chopsticks, I began to eat slowly. The aromas of my mother’s hard work wafted around the dining room. Our TV streamed the upbeat melodies of China’s Spring Festival Gala, and my family chattered happily around me. But despite the celebration, I could think of nothing but my mounting anxiety as I moved a piece of pork into my mouth.
My grandmother glanced over at me, concerned.
“Chi duo yi dian,” she urged, “Eat more.” She offered me another piece of pork belly. She had cooked the dish especially for me, knowing how I used to enjoy it. I had smelled the meat simmering within a pot of soy sauce and spices, seen it adorned with quail eggs and shining with fat, and noticed the pride on my grandmother’s face as she lifted the porcelain plate onto the table, decked high with succulent pork. But at that moment, I turned away from her.
“Bu e le,” I said. “Wo shen ti bu shu fu.” Not hungry. My stomach hurts.
That was a lie. My stomach was perfectly fine, and if anything, it was very, very hungry.
My pride for my Asian heritage had once been sustained by my love for my cultural food.
I might have shunned Chinese school and barely spoken Mandarin at home, becoming (as my parents and grandparents chided) a bona fide “American girl”—but the cooking of my family had always connected me to my roots. Eating Asian food lay at the cornerstone of my Asian-American identity, allowing me to connect with my culture and family through the sharing of a meal, and constantly reminding me of the beauty and resilience of my heritage.
Chinese food was delicious, and that made me proud.
This changed in middle school. Being Asian-American afforded me the best and worst parts of living between two cultures—yes, I got to eat delicious food, but I was burdened with cultural dysphoria in all aspects of my life, especially in regards to beauty. Because what was beauty to an Asian-American? I lacked the enviable blonde hair and blue eyes of my “beautiful” white classmates, and never quite possessed the snow-pale skin and thin physique that was so hotly desired by mainland Asians.
I was stuck between two worlds—but in the end, I looked too Asian to be an American beauty.
So, I began attempting to emulate Asian figures and celebrities—mindlessly mimicking their outfits and makeup, and voraciously consuming their media, music, and culture. And along with that, I subscribed to East Asia’s criminally strict diet culture, which manifested itself especially clearly on social media. Any Asian celebrity purportedly lost their beauty when they lost their small bodies; they were only perfect when they policed their appearances and diets. Was I, then—as a consumer of whatever food I wished to eat—not beautiful?
I examined myself in the mirror that night, noticing insecurities that had never been present before popping from the glass. I began packing meager bentos instead of eating the “unhealthy” American school lunch my peers consumed; I spent my evenings exercising excessively, as advised by some other random, thin (and therefore beautiful, through the lens of our fatphobic society) Asian celebrity.
But at some point, I became tired. My energy waned by the day, and I dreaded waking up in the morning to prepare my tiny lunches and pick at my miserable breakfasts. My parents were worried; I refused even the most delicious of meals and wore ill-fitting baggy clothing to hide my allegedly flawed body. My stomach felt like a gaping hole, yet I dared not fill it—even when all I wanted was to eat good, Chinese food again. I realized that I had lost all the enjoyment and comfort that food had once brought to me, and I desperately wanted those feelings back.
It had been nearly a year since I first shunned my family’s cooking during the Lunar New Year celebration, and much longer since I’d begun on my downward spiral. In the days leading up to the holiday one year later, however, I resolved to give up on my quest for some unattainable standard of perfection.
I was sick of blindly abiding by some made-up rules to be beautiful, sick of feeling trapped within my own body. Perhaps it was the spirit of the New Year, or perhaps I simply missed the connection and cultural pride that Chinese food provided me. But when I sat down again at the Lunar New Year table, I put aside my inhibitions—and for the first time in a while, I truly felt free.
And to this day, I feel that as I finally began to eat—with the delicious, wholesome smells of cooking around me, surrounded by my supportive family, and with the sounds of Chinese music and celebration in my ears—Lunar New Year felt brighter that year than ever before.
Serena Li (she/her), 17, is a student journalist from Basking Ridge, New Jersey. Her work has previously appeared in Ms., Sex, etc., and ReDefy.