Emery Thanathiti

Living Between Cultures

People like to peg me as an American even though I’ve only lived here, on an F-1 International Student Visa, for six years.

In America, my identity isn’t the first thing someone questions when they meet me. When people ask, “Where are you from?” most people expect to hear the name of a state in reply. 

Back home, in Thailand, my identity is the first thing someone attempts to dissect when they meet me. “Are you luk khrueng America?” is the first questions that is thrown at me. 

In Hong Kong, debatably my second home, I’m often mistakenly introduced to others as an ABC (American Born Chinese). 

I am a mix-ethnicity, third culture kid, who reluctantly left Thailand at the age of 14 to follow my mom back to her home, Hong Kong. I speak three languages, am fluent in English, and barely proficient in Cantonese and Thai. But I’m not American. 

Yet, people always attempted to work America into my identity. My theory is that, to them, it justified my differences. Except, to me, it just made me feel like a foreigner in places where I should feel like I belong. 

So, when I graduated with my bachelor’s in the spring of 2018, I realized that I no longer knew who I was. Even though I’d sent myself straight to graduate school to—let’s be honest—buy myself more time, the budding question of where I truly belonged bugged me so much that I had to drop everything for a term and return home… to figure out where that was.  

First destination

Thailand, population: 69.04 million

Close family members: 4

Number of friends: none currently in the country 

On a bridge in Siam, Bangkok, I took a break from four-hour long window shopping session to watch the sun set in the horizon behind skylines. Beneath me, horns blared in fury as cars inched its way down the jam-packed streets of the city. Behind me, chatter filled the air, often accompanied by laughter, as people shuffled from one place to another. 

I was by myself, like every other day, with my phone to keep me company. My dad was busy running a company, my siblings were either in school or at Tae Kwon Do lessons, my one childhood friend was studying in Germany, and my dog had passed away while I was out of the country. 

I loved everything about Thailand, from the golden temples to the spicy food that made my tongue numb. But between my out-of-practice Thai and lack of friends, I just felt like I didn’t really belong.

For the longest time, I blamed it on being mixed and leaving home at such a young age. I never really fit into Thai communities in America, and I supposed that was the reason why I couldn’t fit back into Thailand whenever I came back. 

This feeling tormented me for years and I became envious of some of my other international friends who seemed to thrive whenever they went home. They had friends, they had family, and they had a dog. From the outside, it looked like they had everything. 

That day, I was texting a Thai friend that I’d met in college. He was telling me how America felt different without me around. So, I told him about how weird it was being back in Thailand. 

I never expected him to say, “I felt that way too when I went home.” 

I didn’t think he would have a logical explanation behind what I was feeling, “Most of our lives are in America now. So, when we’re back home, we have nothing to do. No close friends. No role. No job. We’re nobody over there.”

For the first time, I realized that I wasn’t the only one who felt out-of-place in my home country, and feeling that way didn’t make me any less Thai.  

Second destination

Hong Kong, population: 7.39 million

Close family members: 4

Number of friends: 8+

My cousin and I sat in the lobby of Sheraton in Tsim Sha Tsui, Hong Kong, after a long day of listening to my great-uncle go on and on about my tattoos, bleached-blonde hair, and broken Cantonese. “Your English is good, but so what? You’re not from America, you’re Chinese,” he’d all but yelled, “You think working in America is going to earn you more money than working here? Nei ong gau.”

I’d heard a similar speech, just a few weeks before, from my dad, when I had told him that what I really wanted was to go to film school to learn to create art that would represent the minorities in America. “You’re not American,” he had said, “Do you think you could make a movie or write a book and Americans will care? They won’t.” 

Through it all, I’d learn to just shake my head and bite my lip. 

My cousin turned to me, eyes filled with concern. “Just come home,” she said. “What he said was harsh, forget about it, but we all miss you and we’re always worried about you.”

There was a point in my life where I really hated Hong Kong. I didn’t like the culture, it often felt like the polar opposite of Thailand’s. I didn’t like the fact that no one dared to dream, there was simply no room for writers and artists like me and my cousin, who was stuck teaching a group of delinquent high schoolers, hoping that she’ll have time to write again one day.

But for a moment, I considered it. Being away for so long made me realize how much I missed the old tall buildings, the neon signs, and the way street vendors would yell at their customers. I spent a crucial part of my teenage years growing up in the overpopulated city and, as much as I wanted to deny it, I missed those days. It would be easy to go back, teach English and make bank. 

So, I didn’t really know why I told her, “I love Hong Kong, but I don’t think this is the place I can succeed.”  

Maybe it was because America had taught me to become liberal, crave diversity, to dream big, to develop a voice that refused to be silenced, and to never settle without trying. Maybe in that way, I’d become my family’s worst fear: “Americanized.” 

But I am not, and I do not want to be, American. 

Final destination, maybe

America, population: 327.2 million

Close family members: none

Number of friends: more than I could count 

The moment I landed in America, I felt a sense of ease. My back straighten and my strides widen with confidence. English was like music to my ears, words flowed easily through my brain and out my mouth. I immediately knew I wasn’t going to spend a day being lonely here. 

As our world becomes more globalized, an increasing amount of people have become exposed to more than one culture. The United States, for instance, has over 1.1 million international students. Naturally, it is impossible to speak for the entire population. Some come, focused on only getting their degrees, and have no problem re-assimilating into their home culture when it comes time to go back. But there are many who, like me, integrated more into American culture and found themselves slowly disconnecting from the norms of their home culture.  

Sometimes it’s our appearance. Waka Inoe, an international student from Japan said, “Whenever I go home, people think that I’m Americanized or trying to act like an American. They’ll just start like body-shaming me and say I gain so much weight.”

Other times, it’s our dreams. Stacy Yurishchev is an international student from Russia who explored her interest in American Sign Language, and now her ideal goal is to work in advertising for non-profit companies in America, especially those that deal with deaf culture. “I could just go home and with an American education I could make bank. I could lead a very comfortable life, but I want to stay here because I know that I can make changes here,” she said.

Like Waka, I looked different from typical Asian girls. I was constantly fat shamed, leading me to struggle with an eating disorder for years. I enjoyed my crop tops and shorts, which people felt showed too much skin. Even the way I did my makeup was considered exaggerated and Americanized. 

Waka told me, “I like how society in America tries to accept everyone for who they are and encourage people to love themselves. That’s something I’ve never seen in Japan.” I couldn’t agree more.

Like Stacy, I began to care about issues that weren’t prevalent back home. Race was not an issues because most of the population was Asian. LGBT issues, although existent, was often swept under the rug. Identity wasn’t really explored. There was not nearly as much room for exploration with art. America became important to me for these reasons, reasons that people like my dad and grand-uncle would find mundane and nonsensical. 

But everything from the way I dress to the values I uphold are aspects that make me who I am. They’re a part of me, I just can’t ditch.

And maybe that’s why, as much as I wish that I could just go home and fit right back in. I’ve had to become comfortable with where I’m at: not fully being a part of one or two or even three cultures, but living in the space in between. Even though, one day, I might have leave America for good with only the ways in which it’s changed me to hold onto.