Between April and May, I took part in an empowerment and creative workshop organized by Maviblau, a cultural platform for the exploration of post-migrant themes and the exchange between Turkey and Germany. The theme of this workshop centered around the question “Woher kommst du?”—”Where are you from?”— and around the hashtag #vonhier created by Ferda Ataman, journalist and author of the book Ich bin von hier. Hör auf zu fragen! (I am from here. Stop asking!). I know I’m not actually “von hier,” but if I were, would I ever feel German and would I be perceived as such?

We could choose from illustration, writing, or photography workshops. Yesterday was the culminating Zoom event in which I and several participants from all workshops briefly presented our creations. I’d chosen to illustrate my Chinese name:

林 • Forest • Wald

梦 • Dream • Traum

葳 • Flourishing plant • Wachsende Pflanze

The idea behind these stemmed from a self-reflection exercise my therapist gave me back in April. I was asked to think about all of my names and the stories and meanings behind them. 

I have two names (not counting variations, diminutives, and nicknames): my legal English name and my “unofficial” Chinese name. To the US where I am from, for all intents and purposes, 林梦葳 doesn’t exist because there are no papers to prove it. I never had Chinese citizenship in my life, which has surprised many people. US-Chinese dual nationality is not possible. I identify as a second-generation Chinese-American, and I’m learning to accept and be proud of that to a certain extent. Yes, I was born to immigrant parents from China, but I myself do not come from there. There is a difference! I was not born there, did not grow up there, and I can’t claim that. From some of the incredulous faces I have seen upon my answer to this question, I often understand that in Europe, I can’t be from the States, no less from Texas!

My father named me in Chinese, which very much explains to me why the word 梦 or “dream” is in there. Aside from the literal translation of “forest, dream, flourishing plant,” I hadn’t thought about it much deeper than that. When I did take the time to reflect some more, I realized that only a certain group of people actually call me by my Chinese name: my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, teachers at the Chinese language school I so reluctantly attended on Sundays as a kid. I associate this name with my childhood, with being a child, and with the older generations in my family…

...My nainai keeping her freezer stocked with my favorite 绿舌头 popsicles when we came to visit during Beijing's unbearably hot summer days—these were the most amazing frozen green gelatin popsicles that flopped like a tongue as they melted and were apple flavored. My waipo yelling in our video calls because she is hard of hearing and naturally speaks louder than most, telling me I’m getting prettier and prettier by the day, or “beautiful,” one of the only English words she and my waigong can say. My aunts and uncles, both blood-related and not, smiling warmly at me while exclaiming how much I’ve grown. And of course, my parents, who still to this day mix up my name with my sister’s because they sound so similar, and we joke about how it’s all my dad’s fault since he was the one who chose them.

One day, the people who call me 葳葳 won’t be here anymore. This is scary because for me in a way they have been the guardians of my heritage and of my culture, and, I realize now, of my name as well. So “losing” my name actually means losing the people who have always used it, and losing language along with it.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be 100% in Chinese. This week I was biking over to the Freiluftkino and not far into my journey I passed two teenagers (one was white, both were non-Asian) who called “Hallo” and then “ni hao” after me, giggling. Three of the obvious frustrations with being nihao’d are as follows:

1. random strangers reducing me to one aspect of myself, my Asian-ness

2. the ignorance towards the fact that not all Asian people are Chinese or speak Mandarin… I mean duh.

3. the intersection of sexism and racism, particularly in the case of Asian women who have historically been fetishized

Apart from considering whether I should turn around and bike over to tell them off, ultimately deciding against it, and fuming the rest of the journey while coming up with all the things I wish I’d said and would for sure force myself to say next time—to yell, to scream, to go apeshit and make a huge fucking deal about it—it also got me thinking:

My Chinese is sort of frozen in time, a perpetual childhood. Not always a language of love, sometimes of anger and frustration, of illiteracy, non-fluency, and confusion. The language carries the stories, experiences, traumas, and dreams of people in my family across generations, countries, continents. Apart from the obvious reasons why being nihao’d is annoying, it is particularly hurtful when strangers take a language that means so much to me, but nothing to them, and spit it back into my face.

I’m pretty proud of myself for taking part in Maviblau’s #vonhier workshop. Not only was it the first time that I was part of something like this, but it was also conducted completely in German. I feel I’m often embarrassingly incoherent when I speak in English, and so maybe it goes without saying that my brain has to work extra hard to be understood in German. I think I achieved this moderately well?!

Others presented their works in English, German, Turkish and Persian. I didn’t always understand, but the vulnerability, pain, and joy of having an identity that is multi-layered and complex hit me hard. I didn’t expect how intimate it would be and that I would choke up so much. I was glad to have been there to listen and share.

Check out the work of my workshop co-participants on Maviblau’s website.