The American Dream

As expressed by James Truslow Adams, the American Dream is a dream in which citizens, “regardless of [their] fortuitous circumstances of birth or position”, can achieve a life that “should be better, richer, and fuller for everyone” (Epic of America, 1931). A similar connection ties Adams ideas with the Declaration of Independence: it states that “all men are created equal” and that they are “endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights”, which includes “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness”.

Growing up as a minority, I believe that I have experienced far more than the average American Caucasian has. From the racial jokes to the outrageous stereotypes, I have lived the greater part of my life respecting individuals, whom have shown no respect for me otherwise, in order to avoid a confrontation. I have learned to accept the fact that a majority of mankind will find certain aspects of a culture worthy of mockery, whilst the group who is being made fun of finds that they’re made to feel more and more the minority. So, in the country nicknamed the “Land of the Free”, I am surprised that I am required to put up with all of these prejudices.

Therefore, what exactly is the American Dream? Is it ones dream of riches beyond imagination? The ability to travel places at ones will as displayed by Tom and Daisy Buchanan in The Great Gatsby? Or even like F. Scott Fitzgerald, the author of the novel, and his wife, Zelda Sayre? Some could say that the American Dream is the direct definition of such riches; possibly, many would claim that. In Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s I Have a Dream speech, he speaks of a dream in which people will “not [judge others] by the color of their skin but by the content of their character” (MLK Online). The American Dream, according to Adams and the Declaration of Independence, mentions a better life filled with equality and the opportunity for individuals to prosper and grow “according to [ones] ability or achievement” (Epic of America). Their words are my American Dream.

Coming to the United States of America has always been a Chinese persons dream. Coming to America meant that one could try new things and work with the more advanced Western technology, a place where people of different countries could come and start anew; live the “promised life” that they couldn’t otherwise in their own country.  In Hawaii, a predominantly Asian community, racism wasn’t something you came across on an every day basis. Quite frankly, one would rarely find themselves crossing the paths of a xenophobic. Coming to Missouri, though, meant that we had to learn to deal with a problem that has existed for centuries. Growing up under a Chinese family, I had learned to use chopsticks before I could even hold a spoon or a fork at that matter. Without the art of how to make the “perfect peanut butter sandwich”, my mother would prepare my lunch for school in a Chinese fashion. In a plastic baggie, I would have a container of rice and various vegetables while other moms would send their children off to school with that elusive sandwich in a Power Ranger, Barbie, or a Pokémon lunch bag. Since we had only spoken Chinese in the family, I did not know how to communicate well with my new classmates and naturally, they did not know how to converse with me. I would sit off on the opposite end of the cafeteria and place my baggie in front of my food since the other kids believed that rice and an American styled lunch should not coexist (peanut butter, jell-o, a juice box versus rice, dried seaweed, yum, and whatever else I happened to have that day). More or less, every morning, I would ask my mother the same question: “Mama, nĭ rènwéi tāmen huì xĭhuan wŏ ma?” (English translation: “Mommy, do you think that they will ever like me?”), as these kids were the ones who would tell me to go back home and make myself something “American” to eat, something that was “normal” and more “Americanized”. They were the kids who would mock me and my family, telling me to eat somewhere else because my food “reeked” and that no one would be my friend because Asians were “mean” and “rude”. Salvaging what was left of my pride, I would tell them that they were the ones who were being mean and rude, but in my broken English, this was near impossible; also, this would give them all the more reason to mock me because I spoke in such choppy sentences. At times, when the taunts became too much for me to bear, I would come home frustrated and angry with my parents: why did they have to move here of all places? Did they only look at the United States of America, saw opportunity but not reality, and up and left what could have been the better life for me, the place where I was guaranteed to fit in and my tormentors, no? My anger towards them never lasted too long though. With their consoling words, my parents would say “nĭ dĕngzhe, ní dĕngdài kàn” (You wait, just you wait and see), and with words so strong that I believed they could move mountains, I would wait for the next day and hope for some change.