Inauthentic by Preston Lim (16, Texas)

July 7, 2015 ​

Dear Applicant, 
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Thank you for your interest in joining San Francisco’s historic Chinatown. We hope you enjoyed your summer vacation and visit again soon. 
Unfortunately, we can’t offer you a position at this time. Although you possess many great qualities, you’re not what we look for in an applicant. You would not mesh well with our work environment, but we hope you find success elsewhere. 

If you still wish to work in San Francisco, we recommend looking downtown. Their board looks for people like you there, people whose culture has been washed out by the white paint of America. They look for people with your accent, the long a’s and casual speech; for people with your clothes, your high-top Nikes and graphic tees. Perhaps you’ll fit better there, will blend in with the fumigated personalities that wander their streets. 
While downtown focuses on their shoes and belts, their industry, we take pride in our authenticity. We strive to represent what it means to be Chinese-American, to be proud of our culture. To not cast it aside in favor of the colonizer’s language, to pursue the desire to understand your ancestry. You do not have this authenticity: you grew tired of the numbered pen strokes and the Saturday classes. You quit. And in doing so, you guaranteed something: you are not and never will be authentically Chinese.
We only looked at your application because of your father. Your father, who is Chinese enough. When he was young, he would roam the crowded streets filled with mopeds and minivans. He would dodge speeding motorcycles on his way to the bakery, laugh as they hurled insults at his 9-year-old body which was already turning behind the corner where an old man bartered his vegetables. When your dad slid into the bakery, the bell above the door would prompt the owner to smile and wave. Afterward, he would walk out of the store, toting a bag full of bread and an extra dollar to spend on baseball cards. 
But when you walk these streets, your eye glosses over the generations who have built themselves homes atop the stores. You do not understand what the neon signs above stores say, only the pictures taped on for westerners. You hear the motorcyclists yell at you as you cross the street, but you do not understand that they are insulting you. You simply wave at them and keep on walking, almost tripping over the man selling his vegetables in his family store. And when you walk into the bakery that has stood there for decades, they take one look at you—at your sneakers and sweatpants, at the headphones that adorn your head—and they call for the worker who speaks English. She comes to the front and asks you what you want. You reply: you’re just looking around. She smiles and walks away. You look as hard as you can at the labels on the pastries, trying to discern what they say. Eventually, you give up and walk out of the store emptyhanded. The bell dings as if celebrating your failure. 
And sure, you want to get it. You want to understand what the motorcyclists yell, want to know what each of the baked goods lying on the heated trays contain. You want to understand what it is to be Chinese in America rather than Chinese-American, but you never will. Simply put, you will never be a part of this community of Chinese immigrants because you are not Chinese enough.
Sincerely, 
San Francisco Chinatown

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