How Panda Express Taught Me to Love Myself

Growing up, I reviled Panda Express.

I grew up in China, and occasionally went to the US for various trips and studies. On one particular trip, the American kids jokingly tried to convince me that Panda Express was the true Chinese cuisine, and that it had simply changed in the two weeks I was away. My autistic 16 year old self was not amused. In fact, I was rather distraught.

But now, at 24, I realised that maybe, they were onto something. Not that they really knew they were right, but maybe authenticity is overblown.

In the endless discussions of cultural appropriation versus cultural appreciation, one major point that keeps coming up is 'if it tastes good, why does it matter if it's authentic?'

Previously, I've been very adamantly on one side. I go to a Chinese restaurant not because it tastes good, but because I miss home. I crave authenticity because I crave home.

But lately, I've been giving that line of thought a bit of pause. I mean, sure, I still look for authenticity in the restaurants I frequent. I still look unfavourably upon them when they claim an authenticity they don't own. But when they don't try to claim this space they don't belong in, when they wholeheartedly embrace the fusion title, I'm willing to give it a second glance.

Panda Express was created by Chinese immigrants and adapted to American tastes. It's a story of survival and culture coming together in one tasty pot, not the story of the bastardisation of culture in the pursuit of profits and inauthenticity.

In the same way, what am I but a fusion of survival and culture? The languages I've lost to survive, the Chinglish I speak to adapt, and the words I can't translate back into my mother tongue? I am not giving up one to be the other; rather, they are both a part of me and my success. I am not who I am without either part of my fusion; the sum of me is greater than the parts.

Food culture is in itself constantly evolving. I'm not going to claim authenticity from inauthentic restaurants, but fusion is not a bad word in cuisine or culture. And from this inauthenticity, we can create an authentic American Chinese cuisine, just as I am an authentically American Chinese kid.

I used to try to be one or the other. As a child, I hid my Chinese-ness in favour of being an All-American star. Turns out, you can't really get blonde hair and blue eyes from a Chinese kid. But you can get an American accent and an attempt at athletics. When I went to university, I craved my heritage so badly I went as far in the other direction as I could. I cooked elaborate dishes from home and spoke in my mother tongue so much that English felt foreign when I returned from summer.

Now, I find myself sitting in a medium. Fried noodles can be made with pasta, crackling takes the place of roast pork. I'm altogether a mess of cultures that I can no longer detangle, but I no longer feel the need to try. Boxes are too cumbersome to store in a round head.

I'm writing a book with mythology inspired by the legends of my youth. And though I may try, western mythology sneaks its way in. A bit of Jason here, a bit of Cain there. Maybe that's for the best. My book is a reflection of me, and I am a mess of stories and cultures. I'm sure someone will read it and tell me that I am not being authentic, and I am picking and choosing from mythology, and perhaps I am.

Perhaps I'm nothing but a cobweb of mismatched stories, but if Panda Express can do it and succeed, so can I.

It's 2 am, please be kind if you spot errors. Also, check out my writing on the topics of home and belonging, such as this piece here. Or check out my instagram, where you can see chaotic thoughts unfold on the spot.