Why Cultural Identity Feels Different for First-Generation Children

I used to think something was wrong with me. Not because I hated who I was. But because no matter where I stood, I always felt slightly out of place. Too Chinese in Canada. Too Western in Chinese spaces. Too quiet for some people. Too blunt for others.

And growing up in Montreal, that feeling multiplied. Because people outside of Quebec do not always understand this: Canadian culture and Quebec culture are not the same thing. They breathe differently. Speak differently. Carry different histories, humor, expectations, and social codes. I learned early that survival meant adaptation.

At school, I learned French and English.
Eventually, I learned Spanish too because I was in the International Baccalaureate program in high school. Language became more than communication to me, it became survival, connection, and identity all at once. On television, I learned French and English too. At home, I learned silence.

I became fluent in code-switching before I even understood what identity meant. I knew how to soften my words depending on who I was around. I knew when to be “more Canadian.” I knew when to be “more Chinese.” I knew when to be “more Quebecois.” I knew when to shrink parts of myself to make other people comfortable. But the truth is… first-generation children become translators long before we become adults. We translate language. We translate emotion. We translate culture. We translate pain.

And sometimes, somewhere in the middle of all that translating… we lose our own voice. I remember hearing the term “jook sing” growing up. A hollow bamboo. Chinese on the outside. Empty on the inside.

A term used for kids like me, born outside of China. Too Westernized. Too disconnected. Too foreign for our own people. And whether people meant it jokingly or not, words like that stay with you. Because you start wondering: If I’m not fully accepted by my own culture… then where do I belong? That question follows a lot of first-generation children into adulthood.

We become shape-shifters. We learn how to enter rooms carefully. We observe before speaking. We study people before trusting them. We carry generations of expectation while trying to build an identity that feels honest. People think identity is simple. But for us, identity feels like standing with one foot in inherited tradition and the other in modern survival.

It feels like carrying your ancestors in your blood while also trying to survive the culture you were raised in. It feels like loving where you came from while grieving the parts of it that hurt you. It feels like knowing your parents sacrificed everything for opportunity… while also realizing they may never fully understand the emotional world you had to grow up in. That is the tension of being first-generation. We are bridges. And bridges are built to carry weight.

There were moments growing up where I envied people who looked rooted so naturally. People who never had to explain their lunch at school. People who did not have to switch accents depending on the room. People who were not constantly aware of how different they were.

But now that I’m older, I realize something. There is beauty in being layered. There is beauty in carrying multiple worlds inside you. God never asked me to erase where I came from. He asked me to understand who I am through Him first. Because identity built only on culture can become pride. But identity disconnected from culture can become emptiness. Somewhere between those two things, I found peace.

I stopped trying to prove I was “Chinese enough.” I stopped trying to perform belonging for people who already decided who I was. I realized that being first-generation means we are pioneers in our own way. We are the first to navigate worlds our parents never had to. The first to heal certain emotional wounds. The first to ask hard questions. The first to redefine what legacy looks like.

And maybe that is why this journey feels so lonely sometimes. Because nobody teaches first-generation children how to belong to two worlds without feeling guilty for both. But I want every first-generation child reading this to understand something: You are not confused because you failed. You feel stretched because you were built across cultures.

There is a difference. Your voice matters even if it sounds different. Your story matters even if it feels complicated. Your identity is not “less than” because it cannot fit into one box. You are allowed to love your culture deeply while still acknowledging the pain inside it. You are allowed to honor your parents while becoming your own person. You are allowed to speak differently, think differently, and still carry your roots with dignity.

That is what KNg Dynasty means to me. Not pretending perfection. Not performing identity. But walking boldly in the complexity of who we are. Dynasty is not just bloodline. It is survival. It is memory. It is resilience. It is carrying generations forward without losing your soul in the process.

And maybe first-generation children are not hollow bamboo after all. Maybe we are bridges made from both worlds. Flexible enough to bend. Strong enough to endure. Rooted enough to remember. And still growing toward the sky.