I Am a Chinese American :: Personal Narrative Writing

I Am a Chinese American. My feminine appearance made slew believe that I was an obedient person, plainly instead I am an independent, aggressive individual. When I was young, my stimulate everlastingly sewed me those immature, baby-doll dresses. Every morning, she bind my hair into two little ponytails with red ribbons. She made me look worry an obedient, typical Chinese girl, like the ones I later saw in New York on Channel 31. Shy, like those little girls who always held their mothers manpower stiff. On a breezy cold morning in China, fret always woke up before dawn to prepare breakfast for us, then(prenominal) went food shopping. I sometimes followed her to the crowded marketplace, where the vendors shouted in frequent like maniacs. The old coffee shop behind the market neer seemed to receive any attention from the shoppers. The sticky window and its broken family made it look like a ruined Confucian temple. I could barely see the old waiters face through the soil internal-combustion engine door. Behind all this dirtiness, those delicious smells conquered me, but once I sit down down at that brownish wood table, I began to lose my appetite. The dirty spots on the table reminded me of someones freckled face. The old waiter always pinched my chubby red cheeks with his greasy fingers. I immediately tangle like one of those roasted ducks hung near the window. I wanted to scream, but his sincere smile and sweet compliments traded for my forgiveness. Ironically, I loved this place, in particular that old waiter. He made me have like a princess. I could see my mother smile like she had just won the lottery. How sublime she felt to have me as her daughter My obedient appearance had in truth pleased her. When I marched out of that old coffee shop with my mother and her mah jong crew speaking loudly, I felt like people were thoroughgoing(a) at me, laughing at my dress, that flowery silk dress with shiny sequins fix to each side of the collars. I looked like a doll, except I was just a bit too fat to fit into that tight dress. One could easily define my little tummy hanging underneath the softness of the silk. Whenever I had those light canvas shoes on, I could feel the lumpy surface of the sidewalk but I looked extremely pretty. How girlish I looked. Everyone was impressed with the way my mother dressed me and believed in the send off that she had built for me.