Exactly 20 years ago, on this very day, I landed at LAX as an unaccompanied minor. The flight attendant walked me to the gate, where I reunited with my parents after three years apart. My dad packed my luggage into a rickety Toyota Previa, drove us home to our one-bedroom apartment in East LA, and I started my new life in America.

America was different. For one, I now had a sister. A curious 2-year-old tiny person who followed me around and copied what I did. I had to share things with her, which was a difficult concept for me to grasp. Back in China, my grandparents spoiled me to no end. That was clearly not going to continue here under my parents’ watch.

Then came the language barrier. On the morning of my first day of second grade, my dad dropped me off with my new teacher and a classroom full of new faces. My new classmates talked. They asked me questions. I stared back at them, completely stunned. I also had to pee, but had no idea how to ask to be excused. Later that day during lunch period, I ran to the bathrooms. The doors were locked. Not knowing what to do, I panicked, pulled my pants down, and peed on the ground.

I remember 9/11. I remember learning to spell “Halloween.” I remember having to take extra ESL classes to work on my English. I remember my first Christmas, where I got a Barbie DVD from “Santa.” (My parents didn’t know the rules of Santa Claus, so they just slipped some DVDs under our pillows on Christmas Eve.) I quickly adopted all these American traditions and before I knew it, stopped speaking Chinese altogether. “I’m American now,” I’d argue when my parents asked me to practice my Chinese.

I remember how hard my parents hustled. My dad was working multiple jobs while my mom was finishing up her master’s degree at nearby Cal State LA. To save on a babysitter, my mom would take me to night school with her. I distinctly remember sitting in the hallway outside her classroom as she took her final exams inside. “If anyone asks, just tell them your mom is inside,” she’d tell 7-year-old me.

They were hard on me. As typical Asian immigrant tiger parents, they taught my sister and me to prioritize school above all. We did extracurricular activities involving musical instruments. We used food stamps, and lived extremely frugally. And of course, we ate Chinese food. Although we lived a very Chinese lifestyle at home, at school I was immensely focused on becoming one of the cool American kids. I wanted so badly to fit in, excelling in spelling and grammar because I felt I had to prove that I knew English. I hid the Asian side of myself to try so hard to be some version of WASP American. But naturally, cultural and financial differences set me apart, and as a result I grew up feeling somewhat lost as I journeyed through childhood teeter-tottering between the fringes of two worlds.

Somewhere in college I finally came to terms with my Asian-American identity. Traditional Chinese beliefs raised me to value education, practicality, and humility. American ideals taught me how important it is to take risks and dream big, because nothing is impossible. And I believe I need both mindsets to become the best version of myself.

To me cultural identity isn’t about the exotic food, speaking the language, or any other stereotype. Cultural identity is about the world your parents grew up in. It’s about the new life an immigrant family creates as they settle into a foreign country. Cultural identity for us immigrant children is how we adjust to the best of both worlds – how we balance the traditional and the new, how we inherit our parents’ undying optimism for a better future, and ultimately, pass this belief of hope onto our own children.

For me, being American is creating my own identity and applying the virtues I’ve been taught to new opportunities in the pursuit of a brighter future. To never stop learning, growing, and reinventing myself. But most importantly, to not allow myself to be bound by others’ definitions and to never forget where I came from.