According to my parents, I don’t fit the mold of what a respectable young Asian man should be. I don’t like Math. I don’t like Physics. I like English. I like History. I don’t dress nice and neat as they think a respectable person should. I don’t listen to everything they tell me to do like they did for their parents. But worst of all, by not being the perfect Asian stereotype my parents want me to be, I’m setting a bad example for my younger siblings.

School is finally out and freedom is on the other side of the door. Summer is the most appealing time of the year for teenagers all around the US. No more homework, no more slaving under the scrutinizing eyes of teachers, no grades to worry about, and more time to do whatever we feel like.

At times, the oddest things are sometimes the best blessings in disguise. September 11th was a Godsend for a country like Pakistan, which was on the brink of bankruptcy. That fateful event led to the questioning of everyone who slightly resembled an Afghan Taliban leader and had “Mohammed” or “Osama” in their name.

I dream in a bilingual mess; not Chinese nor English because I master neither. Call it “Chinglish” if you will, but it is more than simply a conglomeration of language. Inside my dreams, inside my unconscious mind, I span two continents, two cultures.

I’m just your run of the mill Asian kid. I also happen to be from Southern California, born and raised. Which makes me a Valley boy, born and raised. Living in this particular part of the Valley doesn’t give a person much of a chance to really know the definition of being Asian.