“Okay everybody, why don’t we all say a little fun fact as we introduce ourselves!”

    Ugh, freshman orientation icebreakers— most of my excitement has now turned to dread. The only interesting thing about me is that I’m adopted from China.

“Heyyyyy, I’m Miranda and favorite animal is a butterfly.”

“My first kiss was in the back of the bus on the way home from school.”

“I like playing Fortnite, probably more than I should, though. Hahahaha.”

Soon, they all jumble into a bunch of voices in the background of my thoughts. Then there’s silence and everybody turns to me. Looks like it’s my turn now. Deep breath.

“Uh, hi my name is Tian and I’m, um, adopted from China.”

    I catch a few of their brows furrow slightly in surprise and I can feel the blood rush to my cheeks. Instant regret. I wish I had just said my favorite color, or that I went to Mexico last summer.

    After the orientation, a few students approach me. They walk in a triangular formation, as if they’re planning a military strike. They seem nice enough, and I could use a few friends on this big college campus. After some dry small talk, they get to their actual reason for coming up to me, which is to drill me about my adoption. I field a few questions, but am stopped in my tracks when they ask:

“So, do you speak Chinese? What does ‘ching chong qua de long’ mean?”

    Once again, my cheeks are red, but this time with rage. I don’t even know what to say. How can they be so racist without any remorse? Where did they even come up with those sounds?  Besides the fact that I’m angered by the obvious racism, I still don’t know how to answer. “No” doesn’t seem like the right answer given the seven years of Chinese lessons I took. But, “yes” certainly isn’t correct either because from all of those years, I only retained “Ni hao.” However, I know enough to know that that was not Chinese. In a sheepish manner, all I can say in response is, “not really…”

    Not getting the answer they wanted, they walk away. Once again, I am alone. I’ve been alone throughout my life. Even though I grew up with two great older brothers, there was a six year age gap. They were close growing up, and still are now. Their relationship didn’t have room for me. My parents got divorced when I was young and my mom moved away. But with my dad working all of the time, I was left alone. I couldn’t integrate myself with my white peers because of the color of my skin, but I also couldn’t connect with my fellow asians because of my lack of knowledge in our heritage. Yet again, I am alone in the crowd of fellow freshmen. As this familiar feeling of loneliness comes rushing back, I hear a voice that pulls me back into reality.

    “Hey, I saw what those guys said to you. That’s so messed up, I’m so sorry.”

    I think his name is Peter. He caught my eye when he said his name and a “little fun fact” about himself. I can feel butterflies start to flutter in my stomach and my heartbeat rises a little bit. He’s really handsome.

    “Oh, hi! Peter, right? Isn’t your favorite candy skittles?” I reply, as I tuck a piece of my hair behind my ear.

    “Yeah, haha. Good memory. Anyways, those guys are jerks, sorry again.” He runs his hand in hair, shifts his weight between his feet and laughs awkwardly.

    “Thanks, I’m glad someone saw what happened.”

    The conversation is kinda over and I don’t really know what I should do now. I start thinking about not having friends and how scary that is. He once again takes me away from my thoughts by suggesting lunch. I accept because thinking about it now, I am very hungry.

    At lunch, we talk about many different topics, but end up on the topic of adoption, again. However, this discussion was different.

    “How did it feel like growing up not knowing your biological parents?” Peter asks, munching on some fries.

    “I was kinda unaffected by it because I never really thought of it like that. I have a family that I know loves me and I love them,” I pause thinking. I take a sip of my milkshake. “I think it’s interesting that you worded it with ‘biological parents,’ though. Most people who ask me about my ‘real parents’ and I have to explain to them that my parents that I have now are my ‘real parents.’”

    “Yeah, I was very careful to word it like that because people do the same to me. When I would tell people that I’m adopted from Russia, people would bombard me with requests to speak Russian,” he replies.

    No way. Of course he’s adopted. Now it makes sense that he understood why the racist comment from those kids would hurt so much.

    “Uh, um, I thought you would’ve said something by now. Wanna fry?” he comments after scanning my surprised face in silence while holding out a french fry.

    “Haha, sure, thanks. I’m just in shock because I’ve never met anyone else who’s adopted. I don't even know what to say. I think that that’s really cool. So, do you not tell many people now?”

    After the ice broke about our past, we sat in the diner and talked. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel so alone.