List Detail - Chapel Talk Archive

Eric Ge '24

“Where you come from now is much less important than where you're going. More and more of us are rooted in the future or the present tense as much as in the past. And home, we know, is not just the place where you happen to be born. It's the place where you become yourself.” - Pico Iyer

As I watched the Groton flag parade in my Fourth Form fall, my eyes were drawn to the Five-star Red Flag, a symbol of my Chinese heritage. Just a year prior, at the flag parade at the International School of Beijing, I clutched a different emblem: one with thirteen stripes and fifty stars, a representation of my home in the US. But as I watched the parade wind its way around the Circle, a perplexing question echoed in my thoughts: “Where am I from?” When I was nine years old, the answer would have been a resolute, “Lexington, Massachusetts.” At fourteen, it would have shifted to, “Beijing, China.” But now, an uncomfortable hesitation filled my mind.

With a white picket fence and a two-story brick facade, my childhood home in Lexington was the quintessential representation of suburban America. Nestled at the entrance of a cul-de-sac, it was the perfect location for a young boy to grow up. Walking to school under the canopy of red maple trees and accompanied by the chirps of robins, I was enveloped in a timeless New England tranquility that permeated the dewy morning air. Sheltered from the cacophony of the wider world, Lexington was an idyllic sanctuary of natural beauty and calm.

Our tiny pocket in the neighborhood represented a diverse and close-knit community. My best friend from across the street, Mateo, was Ecuadorian, and his mom offered me fresh empanadas when I came to play. Another neighborhood friend, Dawson, was Irish, and his father taught me the Celtic fiddle since we both played violin. Families in our area alternated hosting various gatherings – barbeques, pool parties, and holiday feasts. The dishes, ranging from Albanian byrek to Chinese spring rolls, each brought something unique to our potluck, their cuisines fusing into a single, fragrant aroma: like a microcosm of the nation, our little cul-de-sac represented the diversity of America.

For the first nine years of my life, I grew up in a unique intersection of the past and present. As I strolled along downtown Lexington, I encountered traces of Revolutionary-era America. The Minute Man statue stood proudly in the town center, while quaint local stores like “The Crafty Yankee” reminded passersby of the town’s historical legacy. Yet in my small cul-de-sac, I also witnessed a modern representation of the country. In my neighborhood’s blend of immigrant cultures, I saw firsthand how the founding principles of democracy, equality, and inclusion had evolved into a multifaceted and diverse country. For most of my childhood, I was from this tranquil blend of historic and modern America.

In the middle of third grade, my parents told me that we were moving to Beijing. Besides the faint memories of two summer vacations in China, I had virtually no idea what life in another country would entail. Despite my stubborn protests, I begrudgingly found myself on a flight across the Pacific on Christmas Eve, 2014.

Stepping out of the airport, the stark contrast between the sprawling Beijing metropolis and my former life in Lexington was immediately palpable. Despite seeing a sea of familiar Chinese faces, I felt an inexplicable sense of distance and alienation. Veils of Mandarin characters flashed across airport signs. A discord of car horns blared in the background. Even the air smelled different: an industrial smog replaced the blue skies of my Massachusetts hometown.

Only in China did I realize how American I was. At restaurants, I pointed mutely at dishes on the menu, only to hear waiters bluntly ask my mom, “How old is he? How come he still does not know how to read?” Joining a local swim team, I could only speak in short Mandarin phrases, observing the natural cadence of my teammates’ banter with longing and disorientation. Ironically, in a land of Chinese cultural and ethnic uniformity where I should have blended in, I instead found myself more isolated and detached.

After six years in Beijing, the city’s frenetic rhythm eventually became my own. The formerly indecipherable Mandarin characters on street signs became familiar landmarks of daily life. Towering skyscrapers and bicycle bells replaced the maple trees and bird songs of my early years in Massachusetts. But unlike my nine-year-old self, who found these changes unsettling, Beijing had become a landscape I navigated with both familiarity and fondness.

Living in Beijing also deepened my sense of Chinese-American identity. What once meant dumplings for dinner and Saturday Chinese school evolved into a more nuanced understanding of my heritage. I immersed myself in wuxia novels, a genre of Chinese fiction about martial arts in ancient China, gaining a new appreciation for the shared stories that shaped China's collective imagination. Celebrating the Lunar New Year became more than just a festive event: as I set off fireworks with my cousins, I experienced a moment of cultural communion, strengthening bonds with my roots and extended family. My life in Beijing felt like a second identity, an urban and deeply Chinese reconsideration of where I was from.

As I neared my high school years, I yearned to return to America, the place I nostalgically remembered as my childhood home and a land teeming with opportunity. But arriving in person in the spring of 2021, I found myself in a country far different from my third-grade memories. Amid COVID-19 and anti-Asian hate, I felt an increased racial tension in the country. It seemed that just as I had changed during my years abroad in China, the United States had evolved into a more tumultuous and polarized nation. On a personal level, arriving midway through Third Form and after years abroad, American culture felt remote and unfamiliar. Years of competitive swimming left me disconnected from sports like lacrosse, football, and hockey, subjects I could no longer contribute to in conversation. After only using WeChat due to the Great Firewall, I felt out of touch with apps formerly banned in Beijing, like Instagram, Snapchat, and TikTok. Paradoxically, while I had always identified as American at the International School of Beijing, back at Groton, I was categorized as an international student from China. I returned to America excited to reconnect with the culture from my childhood, but ironically, felt more Chinese than ever before.

Yet over the next few years, Groton gradually transformed into a place of belonging and identity. As I laughed with friends in the Dining Hall, ran with teammates through Town Forest, and performed with peers in Gammons, the Circle became an additional, third home. From late-night conversations to test cramming, I navigated moments of serene happiness and stark anxiety with my friends. Just like my own parents, my advisor and teachers offered me guidance through a myriad of setbacks, whether they were flunked tests or bouts with the winter flu. From the encouragement of sports captains to the warmth of dorm prefects, the leadership of older students subtly shaped my own character. During my three-year stay at Groton, my answer to the question, “Where are you from?” also began to evolve. Whether I was competing in science contests or participating in orchestra festivals, I found myself instinctively responding, "Groton School." On these occasions, even though I was the one presenting the research or music, the support and encouragement of the Groton community stood behind me. Despite my initial doubts upon arriving in 2021, Groton nurtured, included, and embraced me back to the US.

This fall, as I watched the flag procession pass by, I finally had an answer to my former conundrum. Perhaps all of the geographical and cultural markers of my life form a part of me. I’m a fusion of the tranquil maple canopies of Lexington and the bustling glass skyscrapers of Beijing, nourished by diverse immigrant potlucks and intimate traditional family celebrations. Instead of constraining myself to a single place, culture, or people, I’m from everywhere that has impacted and nurtured me in my life’s journey. The fifty stars of the US cultivated my childhood of peace and diversity, the five stars of China deepened my connection to my cultural heritage, and through Groton School, these backgrounds have been woven together. I’m represented by a flag of fifty-five stars, and it is the blend of diverse cultural identities behind these stars that I’ll always carry with me.

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