"Once upon a time, there was a (noun) who loved to (verb) frogs. One day, the pesky (noun) became very frustrated and decided to (verb) the (adjective) frog. Then the (noun)’s mother came in and told the (noun) not to (verb) the frog anymore or else she would punish her by making her eat several (noun)s, which the (noun) hated. So the (noun) decided to kiss the frog instead, and the (noun) and the (adjective) frog lived (adverb) ever after."

"Mad-Libs" used to be my favorite activity when I was in the fourth grade. It was a pretty hilarious way to teach grammar…most of the time. Some of the immature, obnoxious kids in the class decided to use "elephant" excessively; they put it in every single blank, including the verb and adjective blanks. I, on the other hand, actually placed sensible words in their respective spots and even peeked at the other side, hoping that doing so would express my message clearly and thus benefit the entire fourth grade. Little did I know that my effort to choose the perfect words actually produced mundane stories that formed wells of tears in my peers’ eyes, not because they were touched by the meaning and depth of my story, but because they were utterly bored out of their minds. What fun was it reading about a princess who became friends with a frog because her mother would make her drink brussels sprout soup if she didn’t? Wouldn’t it be much funnier to hear about an elephant that elephanted a frog because her mother would elephant her if she didn’t elephant it? I suppose I was the only one who thought otherwise. I honestly didn’t know that it was expected for these stories to be unexpected (I didn’t know that elephants were really popular back then, either).

Why is it that I seem to be stuck in the same old rut six years later? Every now and then, I think to myself that if I could write out the story of my life, everything would be perfect. I’d have enough money to send my family on one of those year-long cruises around the world so that they could sit back and relax. Diseases would be cured left and right. There would be no poverty. I’d be taller. Oh, and there would be world peace. In my head, the list would just go on and on…which would bring me back to the fourth grade. I failed to realize then (and still fail to realize now) that writing and planning everything out so that it is perfect in our eyes still doesn’t prevent the unexpected, and that’s what makes life so interesting. Whenever we wish for things in life to be different or for the power to change things to our advantage, we’re losing one of life’s greatest treasures: the element of surprise. Sure, it would be fantastic to know when the sky is about to rain cats and dogs (especially if, thanks to Southern California’s bipolar weather, it’s still sunny outside), but being able to know every little detail and map out what you are going to do for the next fourteen and a half years is a little much.

Life sometimes doesn’t go as planned, but I believe that that’s what makes it worth living. Take surprise parties, for example: if we knew about them in advance and expected them to happen on a regular basis, they would lose their jaw-dropping, fainting, laughing, and crying hysterically effect, something that I always look forward to at surprise parties. It’s like finding a cough drop in your pocket right before an oral presentation or a five dollar bill in your backpack when you think you’ll have to starve during lunch. With the unexpected, there are always pleasant surprises in store: if my English teacher planned a timed writing but abruptly changed her mind and showed us an episode of The Simpsons instead, I would definitely applaud the unexpected.

Without life’s little twists and turns, we would all be bored to tears, just like my fourth grade peers. We need a couple of adjectives, verbs, semicolons, and exclamation points to spice up our own stories, because without them, life would just be one big elephant.

It seems to defy every Asian stereotype, but Chinese American children actually learn earlier that money is not the solution to all of our problems.

We would know, because we tend to end up with quite a bit of it every Chinese New Year when our parents and grandparents stuff Washingtons, Lincolns, Hamiltons, and (if we’re lucky) Jacksons into those flamboyant red-and-gold envelopes to give to the younger generations.

It’s every child’s dream come true—getting money for no apparent reason, followed by (in most cases) a large meal to celebrate the day. Heck, it’s every human being’s dream come true!

Still, as I sit at the dinner table on Chinese New Year with my cash tucked safely inside my pocket, eating dishes that seem strangely foreign to my taste buds, listening to relatives chat in a language I used to understand, I cannot help feeling just a little bit lost, empty, regretful, out of place—a small twinge of an emotion that I can barely even name, but a twinge nonetheless. Not even receiving money can assuage the feeling that I lack cultural identity, something that so many around me can lay claim to so easily.

My mother and father, having spent nearly half a century in their country of birth, call themselves Chinese. They speak Chinese fluently in two different dialects, read Chinese newspapers every single day, volunteer for the Chinese PTA, cook Chinese food, watch Chinese soap operas, listen to Chinese music, and even type their e-mails using Chinese characters.

Those coming from families that have called this country home for generation after generation can proudly proclaim themselves to be American. They use all the American slang properly, understand the unique American sense of humor, embrace American culture and ideals, and have known the national anthem by heart since early childhood.

And me? I have spent roughly half my life in China, half in America.

I cannot tell you exactly when Chinese New Year is, only that it usually falls somewhere between January and February. I know a few important Chinese phrases here and there ("Where is the restroom?" or "How much does this cost?"); just don’t talk to me about anything even slightly complex or intellectual. I like eating at Chinese restaurants, but their menus had better include English translations. I enjoy picking up cheap merchandise in China, but my clumsy fumbling with the unfamiliar currency instantly tells the salespeople, "I’m not really from around here. I’m not really one of you."

I am a citizen of the United States, yet during the Beijing Olympics I found myself rooting for athletes hailing from China or Taiwan over those who were from America. I am grateful every time winter break rolls around, but my family has not bothered to put up a Christmas tree for more than five years. I don’t mind a trip to In-N-Out every now and then, but truth be told, I would often rather eat leftover dim sum or fried rice.

I cannot call myself Chinese or American without feeling like a fraud, a phony, a tainted sample, for my cultural identity is borrowed from disconnected fragments of Chinese traditions and American influences, of Chinese ethics and American values. I am forever cursed with not being able to define myself using nationality, with not truly belonging, with being confused.

I guess I’d better enjoy those red envelopes while I can.