Born in America, I spoke English, not Chinese, the language of my ancestors. When I was three, my parents flashed cards with Chineseat my face , but I pushed them, my mom believed I would learnI was ready .But thenever came. On a Chinese New Year’s Eve, my uncle spoke to me in Chinese, but all I could do wasat him, confused, scratching my head. “Still can’t speak Chinese?” Heme, “You can’t even buy a fish in Chinatown.” “Hey, this is America, not China. I’ll get some with or without Chinese.” I replied and turned to my mom for. “Remember to ask for fresh fish, Xin Xian Yu,” she said, handing over a $20 bill .Ithe words running downstairs into the streets of Chinatown. I found the fishsurrounded in a sea of customers. “I’d like to buy some fresh fish,” I shouted to the fishman .But hemy English words and turned to serve the next customer .The laugh of the people behind increasedtheir impatience. With every ,the breath of the dragons (龙) on my back grew stronger—my blood boiling—me to cry out . “Xian Sheng Yu, please” “Very Xian Sheng,” I repeated .The crowd erupted into laughter. My face turned and I ran back home, except for the $20 bill I held tightly in my pocket. Should I laugh or cry. They‘re Chinese. I should feel right at. Instead , I was the joke , a disgrace (丢脸)to the language. Sometimes , I laugh at my fish, but , in the end ，the joke is on. Every laugh is a culture; every laugh is my heritage (传统) fading away(逐渐消失).