Are you Chinese?

Sometimes I’m resentful not because people are disrespecting my culture, but because I’m bitter about what I don’t know. This face and this name give rise to assumptions about access to culture I haven’t always had. At other times, I stubbornly refused to learn: speaking Chinese is only cool or impressive when you’re not Chinese. As a child I was dismissive – why bother when I already have the name and the face?

http://overland.org.au/previous-issues/issue-208/feature-juliana-qian/
On Saturday, a postal worker, on seeing my face as I opened the door for him, started speaking to me in a Chinese dialect that I did not recognize. Maybe it was Hakka. He was an older man.
My confusion registered. He switched to English and asked "Are you Chinese?"
I paused, then said "Yes." I thought, oh god now he's going to try to figure out where I'm from.
He switched to Mandarin and asked "Do you speak Mandarin (Pu Tong Hua)?"
I paused, longer this time. Then said yes in Mandarin. I could feel my dread and shame building, anticipating a conversation happening in which my lack of fluency in Mandarin would be exposed, to my discredit. This lack of fluency would confirm me as Westernized, not to be trusted, not truly a Chinese ally in this predominantly white and black neighborhood. A Complete Disappointment.
We proceeded to have a conversation about my family name, and what Chinese character was represented by the Romanized version he saw on the mail addressed to me. My Mandarin was halting, but good enough for him to understand. I understood everything he said in Mandarin, but it took me a few moments every time he finished speaking to process what he had said and to compose my response in my head.
Eventually he realized that small talk was going to be difficult for me in Mandarin. We made our awkward goodbyes. He had me sign for a package, but I think he forgot to give me the rest of my mail. I didn't know how to ask for it in Mandarin, so I didn't say anything.