The Struggle to be an All-American Girl By Elizabeth Wong I know, I’m horrible. But I’m not dead…I’m just lazy. So…before I finish my currently reading, I’ve decided to give you something short. A little reflection on what I thought on my school reading. It's still there, the Chinese school on Yale Street where my brother and I used to go. Despite the new coat of paint and the high wire fence, the school I knew 10 years ago remains remarkably, stoically the same. Every day at 5 P.M., instead of playing with our fourth and fifth grade friends or sneaking out to the empty lot to hunt ghosts and animal bones, my brother and I had to go to Chinese school. No amount of kicking, screaming, or pleading could dissuade my mother, who was solidly determined to have us learn the language or our heritage. Forcibly, she walked us the seven long, hilly blocks from our home to school, deposing our defiant tearful faces before the stern principal. My only me