It all started when I repeated kindergarten. When my family immigrated to Houston from Taiwan, where I was born, I was five years old and didn't speak any English (and had never tasted a hotdog or hamburger).

When I should have moved on to first grade, I was instead held back in kindergarten so that the teacher could spend nap time tutoring me.

When I took the bus to and from school, I was taunted for being Chinese; I can still hear the refrain of "Ching Chang" chanted at me if I sit quietly enough. Funny, I didn't think anything of it at the time except puzzlement at how these kids knew my mom's name!

The taunting never let up but somehow I understood where it was coming from.

I mean, I was affected by the ridicule, but at the same time I didn't blame the other kids for excluding me. After all, I didn't understand most of what they were saying and I did not get their jokes, even the one about the chicken crossing the road.

I simply didn't belong, and that feeling of being outcast is what stung most.

They may have been mean, but I believe that the kids just didn't know better. Like, if they knew how delicious my tea eggs over rice actually were, they would stop with the taunting.

Little did I know how much the zeitgeist would shift and how popular Asian cuisine would become in America -- let alone that I would go on to host my own TV show about that very subject!

I created Lucky Chow to celebrate just how deeply rooted Asian cuisine has become in American soil.

But back in the 1970s, there was only one dim sum restaurant in Houston, and we ate there every Sunday (after Chinese school) with other Chinese families.

I was raised with strict Chinese values -- not "Tiger"-parented, per se, but rather with an expectation of excelling. First though, I had to learn English. My busy, working mom recorded words from the dictionary and their spellings for me to listen to, which I would do even at night when I slept, so as not to waste time.

Three years after repeating kindergarten, I won the elementary school spelling bee as a third grader. But the school decided that the runner-up, Greg, would represent the school at the district level.

I didn't ask questions that year, or when the same thing happened the next year, and neither did my parents. They could have protested, but I can't imagine my immigrant parents going to the school district to complain. We were outsiders; we did not belong.

Was this racism? Yes, but even if I knew it at the time, I also knew it would be odd to have a Chinese girl representing the school in English. For someone who was still relatively new to the language, winning was reward enough.

When I won for the third year in a row as a fifth grader, however, I was finally allowed to represent the school... only to be the first one out of the district spelling bee, disqualified for misspelling "legible."

I can still recall the moment when a double "l-l" came out of my mouth even though I could see the spelling clearly and l-e-g-i-b-l-y in my head.

I may not have been cut out to be a spelling bee champion but I was still eager to assimilate.

I tried to copy the cool girl look -- my lips Frosted Pink, my eyes lined in blue and my bangs so long that I could sweep them over my eyes, which is what I did whenever I was in public with my parents.

Was I so mortified of being Chinese that I truly believed others couldn't see me if I couldn't see myself? I looked ridiculous, and felt terrible, heavy with imposter syndrome. There was even a period of time when I pretended I didn't know how to speak Chinese!

Even with my new disguise, I still didn't belong. And I desperately longed to belong in my adopted home.

That's when it hit me: If I wanted to belong -- to be appreciated, even -- the onus was on me to share more about myself. I had to open up about my perceived otherness rather than try to hide it.

Kids have a natural curiosity, as well as fear (xenophobia) of what's foreign. Rather than simply accepting that I didn't belong, it was up to me to earn a seat at the table.

As a child, I tried to do this through food; by sharing the contents of my lunchbox or by inviting kids home for a Chinese meal.

My new friends cackled with delight when I taught them how to greet each other in Chinese by saying "Chi Fan Le Ma?", or literally "have you eaten rice yet?"

I believe that education, exposure, and awareness are the building blocks that lead to understanding, acceptance and even appreciation of the Other.

I'm lucky that elementary school taught me that the only person I can be is me -- that there's no use going through life trying to be someone else, or comparing yourself to others.

Although I am American, I am also Chinese, and I resolved that I would never again hide my culture -- or my face -- even if it calls out my differences.

There is so much beauty and wisdom and goodness in Chinese culture that I want to share it with everyone.

That is how I can belong.