taiwanese and/or american

A few weeks ago, I had a Taiwanese parent confide to me, “At thirty [years old], my son came up to me one day and said, ‘Mom, I’ve finally realized that I’m really Taiwanese.’” For years, he had considered himself American, born and raised on this side of the Pacific Ocean, and separate from the heritage that could have been part of his identity. She was decidedly glowing with pride that her son had finally embraced the culture she had long tried to impart, and that he had become the “proper” son she had raised. But all I could think was: what was the difference? I’ve always been told that I’m Taiwanese American, but I never thought that I had to choose one or the other. Granted, Taiwanese precedes American in the phrase, but that’s the same as with every other ethnicity- African American, Arab American, and obviously, Asian American. The great part about being American is that you can be a part of both cultures, and you don’t necessarily feel a pull to identify solely with one. Even to this day, people are able to hold dual citizenship in American and Taiwan, can live in communities where they interact with both American-born and Taiwanese-born people, and go about their everyday lives speaking both English and Chinese and/or Taiwanese. That’s America for you, the land of opportunity. I’ve got to admit, having the Taiwanese part of my identity comes with a lot of perks. I’ve long taken for granted the rich culture that I am able to enjoy, from the delicious food to some of the music and the opportunity to call somewhere a “homeland.” Sometimes, I’ve acted aloof to all of it, turning down what I deem “Asian clothes,” or refusing things because they seem “too fobby,” but I do realize how fortunate I am. Life might otherwise be rather mundane if I was condemned to minor variations on sandwiches for my lunches, or if I had to have cereal for breakfast every day. It’s a lot better to have Taiwanese alternatives, but not be forced to pick them. Some people take the dual identity to extremes, and in teenage lingo, we classify them as “fobby” or “whitewashed,” the former indicating excessive Asian-ness and the latter indicating excessive American-ness. On the same token, we have also used food analogies to indicate the difference between the true ethnicity (what is in the middle) and the actual behavior (what is on the outside), as in the case of “twinkies”/”bananas” or “eggs.” For me, the distinction isn’t that clear, with no clear line separating the “yellow” Asian me from the “white” American me. I’ve always wanted a little bit of everything, and I hate when people try to stereotype or categorize me. But I suppose if you have to label me, my color would be a pale yellow- equal parts Taiwanese and American. Though if you’ve ever seen my actual skin color, you’d realize that it’s actually dark brown. Lisa has returned from her travels to Saratoga, California, where she will soon start her senior year of high school. She is happy to report that on her college applications, the words "Asian American" are always together in a phrase, never apart.

For Your Eyes Only

Jessica loves Taiwanese food. She particularly enjoys tsua bing, fresh summer fruits, and half-sugar green tea with boba.

The Fundamentals for Expression

Imagine that a best friend has a contradiction to your friendship on his/her sleeve. That a favorite shirt is suddenly revealed to have an obscenity worked into the design. That your tattoo artist secretly slipped in a joke onto your lower back. The alphabet that I use most frequently is suddenly mocking me. I might have identified myself by this alphabet eariler by using it so extensively but now this new identity it imposes on me is disturbing. The English alphabet is something all that read this should know. It goes like this: a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z The mockery is in the beginning. A. B. C. Also known as "American-Born Chinese." All around me, people I think that are just like me -- Taiwanese-Americans -- are suddenly describing themselves with this phrase. A street vendor gives a friend a funny look and asks in accented English: "A-B-C?" and she nods. I stand by, unsure of how to respond. The irony is amazing. Despite being Taiwanese-born, the only language I am fluent in is English. I've never been to England and off the top of my head I can't even say "I was born in Taiwan but grew up in America" in Mandarin. (Even more bizarrely I think I can only communicate that message in English and Spanish.) When locals apply the acronym to me, I pull a face that might be able to pass for acquiescence or might just look grotesque. To me, calling me A.B.C. is nearly an insult -- it is almost completely erroneous. The only word that accurately applies is "born." I was born and neither "American" or "Chinese" speaks truth about me. Because I know single labels won't properly define me, I'll let the alphabet mockery slip by. With or without the phrase, strangers will continue to be strangers to me. The only thing they will know is that the English alphabet starts with a, b, c... Jessica spent most of July in Taiwan, traveling, exploring, shopping, eating, and meeting new friends. This trip was her first introduction to the phrase "ABC."