MY WORDS
National Theater building
CONTEXT
Though my Mom was born in Taiwan, she (along with Gong Gong and Lao Lao) immigrated to the US at the age of one. Growing up in the starched-white suburbs of Michigan, my mom would frequently receive compliments on her “perfect American accent” and requests for her “soy sauce recipe.” She distinctly remembers her first elementary school sleepover: Lao Lao had prepared a plate of steamed jiao zi (dumplings) for dinner, which her best friend refused, likening the pork-and-cabbage filling to vomit. One of only two asian students at Rochester Adams High, my mom struggled to take pride in her Chinese heritage. She never learned how to read or write Chinese characters, and her spoken Mandarin was confined to the household. She insists that she can only speak Mandarin at a first-grade level — just enough to communicate with Gong Gong and Lao Lao behind closed doors.
Unable to learn at home, my childhood exposure to Mandarin was limited to monthly visits to Gong Gong and Lao Lao’s house. A melodic Chinese soap opera would play in the background as Gong Gong corrected my shameful pronunciation of simple vocabulary. Today, my Mandarin remains limited to the phrase “I want” and the names of various dim sum dishes.
I visit Gong Gong and Lao Lao twice prior to my trip to Taiwan. Gong Gong’s stroke cost him much of his memory, so he cannot recall the contact information nor names of his family members still in Taiwan. When prompted, he can still recount stories of his high school and childhood.
I invite my mom to join my trip – it has been almost 40 years since her last visit to Taiwan. I’ve never been. Plus, she can understand just enough Mandarin to get us around.
Unable to learn at home, my childhood exposure to Mandarin was limited to monthly visits to Gong Gong and Lao Lao’s house. A melodic Chinese soap opera would play in the background as Gong Gong corrected my shameful pronunciation of simple vocabulary. Today, my Mandarin remains limited to the phrase “I want” and the names of various dim sum dishes.
I visit Gong Gong and Lao Lao twice prior to my trip to Taiwan. Gong Gong’s stroke cost him much of his memory, so he cannot recall the contact information nor names of his family members still in Taiwan. When prompted, he can still recount stories of his high school and childhood.
I invite my mom to join my trip – it has been almost 40 years since her last visit to Taiwan. I’ve never been. Plus, she can understand just enough Mandarin to get us around.
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BREAKFAST IN TAIPEI
One morning, when I was in sixth grade, my parents assigned Gong Gong to breakfast duty. As I eagerly dug into my meal, I quickly discovered an unwelcome hidden treasure. Gong Gong had added a pitch-black century duck egg to my steaming bowl of Trader Joe’s instant brown-sugar oatmeal. Suffice to say that Gong Gong’s breakfast duties were revoked.
The hotel I am staying at in Taipei serves a complimentary breakfast. The offerings range from thick American French fries to aromatic Taiwanese braised pork. Every morning, I opt for the quintessential Taiwanese breakfast: a watery bowl of congee (rice porridge) topped with a mountain of addictive rousong (pork floss) and xiandan (salted duck egg). When I’m feeling fancy, I’ll dip some oily youtiao (savory fried donut) in my sweetened soy milk. Favorite part of the meal: my creamy, salty duck egg.
The hotel I am staying at in Taipei serves a complimentary breakfast. The offerings range from thick American French fries to aromatic Taiwanese braised pork. Every morning, I opt for the quintessential Taiwanese breakfast: a watery bowl of congee (rice porridge) topped with a mountain of addictive rousong (pork floss) and xiandan (salted duck egg). When I’m feeling fancy, I’ll dip some oily youtiao (savory fried donut) in my sweetened soy milk. Favorite part of the meal: my creamy, salty duck egg.
My reliable Taiwanese breakfast: soymilk, congee, rousong, and xiandan
Gong Gong's everyday breakfast setup
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PROTESTORS IN XIMEN
There is no overstating the abundance of splashy gachapon machines, rowdy street food vendors, and instagrammable photo booth stations in Ximen district. Each night, I leave my hotel to wander through the crowded streets alone, savoring the kaleidoscoping sounds and lively acrobatic street performers. An avid trinket collector, I find the gachapon machines to be my kryptonite. This is not the Taiwan Gong Gong knows.
My third day in Taipei, I exit the MRT (subway) station to an unexpected sight: five “armed” protestors boldly standing on the bustling Ximen Main Street (the guns are fake – the possession of firearms is illegal in Taiwan). Though their signs are in Chinese, I understand their message: overthrow the CCP.
After reading my grandfather’s memoir, most would assume he resents the Chinese Communist government. The CCP murdered his family, cornered him into extreme poverty, and robbed him of his childhood. But despite his chilling history with the communist party, Gong Gong remains prideful of his Chinese heritage and stands by the CCP. Growing up, my mom was often reminded that she was “Chinese, not Taiwanese.”
On my first visit to my grandparents' house after the trip, I decide to a broach a topic my parents typically avoid: Gong Gong’s stance on Taiwanese independence and the Communist party. He firmly states that Taiwan is part of China, and even supports an invasion of the island. He admits that he’s not a fan of the CCP, that he much prefers democracy and fundamentally disagrees with much of China’s governance. But, he says, the CCP has helped China grow into a global superpower, and for that reason, should rule Taiwan.
My third day in Taipei, I exit the MRT (subway) station to an unexpected sight: five “armed” protestors boldly standing on the bustling Ximen Main Street (the guns are fake – the possession of firearms is illegal in Taiwan). Though their signs are in Chinese, I understand their message: overthrow the CCP.
After reading my grandfather’s memoir, most would assume he resents the Chinese Communist government. The CCP murdered his family, cornered him into extreme poverty, and robbed him of his childhood. But despite his chilling history with the communist party, Gong Gong remains prideful of his Chinese heritage and stands by the CCP. Growing up, my mom was often reminded that she was “Chinese, not Taiwanese.”
On my first visit to my grandparents' house after the trip, I decide to a broach a topic my parents typically avoid: Gong Gong’s stance on Taiwanese independence and the Communist party. He firmly states that Taiwan is part of China, and even supports an invasion of the island. He admits that he’s not a fan of the CCP, that he much prefers democracy and fundamentally disagrees with much of China’s governance. But, he says, the CCP has helped China grow into a global superpower, and for that reason, should rule Taiwan.
CCP Protestors outside MRT station
Typical night out in Ximen district
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TEMPLES IN TAIPEI
I visit five temples while staying in Taipei: Longshan Temple, Tianhou Temple, Xiahai City God Temple, Bao’on Temple, and Taipei Confucius Temple. At the third — Taipei Xiahai City God Temple — I pocket my camera to properly practice the 12-step prayer ritual. An elderly woman cheerfully hands me a thick stack of red and gold bamboo jinzhi (gold joss paper) and three incense sticks at the counter. I light my incense and tread clockwise through the small rooms, paying close attention to not to skin my shins on the raised door thresholds (a reminder to acknowledge the sacred space). I end up stumbling through the temple about five times in an effort to not miss a step — praying to the City God, his wife, temple warriors, and Love God each round.
As I pray, I admire the almost-dizzying ornate gold dragon and lotus carvings framing the sacred deities. I try to picture Gong Gong in a temple, thoughtfully admiring and praying to the various figures. I can’t.
I later learn on my trip that nearly ¾ of Taiwanese citizens practice Taoism, Buddhism, or some sort of Chinese folk religion (or often a combination). Gong Gong is part of the atheist minority.
As I pray, I admire the almost-dizzying ornate gold dragon and lotus carvings framing the sacred deities. I try to picture Gong Gong in a temple, thoughtfully admiring and praying to the various figures. I can’t.
I later learn on my trip that nearly ¾ of Taiwanese citizens practice Taoism, Buddhism, or some sort of Chinese folk religion (or often a combination). Gong Gong is part of the atheist minority.
One of many shrines inside Xiahai City God Temple
At the end of the prayer ritual, it is customary to place the burning incense in a bowl outside the entrance
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YOUNG GIRL IN JIUFEN
Virtually every Taiwan guidebook mandates a trip to the lantern-decked village of Jiufen. A one-hour bus ride from Taipei, Jiufen is a quaint coastal hill town famous for its winding alleyways and scenic tea houses. It is the village that allegedly inspired Miyazaki’s Spirited Away. Walking through Jiufen’s streets is an assault on one’s olfactory senses — vendors shoving toothpick samples of stinky tofu, taro rice balls, and fried octopus into the bustling line of tourists.
My trip to Jiufen lacks much relevance to my mission of “Retracing Gong Gong’s Footsteps.” Gong Gong’s home village of Hsinchu is a two hour drive away, on the opposite coast of Taiwan. Visiting Jiufen is a luxury Gong Gong could never entertain in his childhood — or even early adulthood.
Despite its seeming impertinence to my Appel project, my trip to Jiufen sparks some appreciation of Gong Gong’s story. On a rushed trek to the bus stop, I pass a young girl — maybe 6 or 7 years old — diligently scrabbling at a textbook as her brother plays loudly on his phone nearby. She’s outside her house, sitting on one of those cheap plastic yard chairs. It’s 90 degrees out and humid. Hoards of loud tourists are snapping sunset photos just steps away.
Just like this young girl, Gong Gong learned the value of study and education at a young age. He was too poverty-stricken to afford high school, let alone college. He relied on academic scholarships, studying with the understanding that his academic performance would dictate the future of his education. This is what ultimately granted him the ability to immigrate to the United States.
Practically half of Gong Gong’s memoir is a detailed account of his Junior High and High School grades — he devotes paragraphs to a precise recollection of his grade percentages and school rankings yet brushes over his father’s murder in a single sentence.
His stroke cost him the ability to recognize family names and walk independently, but he can still recall my entire college schedule, along with the grades I’ve earned in each class. His Confucian values run deep.
My trip to Jiufen lacks much relevance to my mission of “Retracing Gong Gong’s Footsteps.” Gong Gong’s home village of Hsinchu is a two hour drive away, on the opposite coast of Taiwan. Visiting Jiufen is a luxury Gong Gong could never entertain in his childhood — or even early adulthood.
Despite its seeming impertinence to my Appel project, my trip to Jiufen sparks some appreciation of Gong Gong’s story. On a rushed trek to the bus stop, I pass a young girl — maybe 6 or 7 years old — diligently scrabbling at a textbook as her brother plays loudly on his phone nearby. She’s outside her house, sitting on one of those cheap plastic yard chairs. It’s 90 degrees out and humid. Hoards of loud tourists are snapping sunset photos just steps away.
Just like this young girl, Gong Gong learned the value of study and education at a young age. He was too poverty-stricken to afford high school, let alone college. He relied on academic scholarships, studying with the understanding that his academic performance would dictate the future of his education. This is what ultimately granted him the ability to immigrate to the United States.
Practically half of Gong Gong’s memoir is a detailed account of his Junior High and High School grades — he devotes paragraphs to a precise recollection of his grade percentages and school rankings yet brushes over his father’s murder in a single sentence.
His stroke cost him the ability to recognize family names and walk independently, but he can still recall my entire college schedule, along with the grades I’ve earned in each class. His Confucian values run deep.
Young girl studying outside in touristy Jiufen
Map of Taipei Confucius Temple - note the "Diligent Study Plaza"
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MILITARY COMMUNITY MUSEUM
Our fifth day in Taiwan, my mom and I finally muster the courage to brave the confusing subway-to-railway train-to-Uber ride to visit Gong Gong’s hometown of Hsinchu. Our first stop is “Hsinchu City Military Dependents’ Villages Museum.” The English translation really rolls off the tongue. Inside, we learn about the vast communities of displaced Chinese immigrants who found refuge in Hsinchu’s abandoned airport hangars and classrooms. According to 1988 statistics, Hsinchu city had the 4th largest mainland immigrant population. That means 19.4% of the city’s population shared similar stories to that of Gong Gong.
Two museum volunteers sit in a corner, luxuriating in the cool of a rattling fan. My mom eventually strikes up a conversation with the pair, learning that one was a survivor herself. Unlike Gong Gong, she was born in Taiwan – her parents had fled from China a couple years prior. She recalls growing up in a vast airport hangar: thin curtains used to separate each family’s 8x10 plot of land, makeshift furniture made from discarded airplane scraps, constant noise from nearby crying babies and family arguments.
On our way to the exit, we pass a wall plastered with blown-up photos from the military communities. My grandfather has no record of his childhood - his earliest picture of himself is from his wedding. I search for his signature grin on the wall. Even if he is up there, I wouldn't be able to recognize him.
Two museum volunteers sit in a corner, luxuriating in the cool of a rattling fan. My mom eventually strikes up a conversation with the pair, learning that one was a survivor herself. Unlike Gong Gong, she was born in Taiwan – her parents had fled from China a couple years prior. She recalls growing up in a vast airport hangar: thin curtains used to separate each family’s 8x10 plot of land, makeshift furniture made from discarded airplane scraps, constant noise from nearby crying babies and family arguments.
On our way to the exit, we pass a wall plastered with blown-up photos from the military communities. My grandfather has no record of his childhood - his earliest picture of himself is from his wedding. I search for his signature grin on the wall. Even if he is up there, I wouldn't be able to recognize him.
Museum volunteer explaining refugee communities
Model of a typical military dependent's bedroom
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HSINCHU HIGH SCHOOL
Later that same day, we visit Gong Gong’s Hsinchu Senior High School. The sprawling Taiwanese high school bears closer resemblance to the Claremont McKenna campus than my 2,000-person high school. It’s an all-boys school composed of a series of tall, rectangular buildings. We stop three students mid-gossip on their way out.
The trio explains that, though classes are out for summer break, the school is still packed with students who choose to devote the precious summer days to their studies. We can’t talk for long – a school security guard approaches and sternly reminds us to keep our voices down – students are testing inside.
When my mom and I return to Gong Gong’s house after the trip, I share that we visited his high school. He claps his hands with excitement. He reminds me that, when he attended, it was ranked #1 in the nation (he also included this in his memoir). He recalls how he would read his school textbooks during the 30 minute walk from his house to the school bus stop. Those prized 30 minutes of reading time granted him a competitive edge against his classmates.
The trio explains that, though classes are out for summer break, the school is still packed with students who choose to devote the precious summer days to their studies. We can’t talk for long – a school security guard approaches and sternly reminds us to keep our voices down – students are testing inside.
When my mom and I return to Gong Gong’s house after the trip, I share that we visited his high school. He claps his hands with excitement. He reminds me that, when he attended, it was ranked #1 in the nation (he also included this in his memoir). He recalls how he would read his school textbooks during the 30 minute walk from his house to the school bus stop. Those prized 30 minutes of reading time granted him a competitive edge against his classmates.
One of many buildings on the high school campus
Star students featured on an outside wall