As the veins of the city grew closer and closer, the lights of Taiwan outlining the zealous life beneath my feet, I reached out a finger towards the airplane window as if I could touch the tip of Taipei 101.
I was raised with two cultural backgrounds and obtained enough suitcases to last a lifetime. The question, “Where are you from?” asked during summer camp icebreaker activities always took a little bit longer for me to answer, as I would watch my peers raise their eyebrows in confusion, their faces reading “you are different from us.” I am a third culture kid, a term, according to Denizen Magazine, used to refer to youth who are raised in a culture outside of their parents’ for a significant amount of years (denizenmag.com).
As a child who was born in Iowa and then moved to Taiwan at age six, I was unsure where to call home. Having to explain, “I can speak English because I attend an American school in Taiwan, where everybody speaks English,” became an annoying mantra, and even more so when I moved to Iowa for my junior year of high school, and then to California my senior year.
Attending an American school in Taiwan has given me somewhat the best of both worlds. School allowed me to continue an American education — without it I would have probably forgotten how to speak English. My peers at school were just like me: they were raised in a different country from their parents. It was very Americanized, yet simultaneously once outside of school grounds, you would find yourself thrown into the busy streets, experiencing a whole different culture than what you are used to.
After school meant trips to the “village,” which was what we called the street that bordered our academy. There was something in every corner: several tea shops, selling anything from boba to shaved ice, breakfast shops that sold the perfect scallion pancakes, and convenience stores that were so large you could get lost in them. Even barber parlors, bookstores, and stationery shops were scattered around the area —anything you needed you could find within five minutes of walking — that is the common Taiwanese neighborhood.
It’s almost impossible to live in Taiwan without a trip to the night markets, which was where I spent most of my weekends with friends. We would pile into a taxi from school and hop off at Feng Chia Night Market, which was open everyday from evening to midnight, and located right outside the university my mom taught at.
The rest of the night would involve squeezing through the ocean of people and gasping for air at each street intersection. Known for its cheap bargain deals and amazing food, Taiwan night markets are vital destinations. And as I am bilingual, I would oftentimes find myself translating menus for friends and ordering for them. Moreover, I would spend all my money on fried chicken, stinky tofu, takoyaki and lǔwèi, an authentic dish of seaweed, noodles, boiled eggs, and many other delicacies stewed in soy sauce. Surrounded by neon signs and waving shopkeepers, the streets were crowded with young adults and pulsing with excitement.
Though I look Asian, I would identify myself more as foreigner than as Taiwanese. I was born in the United States, and of course, the only passport I hold is American. There is even an alien residency card that I am required to own in order to live in Taiwan.
When I was younger I tried to conceal my Taiwanese identity. Every summer vacation, every Fourth of July spent in America, I pledged allegiance to the flag, to Hollister shorts and Roxy flip flops, or anything else that might remove the label of being from Taiwan. Caught in between two worlds like a restless pendulum, I soon realized to embrace my dual identity. America, being the epitome of diversity, and Taiwan, my heritage, have both given me a sense of belonging.