Reflection

Thoughts August 12, 2017

I just returned from a three-day MBA retreat in Warrenton, VA–about an hour outside of Charlottesville, a town that’s been in the news for all the wrong reasons this year. Since Friday morning, I have been in back-to-back classes, barely sleeping, and totally disconnected from the news. Yesterday, I saw an update pop up on my phone as I was walking back to class: “Car plows through anti-white nationalist protesters, injures 19 people.”

I brought it up to the people I was walking with as we moved from one class to the next, “guys, I just got an update….have you heard about this?” Their responses, with tones expressing a matter-of-fact-ness mixed with apathy and disappointment: “Yeah? you haven’t heard about it yet?” “Yeah, yeah…we heard.” 

I didn’t bother to look up the story, read the facts, discuss or reflect about how I or they felt, find out more of the same violence as led by the white alt-right attempting to assert themselves on people of color (again)…I knew the ending to this story and I knew how it would make me feel. And I knew I was too busy and too tired to follow up.

You all know me, you know what I believe, you know my political leanings, undoubtedly you know how I feel about what happened, but let me explain to you the mental fatigue–and anguish now that I’ve finally looked up all the facts–I feel, and I’m sure many people of color feel as well.

This summer, I made the conscious decision to focus my time on self care, school, work, and CAPAL–with special emphasis on self-careWhen I read the news, I deliberately focus on foreign policy. I deleted all my news apps, deleted most news podcasts, and turned off all my news notifications save for one news source: Quartz. The only reason for keeping Quartz was that it has a Trump filter and posts from reliable sources.

Why the effort to stay out of the loop? The amount of evident, SHAMELESS, unpunished physical and emotional violence committed by Americans against Americans–overwhelmingly white against POC– is too much, too distracting, and too demoralizing. The America we’re living in, or as I like to call it “The Timeline Where Trump is President” or “2017A,” can be insufferable. Where every day you expect to read news headlines that sound like chapter titles of history books. Nazism, the KKK, white supremacy, fascism, alt-right–whatever you want to call it, it is here with us the Internet and 24-hour news cycles have breathed new life (and legitimacy) to their causes

As a young person, I am still trying to build myself and find a role in society. I want to lead a fulfilling life and career after my MBA, so that I can affect positive change in my community while making a decent living for myself. But in order to get to the point where I could be an agent of change, I need to believe that there is something worth working towards.

Self-care and self-improvement require optimism, and optimism is hard work. It is much harder to be an optimist today than a pessimist. If I read the news, if I follow the tragedy, if I Google “the meaning of blood and soil” every. damn. time. white supremacy rears its ugly head, I will not make it through the day. International trade policy, economics, accounting, etc. will take a back seat in my brain to fear, distrust, and constant anger at the fact that the country I live in tolerates and sometimes encourages white supremacy. A person can only take so much.

Many of you follow the news all the time, I see your posts and your passion and I support your effort to speak up and show that acceptance, love, fairness, and equality are values of the majority even if they’re not the values of those in power and the bigots they rile up. For me, though, I have been trying “to fight the good fight” for a long time, and I need a break. At this moment, if I devote more of my emotion and my time to anger and pain, my brain might melt.

What happened in Charlottesville, VA this weekend was horrific, unconscionable, and depraved. I cannot imagine what those protesters went through and how they are coping right now. I cannot imagine the intensity of the driver’s hate for these people. Heather Heyer didn’t deserve to be murdered for being present at a rally.

I am twisted up inside and even as I type this I feel my throat tightening and my heartbeat quicken because on top of everything else, I felt close to Charlottesville and Albemarle County in some way. I spent two summer vacations there around Charlottesville because of how peaceful the place felt and the kindness of the locals. I even just visited UVA’s campus (coincidentally the weekend after the Robert E. Lee Statue was taken down). So for something so violent to happen in a place that seemed so safe also feels like a betrayal of trust.

So. The question that is on a lot of my friends minds right now is “How can we overcome this?” or “How can we fight bigotry and hate?” What I am starting to find out is that there’s only so much you can do until you begin to internalize a piece of the trauma yourself. We need to make allies of each other by showing compassion and understanding to each other and take turns opposing acts of hate and white supremacy. No matter how much I might want to be in in full activist mode all the time I just can’t anymore. It will, ultimately, consume my emotions and affect my work, school, and personal relationships. Right now, it’s not a price I’m able to pay.

*photo credit ABC News*

Advertisements

Athens and Filopappou Hill

Settling In

Adjusting to our arrival in Athens was a bit difficult for several reasons. On the one hand, this was the first time my sister Daisy and I were in Greece as adults and had full control over where we went and what we wanted to do. No longer were we beholden to every relative or family friend with an opinion if we wanted to leave the house. Instead, with my great aunt  and grandmother so old, it felt like we should be taking care of them.

J Warren and Daisy.JPG

Endless food and drink means a nap is completely unavoidable.

Of course, though, Ioulia would not hear of it. “If we could make it all this time without you all here, we can make it one more week. Don’t worry about us, sweetie,” she said as she snatched the dirty plates from my hands as I made my way to the sink to wash them (she has arthritis in her hands and knees and yet insists on cooking and cleaning for us). “And leave please leave the dishes in the sink, μανάρι μου.” Her choice of words, first guilt-inducing and then endearing reminded me how unfortunate it was that in 25 years, I have spent maybe a total of 12 months in Greece with my relatives. There are so many things we missed from each others’ lives, and seeing the “grannies” (as we often referred to our grandmother and never-ending supply of great aunts) all well into their late 70’s and 80’s really hit that home.

The other element is that we both brought our partners with us to Greece, and Daisy and I–well, mostly me because I am a ball of stress–struggled to simultaneously manage our expectations as well as theirs. Despite any crazy family drama that was likely to come about, we wanted to make sure that everyone was having a good vacation.

The most striking part about breaking back into Greece and Greek culture were Greek people themselves. I mentioned it in my last post, but this was Daisy’s first visit back in a decade and the first visit back for me after seven years. To compound the experience, Daisy spent the last three years living in upstate New York filled with some of the nicest, milquetoast people on the eastern seaboard, and I had spent the last year living in Taiwan where people are generally quick with a smile and helpful in general. I love Greece, but Greek people can be mean. They are mean even when they are actually being nice, it’s just their default setting. It is as if passive aggression is the standard setting and many people hold a defensive paranoia of being accused of some form of bad manners. In a way, dealing with (especially) blue-collar Greek people is like dealing with the old fashion New Yorker. But Daisy and I adjusted well-enough by Day 3 or 4. We are half Greek after all and from New Jersey.

bird_focus

Germany gets it.

 

The Americans Visit “Grandpa Hill”

**I am going to skip our actual first trip which was to the Acropolis and the Acropolis Museum. Both are wonderful destinations that anyone visiting Greece must see, but after five or six visits to the old pile of stones it’s just not interesting to me anymore.**

The hill is not actually called “Grandpa Hill,” but it’s the English translation I gave it because Φιλοπάππου (Filopappou) sounds similar to the words φίλος (filos, friend) and παππούς (pappous, grandpa). So it’s full English name should actually be “Friendy Grandpa Hill.” We chose to go for a hike this very hot and dry afternoon because it is one of the three “mountains” that you can see from the Acropolis, and a place Daisy and I had never been. It’s one of those nagging things when you go somewhere more than once you start to think, “well maybe one day I’ll go to that other place, just to see it.” Kind of like how one day I’ll go to the Empire State building in NYC, the Thomas Jefferson Memorial in DC, or an Outback Steakhouse. You know, just to see what it’s like. The cool thing about Filopappou Hill, though, is that it is one of the last major landmarks between the port city of Piraeus and ancient Athens. Piraeus is still a port town, but Athens is no longer just the Acropolis and is now a vast swath of urban sprawl which includes Piraeus.

1785_Bocage_Map_of_Athens_and_Environsoriginal-walls-of-athens-showing-Pireos-and-Siggrou.jpg

A map of ancient Piraeus (left) and Athens (right) and the walls that lined the treacherous, long route between the two.

Screen Shot 2016-03-17 at 5.32.09 PM

Nowadays we just use the subway (grey line) and it takes like ten minutes to reach Ancient Athens (red pin)

What we didn’t expect was to encounter a totally deserted downtown Athens–that can only be described as one-part urban decay two-parts intense sunshine. Without any data plan in Greece, I pulled up a screenshot I had taken of Google Maps that morning. It’s just as good as actual Google Maps provided you are prepared not to have a zoom feature, can read in Greek, and are fully prepared to encounter roads that no longer exist.

The featured picture up top is actually the back entrance to Filopappou Hill. Other than graffiti, strewn across the ground was an assortment of garbage from every aisle in the grocery store (from condom wrapper to styrofoam). There were also a few (seemingly) abandoned structures with broken shutters, cracks in the plaster, and covered in graffiti and shaded by the errant palm tree. It was like a post-apocalyptic Miami.

FiloPappou_J.JPG

Jevon, chill as ever, rolls a cigarette to beat the heat.

Graffiti.JPG

Not Sparta; Athens.

So here we are, a gaggle of American kids roaming around what is now turning into a combination of desert and a sparse evergreen forest. The sun was so hot and the air so dry that the surface of my skin felt like it was getting crispy, but I didn’t notice thirst or fatigue. It wasn’t until I stepped into the shade of a gnarled evergreen by a graffitied ancient milestone that I could feel the toll the sun and landscape was having on me. There was still more hill to climb, though. At the top of one south-facing bluff, thirsty and climbing to a high point to catch the breeze, my eyes were hit by an infinite blueness that dropped off the point of white-walled Piraeus town. The town opened into the port, which seemed so small from this distance, and the port splayed open to the Mediterranean Sea. The air was so bright and clear that the horizon was a perfect match between the blues of the sky and sea. It’s the blue of the Greek flag, the same shade that you paint tourist hotels’ shutters and roofs. It was a blueness that felt empty and full at the same time. And as I panned from the sea to the direction of the Acropolis, I was stunned at how easy it was to still pick out the shadow of the ancient road, more than 1,900 years ago. It was almost a straight shoot from port to capital, and it must have been a dangerous one. Cliffs, rocky earth, and farmlands meant that not only were we standing above an ancient road, but probably a graveyard, too.

As I dazed I could here the restless footsteps of my friends and sister. “It’s so HOT,” Daisy remarked brusquely from under a giant, black sunhat clad in a matching black romper. Hours of trying to shape and pull the hat’s brim around her face to block the changing angles of the sun had now cast a wavy Funyun-like shadow over her ruddy, rotund cheeks and face. Jevon lit a cigarette nearby. “First off,” I responded, “Jevon, don’t cause a wildfire, please. That shit is real. Secondly, let’s just skip the path winding up the hill and take a shortcut through those trees on this side.”

“Uh…Okay,” Daisy said as we started walking toward the evergreens. “Yeah, just watch out for snakes, okay?” I added as an after thought.

“What the? Are you SERIOUS? Fay, I’m not going in there if there are snakes,” Jevon only sounded half-scared, so I followed up with “I’m sure we will be okay,” and I started hiking ahead of the group. I spent six summers in Greece, but never actually saw a snake before, only tortoises, but for some reason hearing a warning about snakes was common in all my summer memories wandering into the “wilderness.” It was practically a reflex that I just warn everyone about snakes whether or not they existed.

Warren Filo.JPG

The sun takes a toll on Warren’s rational decision-making, but enhances his physical abilities.

Almost twenty minutes and two forks in the road later, we make it to the grand and glorious monument at the top of Filopappou Hill.

Filopappou Mon.JPG

Wait, is that it?

Needless to say, it’s pretty disappointing at the top. This was once a monument built to some important ancient-ish mayor or general as part of his funeral services. It was made out of the marble scraps of crumbling, unkempt temples and buildings built hundreds of years earlier. Then, it turned into a pile of unkempt marble scraps. If you look to the back of the monument, you can see how some people tried to “rebuild” and “restore” the original memorial by taking the scraps-of-scraps from the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries. You can tell by the handwriting and dates.

Filopappou Mon2.JPG

Greeks have a long, weird relationship with graffiti. Also, you can see how Greeks gave up on recycling ancient marble and switched restoration practices to plaster and mortar.

We Meet Brimmy

Filopappou Hill was a major disappointment, but at least the view of the Acropolis was fantastic. Among the few tourists who also made the mistake of making a trek to Filopappou Hill, were a few couples, our group, and a lone teenager wearing an American flag tank top and thick-framed, black Rayban sunglasses. This was Brimmy. Actually, his name is Justin (I think), but ever since I added him on Snapchat, I’ve been referring to him by his handle.

Brimmy is a lanky, blond California kid no more than 18 years-old. When we asked him what he was doing in Greece alone he said, “I’m taking a gap year. Who needs college?” Brimmy is a genius. Almost in unison, Daisy, Warren, Jevon and I said “That’s SUCH a good idea.” Brimmy smiled because he felt validated. Greece was just one of his longer European stopovers, and it was for a much more noble reason than I could have imagined. Even though he looked like he belonged at a frat party, he was volunteering in Athens with a charity focused on the refugee crisis. He spent most of his days at a church teaching and playing with with little kids from all over the world. After a brief conversation with Brimmy, and after taking all the pictures we needed, we said our good-byes and headed down the hill back toward the Acropolis and eventually Monostiraki, leaving Brimmy at the top of the hill just where we found him.

A random snake charmer and one really cool tortoise later, we were back at the Acropolis park, walking along the cobbled bath that encircles the paid, gated part of the park featuring the ruins. We rounded a corner that presented us with a fork in the road: we could hike the Hill of the Nymphs, head toward the tourist traps, or take a side road into another part of downtown. But right in the middle of the fork, there was Brimmy awkwardly holding a pack of yellow American Spirits as if he was thinking about how to smoke them. We called out to him and he turned his head toward us almost instantly, surprised. He waved back and walked up to us. “You’re here, too, huh?” It was the start of a conversation everyone knew was going nowhere with no one in our group interested in extending the conversation. That awkward commentary of describing what is literally happening at the same time. Then Daisy lifted up a hand half-heartedly and saved, “well, bye!” and made the executive decision for the group to walk up the Hill of the Nymphs and leave Brimmy at the bottom of the bath. Brimmy’s face fell noticeably, even from behind the sunglasses and he made for the main path that circled the Arcopolis.

Seeing eager, young Brimmy full of hope, spontaneity, and the desire to make new friends reminded me of 2008-era Fay. It’s cheesy, I know, but after high school graduation, I left for the entire summer to finally escape the confines of parents and suburbia and I was ready to take the world by the horns. With a dejected Brimmy walking away from us, I could see just how dorky, young, and unsubtly needy I was back then. I turned to walk up the hill, but paused and said loud enough only for the group to hear, “I’m going to invite him to hang out with us.”

“What, why?” Daisy said, clearly not interested in an awkward tag-a-long.

“Because why not? He’s by himself. Where’s your spirit of American companionship?” I turned back down the slope and called his name in a half-yell, he was already on the other side of the cobbled path, and waved him over. When he saw that we were waiting for him to catch up, he broke out into a wide smile. It was like watching a puppy perk his ears up and gambol over toward his best friend.

We spent the rest of the evening hiking, talking at random, stopping for ice cream, and just enjoying the tourist experience. Brimmy said to go back to work later that evening, but European summer sunsets are languid and long, so it was hard to tell exactly what time “evening” started. Tired and sunburnt, we sat down at a restaurant at the border of the Acropolis and Monostiraki districts which specialized in μεζές (mezes are like tapas) and cheap beer. As the sun finally began to approach the horizon, Brimmy set his freshly opened beer down to check the time. It was almost 9:00 P.M. “Crap! I have to go home like now.” He chugged his beer, impressive for a kid who only graduated high school a month ago, and left us a 2 euro coin and his cigarettes as a “gift from home,” and took off.

Brimmy.JPG

It’s possible Brimmy enjoyed the tourist experience too much

We Head Home

Realizing the time, I told the group to only eat a little bit because it was a guarantee that dinner was waiting for us at home and we had to some how muster the energy to get back, eat again, drink, chat with the relatives and neighbors, sleep, and wake up early enough to have a day of activities.

Already a few days into the week, we approached the subway station and only made a show of purchasing tickets for the metro. Having heard rumors that all metro transportation was free due to the economic crisis (and witnessing scores of young people not pay), we decided to be on the safe side as tourists that hitting random buttons on the machine for 30 seconds was as good as buying a ticket.

We dragged our bodies through the clean, marbled hall ways of the underground, boarded our train, and returned to our Athens HQ. At home, giagia and Ioulia had left the light on for us outside and were in the process of going to bed (by this time it was about 10:00 P.M.). When they heard us on the veranda Ioulia came rushing out to us. “Τι κάνεις, παιδιά; Είναι τόσο αργά! Πεινάς?” Just as I had expected, Ioulia had made us dinner.

“Daisy,” I called out to her as she and Warren were headed upstairs to shower, “we have to eat first.”

“Noooooooo….I’m so sleepy.”

“We have to, they have arthritis and they still cooked for us!” I knew in my heart that there would be no excuse that would satisfy my aunt. Besides, she was already inside fetching the tablecloth for us.

Quick Update before the Catch Up

Hey friends and visitors,

It’s now October and I’ve been far and away from this blog for too long. I apologize for my disappearance off the face of the earth, but three months and three countries later…I AM BACK IN THE U.S. Washington, D.C. to be precise.

I will spend the next couple of weeks playing catch up to tell you about my adventures in South Korea, Greece, Taiwan, and back to the States, but until then enjoy apology cat (above).

Farewell Pt. 2: Sort-Of “Passing” AKA Blending in Taiwan

**NOTE**Before I tumble down the rabbit hole of racism and sexism in Taiwan v. Greater Asia or the United States, I want to pause and remind anyone reading this, that I’m focusing on specifically my OWN experience. I am just recording and reflecting on what I’ve noticed happen to me and around me during my year here.***

Elephant in the Blog

One thing I’ve consciously tried not to do on this blog is to make my race a point of discussion as I experience life in Taiwan. I wanted to see my grant through the eyes of a teacher first, rather than as a “raced-person” first. Also, I think that the story of Western-Foreigner-in-Asia is overtold. Likewise, the tale of the Asian American in East Asia, though less known to the average non-travelling American, is definitely often talked about among travelers and in expat communities.

Why write about this topic? Because my racial background did impact my quality of life in Taiwan. I’ve heard too many of my expat and Fulbright friends say, “I wish people didn’t just point me out on the street all the time.” Or, “I wish people didn’t just assume I don’t know Chinese.” Or, “I wish people would stop taking pictures of me.” And I have not shared that same experience on my own.

When I compare my experiences to that of Asian American friends, White American, or Black American friends here, I would argue that being half-Asian only made my daily life easier. In fact, I would say being a half-Chinese-half-European-American woman in Taiwan is probably the most privileged, respected life I have ever lived. It’s really weird to type, think, and acknowledge, but I would be lying if I said that life in Taiwan has really shocked me culturally (though there are several cultural discrepncies). I am half-Chinese afterall, so some cultural things were already familiar. Granted, there are institutional things in the education system, immigration system, the driving culture, or the police culture that surprised me, but I never experienced a level of culture shock in Taiwan where I envied my previous life in the States. Well, except maybe when it comes to food…

Come here, you beautiful bastard.

Essentially, I noticed something happening to me in Taiwan that has only occaisionally happened in the U.S. I was simulatenously passing as a member of the majority population and living a Western expat life.

Racial passing occurs when a person classified as a member of one racial group is also accepted as a member of a different racial group. The term was used especially in the U.S. to describe a person of mixed-race heritage assimilating into the white majority during times when legal and social conventions of hypodescent classified the person as a minority, subject to racial segregation and discrimination.

–Wikipedia

In more detail that means…

1) I can “pass” for Taiwanese better than other foreigners.

Put me in a Taiwanese-style outfit and you wouldn’t take a second look at me as we passed on the street (this has happened often with White people in Taiwan). Dark hair, angled eyes and a similar complexion help, but upon closer inspection my prominent Greek nose still sets me apart from time to time. Luckily, Taiwan offers a bit of racial wiggle room. For instance, I’ve been told by some of the Taiwanese Aboriginal (yuán zhùmín) shop owners in Cishan that my nose is fēicháng hǎo (great) as they also touched or gestured to their equally well-bridged noses. I even had a parent at my school speak to me in Hakka and when I couldn’t respond she asked, Nǐ shì bùshì kèjiā rén? (“Aren’t you Hakka?”). Blending in means I can go pretty much anywhere unnoticed in Taiwan where there’s a moderately sized crowd and no one will be the wiser. Until I open my mouth, that is, and nothing but “American” comes out.

No one screams Wàiguó rén! (foreigner) or Hēirén (black person) at me on the street and there’s less of a chance for people stopping me at random to play 20 Questions with them, though it does occasionally happen. Blending in also means that occasionally my students will ask (as one did in June), “Justin laoshi, Fay laoshi is American, right? I can’t remember.”

Peace signs for days. Yeah I look different, but I don't look

My co-teachers and I had an awesome surf lesson in Kenting in May. Here, we pose with our coaches (the three guys in the book). I look different, but not “American.” As some locals might say.

2) I always have a Get Out of Jail card AKA the Wàiguó Rén Card. Blending in often means that Taiwanese will treat me like another Taiwanese. I’ll get solicited by Greenpeace on the street just like I used to in NYC, store clerks will try to get me to join rewards programs, Taiwanese will ask me to give directions, and I’m overall be expected to know Chinese fluently. Yet, the moment I get into a Taiwanese situation that I don’t want to be in or can’t handle because the language is way over my head, I just throw out the Tīngbùdǒng Card. Tīng bù dǒng (聽不懂) literally means “hear but don’t understand,” and it’s a phrase that is kryptonite to any Chinese language conversation.

Commit a cultural faux pas? Tīng bù dǒng. Don’t want to eat some strange food being offered to me? Tīng bù dǒng. Trying to get into a friend’s building without a key or any identification without being stopped? Tīng bù dǒng. Don’t want to accept an invitation for an event from an acquaintance or stranger? Tīng bù dǒng. Being asked my number? Tīng bù dǒng. Running a red light? Tīng bù dǒng.

Being a foreigner who doesn’t understand Chinese is an amazing escape hatch. Locals are never angry or disappointed when they hear tīng bù dǒng because suddenly standing before them is this new opportunity or experience they haven’t had before. A foreigner! And this is where the privilege comes in. I get to benefit from blending in at first, but I don’t have to keep up with any social responsibility that a Taiwanese person is expected to follow. Instead, I somtimes have the choice to self-isolate.

3) No Catcalling. Living in New York. No, living in the whole wide world has made me very self-conscious about how, where, when, and what I wear when I walk outside alone. I have been street harassed in at least 90% of the places I’ve ever lived in or visited. Despite what the “mens-rights activists” may say, catcalling is seriously wrong, and it’s a psychological burden for the person who is being targeted over and over again. It’s a constant reminder that you are seen and treated as a subordinate in a social hierarchy. It wasn’t until I moved to Kaohsiung did I notice that the defensive behavior I picked up from back home to combat street harassers was unnecessary in Taiwan. Within the first couple of months, I noticed that I typically walked with my eyes staring only at the sidewalk directly in front of me, I consciously wore a frown, that I subconsciously avoided making eye contact with people, and that my ears were always piqued to listen for a muttered comment or rude shout from whomever I’d just passed. However, eye contact, smiles, and nods are just acknowledgements of another person’s existence in Taiwan. There is often no ulterior motive (though I won’t deny that creeps exist in every country). Without catcalling, I feel so much more liberated to just wander anywhere in the city on foot in any style of clothing I feel comfortable in. It’s like I have permission to be myself in public.

**Sidenote** I have been catcalled once in Kaohsiung while walking with a friend to a club late at night. The two men were from North America, not Taiwan.

4) I feel comfortable. Sure, I get pointed out for being American or foreign sometimes, but it’s not as intense for me. I’m foreign, but I’m only so much foreign. People kind of expect me to speak Chinese and won’t patronizingly applaud my “great Chinese” after simply saying the words 謝謝 xièxiè (thank you). No one wants to play with my hair or touch my skin because thei texture and color is too similar to the Taiwanese. Often my students even forget I’m American. At one point near the end of the first semester, one of my students, Mars, asked my coteacher, Sam, “Teacher Fay bùshì Táiwān rén ma?” (Teacher Fay, isn’t Taiwanese?) No, Mars. Do you really think I choose to speak Chinese this badly?

It Can’t All Be Rainbows and Sunshine

Taiwan is not perfect. It’s certainly grappling with its own race and gender issues today and equal respect is not bestowed upon White, Black, or East and Southeast Asian foreigners . Don’t believe me? Look at this toothpaste.

Darlie Toothpaste AKA 黑人牙膏 literal translation: Black Person Toothpaste. The original concept came from the early 20th century when the toothpaste was originally called “Darkie.” The brand concept came from the British and its implicit message was that your teeth would shine white like a black person’s. This toothpaste is widely sold all over Southeast Asia, and is the go-to brand in Taiwan.

Or you can check out Taiwanese rap group 911’s new video “Foreigner” or mockingly “歪國人.” It can pretty much sum up all the most common negative stereotypes Taiwan has for it’s foreigners. The ending is the worst because it shows how little interaction or empathy many Taiwanese have with the rest of the world.

For solace, I’ve provided some reaction videos made by international students in Taiwan (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xx2e2Xc49Pc & https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=50LnRgUuQco). Their channels are pretty great, by the way.

What I want to explain here is that despite all these awful stereotypes bestowed upon those who carry the “foreigner” label, in my first year, many foreigner stereotypes were not applied to me directly. As you notice in the video, the majority of the negative stereotypes are applied to male foreigners because of the incorrect belief that Western and African men want to “take” Taiwanese women. This creates a familiar dichotomy that we see playing out all over the world right now where male foreigners are “invaders” and female foreigners are “prizes” to be “taken” from the “invaders.” Acknowledging this dichotomy and implicit sexism SUCKS because it is so disheartening for me to imagine that this is the reality I live in. But when it comes to exoticizing foreign women, in Taiwan I rarely get any heat, and I think it’s because I look too similar to the regular population. This is a huge departure from my experience in the U.S. As a Woman of Color in the United States, exoticization of my ethnic background happens too frequently

From my own experience, I think Taiwan as a whole has not consciously acknowledged that many of these racist and sexist beliefs are wrong. I think in many cases, this way of thinking is very similar to the White middle class thinking of the U.S. in the 1950s, where the stereotypes are taken as facts of nature and little is done to change them by people with power because they don’t see how these views could ever impact their daily lives.

Reflection

The sad thing I realized while living in Taiwan, is that in the U.S. I have never really been able to “just live” with my existence in a space going unquestioned. In Taiwan, I’m allowed to live my life without oppressive social and cultural interference because I am can be part of the power class. In America, microaggressions consistently remind me I am powerless (I.e. not White or a man). Sometimes I’ll go for days without a microaggression, and then it suddenly comes out in little quips in the office or in the form of street harassment. “Oh, guys, we got our resident Asian in the office today!” or “Yes, Chinese princess, I knew I woke up for a reason!” (yes, these are real things I’ve heard before). As if my part in society is to act as some kind of raced and sexualized ornament for the mainstream population. From elementary school until after college graduation, I was often a, “first Asian friend,” “the only Asian around,” “the only Asian girl in soccer,” “the only girl on the team,” “the only loud Asian” someone had met, the “first Asian” someone had met, the “first cool Asian” someone had met, the “first half-Asian friend,” the “first dumb Asian” someone had met, the “first Asian girl with an ass” that someone met, the only “cool, chill girl” someone met (as if all other women are frantic and emotionally unstable). These are all real encounters I’ve had with acquaintances, strangers, and friends. And they really are oppressive because of how relentlessly they other the person being discussed.

In Taiwan, I don’t experience tolerance like I do in America. Instead, I feel like my differences in identity are accepted and validated better–at least on the surface. People see that I’m foreign or sort of Asian/Taiwanese and move on. Maybe I’m naive, but it really feels like my personal racial identity is unimportant in finding happiness in my daily life and that’s a wonderful privilege.

Thoughts on Returning to the States

“I’ve been here three weeks and I haven’t even said it. I haven’t even thought it. And it made me say, ‘Oh my God, I been wrong.'”

The first thing I thought when I had the idea for this blog was, “Oh my god, is this how a White man in the U.S. feels?”

The second thing that came to mind, though, was an old Richard Pryor stand-up special where he talks about his experience touring Africa. Though it doesn’t seem directly related at first, the same sentiment is there. To offer context to Pryor’s comments, it was the first time he had ever visited Africa, meaning it was the first time he’d been a part of the racial majority. This is my second time in a Chinese-dominant country (first time was China in 2011), and both times I shared Pryor’s realization and amazement of how it felt to be a part of a majority for once in my life. A majority that has people that look similar to me that aren’t cast as stereotyped clichés. In the U.S. I’m regarded as “an Asian” or “an Asian girl” and all the cultural baggage that comes with it. In China and Taiwan I’ve caught myself thinking, “There are no ‘Asian people’ here, there are just Chinese or Taiwanese. They are just people and they are all so different from each other in their own way and we are ALLOWED to be different beyond the boundaries I knew in the U.S.” The caveat here with “allowed” is if you look Chinese or Taiwanese.

I know this probably doesn’t read well for my White or Black friends here because in Taiwan they are relegated to minority status. In Taiwan, all White people and all Black people are difficult to tell apart and it’s hard for the average Taiwanese person to think of an individual White or Black person as being different from the entire group they represent. Just like how in the U.S. and European countries “all Asians look the same.”

Before coming to Taiwan, I used to think that I will never find a society I could even truly call “home” because no society exists that would accept me into the majority. I’m too much of a demographic drifter and a permanent outsider, and I had made peace with that belief. I did have this kind of fantasy, though, about moving to Hawaii (60% Asian descent), but there’s nothing to bring me there. This is not to say that I think of Taiwanese society as “home,” but living here has been personally pretty easy (minus the severe lack of good Western food and a proper kitchen in the average apartment). But I can’t call Taiwan “home” because it simply doesn’t feel that way.

Still, I feel strangely empowered living in Taiwan. As if I’ve had a chance to sample what it would be like to be American first and an other second, rather than the other way around. I miss the U.S. for a lot of different things: my family, my friends, its seasons, New York City, the food, the music, driving, the overall energy of the country. Still, nothing makes me think that when I get back to the U.S. that I will enjoy my transition back into minority status. I’m not living in Taiwan forever, but there are parts of it I wish I could take back with me.