American Born Taiwanese

By Alyssa Huang, age 15, freshman, California

I have two identities, as reflected in my name. My first name originates from the West and contains Greek, English, and Irish roots. It means “rational thinker” and “prospering flower.” By contrast, my last name comes from the Far East. It means “yellow” in Mandarin—an imperial color that symbolizes beauty and balance. When pronounced in Mandarin, my last name flows off the tongue, like a gentle breeze blowing over green meadows in warm sunlight. However, in America, its symbolism and beauty become completely lost. The Phonetic English pronunciation of my last name, “Hawaaaang”, steam rolls over its naturally melodious tone and sounds like a rusty bell, jarring and dissonant.

Crunch. Textured rocks smash across the Earth’s pavement. Every second graders’ hands enthusiastically create “skin colored paints” from chocolate brown and cream-colored rocks. All but mine. I squint and scrutinize the creek bed, searching desperately for tan-yellow rocks that match my skin color. None exist, so I settle on a cocoa-colored rock and forcefully grind it into paint to fulfill the mandatory assignment: a self portrait made using “rock paint.” Later that afternoon, classmates bustle around the classroom taping up their masterpieces. I find myself encircled by a perfectly-matching array of smiling, white-faced portraits. After struggling to find a space on the wall, I hide my solemn-faced, dark-skinned image in the corner. That summer, I avoid the sun, duck behind shadows, and slather on thick white sunscreen to protect my delicate, thin skin. But my complexion remains yellow and tanned. Nothing changes.

For two years, I coexist with my school classmates as a foreigner. When fourth grade finally ends, I feel relieved and ready for my anticipated summer vacation— visiting my grandparents in Washington DC. “Nai Nai!” I shout as I run into Grandma’s warm, outstretched arms. As she envelopes me in her unconditional love, a calm peace washes over my small frame. I tilt my head back to admire Nai Nai’s dark brown, almond-shaped eyes. They appear kind and gentle, strong and wise. I notice my own reflection in her eyes, sigh deeply, and entwine my fingers with Nai Nai’s, creating a seamless blend of golden-brown. Later that day, Nai Nai ushers me to visit her friends. “Let me introduce you to my Garden Group,” she says. We approach an elderly circle of Taiwanese ladies who peer at me curiously and ask, “Ni shi shei?” (Who are you?)  Nai Nai responds, “Wo de sun nu.” (My granddaughter). I survey the wise elders, who share my ancestry and heritage, and feel emboldened. Having spent the year learning Mandarin as my World Language, I prepare to show off. ”Knee howe, woe jiow Huwang Leeshawn,” I enunciate slowly, trying to capture the correct tones. The women’s happy, squinting eyes grow big and round. “Ta bu jiang guo yu?” (She doesn’t speak Mandarin?), Nai Nai rescues me and responds in fluent Mandarin, “Ta shi mei guo shen de.” (She is American-born). The women nod politely, but look away to conceal their disappointment. To them, I am an American foreigner. Not Taiwanese enough.

In the fall of sixth grade, Social Emotional Learning class begins to address the previously taboo topics of race and ethnicity. At my table, two Minority students describe hateful words and years of feeling like outcasts. I empathize with their pain and begin sharing my own story, but they cut me off. “You don’t know anything about racism!” they exclaim. A statement, not a question. “You’re Asian, so you’ve never experienced discrimination in your life!” My jaw drops, but no words emerge. I feel so paralyzed that I cannot muster a response. “Asian racism doesn’t exist,” they announce, then walk away, leaving me isolated yet again. Later that afternoon, I greet a new Asian classmate before entering my advisory. She complains about her “Asian Tiger Mother’s tough expectations.” “My mom can be tough, too,” I comment, trying to empathize. The Asian classmate suddenly steps away from me. “What do you mean? You’re not….” she hesitates before pursing her lips. “I’m not what?” I ask. “Well,” she stammers, “You’re not really…. Never mind, you don’t get it.” We stand side-by-side in awkward silence. My classmate never completes her sentence aloud, but her facial expression is clairvoyant, for I have encountered this scenario before. My classmate speaks Mandarin at home, whereas I speak English. In her eyes, I am a fake Asian, or a “Twinkie”—someone who is yellow (Asian) on the outside but intrinsically white (American) on the inside. I pull my hoodie over my head and walk towards the carpool circle.

Eighth grade ends, and summer finally arrives. For the first time since COVID, I attend summer camp—a week-long Taiwanese cultural camp called Taiwanese American Next Generation (TANG). While unpacking my clothes in my dormitory room, I hear a hollow knock at the wooden entryway. The door swings open, and my assigned roommate steps into our shared space. My eyes widen because it feels like I am staring at a mirror. Like me, she dons an NBA athletic T-shirt and Nike basketball sliders ; a crooked ponytail keeps her long, black hair away from her sun-tanned face. “I’m Audrey,” she announces, then offers me a fist pump. For the next half an hour, my New Jersey-born “ABC” roommate and I speak in excited tones, sharing stories about our families as we walk towards the camp’s opening ceremony. Once at the auditorium, a speaker begins addressing all two hundred campers in Mandarin. I glance sideways at Audrey and notice her head tilt in a confused manner. Creased lines appear on both our golden-skinned foreheads. “Do you understand this?” she giggles, “Because I don’t!”

Immediately, I smile. “Me neither,” I reply.

—Alyssa Huang, age 15, freshman, California. She adds: “My name is Alyssa… I am a Taiwanese-American.

“California is typically thought of as a melting pot of cultures, but I grew up in an overwhelming homogeneous Caucasian neighborhood. When asked about my nationality, well-meaning neighbors have shockingly confused Taiwan with Thailand, or insisted that Taiwan is the same thing as China (The People’s Republic of China). (But, it’s not). 

“As a child, I felt embarrassed about my ethnicity and dark colored skin. It was a huge relief to me when middle school arrived, and new Asian students enrolled in my sixth grade classroom. However, those new students were fluent in Mandarin, and I found myself being teased for choosing to take Mandarin as my “foreign language.” 

“The first time I ever felt truly accepted was at Taiwanese American Next Generation (TANG). TANG is a week-long, multi-generational, Taiwanese cultural camp that I attend with my brother, cousins, parents, and grandparents. We engage in fun Taiwanese games, listen to Taiwanese speakers like Arthur Chu (an eleven-time Jeopardy! winner), and learn about Taiwanese culture. At TANG, we share an appreciation for Taiwanese food and also a deep value of family, relationships, and community. TANG openly welcomes non-Taiwanese (my co-campers include Indian, Haitian, European, and Korean-Americans). I love that Taiwanese culture is warm, welcoming, and inclusive.

“Nowadays, I confidently bring Taiwanese pineapple cakes to social events and gladly compare cultures with my European, Latino, Indian, and Persian friends. I recognize that building an inclusive community requires honesty, insight, and sharing. It’s important for me to listen to my peers, but also contribute my part. I’m finally able to share about myself and my background—because I’m finally proud of my Taiwanese-American heritage.”