childhood dreams

so a recent gchat conversation with Alex reminded me of this thought: as a child, whenever I'd travel with my dad, we would rent a car and just drive by all these homes, and when i was little, i wondered what it would be like to live the life of the people inside. like what if i lived a sort of "day in the life" of every person? i must have been such a strange child to have thoughts like this. my mother always said i had a unique way of thinking. or did she say i didn't think like anyone else? i forget....hmmmm. new creative non-fiction piece? i think so........

Origin/Taiwanese Part 2

Origin

When people ask me where I’m from, I hesitate. I also sometimes forget what I answer, and I tell different things to different people. It’s not that I’m trying to lie or hide that I live in a blue-collar, working class town that is proud of its Wal-mart, Target, BJ’s, Barnes and Noble, and shopping mall. It’s not that I’m trying to purport myself as a privileged person if I say Andover, MA, or as a sophisticated, urban person by answering Boston.

Typically, I say New Hampshire for the sake of simplicity, because it is my permanent home address (which must give it some sort of legitimacy as claim to where I’m from) and, because, well, how many people do you know from New Hampshire? It just makes it easier for you to remember me, for me to stand out in your mind. Then there is the complicated question of how I’m also from Andover, MA, because that’s where I went to high school and that’s where my dad lives. So, sometimes, I say Boston, because that is the largest city closest to me.

At one point or another, the inconsistency is exposed and I have to explain that my parents are divorced. This is usually followed with an “Oh, I’m sorry,” or “That sucks,” or my personal favorite, “So do you get twice the stuff?” Then there are the people, which I for some reason frequently encounter when I visit different churches in New England, that ask where I’m from as though I should answer some exotic land or some Asian country because clearly, if you’re not Caucasian, you can’t actually be from America, right? So that conversation goes as follows:

“Hi, where are you from?”

“Oh, I’m from Salem, New Hampshire.”

“No, I mean, what nationality are you?”

“Well, my passport says I’m American.”

At this point the other party is significantly embarrassed enough to phrase their question properly, only to find that I say, perhaps out of my inherited, sassy nature, “Guess.” Then the conversation continues:

“Chinese.”

“No, the Chinese are our enemy.”

“Oh. Japanese? Korean? Cambodian? Vietnamese? Thai? Filipino?”

Then it really becomes more of a Guess-whatever-Asian-nationality-you-can-think-of-and-have-heard-of game.

“No.”

“Well, then, what are you?”

This is when my mother adores entering the conversation to explain how Taiwan and China have been separated since the Qing Dynasty, how our family was on the island for seven generations before Chiang Kai-shek (whom we fondly call Chiang Kai-shi, with “Kai-shi” translating as “should die”) invaded, how we speak two separate languages, that she actually can’t understand Chinese people speak Chinese (she understands most of it but their accent gives her goosebumps) but yes, we do speak Mandarin (with a different accent), but also speak Taiwanese, and that our characters are different, and how our culture is closer to the Japanese (only in some regards, my grandparents grew up during the Japanese occupation of Taiwan, speak Japanese fluently in addition to three other languages, and essentially admire Japanese culture), that our mannerisms and etiquette are different from the Chinese (we have it, they don’t), that Taiwan is de facto independent, that China has 1800 missiles pointed at us, that we have our own President, aboriginal tribes, that she’s part Dutch ( I am 1/32 Dutch) because my great-great-great-great-great grandfather was half Dutch and had a pointy nose and was six feet tall (which did me no good since I am 5’1”), how the Portuguese and Dutch colonized Taiwan.

But I won’t bore you with the details.

Rain

today was absolutely gorgeous, but a little cloudy as I was walking towards Sofoho to grab some food. I ended up taking just some water and as I was about to head back to my room, I noticed that the boy walking in front of me towards the door stopped outside the door. It wasn't until I opened the door did i realize that it was pouring outside. i decided to stay at sofoho for a little bit, thinking it would pass quickly. i stood under the archway to sofoho outside and watched the rain. everytime it rains, i look for rainbow, because it has always been a sign from God that everything would be okay, and I really needed some reassurance, especially after Saturday. I thought about her words, her outbursts of anger. they were like rain on a partly cloudy. sometimes you could see the rain coming, sometimes the rain was light, sometimes it poured. eventually, the rain dries up, but as i walked back, it was still lightly sprinkling. the sand and dirt near the construction area was now mud, the grass was mushy to walk through, and I had to be extra careful as to where i stepped. The cement walkway under beau turned to a dark gray. eventually the rain dries up as though it were never there, but the effects of it last forever. eventually, i will heal, but the scars stay. right after it rains, that's when the effects are the most apparent. maybe it was time for some rain, maybe i'd had too much sun. but i hate getting wet. sometimes there is no warning. sometimes ignore the weather forecast. next time, i'm wearing a raincoat, rainboots, and carrying an umbrella. i'll protect myself as best as I can, but if the rain is torrential, the kind that doesn't just fall down, but hits you from the sides, then i don't want to go outside. not for now, anyways.