An Ocean By the Cupful

(photo from CNN)

These days, I’m usually a moment away from tears. I live in the South in Nashville, Tennessee, and you can imagine how the racial and political climate is more than just “tense” at the moment. With the death and terrorism of Black Americans on the news every week, with the xenophobia and racism of a certain presidential candidate splattered across my feed every day (and the people who support him or are silent in not condemning him, therefore complicit in his continued reign of terror), with the years and years of racialized trauma and microagressions I have fought against as an Asian American woman rising up in me, reminding me of the wounds I am still nursing on a hourly basis—I’m having a hard time.

Every moment is a reminder of the pain that in my twenty-four years I have experienced, and what more I have to look forward to in the years to come. 

Four days ago, I took my car to the shop and learned that my transmission was on its way out. In order to try and preserve and lengthen the life of my car, I decided I would take my bike around town to run errands and the like, something I have done without problems in the past. While on my way home from biking to the farmer’s market to pick up my CSA, I got hit by a SUV. Half my vegetables were destroyed in that impact, my bicycle was damaged, and I was mildly injured on my left side with some bruising, soreness, and superficial bleeding on my left arm. The person who hit me is refusing to cooperate or communicate with me.

Even this is a reminder to me of the way of the world, the experiences of those of privilege versus those of marginalized people. The roads were designed for cars, they’re dominated by cars.  You have every legal right to be on the road, sometimes you’re even biking in a designated bike lane. It is illegal for you to ride your bike on the sidewalk (even though some people do it). If you ever get into a collision or accident, it was because the cars “weren’t looking for you,” they didn’t see you, or even realize that you were there. If you get hit, you are the one who is going to walk away with the most damage, and the car likely without even a scratch. 

No one and nothing is protecting you, you have no barriers between you and the world. You are exposed, you are vulnerable to anything and anyone that might want to take a shot at you. 

Who is going to pay for your damaged groceries that you worked hard to be able to pay for? Your pain? Your damaged bicycle? Who is going to wipe away your tears?

You are.

This is my experience as a woman of color.

Which brings me to the Olympics. So many of my white friends are very excited about the Olympics, which I understand because in years past I have enjoyed watching the games, races, and competitions. As a former competitive swimmer, the anticipation I have had towards watching America sweep swimming has been high in the past, even more so to watch swimmers we competed against in high school go on to take medals for the United States.

With everything that’s happened just this week, I think you can understand why I am not excited about watching the Olympics, or even more than vaguely aware with the news and ads that it is happening.

Zoom up to an hour ago, when a website that I follow called TaiwaneseAmerican.org reposted this article on Facebook that CNN had written called, “What’s in a name? Anger in Taiwan over ‘Chinese Taipei’ Olympics moniker”.

In the piece they explain how Taiwan will be competing under “Chinese Taipei” and why.  It’s been like this 1984, but why did this reminder cause me to break out in tears today?

I have spent the last couple weeks trying to figure out how I can leverage my privilege with my white friends to help them understand #BlackLivesMatter and the nature of white supremacy in our country and our churches. I have been trying to lead them in confessing and apologizing to people of color. I have been leading them, and I have been waiting to hear from them for their apologies for taking me for granted, for white washing me, and for causing me grief and pain. I have been talking to my Asian and mixed race friends about the erasure they experience in “passing” and our struggles in even being considered people of color.

Here in the United States, Asian Americans experience erasure, white-washing, and forced assimilation. Our existence and presence is wiped from history books, films, books, and television. Asian characters are regularly played by white people in yellowface, our identity has been made a mockery and an afterthought. ButI am not considered a real American. I have to prove, as many children of immigrants of color do, that they are really American (Where are you from? No, where are you really from?).

This is my home, I was born in this country, and I have every right to be here and be called an American.

On the other side of my identity equation, Taiwan continues to live in ambiguity, a de facto sovereign country, but in the international community—the United Nations and the Olympics nonexistent. I could start listing out all the ways that Taiwan is a place with its own history, culture, languages, currency, flag, national anthem, people, and government, but.. 

I am tired of proving to people that I am real, I am legitimate, and that I exist.  It is the sad reality and nature of erasure; we are constantly called to prove our existence.

We, Taiwan, accepted a compromise, they let us play in the Olympic games, but they call us “Chinese Taipei” because China does not want anyone to hear the name “Taiwan”. Our flag will not be flown and our national anthem will not be played. Because sometimes you are so desperate to get a seat at the table, that you are okay not being served any food once you get there.  We’re so excited to have a big budget feature film directed by a Chinese guy, in China, that we don’t even care that some (historically inaccurate) random white dude is one of the leads in it (when we don’t have “historically inaccurate” Asian people in period films ever).  I get it.

I am angry. The quote from the article that really got me was this—

Freddy Lim, a death metal frontman and lawmaker elected at the same time as Tsai, says the name “Chinese Taipei” is “disrespectful.” “Taiwan’s Olympic athletes come from all over the country and are of different ethnic backgrounds, so the best name for the team would be 'Taiwan’,” he told CNN.

Freddy is right. I would know. I dedicated the last two years of my life to creating a feature length documentary film, HuanDao, exploring my journey as a Taiwanese American to learn about the culture, history, and people of Taiwan and what exactly it means to be “Taiwanese,” and consequently, do I even have any right to identify as Taiwanese?

I found so much love and beauty. I found a richness as I traveled Taiwan on my bicycle meeting Taiwanese people from so many different backgrounds, with their own stories and histories. Taiwan is not just China, it’s not just a bunch of Chinese people. Freddy Lim is right, we’re not “Chinese Taipei” because Taiwan is more than a mini- China headquarted in Taipei. 

Coen Blaauw, executive director of the Formosan Association for Public Affairs told CNN, “Not only is the name 'Chinese Taipei’ humiliating for the 23 million people of the democratic country of Taiwan, we are concerned that the name will stick,”

And Blauuw is right. It is humiliating for the beautiful island country of Taiwan with all of it’s unique culture and history even beyond the Chinese people who have made Taiwan their home to be reduced to “Chinese Taipei”.  It’s like if the United States were referred to as “British Washington D.C.” The United States, though the country was only formed in independence to Great Britain just under 300 years ago, and speaks the “same language” as GB, and has many people who are descended from the British Isles, existed way before that, and was inhabited by indigenous people before that, and has been settled by many other peoples since then as well.

In so many moments, I have wondered if anyone even cares whether or not Taiwanese identity is a thing or if Taiwan is even “a thing”.

The world doesn’t believe that someone can be Taiwanese. Even the Taiwanese who consider themselves to be Taiwanese don’t believe that I’m Taiwanese (because I was born in America). Then Americans question my right to be an American. But in spite of all these things, I know who I am, and I will fight to have Taiwan recognized and to have my identity as a Taiwanese American recognized.

But it is hard, and I wonder if this thing I am fighting for, giving my life, my story, my money, and my talent for—if anyone will even care or listen.  That all my efforts to try and convince people that a film like mine matters, that the questions I fought to ask and the answers that I fought to find will be seen or heard, understood or valued.

And the Olympics right now are reminding me that, no, no one does.