daughters and their mothers, mothers and their daughters

The words Freedom and Expression have no meaning to my mother. Since my arrival, we have had endless arguments where she teeters between proclaiming her unshakeable beliefs on how the world works and her fear that her mother will faint while not be able to bear the agony of a bald granddaughter. Yes, many of the things my mother says is absurd, but they always were – from gender roles to politics. However, understanding where my mother comes from helps me to understanding the intention of her words. There is a proportionate amount of disconnect between her words and mine, mother and daughter, and Chineseness and American-ness. I twist the meaning of her words, just as she does mine. The degree and weight of “she doesn’t understand me” is very equal to how much I don’t understand her.

As I follow my grandma and mother around Taipei, I am beginning to see how easily and closely they relate to each other. They find similar life-associations, laugh simultaneously and share everything from underwear to stomach ailments. They speak rapidly, interchanging between Taiwanese and Mandarin while I struggle to keep up and often ask my mother to translate.

I laugh independently, often too loud and at the wrong times. I drink from coffee beans while they sip on sugary packets of Nescafe. I ask too many questions and they show similar impatience and exhaustion when answering them. They see nothing positive about recollecting the past while I see it as testament to an inspiring future. I do not know how to color coordinate my wardrobe and the very worst: I am hairless with unnecessary piercing and tattoos. They agree when I disagree.

Observing their relationship allows me to realize how much effort my mom has put in (and continues to) in our mother-daughter relationship. This is more than forks vs. chop-sticks or hair and no hair. The gap is not merely generational; it stretches, leaps and expands from budge-proof traditions to life-purpose.

But amongst all this, I do not doubt my mother’s love for me. I often feel undeserving of it when reminded of how much she’s endured (and continues to, considering that I am the world’s “weirdest and craziest daughter”). To feel so strongly a mother’s love gives my insight to our differences a little less weight and a lot less importance. 

a bit of whiteness, a bit of home

I met Nick and Chris today. Nick was riding on the escalator in front of me and I shouted out to him, “do you speak English?” Even with large headphones cupping his ears he instantly whipped his head around and said, “Yes” with just as much boldness as curiosity. I was delighted and relieved to have someone to talk to. I used Hella and Fuck about ten times. I loved every moment of our conversation and could have said rad and awesome ten more times.

He has been here two months and I have been here two days. He told me where the library and English bookstores were and I told him I wanted to know where the expats partied. Having heard grad school was strenuous he told me to relax and take advantage of all the neighboring beachy countries and I told him I wanted a routine. He told me to at least travel around Taiwan and I told him I was itching for a community. He told me that the building in front of us had 12 floors of Karaoke and the area across from it was the gay scene. We parted and 3 blocks later I met Chris.

Chris was waiting at a stoplight with a ragged backpack my size. He had a day pack in one hand and a laptop bag in the other. I said, “Hi, do you need help?” He laughed and said he was just looking for a backpackers on the same street. We crossed the street together and he looked up and said, “oh, here it is!”

Above us was a neon lit sign that said Taipei Ximen Hostel. We headed up a narrow staircase that led to a concrete wall and a door on the right. The door had a colorful plexi-plaque similar to the neon sign. It occurred to me that even their hostels could be cheese. Animated neon cheese.

I rang the doorbell and it broke out into a high-pitched welcome song/bird chant. A stout Chinese girl with black-framed glasses and a loose ponytail answered the door. She was wearing all black. She seemed annoyed to see us. Or maybe to see me since I had the aura of Snooper-McSnooperstin. It was then that I realized how eager I was to feel connected with someone who I felt embodies me and what I am familiar with. So much so I spent most my afternoon following strangers and prying at their story, eager to find community and commonality.

Its funny feeling alone when I’m constantly surrounded by people that look like me. The word “diversity” has added meaning to me now. I have never hungered so much for white faces and the opportunity to use dang and gosh and like and sick and even hope and wish with varying pitches. I think there is more risks I need to take - in another direction of course, as not to fawn too much over tall male anglos. But it's okay, because they probably think I'm gay.