The Doyle Engaging Difference Program - Georgetown University

I like to overprepare. Before my freshman year of college, I made a spreadsheet to record everything I planned to bring to D.C.. Each year, I make a to-do list of things I want to complete, divided by season. Needless to say, before I left the U.S. on my own for the first time, I made sure to prepare. I made lists of places to visit in Taiwan and I read up on culture shock to prepare for what I knew could be a difficult first few days or weeks.

And yet I never felt any sense of culture shock while abroad. Instead, Taipei felt instantly familiar: on my first day walking through my neighborhood in search of a Carrefour supermarket, I marveled at how the buildings and storefronts, the mopeds in the streets, the heat and humidity, and the Mandarin I heard around me reminded me of the summers I spent visiting family in Shanghai.

As my weeks abroad progressed, I continued to feel this odd sense of familiarity. I was grateful to feel comfortable in a place that I expected to feel foreign, but at the same time, I was puzzled: my family is not Taiwanese. None of my relatives have ever visited Taiwan. Some elements of Taiwanese cuisine are similar to the Shanghainese food my family makes—but not all. Mandarin accents in Taipei are relatively light, but still differ from the Shanghai accents I am familiar with. And yet I felt immensely comfortable in a place that I had no real connection to. 

Taiwan and China have deep connections through a shared culture, history, and language. But there are crucial differences. Taiwan’s culture has also been influenced by its history of Japanese colonialism and its openness to Western culture. Its history has diverged from China’s multiple times. Although Mandarin is spoken throughout Taiwan, there are words that differ between Taiwan and China. Taiwan also has its own indigenous language: Taiwanese.

When I was asked by Taiwanese people about my heritage–I would explain that I was American, but that my mother was from China. Given that I would introduce myself as Chinese-American, I was always aware of my status as a foreigner.

Linguistic differences also reminded me that my roots were in China, not Taiwan. In class I learned the Mandarin word for pineapple that was used in Taiwan: fènglí, instead of the bōluó I learned from my grandmother. My teacher advised us to use the Taiwanese equivalents in Taiwan, telling us that “some people don’t like to hear the Chinese versions anymore.” I duly made the effort to adjust my vocabulary. But I realized that there were many other words that, with different equivalents in Taiwan, exposed my Chinese background. 

While receiving a project at my internship, a coworker told me to find clips online for a yǐngpiàn the company was making for an upcoming conference. My confusion centered around the word “yǐngpiàn,” but based on context, I could guess at the meaning. “Yǐngpiàn is shìpín, right?” I asked, using the word I knew for “video.” “Oh, right it is,” she said, and then added offhandedly, “that’s what they say in China.”

While attempting to engage with religion in Taiwan as a part of the Doyle Global Dialogue program, I felt a similar sense of distance. Going to Daoist—an indigenous Chinese religion—and Buddhist—a religion that has long been a part of Chinese culture—temples, felt odd. My Chinese family is nonreligious, and even after having some traditions explained to me by Taiwanese friends, I still don’t understand their main belief systems. Today religion is more prominent in Taiwan than China, the result of a history of crackdowns on religion by the Chinese government, so it was natural that my own family did not practice. And yet I wondered whether my ancestors did.

Growing up in predominantly-white cities with little access to a greater Chinese community, I didn’t feel much connection to my heritage. As a teenager, I worried about being “tested” on my Chinese heritage and being told that I, who at the time was illiterate and could speak Mandarin with an eight-year old’s vocabulary, who knew some Chinese dishes, but not all, and who did not celebrate Chinese holidays, wasn’t really Chinese.

In Taiwan, however, I began to feel more Chinese. As my language abilities improved, some of my peers assumed I was fluent, a gratifying impression to give after years of doubting my language abilities. The myriad of sights, smells, and tastes I came across in Taiwan unlocked memories of visits to China and made me realize just how central those memories were to my experience growing up.

It was a strange paradox: I felt more connected to my heritage in a place where I had no heritage. Ultimately, I chose to go to Taiwan last spring because I wanted to improve my Mandarin and travel to a place I had never visited. I harbored no delusions about “finding myself” or connecting to my heritage while abroad. While I would hardly say that I “found myself” in Taiwan, I am grateful for how my time abroad reminded me of a cherished part of my identity and gave me a greater sense of confidence in my Chinese heritage.