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I hide in places where they can't see me. I blend into the
crowds like Bond at his latest cocktail party, only I'm not
as smooth.
I am an undercover American. I have Chinese eyes and an American
soul.
I willingly admit to the following: I learned how to use
chopsticks at a school cultural festival in San Jose, California.
Spanish is my second language, not Chinese. Mac and Cheese
was at one point in my life, considered a staple food.
Call me your average American. I was proudly part of the
giant U.S. melting pot, tossed salad, whatever metaphor you
choose for the diverse country.
I didn't even realize my situation until a schoolmate asked
why I didn't look like the person who picked me up after school.
After that, I remember looking in the mirror and wondering
what all the fuss was about.
Since I was only 9 months old when I left Taiwan, I was Americanized.
Americanized by family, friends, teachers and of course, by
the best of America's 80s television programs. Even San Francisco's
Chinatown was more than I could handle as a kid. The towering
temples, the snakes and the Buddhas frightened me just like
any other small western child taking a peek at the Far East.
In grade school, as I began to develop what psychologists
have named the "self-concept", I would occasionally
wonder how it would feel to be surrounded by people who looked
like me. Would I look different? Would I feel at home? Naive
but considerable thoughts for a child.
Living in Taiwan has proven to be a rather interesting hassle.
I am Chinese in a foreign land, where people make assumptions
about who I am.
Six months ago, when my Mandarin was non-existent, my encounters
with the Chinese would occur in three predictable stages.
At first, they would speak at light speed. When they realized
my state of confusion, they would then ask if I was Japanese.
Finally, I countered with my newly learned phrase, "Wo
tzung Meigwo lai" (I came from America). My fate always
went one of two ways: fascination or further confusion.
On a recent trip to Kenting, an older local man interrupted
a conversation and demanded to know where I learned my English.
My explanation was refused. He walked away saying over and
over "Ni shr Taiwan ren." I believe he felt I had
betrayed his country.
On another occasion, I was dining with friends in side street
restaurant. I had just placed my chopsticks into my rice,
when I found myself suddenly being yelled at. The laoban made
a personal trip to our table to scold me for being so careless
with my chopsticks. "You should have known," he
said firmly. Being American meant nothing to him, I just should
have known.
I had violated a very important rule, and one I've never
committed again. For the Buddhists, sticking chopsticks is
like sticking incense sticks into sand at temples, a ritual
common during funerals. Pointing towards the heavens, these
sticks can attract both good and bad spirits. I think the
laoban didn't want to take his chances with me.
Sometimes being invisible and blending in with the crowd
is like being a fly on a wall, particularly with foreigners
who don't know me. As I waited to use a phone in a restaurant
one night, two foreigners stood behind me, rapping about their
plans later on with certain women, incriminating themselves
more and more with every word. What a shock it was when I
stepped to the phone and spoke English, without an accent.
I could feel them wincing behind me.
Sometimes I'll see other foreigners shopping or they'll pull
up next to me on my scooter and I'll think to myself, we probably
have so much in common. We probably think the same thoughts,
react the same way to Chinese culture and feel the same things
about the east. But they would never consider it unless I
opened my mouth.
All I need is a sticker to place on my forehead: "Made
in Taiwan. . . Raised in America." Not really, that would
be way to easy and I'm having too much fun with the assumptions.
Now I just wonder about all the times assumed things about
people in Taiwan, mainly, how many other undercover Americans
are out there besides me.
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