The three years I spent in Taiwan can only be described as alchemy: a seemingly magical process of transformation, creation, or combination. That is not to say the journey was without hiccups or growing pains; rather, it was through such wrestling(s) that I have come to reflect on my time in this way, holding both the joy of transformation and the scars of pain.
As I listened to the counter-hegemonic voices of Indigenous peoples in Taiwan, children cried out in hunger throughout Palestine; Russia refused ceasefire deals with Ukraine; a new president was elected into office back in the United States; a 7.2 magnitude earthquake struck Taiwan…
In January 2024, halfway through my grant period, I came across the words of Nikita Gill.
Everything is on fire, but everyone I love is
doing beautiful things
and trying to make life worth living,
and I know I don’t have to believe in everything,
but I believe in that.
In response, I too began to write: “There is so much going on in this world right now, so much weight, so much fire, all while I continue on this journey here in Taiwan,” I wrote on my blog. “Sometimes I feel trapped, other times I feel like it is I who has escaped the fire erupting back home.”
And so I, like Nikita Gill’s poem titled, “In 150 Characters or Less,” attempted to honor both the narratives of connection and isolation I felt while in Taiwan. Through poetic vignettes, I wrote with a goal of 150 characters more or less, hoping that whatever room that was left on the page invited presence, for prayers of discomfort inciting change. Once I started writing this way, I couldn’t stop; I began to capture my life in Taiwan through these fleeting moments. Together, they tell the honest story of making a life for oneself in a new place.
Paper Towels
In an attempt to explain the hierarchy of
Indigenous Paiwan families,
we grab the paper towel rod for dad
and a bowl of pomelo for mom,
both dancing around the table
in a historical retelling of love and duty
to strangers, who simply provide the props
Sra
The act of naming is a welcome,
as I lean down to have my ear pulled
in confirmation
of a new Amis name bestowed
Sra; it means land, a name to ground myself in
Regardless of the crop, there must always be soil
Rice Matrimony
Eye-level with the pregnant stems of rice,
swaying in the wind
I breathe in the smell of harvest’s anticipation and
watch the white egret,
Dipping in and out of the flooded fields
as an eager bride on her wedding day,
the pastor says
But all I can think about is the impending death of the egret,
As she tests her limits against the power of the
nearing combine;
Her last moments of freedom
Taroko Gorge
Oblivious to the gorge’s impending fate of
falling rocks and ongoing quakes,
We wander along its edges, tracing the trickling
movement of its hidden waters
Against the backdrop of blue sky,
green mountains, marbled rocks
We are nearly invisible,
but for the imprint of our soles
Finally greeting the source of the falling water
with open hands and innocence
Malatang 麻辣燙
A weekly necessity, an act of grace
Lettuce, needle mushrooms, noodles, potato slices
beef not pork
All combined in a slightly spicy,
but still milky soup
to be slurped both in the cold and in communion
Amen
Church 教會
Perhaps this is where I first learned to sit in
discomfort, Comfortable
in the unknown and the steady
rhythm of bodies moving in
charismatic communion
But now there are alofos, not head coverings and
Pangcah rather than English,
And yet still I find myself asking: Who is God?
No longer pastor’s daughter but researcher, ever
entangled between theology and potlucks.
Thesis
Between ideologies and
Bourdieusian capital,
There are limitations
Time, language, positionality
The ongoing negotiation between
outsider and expert
Her face turning sour at the first taste of
bitter melon
As the locals drink its juices like candy
Hot Springs 溫泉
We are slow to remove our hands from shielding
the hidden parts of ourselves,
but once we do, it is just nakedness,
and we are just women,
soaking and laughing together,
waiting for the cold, mint feeling of menthol
to travel to our throats
as we dance between the hot, cold, hot, cold
no longer naked but a body of belonging
Mold 發霉
Everything is molding, but I wash it clean
except the suitcases on the third floor
that have long since changed color with mold,
unusable
A symbol of a home once departed,
but not returned
Returning Home
What is /home/ for a twenty-something-year-old? But
A place where one tows the line between
what was, what is, and what can be…
I will take the same, now moldy suitcase
back with me,
Though I have packed it with the harvest
of my ongoing transformation
Not yet complete but in transit
Overweight with expectation
