Love Letters to Taipei
By: Shannon Wan
Tags: Love Letters, Taipei, Travel, Asian American, Identity

Reflecting on friendship with my favorite city.

Happy New Year @ Taipei 101

It’s always interesting to me how people define their identities. Is it by the things they enjoy doing? The people they love or have loved? The places they’ve been? Experiential moments in time tend to be the go-to.

Then, there was that situational question that irked me a bit.

“Where are you from?”

I used to hesitate to answer this due to various reasons. Those who asked in America were typically expecting an answer that included an Asian country. In an Asian country, they expected something like “America.” The struggle of being able to claim the hyphen between “Asian” and “American” has been long and ongoing and something many of my second-generation friends can relate to. Fortunately, I’ve long realized that the kinds of people who expect a particular type of answer are not ones that I’d like to pursue further conversation with.

Regardless, I hesitated. And I did so not because of political correctness, but because I never did want anyone to make assumptions about me based on where I was from. Because in saying where I was born, people inadvertently, unintentionally, attached personal connotations to my explanation. And it’s not to say that that’s incorrect — it’s the natural thing to do.

But for me to simply say “American,” and leave it at that, seemed like a grossly inaccurate representation of the things I loved and how I saw myself. The idea of being summed up with a nebulous word like “American” was upsetting, even if it was a simple introduction to a stranger. I struggled to find meaning in the word and, taking it further, associate myself with its stereotyped ideals, especially when I found myself in places everywhere but.

In the end though, I came to the conclusion that I defined the word, rather than the other way around. I accepted the parts of me that were molded and nurtured by America, and nowadays I’m proud to say that I am, in fact, American. Texan. Human. I enjoy speaking in English, being able to appreciate Western literature, and watching Hollywood movies without subtitles. But, today’s focus isn’t solely on being American.

Taipei has stayed with me throughout all stages of life.

Beginning in elementary school, a bit sparser throughout middle, and then regularly starting in high school, on a year to two-year basis, I’ve had the fortune of visiting my little isle of Formosa to spend time with family and experience life outside of my Texan bubble.

It’s seen me in flashes, akin to movie montage, and taken care of me every step of the way. It’s welcomed my past lovers, fed us when we were happiest, embraced me when I lost them, fed me in my numbness, when I was angrier and sadder than I’d ever like to admit, and then fed me some more. It’s gotten me drunk, gotten me home safely, given me volunteer opportunities, internships, friendships that have lasted.

Taipei held me as I held the cool palms of my grandfather the summer before his passing. Led me to his hospital bed like waves do a bottle to a distant shore during a hot July evening when 16 year-old me wasn’t confident in navigating the city yet. Keeps his resting spot safe in the mountains. Killer view up there, honestly. There’s a saying, that if you love something enough it’ll love you back, and it’s honestly never been truer than here.

Our relationship started out when I was still unsure of myself.

Tween Shannon, coming in hot from America, from summer air conditioning so cold it warranted jackets indoors, from driving everywhere, from ‘Why do you put beans in your dessert?’ had her mind blown by the gourmet delicacies, the streets bustling with people, the colorful shrines imbued with the heady smell of incense, the cleanliness of public transportation in contrast with the occasional waft of sewer. What was there to like? Absolutely everything.

I used to hold the expectation that I needed to assimilate to a culture in order to be able to claim it; therefore, logically, I had to become more Taiwanese than a Taiwanese person in order to claim my heritage. While some of my Asian friends wanted to act more “white,” I wanted to become even more Asian than what my DNA test would yield. I yearned for that land, that water, craved that blood and soil my parents came from. In my eyes I’d found a place that held but all the wonders of the world, and it was my way of worshiping, of paying my respects to that altar, to try and fit in.

I thought it unfair how some people could so easily match identity with birth place. Since then, I’ve come a bit of a way.

In fact,

I don’t think I’ve been more “American” than during this past visit. First time going back to the mother land during winter break, first time getting a chance to explore the city on my own. Spent the time doodling in pet cafes, sipping local brews at beer bars, poring through bookstores. It’s taken some trial and error and solo travel to come to terms with the fact that I’m just me now, without geography to constrain my nationalistic loyalties. (What does that even mean, anyways?)

Perhaps a bit ironically, I can now say that I’m glad I wasn’t born in Taipei. To be born and raised somewhere, regardless of race, is to be exposed to its beauty and ugliness, its pride and its shame . Not unlike family, really. Love and hate on opposite sides of the same coin; joy and trauma, all interwoven into inextricable bonds most form with their parents. But with places you visit, whether it be the first time or the tenth time, they always have the potential to become your friends. And friends, of course, always support you.

Taipei and I, I’d like to think we’re best of friends.

Each time we’ve seen each other we only get to know each other on a deeper level. It houses my ghost spots in back alleyways, memories of the past frozen in time, simultaneously immediate yet distant. Specters stand on rickety footbridges across rivers, on cool and moist boulders lining the bank where I’ve loved and I’ve planned for a future knowing it wouldn’t come true. Hoping it still would.

It gives itself to me in different flavors, different textures, different languages and voices: Chinese, Taiwanese, English, Japanese, Korean. It yells at me from a morning market stall to purchase fresh fruits, steamed buns, or dig through a pile of second-hand clothing marked for $3.00 with crowds of elderly women around me doing the same. Other days it crawls out of bed at 12:00 noon (or later), stumbles into my arms with the innocence of an infant but other times like a drunken 20-something who needs comforting. Or was that me?

Regardless, we’re always eating. Always, always eating.

It loves me in the sweltering summer and underwhelming temperate winter, bustling and buzzing, sometimes thoughtful and occasionally sad, with a pretty quick recovery period. There’s a little bit of everything in this curious city, and the generally progressive atmosphere and willingness to adopt international trends while retaining that Taiwanese spunk is what keeps me infatuated. I’m very thankful it and I have each other to touch base with every couple years or so, just to see how we’ve changed or stayed the same.

It makes me smile wondering how we’ll be by the end of next year. Have to make sure it’s the best version of me yet.

Cheers, to 2020.