Happy Nice Mall

The niceties of the American suburbs that I missed while living in Taiwan were no longer important. I didn’t care if the houses around me had beautiful pruned green lawns and beautiful gardens. The endless queues reminded me of the boring and repetitive days I lived here: go to school, do homework, study piano and violin, sleep, repeat.

I was unaware that I was experiencing reverse culture shock, a situation in which expatriates returning to their home countries struggle to reintegrate.

Trapped in my cul-de-sac, I felt detached from all my five senses that I once used to explore my surroundings, tasted the cold grass jelly gliding smoothly down my throat, and smelled the delicious scallion pancakes coming into my mouth. That. Despite living in a highly populated Chinese community, I had a hard time connecting with my roots. Gone are the days when I could easily immerse myself in culture, whether it was seeing the bright red lanterns at the local temple or attending festivities.

Five years after moving back to the US, my perceptions have changed dramatically. I still lived around houses that looked like carbon copies of each other, but I no longer looked down on them with disdain. I started to like the silence and calmness of the city. When I climbed a neighboring hill and saw a panorama of my community for the first time, I entered a state of admiration. I was amazed at how small the world seemed—thousands of little houses on the grassy green hills as the breeze gently caressed my cheeks and the sun’s rays shined on me. I have never felt so calm and peaceful before.

As I looked to the horizon, I thought about what the town was like in the world I came from – something I never thought to say when I first arrived. It was where I spent my teenage years, maturing from a middle school student focused solely on volunteering to a high school senior with a passion for science and STEM education. It was where I rekindled my long lost passion for piano and classical music. As I take one last look at the view before descending the hill, I can safely say that I have finally come home.

As my memories of Taiwan faded, I romanticized this place even more. These memories are distorted highlighting all the good Taiwan has to offer. I found it odd that my brain tended to be wrong when I noticed these gradual changes occurring, but psychology tells me it’s normal.

As Charlotte Lieberman wrote in the New York Times, “Why Do We Romanticize the Past?” I read an article titled and completely identified myself. Cognitive errors that occur when reconstructing and forgetting certain memories lead to a rosy look at the past, a process in which “people tend to think about the past more fondly than they did in the present.” The psychological reason is that people want their memories to be consistent with the narrative they tell about themselves.

While I was aware that I was prone to cognitive biases, I still idealized Taiwan, ignoring the unbearably hot summers and concrete buildings tainted by countless rainstorms. All I wanted was to go back because I could not only reconnect with the traditions and beliefs of my ancestors, but also relive my late childhood.

For years, I wondered what had happened to me. Why did I have such a strong homesickness for a place where none of my family lives? I mingled with the locals there, yet I was still considered a foreigner because I was American and my mother came from mainland China. I didn’t realize until I read these lines: I will decide where to see my home, not others. My heart aches for Taiwan because it is where I fell in love with the Chinese language and culture and ultimately shaped who I am today.

If it wasn’t for Taiwan, I would still be cut off from my Chinese heritage. The further I move away from Taiwan, the bigger the gap between me and my ethnic identity. I’m messing around with my old Chinese workbooks and I can’t recognize some characters. I went through my elementary school Chinese textbooks and realized that I had forgotten many traditional poems and stories. I mourn that I spent all my time in Taiwan building my Chinese identity, but I lost it after I came back to America.

Am I still Chinese enough?

I keep thinking about Taiwan from time to time. Taiwan is more than a place for me; more like someone I love with whom I had a complicated relationship in the past. I play songs on a Spotify playlist called Taiwan Nostalgia. I watch music videos of my favorite songs by Taiwanese artists like Fish Leong. I watch Taiwanese youth movies like our times to relive those pristine golden days.

I know my efforts to recreate these experiences have been futile, but I still find beauty in nostalgia because it is the fleeting nature of childhood that makes these moments worth remembering. So while walking down Dorm Row or biking down Massachusetts Avenue, I let random thoughts about Taiwan come to my mind. I may be over 7,500 miles from Taiwan, but one thing is for sure: wherever I go, it will always be in my heart.