THE NARRATIVE ARC
Battling the Blood Demons of Taipei
The powerful magic of sweet steamed buns
When I was ten and my sister was seven, our parents decided we would spend the summer in Taiwan studying at Taipei American School. The year was 1969 and it was the season of Woodstock and the moon landing. TAS was a school set up for Chinese expatriates to bring their children for Mandarin Chinese language instruction, anti-communist indoctrination and some serious Generalissimo Chiang Kai-Shek worship.
When the nationalist army was forced to retreat to Taiwan after Mao’s Communist forces won the civil war in 1949, Chiang and the nationalist government set up a “temporary” capital in Taipei and began making their plans for re-taking the mainland. 75 years later, some are still planning.
Children like me were commonly referred to as “Bananas.” Yellow on the outside, white on the inside. We were unfortunate and to be pitied by “real” Chinese people. While we were lucky to be growing up in America, were tragically disconnected from our culture and language. Our Chinese language skills were pathetic. We were ignorant as to why we should hate the communists who ruled the mainland. Whenever we went to the movies, there would be a pre-movie trailer depicting the greatness of Chiang Kai-shek and the nationalist government.
Standing and singing the national anthem was a requirement. The movie audience always seemed enthusiastic about this, but we were lost and confused. Relatives would pat us on the head and praise my mother for bringing us to Taiwan to become more Chinese and learn to hate the Communists properly.
Chinese born outside of China are referred to as “Hua Qiao,” (pronounced “Wha Chao”) or “Overseas Chinese” in Mandarin. The literal essence of the characters for “Hua” and Qiao” infer something deeper, however. When linked together to describe someone like me, there is a vague insult in the term. “Chinese Outsider,” or, “Chinese Away From The Homeland” are at the true root of the phrase. We are separated from our true Chinese-ness.
We are Chinese, but lesser.
It was a summer of strangeness. We lived in a rented house in Tien Mou, a neighborhood then popular with Americans and other foreigners who had business or other reasons to spend time in Taipei. Our house was spacious, we had a kind, matronly housekeeper and in the early morning we would be awakened by a skinny man on his bicycle passing by ringing a little bell as he called out: “Maann Tooww.” These were fresh doughy buns with bits of green onion in them. Slather a bit of butter on them while they were hot and you were in heaven. I couldn’t get enough of those buns.
Food was one of the great highlights of our time in Taiwan: lunches, dinners out in restaurants, the dishes prepared by our housekeeper were a continuing revelation for me.
We ate Chinese at home in America and knew all the best Chinese restaurants in Seattle, but the flavors and character of the local cuisine was superior to say the least. Whether it was a simple stack of green onion pancakes at a roadside cart, beef soup noodles at a crowded cafeteria or delicate roast duck at a fine dining establishment, meals were a source of wonder and joy. The food was important to me because most of the experience living in Taiwan that summer was pretty awful.
At night I would lie awake in the humidity and listen to the US armed forces radio that broadcast in those days across Asia, and Casey Kasem’s top 40 program. That summer’s playlist is still etched in my mind. If I hear a song from that year nowadays, I am taken back to that time when life was about being an alien in an alien land and perhaps understanding for the first time that “alienness” was a condition I would live in the rest of my life. My sister and I struggled with our Chinese lessons, were mocked by local Chinese kids for our shoddy Mandarin and we missed home terribly.
The intense heat and a bathroom that was nightly occupied by lizards and little garter snakes didn’t help. Resilient pacific tropic fauna was not something we were used to. One of my hobbies became chasing huge roaches around with a can of Raid, spraying the beast until it was snow white with poison. It would take many minutes to die. Raid was not effective agains the lizards and snakes, which had to be trapped and executed by fire and lighter fluid in the back yard. Often The Archies would be singing “Sugar, Sugar” on the transistor radio while I incinerated my reptilian prisoners of war in a non-stop battle.
After Chinese language and culture classes at Taipei American School, we were treated to long sessions in the large swimming pool. We were never going to get used to the oppressive tropical climate, so the pool became a welcome refuge. The routine of morning steamed buns, school lessons, the pool and my transistor radio made life tolerable for this Banana.
Until everything changed. My father had returned to the United States for work, and my mother fell gravely ill. I had no idea what was wrong with her at the time. At age ten, a house filled with anxious Chinese relatives, doctors and friends speaking in hushed Mandarin tones about my mother’s condition was a surreal nightmare. I know now that she had to have a hysterectomy due to painful ovarian cysts, but at the time all I knew was fear.
She was taken to a local hospital and my sister and I were left in care of our housekeeper. The next day, we quietly ate our morning steamed buns, went to our lessons, hung out at the pool and then returned home for news. After around three days , when we got home there was a gathering of adults who were waiting for us. They explained that the surgery did not go well and our mother was still in the hospital. We were told not to worry, behave and be patient.
Of course, we worried, did not behave and were not patient. A strange panic set in I had never felt before: my younger sister and I were in a strange country, surrounded by strange people, our father was gone and our mother was in the hospital and seriously ill. That night, as I listened to the armed forces radio in bed, I felt completely lost. Between Marvin Gaye singing ‘I Heard It Through The Grapevine’ and Neil Diamond calling out to ’Sweet Caroline,’ I sobbed into my pillow and longed to go home. I was an American. I wanted America. I hated this damn Chinese place and all these goddamn Chinese people.
The next day, my sister and I were bundled into a taxi and taken to the hospital to see our mother. Growing up in America, we generally experience hospitals as pristine, impressive and supremely competent. The hospital we were taken to was none of these things. Our fear and concern grew as we walked along stained corridors, open doorways with flies hovering in them and the distinct smell of sickness.
We got to our mother’s room and quickly fell into her arms crying loudly. She was weak and pale, but told us to listen to our aunties and uncles and to be good. We promised we would do so. Then an uncle took us with him and said we needed to go visit a doctor downstairs. We didn’t understand. Why did we need to go see a doctor? When we got downstairs, we were shuffled into a room where there was blood drawing equipment and a lot of needles.
My sister and I understood: they wanted our blood. They were going to take our blood, kill us, then take the rest of our mother’s blood and kill her too. I ran, dragging my little sister behind me. We ran up some stairs, around some corners, down some stairs, into and out of labs and back again, until we were cornered underneath a stairwell. The exit doors were just ahead, but the orderlies, nurses and doctors had us trapped. We were basically carried back to the blood draw room, strapped down and the real horror began. I don’t think I‘d ever seen my own blood before. I was clenched my fists and eyes, cursing these evil blood demons with every curse word I had in English and Chinese. When they went for my sister I tried to bite a nurse.
Afterwards, we were taken home by our uncle. I was surprised to see that both myself and my sister were alive and well. I learned later that they just wanted to see if we could be donors if my mother needed another surgery. It turns out she didn’t.
We got back to our routine of steamed buns, school, the pool and the transistor radio. Soon my mother returned home. My father came back and the tale of the bloodthirsty demons of Taipei General Hospital became a funny story my relatives would tell. I didn’t think it was funny at all.
The summer came to an end and we returned to the US. While my mandarin was better, I hadn’t learned to hate Mao Tse-Tung, whoever he was, and I missed the food a lot. Most of all I missed the steamed buns in the morning.
To this day, I remain a “Chinese Outsider.” I speak Mandarin, but struggle to read and write it. I love authentic Chinese food but can’t get it anywhere outside of LA or NY or maybe San Francisco. I understand all the cultural references and behaviors in Chinese films but prefer European cinema. If I am given a chance to travel for leisure, I will pick Paris over any city in Asia. During my teenage years, when my insecurities with being a “Banana” became open complaints, my mother would remind me to look in the mirror and accept that no matter what, I was Chinese and the world would always see me that way first.
Sometimes, I will take a few friends to a tolerable Chinese restaurant for dinner. They get a thrill listening to me speak with the waitstaff and order the dishes in Chinese. Often there will be a little banter between myself and the waitstaff as we settle in for our meal. Usually the waiter or waitress will remark how good my Chinese is for an American and ask me where my parents were from. They smile approvingly and tell me I speak Mandarin almost like a real Chinese person.
When my friends ask me what were were talking about, I always tell them we were just talking about the menu.
