What is home? For me and countless others, it means different things. I’ve always thought of home as an object; it is the humble abode in which we reside, and where memories are stored. It is a vessel that carries the family legacy forward, a place where next generations can work to improve off of the shoulders of the preceding ones.
Or at least, that is what I believed.
Growing up in America, caught between my roots in the Great Plains and my present community in SoCal, I had only ever heard of the old homeland across the Pacific. The last time I had been to Taiwan, I was five years old.
By my own definition, home is the US, right? After all, I had no deep connections with Taiwan, aside from my father’s family. Even though he had never actually attempted to influence me, the stories of my grandparents’ sacrifices -- my grandmother’s resilience, my grandfather’s valor -- had drawn me exceptionally close to Taiwan.
When I boarded the jet plane bound for Taipei Taoyuan International Airport, a mix of emotions washed over me. Was I leaving home to go home? Was I saying farewell to friends to return to friends I had bid farewell to long ago?
Stepping out of the airport, I was immediately greeted by a wave of oppressive heat. At 4 AM in the morning, the sticky fog clung to my skin. I could only imagine my grandparents’ first summer in Taiwan. Frightened, struggling, and terribly homesick for the North China plain, they must have languished in the heat as well.
Despite the heat, I could not forget about the charm of Hsinchu. Many an afternoon I would just wander aimlessly on the streets, living life as a local. Every other day, a store owner would be delighted to see me over spending on grass jelly with taro balls.
I quietly noted the differences between the US and the ROC; I had never quite been to another nation which embraced modernity while maintaining tradition as much as Taiwan.
Of all my experiences there, perhaps the most impactful was visiting CKS Memorial Hall. As we walked up the stairs to the square, I could feel excitement building up in my lungs. Perhaps the hall was my personal Mecca. My posture became straighter, and momentarily the heat left my body. All the revolutionary martyrs from generations before had enabled the flame of the Three Principles throughout all the years in exile. Perhaps the conjecture that Uncle Chen made was really true - maybe I really am a reincarnation of one of Chiang’s NRA soldiers.
Apart from saluting before the Generalissimo’s statue, my day-to-day interactions were saturated with both adventure and kindness. Taiwan is right to call itself the Heart of Asia. Whether it was striking up a conversation with my taxi driver, or taking the train through Hsinchu, the people, my people were full of life. One day on the way home from work, I was accompanied by high school students from Hsinchu High School. Their uniforms, flashing in the evening sun, seemed to evoke lost memories, simultaneously conjuring the thoughts of an alternate childhood. Just like the nation, these students were sociable, friendly, and seemingly carefree. On other trains, I’d strike up conversation with other passengers. The spirit of Taiwan’s hospitality rubbed off on me day by day, wherever I went from the night markets where my grandfather grudgingly picked out rotting cabbage for my dad’s rabbits, from the observatory of Taipei 101, from the glistering waters of Tamsui, from the Nangang Station pork buns, from the narrow streets of Hsinchu, I felt a familiarity I had never before - a familiarity which welcomed me home.
As the sun set over the Taiwan Strait, I looked back at the beautiful Ilha Formosa receding behind us. Even with this visit, I am not content. I want to be able to come back more, and keep walking the paths my grandparents and my father did. My work is not done, for home is where the heart is. When I look back, I will always remember the bittersweet feelings of leaving home to return home. Taiwan is home!
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