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written by georgia lin
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illustrations by melissa avalos
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At a strip mall in Clarenville, Newfoundland, an elderly white man stops to ask me if I’m from the Philippines. I respond with a no, as one of my colleagues chimes in, “She’s from Ontario.” On Charles Street East, Toronto, a man stops me on the sidewalk and insists that I write his number down in my phone because he “loves Asian girls.” My fear of potential danger takes precedence over my disgust, so I record his number and walk away. My identity is starkly shoved at me without gentility when I occupy white spaces as a racialized woman, often with mostly white peers. For the eight years I sang in a children’s choir, there were always only a handful of racialized folks performing alongside me. We were privileged enough to sing around the world, our destinations adding to the dots creating the dots of my diaspora. As a 17-year-old who believed the world could mould to her, I meandered around Eastern Europe without thinking too much of racialization; instead, I was utterly confused about the Orthodox church services where we sang mass. Attending an expatriate church service in Moscow was the first time I had heard the word “communion,” and watching my peers know exactly when to sit and stand with the reverend was dizzying. I saw rosary beads being sold for the first time at the bottom of the Hill of Crosses in Lithuania. I climbed the hill and stayed utterly quiet as a friend explained to me the basics of the Holy Trinity. In Russia and the Baltics, I left still not knowing the Lord’s Prayer but without experiencing a racist incident—a tradeoff I had not yet come to value.
My parents do not subscribe to any particular religion, only abiding by Buddhist traditions when following the old guard of Chinese customs. The sites of worship I was most comfortable with were found on the tea-rich mountains of Taiwan, where bright red temples with dragons encircling their awnings stood waiting for incense-lighters to arrive. My mother would wish for my good grades, I would wish for my health and heart. I don’t think she ever prayed. We travelled on high-speed trains across our island, drinking sweetened winter melon tea and eating shaved ice on rickety plastic stools in crowded night markets. My childhood in Taipei appears to me like puzzle pieces: I can combine moments and items, like playing the Mandarin version of Monopoly on my grandparents’ cool linoleum floor or listening to the garbage trucks blast “Für Elise” on their routes, but none ever quite create a full tapestry. I often want to leave all of myself in Taiwan because I convince myself it is where I am most comfortable. However, when skincare saleswomen comment on how I look and sound like a foreigner to try to appease me into buying a sheet mask, I am reminded that my emigration has left me splintered across continents.
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Whenever I see a glass bottle of peach Snapple iced tea, whether it be at an airport cafe during a Dallas layover or on the bottom shelf of a Pusateri’s produce aisle, I am reminded of the 7-year-old living in Manhattan who collected Snapple bottle caps to show off their facts. She sits on the second floor of the Morningside Heights branch of the New York Public Library poring over novels of a language she has just learned, where she first got the idea of becoming an English and Philosophy major. In second grade, North America was fresh with every Junie B. Jones book I borrowed to read on my daily subway rides downtown. I remember the kindness at neighbourhood bodegas, the wonder of boutique gift shops, the convenience of sweetened teas at the now-defunct Deluxe Diner, and I can almost justify my hope in America. Whenever I rattle off a bubble tea order in English instead of Mandarin, saying “tapioca” instead of 珍珠 sounds mangled. The reflective glare of domineering motorcycles revving in downtown roads pales in comparison to the masses of “scooters” found across Taiwan. They take precedence over cars with designated parking slots and traffic stops on major boulevards; their imbalance terrifies and thrills me when I’m whizzed down a wide country path without a helmet in a rural province, or when my grandmother crisscrosses through gridlocked vehicles to take me to lunch. I bring back so little of myself—the one who gorges on pineapple cakes and recites the 12 Chinese zodiac signs in perfect rhythm—to a life marked by subway delays and unopened emails. One where I am always acutely aware of my racialization, my subtle English stutter, my shifting Mandarin terminology, and my omnipresent anxiety.
At Cha Cha Matcha in New York City, the cashier is shocked that we are both named Georgia. Under the soft glow of lettered neon signs backlit against millennial pink walls, I grab a handful of sugar packets with “I love you so matcha” emblazoned in green calligraphy. On a walking tour of Riga, Latvia, I overhear a group of tourists speaking Mandarin with Taiwanese accents. I smile to myself, and listen to their conversation about the cobblestone paths as I sweat in my pale yellow polyester polo uniform. I stop a woman in a wide-brimmed hat with a camera slung around her neck and ask her in Mandarin, “How do you like the city so far?” After a second of surprise, a few of the group gather with excitement to conduct a conversation in which they think I live in Latvia as a Taiwanese student, to their amazement. I inform them that we are currently travelling on a choir tour, but I was born and raised in Taipei. The excitement my response elicits is everlasting in my memory.
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