The Qipao disconnect

Processing culture as Asians vs. Asian-Americans

In the summer of 2016, I volunteered to teach English to elementary school children in Taiwan for a month. The program was jointly sponsored between the different government ministries of Canada, the United States, and Taiwan in the name of “cross-cultural development.” Yet my application for the program was considered weak because I was born and raised in Taiwan, and have relatively strong Mandarin speaking skills. The program implicitly valued the participation of second-generation Chinese youth, especially those who had never visited Taiwan before. In essence, I was the antithesis of their ideal volunteer: a first-generation immigrant who spoke fluent Mandarin and paid annual visits to the island where I was born and raised. Due to my inherently Taiwanese identity, I was perceived as unable to properly teach English to Taiwanese children because they would not be able to view me as a foreigner. The program organizers prioritized rising high school seniors with little experience overseas, the vast majority of whom were from suburbs of Asian-immigrant-heavy states like California and Maryland. 

My time in the program was thoroughly uncomfortable. I found no kinship among the volunteers in my group, who were mostly divided into two camps: those who had grown up in Asian-majority countries like mainland China and Taiwan, and those who had the privilege of American or Canadian citizenship. My personal immigrant experience was diminished from both parties. My staggered Mandarin abilities were evident amongst the rapid fast lingo of the fifth graders I was teaching, but my cultural knowledge of Taiwanese customs, even knowing just one or two words in Hokkien (a Taiwanese dialect), made me an outlier in a cesspool of Asian-American teenagers who looked but seldom thought like me. I was in a strange, suspended limbo—comfortable communicating with the children in Mandarin, which was strongly discouraged, yet also comfortable communicating with my colleagues in English, which felt like a betrayal when spoken in my homeland. Asian-American volunteers were learning my—our—culture through traversing night markets in Taipei and complaining about eating steamed white rice every day, whereas I had been struggling to unlearn a Chinese accent since the second grade. Yet I had advantages in comparison to my peers—I could swim upstream through the intricacies of both continents without a lifejacket, my mother and second tongues competing but ultimately compromising with one another.    

Since immigrating to North America, I have repeatedly tried to balance my Taiwanese culture with newfound Western traditions. I’ve attempted to abandon the former and assimilate through names and middle school ignorance; I’ve unsuccessfully pushed back against dominating Eurocentric forces that have ruled my education since grade school. Sharing, protecting, and defending my Taiwanese heritage from slander is a minimum value that has been instilled in me since I landed. From declaring that I’m Taiwanese, not Chinese, when asked about my background, or crossing out captions on mainland-made maps that falsely claim Taiwan as a province of China, I have come to assert Taiwanese culture instead of hiding behind Canadian residency. The volunteer program, however questionable its motives may be, taught me that I need not sacrifice either to be a whole, multifaceted immigrant.  

In the summer of 2018, a white teenaged girl named Keziah Daum in Utah wore a red and gold 旗袍 (qípáo), a traditional Chinese dress worn at traditional ceremonies and celebrations like weddings, to her high school prom. After photographs of her dress were widely shared across social media, Daum defended her choice by arguing for the “uniqueness” and “beauty” of the dress. She made little to no mention of the fact that she was not ethnically Chinese, nor did she come from any ethnically Asian background. Daum’s words reflect a greater, longstanding Western attitude towards Asian culture: fascination at and fetishization of the supposed “exotic” nature of our dress, behaviour, and history.  

The complex and contested nature of the immigrant experience is reflected in the difference between mine and my father’s reaction to this news story. I watched with disdain as Daum went on Fox News’ “Fox and Friends” morning program to further justify her thin reasonings and contemplated the lack of qipaos in my own wardrobe. I planned ahead to when I would visit Taipei next, and if I would have the funds to purchase one of my own. In comparison, my father summed up his reaction in this exasperated phrase: “People are ridiculous.” His answer mirrored that of Daum’s; both thought the backlash to her decision was unfounded and that the public was merely overreacting. Residents of mainland China had a similar opinion—they were proud to have their culture showcased on the bodies of white women in white America, because they are thought to have greater influence compared to Asians living in the Western hemisphere. Daum labelling her choice to wear the qipao as “cultural appreciation” resonated with Asians in Asia, whereas first and second-generation Asians like myself wrestled with her ignorance of our ancestry.   

The markedly different reactions to Daum’s actions from Asians and Asian-Americans underscore the disparities in mainland and immigrant thinking. To me, it’s theft. My language has been stolen from my fingers because I can no longer write in full Mandarin sentences. My family has been separated from me by the borders and visas that plague my childhood. My idea of home has been warped into one comprised of fragments, appearing in flight patterns and feeling joyful when I find a Taiwanese bubble tea enclave in gentrified cities. Had I come of age in Taiwan instead of Canada, perhaps my reaction would be the same as my father’s, or that of the Chinese public: one of pride and excitement at increased Western exposure, even if it is done through embezzled means. To be blissfully unaware of the marginalization that seeks to diminish the experiences of Asian-American immigrants, even at a seemingly innocuous high school senior prom. As an immigrant, I demand my 旗袍 back.