Read an Excerpt
From “The Year of the Dragon: Part 1”
Upstairs in the departure lounge, it’s a different world. It feels like walking from a library into a casino—everything is louder, brighter, in motion. Suddenly I’m surrounded by cigarette smoke and cell phone conversations and overstuffed duty-free bags. Middle-aged men in suits and young women carrying designer handbags swarm around me. Everyone is moving—either leaving or arriving. In an hour, all these people will be gone and replaced by another wave of travelers. More coming, more going.
At the nearest gift shop, I ask the cashier if I can buy a phone card. She points me to an old lady sitting at a counter at the back of the store. I walk back there and point to the phone cards on display under the glass. I hold up two fingers. The old lady, a plump grandma with short gray hair and dark penciled-in eyebrows, looks at me and says a few words in Mandarin. I shrug. She smiles and repeats her words in Taiwanese, but I still don’t know what she’s saying, so I say in English, “Sorry, I don’t understand.” She gives a little laugh and a sigh, not seeming to mind.
“You wan’ phone ca?”
“Yes. Two cards.”
“Okay.” She mumbles something in Taiwanese and walks away for a minute while I get my wallet. She comes back holding a large, individually wrapped almond cookie, the kind you get as an airplane snack.
“You take!” She hands it to me with the two phone cards and smiles. I smile back, embarrassed by her kindness. I think of my own grandma and her unconditional affection toward me despite the language barrier. Perhaps this woman has a daughter or granddaughter living overseas too. Perhaps she knows, without explanation, the distance I’ve traveled to be here.
Even though my parents live only a few miles away, we’re separated by a gaping, unbridgeable distance. I had expected to see them in three dimensions upon landing here on this side, but except for a brief glimpse that morning, they’ve just been voices on the end of a phone line, shadows in another time zone. Or maybe I’m the one who’s a shadow. We live on opposite sides of the globe, leading mostly separate lives, yet I take for granted that I can simply get on a plane and come over here and insert myself into this reality. I’ve gone back and forth so many times that I should know what to expect, and yet the transition has never felt so . . . off.
I’ve never spent time in Taiwan when I wasn’t with my parents. They always mediate and translate for me. Without them, I lose the context I’ve always depended on for my visits. They’re the only way I can connect with anything here—my relatives, the language and customs, the insider’s knowledge of the city. The little bit of independence that I have—walking around Sanhsia or taking the bus alone to certain parts of Taipei—is based on observation, repetition, and the growing usage of English signs. But I still can’t order my own food in a restaurant, let alone deal with a hostile bureaucracy without assistance. I never imagined I might have to learn to navigate Taiwan on my own. What would I do if my parents weren’t here to bail me out? How would I communicate? Who would I call for help?
I go back to the transit lounge and sit in one of the hard cold plastic chairs. Now that my passport is on its way, there is nothing to do but wait. It’s nearly 1:00 p.m.
My mouth is dry, and I’m dying for a mint, a stick of gum, anything to change the stale taste in my mouth. I need a shower badly. My hair is greasy, and my face is flaky from the dry air and constant re-powdering. I wish I had worn something warmer than a thin sweater and unlined pants. I could change my clothes, since I have my bags with me, but I didn’t bring anything heavier. How ironic, because I felt so good about packing light this time—one jacket, two pairs of shoes, and a few wrinkle-proof outfits for a week in Taiwan. I’ve made this trip often enough to be able to pare down to the essentials. Only this time, I forgot something important.
The sky looks like it’s getting a little darker outside, though it’s hard to tell for sure because of the fluorescent lighting. This room has had the same unearthly glow since 6:00 a.m. The 747s glide back and forth outside the window, each arrival corresponding with an announcement. Osaka . . . Guam . . . Denpasar. Each aircraft disgorges its unseen human cargo, signaled by a crescendo of voices and the unmistakable sound of wheeled suitcases being dragged on linoleum. A sea of bodies moves toward Immigration, and the voices drift away as quickly as they came.
For a few hours, Henry Park keeps me company. I gratefully lose track of the time and try to forget my situation and surroundings by immersing myself in the book Native Speaker by Chang-rae Lee. In Henry I find a kindred spirit, another immigrant tormented by the language left behind: “When I step into a Korean dry cleaner, or a candy shop, I always feel I’m an audience member asked to stand up and sing with the diva, that I know every pitch and note but can no longer call them forth.”
Like Henry, who works as a spy, I’ve somehow managed to infiltrate my native culture without actually taking part in it. I can feign the appearance of belonging until my speech—or lack of it—gives me away. No amount of sincerity can make up for this defect, this flaw that separates me from the people I ought to consider as my own.
