Liminal

It’s dark outside the plane window. I just landed at the Boston Logan Airport for the first time in my life. Cramped in the middle seat in the middle aisle of a twin-isle plane, I was wearing a t-shirt, a sweater over the t-shirt, a fake Abercrombie hoodie over the sweater, and then a thick old oversized jacket from my dad. This is probably warm enough. I wouldn't know. The weather forecast says it’s 0 degree celsius here, and I have no idea what to expect because I have never felt it before. But anyways, this is the first day of the rest of my life. 

Less than 24 hours ago, I was standing in the doorway of the bedroom where I had grown up. “Goodbye, bedroom”, I muttered into the empty space, sliding the door shut. Four oversized bags in tow, which was apparently all I needed to start my life anew, as I departed for Taipei Taoyuan Airport. It was my big boy moment - time for college in America! I was about to go to the storied city of Boston, a place where I’ve only ever encountered in the movies. I probably looked like an idiot saying goodbye to an inanimate and empty room, but even then, a part of me sensed the monumental weight of that moment. A moment so symbolic and profound that it would pull me back to write about it sixteen years later. It's quite surreal to consider such demarcations exist in life, moments that irrevocably separate a "before" from an "after." Moments that, when I look back, lead me to think about what my life would be like had I made a different choice, but all that thought brings is the bittersweet sorrow of leaving one identity behind for a new one.

My parents took me to the airport that evening as I prepared to take on New England. We waved goodbye as I went through security. They chose not to come with me. “A good way to grow up”, I was told. They’ve always wanted me to be independent, but independence implies distance. Distance between my parents and me. My mom waves. I passed through security with blurry vision. And that was the final chapter of “before”. I was no longer the youngest son; a role that defined my existence up until that point. It was time to become myself. Whatever that meant.

Up until leaving for Boston that day in January 2010, I lived in Taipei, Taiwan. Incredible, vibrant place, worthy of a story for another time. Having grown up and spent my entire life there, life in the U.S. seemed daunting and, well, foreign. That said, I am keenly aware that the immigrant journey is not unique, that millions have navigated this path before me. But I think my experience had a unique twist .

Now, allow me to indulge, on what I felt was a bit more unique about my experience: America was foreign, but not unfamiliar, even though I’ve never set foot there. My parents, with MBAs from the U.S., certainly contributed to that feeling. Going to Taipei American School also played a big part. It’s the oddest experience, that in the heart of Taipei, it was as if someone lifted a fancy private American school from the U.S. and planted it there. Everything was American. From the waxed paper cups and pink erasers to the curriculum and the jokes cracked by our teachers. I grew up a Huang surrounded by Chens and Lees and was taught by Hansberry, Jeffrey, and Smiths. I had rice for breakfast at home and then Pizza for lunch at school. I was surrounded by kids who spent their early years in America and moved to Taiwan because of their parents - they went ‘back’ to the U.S. every summer and, when they return for the school year, brought back whatever was hip and cool in the U.S. (I had a Billabong phase). As a teenager trying to fit in, I picked up on American culture over time this way despite having never lived in the U.S. There were blunders too, when I thought Nickelback was a great band and that Creed made great songs.

In any case, this meant that I grew up with a sense of what to expect in the U.S., but not entirely. It’s as if I grew up swimming in a saltwater pool all my life and now I finally get to swim in the ocean. Yes, I am familiar with being in the water and I can figure my way around, but it’s… alien. It’s familiar, but just not the same. The water is a different kind of salty. There is no bottom. There is no edge. There’s no going back on the shore. The waves are stronger. No one is waiting for me to be done. I am completely on my own.

My upbringing had painted a grand, idealized picture of the US of A. Boston Logan, unexpectedly grimy and worn, was the first jarring brushstroke of a different reality, the first of many experiences that challenged what I thought I knew about America. The familiar isn’t so familiar.

As I got my bags from a worn down carousel, I thought back to my parent’s nonstop advice to never leave my things unattended at a U.S. airport, based on their own experience of having been robbed at a U.S. airport. People here will steal from you if you don’t pay attention! What a novel experience having to be vigilant about my surroundings. Me, my four oversized bags that symbolized my entire life next to me, and perhaps the most apathetic airport workers I’ve seen in my life, was my big welcome to the U.S. of A. I don’t remember exactly how but I somehow got from point A, the run-down baggage claim, to point B, the dimly lit taxi stand, without ever leaving anything unattended. 

The taxi ride was something else. My eyes were glued to the window the entire ride, as I couldn’t wait to take it all in. Everything felt cinematic, surreal. Fresh snow dusted the streets, coating buildings that looked nothing like Taipei's.  I was utterly enthralled, but my eyes were wet and my heart was pounding. A deep sense of unease and despair came over me. Will this be my life? Before I had time to process the tidal wave of emotions, we had arrived.

Now I was overcome with a different sense of unease and despair, one mixed with panic. I had heard about the mysterious culture of “tipping” before, a custom completely foreign to my understanding, and expectation, of service. In Taipei, politeness was inherent to being, and good service was, well, part of the job and not a bonus expectation. Here, a mandatory additional payment for a gruff driver who was aloof at best and rude at worst felt like another strange, unwritten rule of the ocean I was now swimming in. I handed him a wad of cash that made his day because he found another sucker foreigner who has no idea how to tip, and that my asian sensibility and sense of shame will inevitably lead me to overtip than to lose face and be accused of being cheap.

Pulling up to the front of my sister’s friend’s apartment, I was excited to rest. This was by far the most ‘foreign’ and lonely day of my life. Finally, something familiar. Mary Khiew greeted me by the door, and mentioned that she was about to order food. Nice.

When she asked if I wanted Chinese food, I felt a sense of relief and comfort. Something familiar, finally. "Yes, please," I said, picturing the flavors of home.

The food arrived in white cartons with red pagodas printed on the sides— straight out of a movie, a westerner’s imagination of Chinese food. Nothing like home. I opened the broccoli beef container, looking for that flavor of home. Instead, I found soggy broccoli swimming in a thick, corn-starch gravy. Too salty. Too sweet. The beef was too tough. What is this shit. And it was two times the price of an equivalent dish at home. Fuck.

Then the loneliness, the shocking realization that I am completely on my own, finally hit me. Looking back, I think I just wanted to go home. I don’t want to leave my comfort zone. I just want to be with my family.

But life goes on and… onwards.