Part 3: A Hyphenated Name

My middle name is the anglicized version of my Chinese name 佳安: Chia-An. It is hyphenated, just like my identity. I’m the joining together of not just two cultures, but two branches of narrative that stretch back further than I can recollect.

My family tree extends back to Taiwan and then before that, to China, whose own history of bifurcation leaves no clear-cut answers—only tangible, lived human recollection. My mother’s side of the family experienced an early conversion to Christianity and a strong narrative of faith. My father’s side of the family merged two different experiences of being Taiwanese but also produced many “firsts” through my father: firstborn son, first to college, first to immigrate to America, first to accept Christianity.

I am a continuation of the faithfulness and provision God has shown to my mother’s side of the family. I am also the legacy of my dad’s sojourning into a new land. More and more I see a hyphenation of these two stories: the trifecta in maternal nurturing in the faith that stretches back to my mother, grandmother, and great grandmother growing up; the inheritance of my father’s strong independence and desire to wrestle meaning out of the world around us.

What does it mean to be hyphenated? I straddle between two languages. Sometimes it is an effortless conversion, flippant Chinglish phrases like “那么exciting” or “不makes sense”. Other times it is a deep-rooted pain and frustration, a concrete barrier erected between my parents and me that echoes back elementary-level Mandarin on one side and broken English on the other.

I straddle the crossing of two different generations and cultures. I was raised out of the immigrant narrative and born into a privileged, societal fluency. Like a sea lion slipping in and out of water, I was Chinese at home and American at school. I was young and grew up “with the times” while my parents seemed cemented to traditional values and ideals.

I straddle the reality of the world I exist in and the Christian hope of a God-transformed one. Here in this world, there is still injustice on the basis of race and the look of one’s skin, hair, and eyes. Here in this world, identity is still grounded in physical, fallen bodies. And here within my family’s remembered narrative, I can still only gurgle baby phrases in Chinese, only partially understand the experiences and lived realities of my parents, only partially commune with the stories God began knitting together even before my mother’s womb.

What does it mean to be hyphenated? It means to have both of dual identities. It means to connect, to bridge, and to stretch.