After our family immigrated to the United States when I was six years old, I had no problem with starting to use the English name “Lily” because I had already been called “Little Li” after having been given this English name as a toddler in honor of one of my father’s mentors in the Republic of China, the renowned educator Professor Lillian Chao. It was not until I was an adult that my mother reminisced about how I got my Chinese name (劉綺君): “Oh, your father spent so many nights excitedly flipping through the Chinese dictionary trying out different combinations of Chinese characters for the name of our first-born, you.”
That Chinese name certainly caused me a lot of trouble during the just one year of education I had before emigrating from Taiwan: Kindergarten students had to practice writing their names 100 times each night. The traditional Chinese character for our surname Liu (劉) has at least 14 strokes. Every night, writing the three characters of my name 100 times in the composition booklet with the grid of squares was literally a pain as my fingers cramped up. Family lore has it that one evening out of frustration, I cried and shouted: “Why can’t our last name be “one” (一) and my name “two” “three” (二三)?!
Arriving in America when immigrants from East Asia were still rare, our mother always cautioned us to be well-behaved in public. In the deep recesses of my mind, I remember her lecturing us children to not get in trouble because even if someone did not know our name, all they had to say was “That Chinese kid did it” and we would be easily identified.
Growing up, I cannot recall any overt incidents of discrimination or racism. I do, however, flash back to a light-bulb moment: I was selected as one of two representatives from my home state to attend a national convention of high school seniors, two from each state. The first day of the conference, I would extend my hand and introduce myself, “Hi, I’m Lily Liu, from…” And before I could finish speaking, the individual would interrupt and say, “Oh, you must be a delegate from Hawaii.” It took me a while, but finally I “got” it. This became one of my first lessons about identity and ethnic stereotyping.
I spent junior year of college in Taiwan. I had been selected for my college’s study abroad program in Paris, but chose instead to join my parents in Taipei where my father was spending his sabbatical. This was the year when I realized how un-Chinese I actually am. Most of all, my shopping experiences in night markets frustrated me because I would always get charged a higher price; the hawkers could always spot that I was a foreigner despite being of Chinese heritage. I would not speak at all, just point at items; still a higher price. I dressed in local fashions; still charged a higher price. I finally figured out what probably gave me away – used to walking in the wide open spaces in America, my gait was different as I walked toward their market stalls! My identity was that of the “other” in the land of my birth and heritage!
According to sociologists, I am a 1.5-generation immigrant, born in another country and raised
since childhood in America. Mine has been a privileged childhood and life compared to the hardships and sacrifices my parents endured. And yet I am of that bridge generation that is close enough to know of the traumas that the previous generation has suffered without having had to actually suffer them ourselves. While at the same time, I am the leading edge of the younger next generation for whom the future is now so uncertain.
It has been said that women CAN have it all…just not all at once. For me, a 1.5-generation immigrant, East meets West…just not all at once. For those of us who “live” in each hemisphere and sometimes switch back and forth multiple times in one day, having dual identities can both a blessing and a burden. Sometimes I might be more “Lily” and sometimes I might be more “綺君”. So, in answer to that line in Shakespeare’s play Romeo and Juliet: “What’s in a name?” A lot!