Fractured Identities- a phrase some anthropologists often use to categorize immigrants and their children of (frequently) mixed ethnicities. At university, the term irritated me- the implication that I was somehow broken and scattered across lands and cultures bothered me deeply. In many ways though, it was an accurate description.
When I was a child, my mother told my sister and I stories of her life in Taiwan and Brazil- my father of his life in the U.S. and Brazil and Uruguay and Paraguay and Mexico. Somehow I was profoundly connected to those places- even though they were only abstractions or ideals- the exotic unknown took root in my imagination. On occasion, we would wear yellow to celebrate the Chinese New Year on the regular New Year’s Eve or sing the Happy Birthday song in Portuguese as well as English. Dinners often accidently (and sometimes purposefully) morphed Brazilian and Asian food together. Yet- despite everything, we were still very much American, or so my family tried to be anyway.
As I became older, notions of “race” and identity started to matter more. In high school, I was told that my limited number of sciences courses indicated I wasn’t Asian enough. In college, I was ineligible for many scholarships because I wasn’t Latina enough (despite my Brazilian citizenship). Perhaps my identity only became “fractured” because that was how others labeled me, but after a while I felt it more and more myself… So this winter, I returned to Brazil to better understand myself, and the land where my parents grew up and where they fell in love.
In Brazil, I blend in, and I don’t. Here, almost everyone came from somewhere else. The Spanish. French. Portuguese colonizers. Africans. After slavery was abolished, Japanese and other Asian immigrants flooded the country to build railroads for coffee transportation. The Germans came after World War II. I’m not really sure when the Middle Easterners got here, but they definitely left their mark on the national cuisine...
My paternal grandfather came here from the U.S. to work with giant computers in the ’70s- my maternal grandfather, with barely any elementary school, emigrated from Taiwan. With his overseas career, my paternal grandfather afforded new luxuries like private school for his children and live-in maids. My maternal grandfather, originally a peasant rice farmer, sold watches brought over from Taiwan. Under Brazil’s military dictatorship, he was soon convicted of tax evasion and sent to jail for two years. Life went on. Both brought their families over; both learned more Portuguese; both they and their children experienced racism and xenophobia. Immigration- wherever you come from- is never easy.
Here I feel more Taiwanese, Brazilian, Texan, more like an immigrant- more fractured and more whole. In the glow of the news and telenovelas, my grandfather and I eat steamed buns and dumplings with chopsticks. Ours shoes have been left at the door. We both are too embarrassed to speak Portuguese to each other. There isn’t that much to say. He prefers a nearly extinct Taiwanese dialect- I understand. It’s difficult to learn another language, even when you really want to.
My uncle and I speak a mixture of Portuguese and English. I ask him about life in Brazil. He asks me about Houston and my family there. Sometimes we talk about the human situation and watch movies in English and French (Portuguese is easier to understand with subtitles).
In rare conversations with strangers, I am proud to say I’m from Texas. They speak Portuguese too quickly, and I smile and nod and give short responses before leaving as soon as I can.
I’m glad to be returning to the United States tomorrow. I miss the feeling of being able to communicate without trepidation, to navigate the city without fear of becoming lost, to take a walk at night without too much worry... Still, a part of me will always be here and elsewhere in the other places I have been. Travel turns into memory, memory into mind, mind into identity. The where, when, and why of life becomes jumbled in the mindscape, and perhaps in the end everyone else’s identity might just be as fractured as mine is too.
When I was a child, my mother told my sister and I stories of her life in Taiwan and Brazil- my father of his life in the U.S. and Brazil and Uruguay and Paraguay and Mexico. Somehow I was profoundly connected to those places- even though they were only abstractions or ideals- the exotic unknown took root in my imagination. On occasion, we would wear yellow to celebrate the Chinese New Year on the regular New Year’s Eve or sing the Happy Birthday song in Portuguese as well as English. Dinners often accidently (and sometimes purposefully) morphed Brazilian and Asian food together. Yet- despite everything, we were still very much American, or so my family tried to be anyway.
As I became older, notions of “race” and identity started to matter more. In high school, I was told that my limited number of sciences courses indicated I wasn’t Asian enough. In college, I was ineligible for many scholarships because I wasn’t Latina enough (despite my Brazilian citizenship). Perhaps my identity only became “fractured” because that was how others labeled me, but after a while I felt it more and more myself… So this winter, I returned to Brazil to better understand myself, and the land where my parents grew up and where they fell in love.
In Brazil, I blend in, and I don’t. Here, almost everyone came from somewhere else. The Spanish. French. Portuguese colonizers. Africans. After slavery was abolished, Japanese and other Asian immigrants flooded the country to build railroads for coffee transportation. The Germans came after World War II. I’m not really sure when the Middle Easterners got here, but they definitely left their mark on the national cuisine...
My paternal grandfather came here from the U.S. to work with giant computers in the ’70s- my maternal grandfather, with barely any elementary school, emigrated from Taiwan. With his overseas career, my paternal grandfather afforded new luxuries like private school for his children and live-in maids. My maternal grandfather, originally a peasant rice farmer, sold watches brought over from Taiwan. Under Brazil’s military dictatorship, he was soon convicted of tax evasion and sent to jail for two years. Life went on. Both brought their families over; both learned more Portuguese; both they and their children experienced racism and xenophobia. Immigration- wherever you come from- is never easy.
Here I feel more Taiwanese, Brazilian, Texan, more like an immigrant- more fractured and more whole. In the glow of the news and telenovelas, my grandfather and I eat steamed buns and dumplings with chopsticks. Ours shoes have been left at the door. We both are too embarrassed to speak Portuguese to each other. There isn’t that much to say. He prefers a nearly extinct Taiwanese dialect- I understand. It’s difficult to learn another language, even when you really want to.
My uncle and I speak a mixture of Portuguese and English. I ask him about life in Brazil. He asks me about Houston and my family there. Sometimes we talk about the human situation and watch movies in English and French (Portuguese is easier to understand with subtitles).
In rare conversations with strangers, I am proud to say I’m from Texas. They speak Portuguese too quickly, and I smile and nod and give short responses before leaving as soon as I can.
I’m glad to be returning to the United States tomorrow. I miss the feeling of being able to communicate without trepidation, to navigate the city without fear of becoming lost, to take a walk at night without too much worry... Still, a part of me will always be here and elsewhere in the other places I have been. Travel turns into memory, memory into mind, mind into identity. The where, when, and why of life becomes jumbled in the mindscape, and perhaps in the end everyone else’s identity might just be as fractured as mine is too.
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