I boarded the plane on a crisp morning at the beginning of April 2012. The sun had not yet risen, and I was on my thirty-sixth hour of wakefulness as I dragged my luggage through the small Joplin airport. Excitement and fear alternated as the wheels sleekly accelerated and clipped the back of my ankle. I registered no pain because my brain mixed fuzz and expectancy in a continual spiral until the result was a cotton candy-like clot that allowed no substantial emotion. If I expected little, then each new thing could simply be a blessing on top of my lack. Still, my skin did not fit. Such bravery was new to me. People in my family rooted themselves in the Midwest unless called away by military service or death, so world travel remained firmly in the realm of otherness. I felt it more in that moment, my otherness and people’s perception of my differences. I had been Black in the inner city, Black in a small town, but now I dared to become Black in Asia. I feared that my own awareness of my differences would send me into the airport restroom to cry out my anxiety. This journey was a catalyst to push me towards maturity. Living in Taiwan taught me that there were no limits in learning to love myself.
Initially, I walked awkwardly among the people of Asia with my shoulders stooped beyond their usual degree and my confidence caved inward with my desire to fade away. The children in the Lo-Tung orphanage—The Home of God’s Love—slowly showed me that my skin was glorious in its rarity. For eight to ten hours a day, I acted as a nanny to infants and toddlers. These interactions and moments of intimacy grew my confidence, yet at the same time, I became aware of the fact that I expected my appearance to be negatively perceived. I asked hard questions of myself. Why could I not love myself the way these children loved me? Initially, I denied this reality, but my interactions with older children at the orphanage proved my self-hate true. They included me in games, sat with me during nightly bible study sessions, and showed me the proper way to use chopsticks. For the first month, every time the kids spoke to me, I cringed in fear that they were making jokes at my expense. I could not accept their affection without doubting their motives. This inability to communicate across languages hindered my ability to suss out hidden meaning in everyone’s interactions with me.
In hindsight, practicing the language would have provided an advantage, but I never progressed further than nursery rhymes, counting to ten, or hymns. The Taiwanese people were eager to speak to me in both their native tongue and in pieces of my native English. When I ventured into the city or biked to the large Taoist temple that sat at the top of a small mountain, I garnered a bit of celebrity. Locals and visitors stopped me to pose for pictures or to practice their English. One family on a tour from China spent fifteen minutes complimenting me, touching my hands and hair, and taking individual photos with me. Over time, such interactions stopped feeling unnatural or insulting. People were always gracious even though our communication was lost in translation. However, my thoughts remained a constant companion and forced me to acknowledge the roles silence and negative self-talk played in shaping my character. When the quickly passing days triggered traumas from my past, walks around the lake served as times of contemplation.
Leaving the U.S. did not mean that I left my emotional baggage. Working with orphans both highlighted and healed my own feelings of being orphaned by my parents. I kept a blog during that time and the narrative began with long strings of resentment. I did not recognize the oddity of my language and priorities until another volunteer pointed it out. From that point, I realized that there were broken pieces inside me that I needed to deal with properly. The words of my best friend came back to me as she advised me the year before to stop bottling up my emotions. It was in this foreign land that I connected more with my desire to be at home within myself.
I went to Taiwan in my early twenties with the goal of helping others, but I left with a trove of personal insight. Addressing my insecurities and heartaches remained a process after I returned home. The reverse culture shock lasted for several months; my old standard of life was ill-suited to my new perspective. In that time, I pushed forward by learning to love myself in a healthy way. Traveling solo to Taiwan taught me that I was courageous enough to leave what I knew behind, so I gained the courage to abandon bad habits. One of the most important phrases that I learned abroad was wo ai ni, meaning I love you.