Intro:

This is a story about identity on the margins. Xiangyu, the daughter of a mainland Chinese mother and a Taiwanese father, grew up in Taoyuan navigating the quiet stigma of being a “new resident’s child.” Her experience reflects a broader truth in Taiwan today—where lines between selfhood, loyalty, and origin remain sharply drawn.

Notes for Non-Taiwanese Readers

This interview includes references to political, historical, and linguistic contexts specific to Taiwan. Below is a brief explanation of key terms:

• Taoyuan: A city in northern Taiwan, part of the greater Taipei metropolitan area, known for its large military and working-class communities.

• Matsu New Village (馬祖新村): A former juàncūn (眷村)—military dependents’ village originally built for soldiers and their families who retreated to Taiwan with the Kuomintang (KMT) after the Chinese Civil War. Residents often shared linguistic or regional ties, such as to Matsu Islands or Fujian province.

• Matsu and Minbei dialects (馬祖話與閩北語): Both are part of the Northern Min language group, a branch of Chinese spoken mainly in northern Fujian and on Taiwan’s Matsu Islands. They are mutually intelligible to varying degrees and culturally tied to the coastal mainland.

• DPP / “Green” (民進黨 / 綠營): The Democratic Progressive Party is Taiwan’s major pro-independence party. Its supporters and affiliated media are often called “green,” in contrast to the more China-friendly KMT and “blue camp.”

• KMT / “Blue” (國民黨 / 藍營): The Kuomintang is the historically dominant party in Taiwan, especially during the martial law period (1949–1987). Today, it’s generally seen as more favorable to cross-strait relations with China.

• “New residents” (新住民): A Taiwanese term referring to immigrant spouses—most commonly from China or Southeast Asia—and their children. Though legally Taiwanese, they have historically faced social stigma and policy exclusion.

• Japanization / “Kōminka” (皇民化運動): A cultural assimilation policy enforced during Japanese colonial rule (1895–1945), aiming to turn Taiwanese into loyal subjects of the Japanese Empire through language, names, and loyalty to the Emperor.

• Household registration (戶籍): In both Taiwan and China, this system records a citizen’s legal residence. Having household registration in China may raise legal and political concerns in Taiwan, especially amid rising cross-strait tensions.

Part One: Where Are You From?

Host: Hello everyone, today we have Xiangyu with us to talk about a topic that’s been getting a lot of attention lately: “Chinese spouses in Taiwan.” We saw that Xiangyu recently published an article on this issue, so we wanted to invite her for a deeper conversation. Xiangyu, did you know from a young age that your mother was from China?

Xiangyu: Yeah, I’ve always known. My mom told me early on not to let others know our family was from mainland China because she was afraid I would be bullied.

Host: Did you actually get bullied because of it when you were a child?

Xiangyu: Not really, because my mom had been warning me about this from a very young age. I was careful not to tell people I was Chinese, so I didn’t experience bullying directly.

Host: Were you living in the north, central, or southern part of Taiwan?

Xiangyu: I grew up in Taoyuan. There’s an area called Matsu New Village, but my family didn’t live in that military dependents’ village. That area had a lot of people from Matsu and Fujian who spoke Minbei and Matsu dialects, which are linguistically similar. So they tended to cluster there. But we lived more in the city area.

Host: I would’ve thought Taoyuan, especially twenty years ago, would’ve been a more friendly place?

Xiangyu: My mom had her own way of reading the environment. She believed that people who supported the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) might not like us. Kids don’t really understand political affiliations, but my mom would tell me which classmates had “Green” parents, implying they might not like us. Personally, I didn’t feel outright rejected by those classmates though.

One time, the school announced that children of “new residents” needed to go to the academic office. If you didn’t go the first time, they would call out your name in the second announcement. I was a top student in class back then, kind of like a teaching assistant. I remember when I went to respond to the call, the teacher was shocked and asked, “Where are you going?” I said, “My mom is a foreign spouse, so I have to go.” She looked at me with a disappointed expression, as if thinking, “How could you be a child of someone from the mainland?” That was the first time I really felt the weight of identity.

Host: Did the teacher treat you differently after that?

Xiangyu: Yes, I could clearly feel a change in her attitude toward me. As I grew older, some classmates openly expressed political leanings. One close friend from junior high said their family supported the DPP and criticized the Kuomintang (KMT). At the time, I was still trying to understand all this and knew my family leaned more Blue. I once asked him hypothetically, “What if one of your good friends was a mainlander’s child?” He immediately said, “Of course I’d hate them.” At that moment, I realized I could never let him know the truth about my background.

Later, I worked hard to fit in, constantly worrying that my accent didn’t sound Taiwanese enough—even though it mostly did. But some people would still pick on it. For example, someone once corrected how I pronounced the word “rou” (meat), saying it didn’t sound Taiwanese. When I read about the Japanization policies in Taiwanese history, I came across a line saying Taiwanese people once wanted to be “more Japanese than the Japanese,” and I suddenly understood that sentiment—I too wanted badly to be accepted as part of Taiwan.

Xiangyu: When I watch Taiwanese anti-Japanese war films, I feel a particular kind of patriotism—because I can relate to that desire to become part of a group, while simultaneously not being fully accepted. So when I read about Japanization policies, I felt a kind of resonance, like my experience is part of Taiwan’s experience.

Host: What about your mom? I assume she couldn’t hide her background as easily as you?

Xiangyu: Right. My family’s background is quite complicated. My grandfather was from Matsu. Before the civil war, he went to China to do business but got stuck there due to the conflict, while his younger brother served in the KMT military. My grandfather didn’t like the Communist Party, but because of the war, he ended up staying in China and even went through the Cultural Revolution. Later, his brother snuck into China to find him, got arrested by the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), and was executed in Tiananmen Square. They even sent a photo of his execution to my grandfather.

After cross-strait travel was opened, my grandfather brought his children from China back to Matsu and Taoyuan. My mom came to Taiwan with my dad in that context. So I’m born and raised in Taiwan, but some of my cousins were born in China and moved here later.

Recently, there’s been a policy requiring people to prove they don’t have household registration in China. My mom got her Taiwanese ID early and didn’t receive that official notice, but some of my cousins did and now have to deal with that documentation.

Xiangyu: Dealing with these proof-of-deregistration documents is complicated. Some people no longer have a Chinese household registration, but proving it is hard. If someone is pro-China, going back to handle these papers might make them more resentful of Taiwan. And if someone is pro-Taiwan, the process could make them feel discriminated against. Overall, the policy hasn’t really brought people closer to Taiwan—it might even worsen divisions and leave people stuck in a complex situation.

Host: We’ve seen some hateful online comments toward people like you—second-generation mainlanders—questioning why you’re not “more Taiwanese” or why you don’t openly oppose pro-China rhetoric. It feels like your old teacher, again forcing you to prove your loyalty. What do you think of this?

Xiangyu: I don’t really read those extreme comments anymore. But I get it—some people need a clear enemy to shape their identity. They don’t usually do that, but they can come off as quite extreme. Still, I can understand that sometimes people need to strongly resent another group, because their sense of identity is built on that kind of opposition. I think Taiwan’s development of a subjectivity has never really happened in a safe or stable environment. It’s always been under certain pressures—like the vacuum created during Japanese colonial rule, the oppression under authoritarianism, and now possibly the threat from China. So this identity has been formed by constantly saying: ‘I’m not this,’ ‘I hate that,’ ‘I must not be that.’ But the hard part is, they can’t clearly articulate: if you’re not these things, then what are you?

（“比較不會，就會覺得還蠻偏激，可是我也可以理解說有時候他們需要這麼用力地討厭另外一個族群，是因為他的認同是建立在這種對立性上面。我覺得台灣的主體的發展其實一直都不是在一個很安全跟穩定的狀況下發展，我們是在比如說日治殖民時期有的這種空白，或是威權主義時期下這種壓迫，然後現在可能是面對中國的威脅，都是在這種透過指認『我不是什麼』，然後『我討厭什麼』，『我不可以是什麼』去生成他的這種認同。可是他沒有辦法說明清楚，那你不是這些，那你可以是什麼。”）

So this ends up being kind of a double-edged sword. It can create a sort of fragmented identity in the short term, but over time, it leads to a lot of exclusionary emotions, and even hatred. And I think what’s even more important is—when I keep saying what I’m not, over and over again, I actually become what I’m trying not to be. Like, it’s kind of philosophical—it’s like when I tell you, ‘Don’t think of a pink polar bear,’ you’ll keep thinking about the pink polar bear. So when we keep emphasizing what we’re not, our sense of autonomy ends up being built on the emotions we hold toward the enemy. But once the enemy disappears, we’re left with nothing to answer the question: what are we? And that’s the problem—when there’s no longer a need for the enemy, the identity we’ve built kind of dissolves.

(然後是，這樣就是會形成一種雙面刃嘛，就是它可以在暫時性地形成一種比較割裂式的這種認同，可是長期下去，它就會變成很多的排外的情緒、仇恨的情緒。然後我覺得更重要的事情是一種——當我一直在說「我不是什麼」的時候，我就很容易變成什麼。這很哲學，就是有點像我告訴你說「不要想粉紅色的北極熊」，你就會一直想到粉紅色的北極熊。

所以我們在強調說「我不是什麼」的時候，其實我反而是把我的這種自主性，建立在這樣子的敵人的情緒之上。但是當敵人消失之後，我就沒有辦法回應「我是什麼」。就是說，當敵人的這個需求不存在的時候，我就會被消散掉。可是這其實也是一個認同演進的一個必要的歷程，但它不是最終的步驟。

那所以其實我覺得，台灣的認同發展到現在其實已經一段時間了，那我會覺得相較之下，這種對立性的認同，是比較不成熟的一種國族的自我認同。)

Notes for Part Two:

• Sunflower Movement (太阳花运动): A 2014 student-led protest in Taiwan against a proposed trade agreement with China. Protesters occupied the Legislative Yuan for over three weeks, arguing the deal was rushed and lacked transparency. The movement became a defining moment for a new generation of Taiwanese youth activism.

• Track-based education system / Category 1, 2, 3 (一类、二类、三类): In Taiwan’s high school system, students are typically divided into academic tracks starting around 10th grade.

  • Category 1 (一类) emphasizes humanities and social sciences,

  • Category 2 (二类) focuses on science and engineering,

  • Category 3 (三类) is oriented toward medicine and biology.

  • This system often influences students’ future university majors and career paths.

  
  

Part Two: How To Cope?

Host: Due to the immense threat posed by China, the broader society has fallen into a state of heightened anxiety. From a therapist’s perspective, how should we understand this condition?

Xiangyu: I’ve personally been subjected to attacks. Some people have labeled me a “second-generation Chinese bride,” and others have said, “The fact that we haven’t put you in concentration camps already is an act of mercy.” People send private messages—some from real accounts, others from what appear to be anonymous or burner profiles. It makes me feel as though I’m living in a state of chaos, constantly receiving targeted, hostile comments.

This experience has left me with the sense of being turned into a symbolic object—someone onto whom collective anger is projected. Simply by speaking on public issues, I end up bearing the weight of political accusation and identity-based hostility. When this pressure becomes concentrated, it creates an overwhelming sense of anxiety and distress.

Host: You once mentioned that your time living in the U.S. deeply challenged your sense of identity. Can you talk about what that process was like for you?

Xiangyu: During that time, I became very aware that the way many people from China think felt really different from my cultural instincts—some parts of it made me uncomfortable. I started drawing a line: I wasn’t them, and I wanted to be more like a Taiwanese.

But the truth is, even when I was in Taiwan, I was already searching for a way to affirm, through language and attitude, that I truly belonged as a Taiwanese. Then in the U.S., it became layered—I was trying to distance myself from being seen as Chinese, while also realizing I really resonated with certain aspects of Western civilization and modern institutional life.

Internally, it felt like my identity was being pulled in three directions: I had to deny that I was Chinese, constantly assert that I was Taiwanese, and at the same time, try to win the approval of Americans. That entire process—it was exhausting.

Host: That sounds like a really intense kind of fragmentation.

Xiangyu: Yeah. That was when I started to understand something deeper about Taiwan’s place in the world, too. And I had this realization: I have to let go of the desire to be recognized by others.

It doesn’t matter what people call me—whether they say I’m a Chinese spouse’s kid, a mainland girl, a commie, or whether they think that just because I live in America now, I should talk like an American. I realized I needed to accept: this is what it is. I need to sit with it. I need to walk alongside it.

And by coexist, I don’t mean just passively accept the status quo and stop hoping for change. I mean I have to embrace that this is my position. I don’t have to keep proving anything anymore. I’m already walking this path—and I will keep walking it.

Host: It’s impressive that you’ve been thinking about these kinds of philosophical questions at such a young age. What led you to start exploring your inner world so early?

Xiangyu: I majored in counseling psychology in college, but I actually started learning about psychology back in middle school. I had experienced domestic violence growing up—my dad was abusive. From first grade through seventh grade, I lived under that. Then one day a social worker noticed, and I was placed in government care. After that, I stayed in foster homes for a few years before eventually returning to my birth family in high school.

That was when I first learned what a psychologist was, and that there were services like therapy. But I still couldn’t really make sense of what was happening to me. I needed a bigger framework to understand it.

Host: Did you have a good experience with therapy back then? Did you feel seen?

Xiangyu: Honestly, not really. My own experience with a therapist wasn’t very good. Some of the other kids I knew said theirs were great, so I think it really depends on the match. Still, even if it wasn’t ideal, having someone was better than nothing.

A lot of the time, I felt like my therapist didn’t truly understand what it was like to be a kid like me. And I remember thinking: if I were in that chair, I could probably do it better. That was when I started thinking seriously—maybe I could become a therapist, specifically to serve people with backgrounds like mine. Because not every therapist has lived through marginal experiences. And I believe my sense of Taiwanese identity also came from that—this perspective of growing up on the margins.

Host: So when it came time for college, you just went for it—counseling psych?

Xiangyu: Yeah. But that realization had already started back in high school. In Taiwan, students are sorted into different academic tracks—Category 1 for humanities, Category 2 for sciences, and Category 3 for medicine—starting around tenth grade. I was just beginning to think more seriously about what I wanted, and that year was also when the Sunflower Movement happened. It was a student-led protest against a trade pact with China, and it really shook up our generation’s political awareness.

I remember watching that unfold and realizing I needed bigger frameworks to understand the pain I had gone through. That’s when psychology started to feel like the path that made the most sense. I did think about other options. I love writing, so I considered majoring in literature. But it’s hard to find a career path in that. I also thought about law, but then I realized—I really hate arguing with people. (laughs)

Notes for Part Three

• Project 985 / Project 211 (985、211工程院校): National initiatives launched by the Chinese government to promote the development of elite universities. “Project 985” includes the top-tier institutions, while “Project 211” includes a broader group of key universities. Admission is highly competitive and often seen as a marker of academic excellence.

• Progressives (进步派): In Taiwanese discourse, this term usually refers to people who advocate for social justice, democratic values, and reforms—often associated with gender equality, minority rights, and liberal politics.

• Pro-Taiwan (台派): A political stance emphasizing Taiwanese identity, self-determination, and cultural distinction from China. Often contrasted with the “pro-China” or “unification” camps.

• Social movements (社会运动): Collective actions aimed at promoting social or political change. In Taiwan, notable examples include the Sunflower Movement (2014), LGBTQ+ rights activism, and environmental justice efforts.

• Political spectrum (政治光谱): The range of political ideologies in a society, from left to right or from pro-unification to pro-independence in Taiwan’s specific context.

Part Three: Being An Immigrant

Host: Can you share what that felt like—being in that state, especially while you were living in the U.S.?

Xiangyu: I remember once, a professor asked me what it felt like to be an immigrant. I said it was like being submerged in a bathtub. I could still hear the world outside, but the sounds weren’t clear or direct.

I was constantly conflicted. My mother is someone who lacks a lot of confidence. When she lived in Taiwan, people often mocked her accent. She became hyper-aware of how she sounded, always wondering if she had said something in a way people didn’t like. But she was actually incredibly smart. Back in China, she got into one of the top universities—part of the 985 and 211 project schools. She was the first woman in her village to go to college.

But when she came to Taiwan, she became deeply insecure. Part of it was her background, but a lot of it was being an immigrant. She tried to apply for teaching jobs—she was trained as a math teacher—but as soon as people heard her accent, she was rejected. So she ended up doing blue-collar work. She washed dishes, worked in kitchens, and eventually got certified as a chef just to make a living.

There was a time when I resented her. I’d think: if I could do it, why couldn’t you? Why didn’t you try harder, get a better degree, or apply for a better job? But now I realize—asking an immigrant to figure out a whole new system is terrifying.

Even for me, living in the U.S., daily life was fine, but once legal documents like rental contracts came out—covered in legal jargon—I’d panic. If it were in traditional Chinese and from Taiwan, I could roughly understand. But as an immigrant in America, staring at English legalese, my anxiety would spike.

That’s when I started to feel a profound sense of helplessness—like everything I’d worked for up until now had been wiped away. In Taiwan, I had social capital, professional connections, and networks I’d built since high school. If I wanted to work in music or film, I knew people to ask. But in the U.S., all of that was gone. I had to start from scratch.

That’s when I began to truly understand my mom’s lack of confidence. She couldn’t show up in the way I wanted her to—bold, self-assured—because she was surviving in a world that wasn’t built for her.

Host: When did you reach a point where you felt comfortable “coming out” about your mother’s background—as being from China?

Xiangyu: I think I was pretty lucky. I got involved in social activism in high school. Most of the people around me were progressive or what we’d call “pro-Taiwan.” We participated in the Sunflower Movement, and I even helped organize local music festivals.

To them, I probably seemed politically “correct,” but I wasn’t doing those things to be accepted. I did them because they aligned with values I believed in.

I was able to talk about it publicly because I had a stable internal foundation. I knew who I was, and that sense of identity didn’t rely on denying others or chasing validation. It came from my lived experience—owning my story with full subjectivity.

Host: But for a lot of people, that kind of complexity is overwhelming. They just opt out.

Xiangyu: Absolutely. Some people think being Taiwanese is too complicated. So they say, “I’m Chinese,” or “I’m American.” Because dealing with marginality—being a non-dominant identity in the global context—is hard. Taiwan isn’t fully recognized internationally. Psychologically, that creates what I’d call an “abandonment wound.”

To build identity, you first have to face pain. And a lot of people aren’t willing to do that. But because I’ve experienced abandonment again and again in my life, I’ve learned to reclaim myself from it. To choose myself, I have to acknowledge this as part of me—whether others see it as good or bad. It’s mine, and I should feel confident and proud of it.

Host: You’re incredibly rational. Were you always like this, or did you learn it over time?

Xiangyu: A bit of both. I’ve had a lot of practice being rejected. And honestly, a lot of times when we’re worried about “what others think,” it’s really our internal critic speaking—the part of us that’s afraid we are what they say we are.

In social advocacy, I’ve realized that my real audience isn’t the extremists who shout at me online. It’s two groups: first, people with the same wounds who need to know they’re not alone. Second, the undecided middle—those who are still figuring out how to think about these issues.

Host: Do you ever respond to the people who harass you?

Xiangyu: Sometimes, if I feel it’s worth it. There are people who’ve told me to “go back to China.” I’ll reply, “I understand where your emotions come from. I was once angry at my mom too—for being Chinese. Even though she hates the Communist Party, she doesn’t like the DPP either.”

I’ll explain that emotion and cognition are different. Feeling unsafe because of certain people is valid. But jumping from that to saying they should die or be sent to camps—that’s not okay.

Some people soften. A few even come back months later to apologize. Not all, of course. A lot of them just want to project their emotions onto someone and aren’t actually interested in dialogue.

Host: What’s your take on “social responsibility”? Do you feel you carry it?

Xiangyu: I do—but I also know my limits. I’m not going to give 100% of my life to “the cause.” I practice my responsibility through pro bono therapy cases, for example. That’s within my control. But anonymous online rage? That’s not my responsibility.

I used to argue more online. Now, I don’t. And when people accuse me of “not doing enough,” I say: I know when I’m doing the work. And I know when I’m not obligated to.

Host: Did your mom ever find a support network among other immigrants or people from China?

Xiangyu: Not really a formal one. She found community doing environmental work—like recycling groups—and made friends there.

But I did notice there’s often in-fighting among new immigrants, especially when resources are scarce. It’s not necessarily about discrimination, but survival. When people are struggling, they can end up resenting each other.

That kind of tension made it harder for my mom to feel like she belonged.

Notes for Part Four

• Echo chamber (同温层): A term commonly used in Taiwanese discourse to describe a social or informational bubble—typically a group of people who share similar views, values, or experiences, which reinforces their beliefs without outside challenge. Literally translated, it means “warm layer.”

• Second-generation military dependent / ROC veteran descendant (荣民二代): Refers to children of soldiers (荣民) who followed the Kuomintang (KMT) government from mainland China to Taiwan after the Chinese Civil War in 1949. These veterans and their families often lived in military dependents’ villages and were considered part of a distinct sociopolitical group in postwar Taiwan.

• Discrimination hierarchy (歧视链): A concept describing the unspoken ranking of different ethnic or national groups based on perceived social, cultural, or economic status. In East Asian contexts, this often manifests as favoring Japanese and Korean identities over Southeast Asian or mainland Chinese identities.

• Northeast Asia (东北亚): A geographical and cultural region that typically includes Japan, South Korea, North Korea, and parts of China. In Taiwanese discourse, claiming alignment with “Northeast Asia” often implies a desire to associate with countries seen as more economically developed or culturally prestigious than China or Southeast Asia.

Part Four: Being Chinese Taiwanese in Taiwan

Host: After the news story broke, did you talk to your mom about it? What was her reaction?

Xiangyu: I did. She saw the news and said, “These people are so strange.” Her take was: many Chinese people come to Taiwan because it’s more developed. That’s why she came. So why insult the place you came from? Her attitude was basically, “You came here for a reason, so why do you now turn around and look down on others?”

She also sees this as part of an East Asian discrimination hierarchy—even though people in Taiwan often say we don’t have racial issues, we absolutely do. In East Asia, people tend to rank Northeast Asians (Japanese, Koreans) as “higher” and look down on Southeast Asians. Taiwanese often try to place themselves within that Northeast Asian category, aligning with Japan and Korea. China gets slotted below that, sometimes on par with Southeast Asia.

Host: That sounds like the way South Korea sometimes treats North Korean defectors.

Xiangyu: Exactly. I’ve thought about it a lot. Taiwan’s relationship with China today reminds me of the dynamic between North and South Korea. South Koreans are extremely wary of North Korea militarily, but when North Korean refugees come to the South, they’re discriminated against. They’re not seen as “one of us.” People think they’re backward or unrefined.

But the truth is, North Koreans are victims of a broken system. Similarly, Taiwanese people culturally look down on Chinese people—calling them tacky or lacking taste—while being deeply fearful of them in military terms. So the disgust operates on two levels: one rooted in fear, the other in cultural elitism. We maintain the idea that by putting China down, we get to feel closer to Japan and Korea.

Host: That’s an incredibly sharp observation.

Xiangyu: And to make it more complicated, China has actually outpaced Taiwan in many areas—industrially, economically. So on some level, there’s a discomfort in seeing someone you used to look down on now pulling ahead.

Host: How does your mom feel about all of this?

Xiangyu: She wants Chinese people to be respected. When she’s looked down on in Taiwan, she takes it personally. But these days, she’s more accepting of it. She’s just trying to live her life. For her, it’s not worth constantly wrestling with these questions. But for me, it is. Because of my position, I can’t not think about these things. I have to unpack them.

Host: Growing up, did you ever meet anyone with a background like yours—someone with a Chinese parent?

Xiangyu: A few. But it’s not that common. And even when it does happen, people don’t usually talk about it openly. You wouldn’t necessarily know someone’s mom is from China. That identity isn’t easily visible.

Also, immigrants from China are still in a marginalized social position in Taiwan. So very few of us with this background make it into more elite or comfortable social circles. We’re not very visible. Statistically, we probably number less than Indigenous people in Taiwan.

Host: What about the children of ROC veterans—what people call “second-generation military dependents”?

Xiangyu: That’s different. Their parents came from a different China—one associated with the Republic of China, not the People’s Republic. So even though they grew up in China too, their framework and values are very different from those of more recent immigrants. And that shapes how they see their identity. The experiences just don’t compare.

Host: Did you ever feel pressure to go to China—like to see for yourself what it was really like, especially as China started booming while you were in high school?

Xiangyu: Definitely. I felt like I should go back and see it for myself. In fact, I went back to China over Lunar New Year recently. I do think there’s value in going—just to understand what’s really happening there.

(后面不重要、懒得翻译了）